Pushing open the door of the bar, she saw that Verity was slumped at a table, her head resting on her arms. A female member of the bar staff stood over her, trying to wake her. Leticia sensed that her boss would hardly be able to talk, let alone give a good answer to the questions she desperately wanted to ask. Leticia told the staff member she would take care of Verity. ‘I’ve rung for a taxi, it should be here soon,’ she said. Verity’s head nodded but no sound came.

Leticia herself had drunk three glasses of wine, but seeing Verity sobered her up quickly. She had a more immediate problem than what to do about the spectacle frame: Verity herself. Part of her just wanted to be shot of the woman – to bundle Verity into a taxi and get her own cab home. They would probably never see each other again.

When the taxi came, she and the Sikh driver eased Verity in. Looking at her, helplessly drunk, Leticia realised she couldn’t just abandon her like this. She sighed, then got in the back seat with her, the new leather briefcase between them. Verity gave an address in Walton-on-Thames. During the journey Leticia tried to keep her talking and stop her falling asleep.

From out of the blue Verity said: ‘Stop the car. I’m going to puke.’

The taxi was on a dual carriageway and stopping immediately wasn’t easy. Leticia groped in her shoulder bag for a plastic carrier that she knew was in there somewhere, but she was too late. Verity had grasped the briefcase, opened the clasp and vomited profusely into her new gift.

Soon afterwards the taxi, driver muttering, all the windows wound down and joss sticks burning in the front, turned at speed into a tidy tree-lined street in Walton. They pulled up outside a neat stuccoed terrace.

‘Come in for coffee?’ Verity rasped to Leticia.

‘No thanks. I’d better be getting home,’ Leticia said immediately. She’d done her duty; that was more than enough. ‘Don’t forget this.’ She gingerly passed across Verity’s now weighty briefcase.

‘Oh God,’ Verity slurred. She fumbled in her pocket for her purse and waved three crumpled twenties. ‘To getcha home. Sorry about everything.’