‘Not everyone loves Game of Thrones, hon,’ Melissa murmured.

‘Let’s just say I’m what real men used to be, Nella.’ Rex gave her a heavy-lidded wink, gulping the cheese straight off his knife. ‘Men who were what women wanted, in the good old days of the dragon slayers—’

‘Dragons weren’t real, mate.’ Marcus grinned. ‘Except George’s, obviously – oh, and Puff! Willow loved Puff when she was little, used to make her cry.’

‘Real men. When women did what they were told, you mean?’ Melissa’s gaze skimmed mine behind her husband’s back. ‘Or all died in childbirth?’

‘Oh, Rex, you clever man!’ Ignoring Melissa busily, Nella flipped open a folder. ‘You’ve just reminded me I’m debating a fancy-dress competition at the street party! Shall we squizz through stall ideas, before—’

‘Before we’re all too pissed to focus?’ Melissa was searching the counter for something. ‘What?’ She caught her husband’s eye. ‘I was only joking, hon!’

‘Let me just furnish you all with this little number!’ Marcus opened a wine fridge, crammed with bottles.

Watching Nella flick through the shiny folder, I stifled a yawn and contemplated the hideous hour my alarm would ring tomorrow morning. Given that we’d hardly even got to the street party, was it too soon to go?

‘Muuu-uum!’ An indignant little voice from upstairs shattered the sultry air. ‘The stupid Wi-Fi’s gone off a-gain.’

‘Can you ask Birgitte please?’ Nella called. ‘I’m busy, darling.’

‘Have you got three kids then?’ Melissa’s frown was light. ‘I thought it was just Beau and Willow.’

‘Oh God no, Birgitte’s the Swedish au pair, and a complete whizz with tech, thank God!’

‘Daa-aaaaaaad!’

‘So sorry. Probably doing his project on racism.’ Nella clicked her way to the door in her Stella McCartney stilettos (vegan – and £400 a pop, Melissa had muttered earlier. So much for egalitarianism). ‘I’ll just be a moment.’

Racism? Hmmm. I wondered what they knew of that in this house. I thought of my mixed-race son, whom I feared for each time he stepped out after dark or was late home from school: of my father-in-law Glenmore, a man who’d loved nothing more than eating a mango in the bath on a hot day, reminding him of Trinidad where he’d grown up. Of how the start of the Windrush scandal had seen Glenmore become half the man he’d been, losing his faith in a government he’d actually thought cared.

Somewhere nearby a door slammed – hard.

Marcus didn’t quite flinch as he rubbed his hands together. ‘So, have we got a date for the do?’

‘Late September? Get the kids back to school first. Oh, and how about fireworks to finish?’ Rex wiped the remaining cheese from his plate with a chunky finger. ‘My nephew has a company that specialises in those.’

‘I love fireworks’, Melissa said, ‘but given the reason for fundraising, it might be bad taste to end with explosives?’

‘Not explosives.’ Rex frowned at her. ‘Fireworks.’

Another slam – this time, I was pretty sure, the front door. A figure passing, quickly, towards the stairs.