‘Little man?’ I was confused.

‘Her son Heathcliff’s at the primary, Ruth. She’s a hoot, Mel, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, hon, a proper scream,’ Melissa was still staring forlornly at her phone. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a charger?’

‘By the way, Nella’ – I cleared my throat – ‘it’s Ruby.’

‘Is it a new generation iPhone?’ Marcus peered over Melissa’s shoulder. ‘Oh, a Samsung! Very brave. Afraid we had an amnesty on our old chargers, donated them to the food bank. Gotta do our bit, yeah?’

‘Put it away, babes.’ Rex’s long face was changing to a booze-induced pink. ‘Stop fretting.’

‘Sorry.’ Melissa shoved the phone into her back pocket. ‘Addictive, aren’t they, the bloody things? So, who exactly is this bloke next door?’

The old house’s overhaul had begun just after the terrible gas explosion at the far end of the square, which killed an old couple no one ever remembered seeing, along with their disabled daughter, and a young Chinese family with toddlers in the adjacent grubby bedsit.

The whole neighbourhood felt terrible about it, rich or poor, not least because few of us had noticed the dead before they became ghosts amongst us, heaving yet more anger onto a community already polarised; the exuberantly rich living their best lives beside those dependent on food banks.

In the spring, to raise money for all the dispossessed, Northgate Primary had held a grand cake sale – pretty bunting, cherry cupcakes and apple-cheeked, multi-ethnic children. Every last crumb had been hoovered up, charming photos splattered all over social media courtesy, it seemed, of six-year-old Heathcliff’s mum, Lena Nair – the aforementioned PR guru.

This promptly inspired St Edmund’s, the church on Northgate Square, to arrange an Easter bring and buy. Stalls positively groaning, the quality of the jumble more Net-a-Porter than Oxfam, the sale soon became the stuff of legend. Old dears fought over Manolo Blahniks and Mulberry bags, local queens hissed over the last Vivienne Westwood bustier – and once again, every last item sold.

And so the idea for a communal street party in Northgate Square bloomed. Ostensibly a fundraiser, the loftier motive was to bring us together: a society of strangers, despite living cheek by jowl, knife by Nespresso machine. People who would normally ignore – or actively avoid – one another, united in a common goal. One by one, we were drafted in, by friends, by family or by our neighbours – hence tonight’s meeting.

But tonight wasn’t at all what I’d anticipated.

‘Expect the neighbour’ll turn up sometime. Now, you look more of a beer man to me, Rex, am I right?’ Marcus peeled open the giant fridge. ‘Dump the champers, mate, and try one of these little babies.’

‘Don’t mind if I do, ta very much.’ Rex chose from a shelf of colourful craft beer. A picture of a blonde-bearded hipster on its side, the can seemed incongruous in his heavy hand. ‘No kids tonight?’

‘They’re on homework,’ Nella confided, ‘slaves to it, aren’t they, Markie?’