Titch’s mum had put it deep in the bin without telling Titch. Phyllis said Titch’s mum couldn’t get over the fact that it had been so beautifully wrapped, all the care that had gone into the cruelty. The story worried me. It burrowed deep into my brain, coming back now and then to give me the cold sweats. Then Phyllis mentioned that the glass in the front door of the newsagent’s had been smashed in on Saturday night – probably by young hoods with nothing better to do on their way back from the pub, she said – and that gave me a bad feeling too.

‘I’ve got a new job,’ Eve said one night, when we were sitting on her sofa watching the news, her warm shoulder slotted under my arm. She was wearing a cone of newspaper on her head that Raymond had made her. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She hadn’t mentioned even looking for a new job before, and now she was looking at me expectantly, waiting for a pleased response, offering me her departure like a present tied with a big flouncy bow on top. A flash of fury went through me, but I didn’t say a word. I kept on staring at the screen. Some supermodel had just got on to the bestseller list with a cookery book. She was all bone and eyelashes. It must have been the kind of cookbook where you drool over the list of hard-to-find ingredients but never actually turn on the oven.

‘Look at her,’ I said. ‘The last thing she cooked was probably a big slice of melon, followed by three hours in the gym.’

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ Eve said. ‘It’ll pay much better money, and I can choose more of my own shifts.’

It was all I could do to sound civil. When my voice came out, it was choked and dry. ‘That’s good,’ I said, the words emerging as half-frozen drips from a small, tight tap. Christ, how stingy can you get? I was aware of how miserly I must have sounded, but I couldn’t help it.

‘Where’s the restaurant?’

She took the newspaper cone off, as though wanting to maintain her dignity in the face of an assault.

‘About three streets away from Delauncey’s,’ she said, ‘at a place called Harrigan’s. The boss is Irish, and so is the head chef. You’d probably like it, they do a modern version of traditional Irish food. Champ and wheaten bread and all, but fashionable, dressed up with Chinese vegetables and cranberry jus and stuff. It’s very expensive. You have to wear a uniform, but it’s a designer one all in black.’

It sounded rotten, soda bread and beef sausages with beansprouts on top, and fifty per cent added to the bill for the privilege of having your taste buds confused.