The conversation had not, so far, been what you’d call sparkling. For the first time since she’d been in NY, Poppy was missing grey old London enormously.

A waiter came to the table.

‘Can I take your order?’

‘We’re still waiting for one of our guests,’ said Marty, who was wearing a black T-shirt under a black Armani jacket and heavy-rimmed glasses that he thought made him look intellectual.

‘It’s OK, Marty, order without him,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m so sorry Damian’s so late. It’s very unlike him.’ Inside, she was seething. Where the fuck was he?

‘No, we’ll wait for your husband,’ said Marty, smiling at his latest protégée, who was looking gorgeous in a sage-green suede sleeveless minidress that matched her eyes and showed off her coltish brown limbs. With her streaky blonde hair loose around her shoulders, he thought she was just delicious. ‘In the meantime, why don’t we get some wine?’

‘Sounds great. A white and a red as some of us are having meat, and some having fish?’ Poppy looked around the table.

‘Two bottles?’ Eleanor looked horrified.

‘Hey, it’s only a couple glasses each,’ said Marco, kicking Poppy under the table. Poppy remembered Fabrice’s tales of Martinis, crystal meth and amyl nitrate with Marco the night before and hid a smile.

‘My nutritionist says there’s so much sugar in wine. And sugar is poison.’

Marty laughed heartily and patted his wife’s hand.

‘Eleanor’s been a lot more aware of her mortality since we had Hammond. Kids do need their moms to be alive, after all.’

Everyone laughed weakly.

‘What about their dads, Marty?’ Poppy couldn’t help it, even though he was her boss.

Marty looked taken aback.

‘Sheesh, well, of course they need their dads too! But their dads can handle their poison as they bring home the bacon –’ he did an excruciating Cockney accent – ‘while their mommies stay home and look after them. And you don’t want a poisoned mommie in charge of the kiddies now, do ya?’

He actually wished Eleanor would lighten up a bit. He was glad his wife was such a great mom, but after two miscarriages that had nearly destroyed their marriage, Ellie’s overwhelming joy when Hammy had been born perfect was rendered almost maniacal by the relief. Her subsequent quest for perfect motherhood was both laudable and intensely wearing.

Poppy looked at Marty askance. She had thought that only the Americans in the middle of the States thought that way. The ones on the East and West coasts were meant to be a tad more liberal.

‘I’ve never been more fulfilled than I am now, staying home and looking after Hammy.’ Poppy couldn’t tell whether Eleanor sounded smug or pleading, as she turned to her with that earnest, slightly scared expression in her pale blue eyes.

‘It must be wonderful,’ she started, trying to be nice, but her words were drowned out by two very drunken male voices. One was singing something that sounded like a Scandinavian folk song. The other – oh, good God, it was Damian – was trying to whisper, very unsubtly, ‘Shhhh, mate, they must be here somewhere.’