‘Bloody chuggers. And no, I’m not. As I said, I’m definitely feeling rather peaky.’

‘Why don’t you make yourself useful by putting out some nibbles? That might make you feel better.’

Cullen hears himself say, ‘How exactly?’ and immediately regrets it. The Hon. Veronica pouts. The ultimate sanction against which he, and he suspects all men, are powerless.

Dinner is a horror show. Cullen watches as one extravagant dish after another is brought out. The scallops, the salmon caviar, the hulking piece of prime rib. He sits at the head of the table doing his best not to count the money disappearing down the gullets of his hated neighbours while Stella Gray casts barbs at her husband Will for not doing his share of the night-time baby duties, the Askews humble brag about their kids’ music scholarships, and Veronica, in the midst of it all, tries and fails to draw attention to her considerable culinary skills.

‘Of course it’s only the oboe, which is hardly the most challenging instrument in the orchestra, though he really is doing so well with his piano too.’

‘Do help yourselves to creamed horseradish. It’s homemade.’

‘Oh no, bad for the bump. We don’t want to give him any more excuses for keeping me up all night, do we, Will?’

And so it goes on. Cullen watches the first two bottles of burgundy disappear, then another two. At ten, when he can’t take any more, he draws his phone from his pocket and stares at the screen for as long as it takes for everyone to notice and go quiet, then grimaces and gestures towards the hallway with his thumb. So sorry, I’ll take this outside.

Veronica raises her eyebrows.

I’ll pay for this later, he thinks, but never mind.

He’s absent for longer than is necessary. Five pairs of questioning eyes meet him on his return.

‘Not another suicide, I hope?’ Will Gray says.

Cullen hasn’t mentioned Sunday’s events to Veronica though she is clearly the source of the gossip. It hasn’t been in the traditional press and Veronica disdains social media. Has she been listening in to a phone conversation? Or snooping in his email? Or worse still, helping herself to his phone? He glares at Veronica who meets his hostility with a good portion of her own.

‘I have no idea what you mean by “another”, Will,’ he says to his neighbour, ‘since there haven’t been any. There has been a burglary in the administration building, however, and I’m afraid I do need to go in.’ Saints be praised, he thinks. Excellent save, Christopher, excellent.

‘Oh what terrible timing,’ Veronica says, her voice like sniper fire. ‘Well, do hurry home.’