He observed his daughter as she attempted to play down the sheer size of her engagement ring, while making sure everybody was aware of it. It was five carats, and cut into what she called a baguette-style stone. She held her perfectly manicured hand out away from her body, and let the ring catch the light. Silly cow! He knew that stone had been half inched from somewhere; there was no way Petey Bailey was going to pay the full price. He was a lot of things, Petey Bailey, but a mug wasn’t one of them.

At least tonight was nearly over; then all he had to do was get through the wedding. Bernadette had wanted a registry office do, and then a party in a posh hotel. Well, Petey Bailey had thwarted her there, and that was how it should be. Fancy turning her nose up at the church where she had worshipped all her life! Just more of her snobbery.

If only she could see herself as everyone else saw her. Tonight she was wearing a tight mini dress, off-white, or ecru as she insisted on calling it. It only fit where it touched and, along with the fake tan, the overabundance of bleached-blond hair, and nails that looked like they had been grown in a greenhouse in Eastern Europe, she looked every bit the poor man’s Pamela Anderson. She had about as much class as a fucking Ford Fiesta. Not that she would ever see that, of course – thanks to her mother, she believed she was a cut above. He swallowed down his Chivas Regal, and made his way towards the bar for a refill.

‘You all right, Michael?’ Peter Bailey was genuinely pleased to see his daughter-in-law-to-be’s father.

Michael O’Toole smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s a grand party, Peter, really lovely. You’ve done her proud.’

‘To be honest, I think this is a bit over the top, but that’s kids these days – though my Petey is not a kid any more, not by anyone’s standards! He’s weighing out for this lot. I told him – you and her want a fucking circus, you can provide one.’

Michael O’Toole relaxed then, relieved that this man was not paying for his daughter’s engagement, and grateful that Peter saw his point of view on the matter. ‘I offered, Peter, but she blew me out. Not good enough these days it seems . . .’

Peter heard the bitterness in Michael’s voice. ‘Fucking kids, ungrateful the lot of them. Anyway, I was wondering if you were available for a spot of lunch this week? Go somewhere we can talk, you know? I have a bit of work I thought I might put your way.’

Michael O’Toole hesitated for only a few seconds before replying easily, ‘Sounds good to me, mate.’