‘Look,’ Rachel said, ‘we don’t even know him. He’s probably a serial killer or something.’

‘Who cares?’ Tully cried.

Rachel rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. Heather took another sip of her drink as the phone lit up again. All three women screamed.

I could do the next night? he wrote. Or the night after that.

‘See?’ Rachel said. ‘He doesn’t have plans for the next three nights! He’s definitely a serial killer.’

‘You could meet in a public place, if you’re worried about the serial killer thing,’ Tully suggested. ‘I could even come to the restaurant in dark glasses and hide behind a menu so I can make sure everything is above board.’

Rachel appeared to be wavering. Whether it was because of Tully’s suggestions or not, it was hard to tell. ‘It’s not a good idea,’ she said. ‘Yes, he’s good-looking, but he’s got to have issues. Why else would he have been unemployed for so long? Besides, we work together.’

‘Actually,’ Tully corrected, ‘he works for you. If things don’t work out you can sack him. It’s not as if you can’t find another person to deliver your cream buns!’

‘Pretty sure that’s illegal.’

‘Again,’ Tully said, exasperated, ‘who cares?’ She grabbed the phone out of Rachel’s hand, thumbed, Tomorrow night works, and handed it back. ‘There. Now let’s move on to the next stage of the day, which is drinking to calm your nerves.’ Tully refilled their glasses all the way to the top. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘We’ve gone through another bottle.’

‘There’s plenty more inside,’ Rachel said, and Tully and Heather cheered.

Maybe Stephen’s daughters were her kind of people after all?

Heather was drunk. The most marvellous part about it was that Rachel and Tully were too. The comfort of being around drunk people when you were also drunk was not to be underestimated. Heather was sinking into the pleasure of it, really enjoying it, when the air was pierced by a very annoying noise. ‘What is that?’ Heather said.

The three women looked around, at first in that dopey, half-interested way, but when it continued, with more desperation.

‘It’s my phone,’ Tully said when she realised. ‘Where is the damn thing?’

Heather was already out of her seat. She followed the ringtone into a Gucci handbag. She dug past some salad servers, a single patent-leather shoe and an expensive-looking candle, still in its box, before clasping her hand around the phone. It was funny; she’d imagined Tully’s bag would be just so, but it was an unholy mess.

‘Here it is!’ she cried, and Tully claimed the phone and accepted the FaceTime.

‘Hi, babe,’ she said as a face appeared on the screen.

‘Uh-oh. Babe? Does this mean you’re drunk?’

Heather glanced at the screen and recognised Tully’s husband Sonny from a photo she’d seen at Stephen’s house. He looked faintly amused.

‘That’s right, babe,’ Tully said, laughing. It was hard to match up this Tully with the uptight Tully from the other day. Even from a few hours ago. Her whole body was loose and relaxed.