‘You want to tear the arse off him when he gets home, love.’

Donna removed the cigarette from the older woman’s hand and took a long drag, holding the smoke in before letting it out heavily in a thick grey cloud.

‘I would, Dolly, if I thought he’d take any notice. Give him another half an hour then serve, all right?’

‘Okey doke. Get yourself in and join the fray. Sixteen of the town’s bigwigs to dinner and the golden boy doesn’t turn up! That’s him all over.’

This was said with a rough pride. Dolly Parkins loved her employers, and they loved her, and - more importantly - they trusted her. Dolly could be herself with them and she abused this shamelessly. Throwing the butt of the cigarette into the bin, she began putting the plates in the oven to warm.

Donna left the sanctuary of the kitchen and went once more into the lounge, where Betty Hawkins’s loud braying voice immediately hit her with the force of a sledgehammer.

‘Donna! Donna, get over here and tell this fool that your husband has a 911 Carerra with my name on it!’

‘When’s the delivery date, Betty? I’ve forgotten.’

Donna fixed a smile on her face and joined in the conversation. In her mind she decided she would take Dolly’s advice. She would tear the arse off her husband when he finally arrived home.

The port and Stilton were on the table and Harry Robertson was holding forth on local government. Donna tried to look interested but her eyes were straying over the debris strewn across the table. Bunty Robertson had burned a cigarette hole in the Venetian lace tablecloth and it was like a magnet, drawing Donna’s eyes. She had always hated the woman; in fact, she realised, she hated everyone sitting around the table. In different degrees, maybe, but it was a form of dislike for each and every one of them. Yet, as Georgio was always saying, they needed them; or more to the point, he needed them. It was Georgio who had arranged this dinner, had even told her the menu and ordered in the wine specially, and who had not turned up - not even had the decency to ring and make his excuses.

Harry Robertson was now on his favourite subject - the courts, his role as magistrate, and the sentencing of juvenile offenders. With enough drink in him to knock out an Irish navvy, he began his monologue on the judicial system. One day, Donna promised herself, she was going to ask him how he felt about drunk drivers. She had lost count of the number of times he had wheelspinned out of her driveway, completely blotto, and gone zig-zagging down the lane towards the M25, his wife hiccuping beside him, both feeling they were a law unto themselves.