‘Oh, come on, Devan.’ Tim Hutchison snorted his loud, confident laugh, his jowls wobbling above his pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, champagne flute waving in Devan’s face. ‘Admit it! You’re a true-blue Conservative at heart. All this whiny-liberal bollocks is just a throwback from your student days.’

Connie watched her husband’s mouth twitch. The discussion about immigration, despite Tim’s joshing, had been bordering on rancorous, like most current debate in the country. But the difference today was that Devan had got stuck in. As the village doctor, he’d made it his business to stay neutral – except in private – when it came to politics. ‘I don’t need to know what my patients think about the world,’ he always told Connie. ‘If I did, I might not want to treat them.’ But today he’d been truculent, almost aggressive, when Tim blamed the current crisis in the NHS – which Devan believed in passionately and knew was wobbling for a whole variety of reasons – on migrants.

Connie nudged him surreptitiously, but all she got in return was a glare. She knew he’d had a lot to drink, the delicious champagne flowing from a seemingly bottomless well. But she didn’t want him falling out with Tim, who nonetheless possessed the precision of a brain surgeon in his ability to stick the needle in where it would have the most effect.

‘Well, if you’re a good example of conservatism, I’ll take whiny liberal any day of the week,’ Devan said.

It was spoken in the same jokey tone, but Tim’s eyebrows rose just a fraction and he turned away.

‘That was rude,’ Connie hissed. ‘He’s our host.’ They were standing by the French windows, from which there was usually a spectacular view across the Somerset Levels, but this afternoon she could barely see past the end of the garden because of low cloud, brought on by a sudden spring squall raging outside.

Devan just shrugged. ‘He’s an arse, is what he is,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t even be here.’ He bent awkwardly to set his empty glass down against the wall on the strip of parquet floor not hidden by the vintage Turkish rug – where, no doubt, it would be knocked over and broken. She immediately picked it up, then felt his hand in the small of her back, beginning to guide her away.

The large sitting room was full, people standing around in groups and pairs, the hot air reverberating with laughter and chatter, heavy male voices and lighter female ones vying for dominance. A couple of girls from the village were weaving in and out, refilling the glasses and offering trays of unidentifiable one-bite canapés, while Carole bustled and twittered nervously around her guests.

‘We can’t go yet,’ Connie said, resisting the pressure on her back. ‘They haven’t cut the cake.’