Once he’d come back and opened the bottle, I slugged back a plastic cup. It was expensive Chablis, but it didn’t taste that way: it was warm and sweet, a soupy mess. I still went in for a second ‘glass’, poking at the chicken with my plastic fork. It was hard to force a mouthful of it down my tight throat.

‘Esther looks well,’ I said casually, even though I thought she looked like an extra from the Australian soap operas the kids used to crowd around after school. But then, I’m sure part of her charm was her lack of sophistication.

‘Yeah, I’m glad to be able to help her out,’ said Nick, taking a more modest sip from his own cup. ‘She’s been teaching English as a foreign language in Spain. She’s come back here, and the only place she could afford sounds more like a doss house than a flat share. It’s in Turnpike fucking Lane.’

‘It’s been a while since we saw her,’ I said, my tone as light as I could make it.

‘Yeah, it has,’ he agreed, his tone kept equally weightless. ‘It was nice that Josh invited her after all that time.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘This was great, Lily.’

I threw the remains back in the carrier bag, all gristle and bones. ‘Duty calls, I know,’ I said, tying up the top of it. ‘You keep fighting the good fight, and I’ll see you back at base camp.’

He smiled up at me from behind the desk. ‘Thanks for this…’ – he stumbled for a second – ‘unexpected pleasure.’

‘I like to keep surprising you,’ I shot back.

We both stopped dead.

‘Let’s get all the kids round this weekend,’ said Nick, recovering. ‘Do a Sunday roast. Family time.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ I agreed. I moved towards the door, carrier bag clutched in my left hand, the wine sloshing around in my right.

‘Love you, Lily,’ he called after my retreating back.

I didn’t turn around.

RACHEL

Sophie clutched the red silk scarf to herself anxiously, pulling it up towards her face.

‘Are you planning on eating it?’ I asked her. ‘I know you’re dieting for the wedding, but…’

‘I’m worried it’s a bit scratchy,’ she said, rubbing it against her skin. She held it out towards me. ‘The colour’s perfect for her, but it feels a bit nylon-y, I don’t know.’

A young male assistant was poised nearby, waiting for the right moment to come and up-sell us. I turned my shoulder away from him, building an energetic wall that told him we didn’t need him swooping in.

This wasn’t about whether the scarf was the smoothest satin or the nastiest polyester. I felt pleased with my observation: this was the kind of nuance I’d only begun to appreciate since I’d started working with Amber.