But, of course, she didn’t. Instead she nodded and smiled through her mouthful, dreaming of getting home, when she could ping off her bra, which was cutting into her left shoulder, and kick off her silver sparkly-heeled sandals, snatched from the shelves of TK Maxx at such a ridiculously reduced price that the fact they didn’t quite fit was secondary, even if it meant her little toes were alternately numb and then throbbing. And all the while, with Simon and Garfunkel duetting in the background, Mr Maxwell padded across the soft carpet, pouring wine, decanted into a carafe, while explaining the grape profile and soil mineral content, as the bewildered residents of Larkspur Close nodded and sipped the chilled white, as if they could discern any difference between the wine Mr Maxwell described with its heady bouquet and rich oaky notes and the cheap plonk they bought by the boxful from the petrol station up the road for a little under five quid. Mario detested the evening as much, if not more, than she did, and she had to stand and smile, trying to paint the affair with a happy gloss, just to make it bearable.

Last year had been particularly memorable because, as she was tapping her watch face across the room, an indicator to Mario that she was ready to jump ship, Mr Maxwell suddenly stood very close to her, so close that she could smell his grassy cologne. He breathed down her neck, whispering, ‘Please call me Andrew.’ That was weird in itself, as they weren’t even talking, but what came next was even weirder. ‘Tonight, Bess’ – he paused, as if making sure he had her full attention – ‘you look absolutely fanfuckingtastic!’

Her breath came quickly and her heart raced. She turned to face him, their eyes locking briefly while a smile played about his mouth, his lips parted to reveal his beautiful teeth. He leant closer to her and she thought for one horrific moment that he might kiss her! Right there in the lounge within feet of Mr Draper! When he pulled back, she felt a strange and intoxicating mixture of relief and disappointment.

‘You know Helen and I have an open marriage?’ He was barely audible.

This she did not know and said the first thing that popped into her head, which was, ‘Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose!’ before marching forward to grab Mario by the arm and quickly saying their goodbyes. The strange thing was, no matter that she thought of Mr Maxwell as a pompous dick, there was a power in his wine-scented admission that sent a frisson of something uncomfortably like desire through her very core. She had forgotten what that felt like.

She kept this to herself, of course. She and Mario had walked back to their house, arm in arm and giggling, chiming, ‘Thank God that’s it for another year!’