‘Ah, I’m afraid we’re not running the carvery today, sir. Being lunchtime and a weekday, we find that demand is low and, in these uncertain times, it’s not economic to offer the carvery every day, so . . .’ The waiter made a clicking noise with the side of his mouth.

‘Can we still use our voucher?’ Bess’s mum asked desperately.

‘I’m sure you can, and we do have a lovely selection of hot meals and sandwiches. Let me fetch some menus.’ He disappeared around the corner and her parents looked at each other.

‘No carvery?’ Her dad’s mouth fell open a little.

‘I can’t believe it.’ Her mum shook her head like it was the end of the world.

Bess painted on a happy face. ‘You know, it’s just lovely to be out having my lunch. I’m usually the one serving lunch and so, carvery or not, it’s still a treat for me.’

‘Here you are, darling.’ Her mum gave her a card, which had a ten-pound note nestling inside.

‘And one from me!’ her dad said, handing over his card, which she knew in advance would also contain ten pounds. This was how they kept the birthday excitement rolling.

‘Thank you both!’

‘You can treat yourself,’ her mum pointed out helpfully.

‘I will!’ Bess made the silent snap decision to put twenty quid’s worth of petrol in the car on the way home.

‘Here we go.’ The waiter reappeared and handed out wipe-clean menus that were decidedly dog-eared on the corners.

‘We’ll take some bread and butter to start,’ her dad announced. ‘And a white wine for the wife, a pint of bitter for me and a Coke for the daughter – unless you fancy a Cinzano, Bess?’ her dad said with a big wink.

‘Ooooof.’ Just the word was enough to make her feel properly ill. She hadn’t touched a drop of the stuff since the day she had got drunk on it, and as for the smell . . . Her stomach heaved at the memory. ‘I’ll stick to Coke, thanks.’

‘Certainly. We do a bread basket with various breads and olives, so one of those?’ the waiter suggested.

‘Yes, lovely,’ her dad smiled.

‘I don’t like olives and she won’t be eating bread,’ her mum said, pointing at Bessie.

‘Why won’t I be eating bread?’ Bess waited for her mother’s standard response.

‘Because you need to watch your weight, darling. You’ve got the Worrall genes, and just look at how Nanny Gloria bloated post-fifty. She was huge – absolutely huge.’

‘I think we’ve got the message,’ Bess chided her mother.

‘Massive!’ Her mum clearly wanted one last word on the matter, opening her hands wide like a fisherman trying to relay the size of the one that got away.