Somebody else had already moved on to a funnier story. Emma missed the punchline but everyone was laughing a lot more at this story than the gorge one. She smiled politely; the men seemed to be getting louder and trying to top each other with who could be more outrageous, who could say the most callous thing for effect. There was a sort of frenetic flirtatious vibe in the room that Hattie always liked to create; the safety of coupledom giving everyone a licence to flirt. Only when Emma spotted the white dust that circled Blair’s nostril like a sugared doughnut did the penny drop; she took comfort in her Chardonnay.

Someone was telling a story which involved nudity and a goat. Emma found herself pulling suitable expressions at suitable moments but she had missed the gist of it and was looking around to see who else had gone off to powder their nose. It upset her – it wasn’t the drug taking itself, it was the underhand manner of it, the exclusivity, the sneaking off from the table. It all seemed so childish. Worse than that, it was just plain bad manners. If you’re going to take it, put it out on the table where everyone can partake or not as they wish. And for that matter, why had nobody offered her any? She wouldn’t have had it (she’d had some once and been violently ill for days) but why did everyone assume that she was so square? She never used to be square. She and Sally Pea used to be quite wild in their teens.

‘Sounds like the awful moment I found myself river-dancing in an Irish pub,’ Blair said, and Emma watched as everyone decided at that moment that they liked him despite the fact he ran a battery-chicken farm and had voted for Brexit.

Emma helped the gynaecologist to some more wine, for courtesy’s sake, then Alba the TV producer, then lastly herself. She was relaxing now. The stresses of the day had receded into the background, she was on to her second helping of bread and butter pudding – the cocaine-takers had all lost their appetites, so it was just her and Si who were having seconds – wondering whether she would draw attention to herself if she put her glasses on to pick out the raisins, when the conversation in the room hiccupped to a halt. Someone clearly said, ‘You are kidding?’

Emma looked up, raisin on fork. All eyes at the table were turned on her. Her first thought was that they were all marvelling at her greed, or her manners. But something about their intensity said otherwise. Two things struck her: one, she was tremendously drunk, and two, someone was tightly clutching her arm.

The grip lessened. ‘My God! What’s she like?’ Alba’s eyes were all lit up, her palms clapping. Then silence.

‘Who?’ Emma asked.

‘The Yummy Monster?’