She spotted Victor and Jane and tugged Michael’s cuff in their direction. She regretted it almost as soon as they reached them, when Victor said he thought she was only allowed out on school nights. Cushla admired Jane’s dress, bat-sleeved chiffon that faded from eau de Nil at the bodice to teal at the hem. Jane returned the compliment and Cushla thanked her. Manners were for shy people: without them, she and Jane would be looking at the floor. She asked Jane how she had been, expecting a wishy-washy answer, but her face seemed to collapse and she took off up the staircase, more scurry than grand exit. Cushla followed and found her in a bedroom with purple walls and a life-sized poster of Rod Stewart pinned to the ceiling, sweating in an electric-blue body stocking. Jane was crying. Cushla fetched a clump of toilet paper from the bathroom. Will I get Victor? she said.

No, said Jane, mopping at her face. He’s had quite enough of me. I had another miscarriage. My seventh.

So that was why she hadn’t attended Penny’s opening; it had not occurred to Cushla that there was something wrong.

I’m sorry, said Cushla.

I went eleven weeks this time, said Jane. You let yourself hope.

A shadow fell across the bed. It was Victor. He stood aside to let Cushla leave. She glanced back at them from the door. Jane was the youngest of the friends, but at least forty. Shoulders rounded, worrying at the tissue, she looked like a girl.

Michael was no longer in the hall. She sidled through the drawing room, searching for him. A hand caught her round the waist. There you are, he said. A woman with blonde hair and brown eyes paused in front of them. Michael said her name was Marjorie. At the precise moment the woman pressed her lips to Michael’s cheek, Cushla felt him withdraw his hand from her hip. A sudden, instinctive action. He had slept with the woman. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

They joined the queue for the buffet. Ahead of them, women were serving their men before they filled their own plates. It looked spectacular yet effortless, the mahogany table covered with white linen, short vases of rhododendrons here and there. Pieces of chicken in a creamy sauce that smelled of mustard, toasted slivers of almond scattered over it. Rice dyed bright yellow, flecked with butter and soft onion. A salad of watercress and croutons, all of it heaped rather than arranged. Michael filled her plate, ignoring her protests. The young lady is watching her figure, Agnew, said a man’s voice behind them. It was the crème de menthe doctor.