‘Mmmm,’ grimaces Esther, looking up at the clock. ‘Only an hour and a quarter late, lucky us. She thinks she’s Princess Margaret.’

‘She’s had trouble with a water infection, she’s slow to get going,’ Mark tuts, as he heads to the door. The only time he’s publicly critical of Esther is when she runs Nana Hogg down.

I mean, she’s his granny so he’s going to be defensive, but Mark is an incredibly nice person anyway. Mild, kind, sees the good in everyone, always interested in others, in a self-effacing rather than nosy way.

When Esther first told me she was seeing someone on her accountancy degree ‘and I think he’s the one!’ I was like: ruh roh, he’ll be at worst a ruthless bastard and at best a crashing bore. She had a taste for mean jocks at school. Thank God, given he turned into husband and father of her child, that Mark is lovely – witness his job-giving generosity with me. He wears hand-stitched moccasin slippers around the house and yet I would lay down my life for him.

‘Don’t wait for me then,’ is Nana Hogg’s version of ‘hello’ and ‘sorry I’m late’, when she sees the laden table.

‘Glad you could make it,’ Mark says, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. His modus operandi is to simply ignore her tone. And her words. And her behaviour.

She has her silver hair in tight roller curls and the sort of bust that rolls out like the swelling tide.

‘Hello!’ I say, with a small wave. ‘Nice to see you again.’

She doesn’t acknowledge me, though she might not have heard during the manoeuvres to get her seated.

‘Oh it’s beef? I can’t digest beef,’ she says, and Esther looks like she’s been tasered up the birth canal.

‘But we asked if …’

Mark puts his hand over Esther’s. ‘You can have lots of everything else. Geoff, if you’ll hand me the peas and carrots …’

‘We’ve met before, I’m Geoffrey,’ he says smarmily to Nana Hogg, getting up to offer his hand to shake across the roast, ‘Patsy’s husband.’

‘Yes I know who you are, I’m old but I’m not crackers,’ she says, ‘not seeing’ his hand, and I have to plug my mouth with a parsnip to stop myself from laughing. Why did I contemplate crying off this lunch? Carbs, more alcohol, hot gravy and Nana Hogg lols. It’s the perfect distraction from my distress.

‘Gog’s been sacked from the restaurant,’ Esther says, conversationally, throwing me to the wolves as distraction.

‘Oh no, Georgina!’ Mum says, putting her cutlery down with a bump, ‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything, the restaurant critic from The Star came in and complained and Tony the chef made a show of binning me. A sacrifice to the gods, to stop him from writing about the grim food.’

‘The vicissitudes of still being casual hire-and-fire labour,’ says Geoffrey, with evident pleasure, lifting a glass to his mouth. ‘So few rights, unfortunately.’

I almost pull a face at him. Geoff has been retired from vice presidency of a central heating firm since forever, on a giant pension.

‘It’s time to buck your ideas up. Go on a shorthand course and get yourself something in an office,’ Mum says.

‘I don’t think anyone cares about shorthand anymore, Mum. There’s no typing pool. There’s no bosses chasing secretaries around desks.’

‘Well you’re soon going to be past the age where you’re chased around anything anyway.’

Whump. Right in the solar plexus.

‘We called you “jail bait” in my day,’ Nana Hogg says to me, and Esther gets up abruptly to refill the gravy boat, which I know is an excuse because she’s fuming about inappropriate talk in front of her young son. What about the inappropriate talk in front of her younger sister.

‘Georgina’s not likely to land anyone in jail now,’ Geoffrey says, with what he imagines is a twinkly-eyed look. Creep.

‘There’s still plenty that’s illegal, Geoff, what with women no longer being property,’ I say, and Mum shushes: ‘Careful!’ with a sharp look towards Milo.

‘Oh yeah it’s my fault, I brought this stuff up.’

‘What was the restaurant called?’ Mark asks.

‘That’s Amore!. The Italian in Broomhill.’

‘I don’t like Italian food. I had a mushroom soup at an Italian restaurant once and it tasted like they’d put something in it,’ Nana Hogg says.

‘What had they put in it?’ Mum asks.

‘I don’t know. It tasted like there was something in it.’

‘That wasn’t mushrooms?’ Mum persists.

‘Yes. There was something in it. They’d put something in it.’

They is starting sound like a synonym for ‘The Illuminati’.

‘What sort of thing?’

Nana Hogg shakes her head.

‘Something. To make it taste stronger.’

‘And how did the job last night go, George?’ I could kiss Mark for trying to rescue me here. ‘I put George in touch with a friend who needed a capable pair of hands at short notice.’

‘Good, thanks so much for the recommendation,’ I say. I could still very likely be blocked by Lucas so I don’t want to sound too confident of Devlin’s job. ‘It’d be great if they’re recruiting for permanent positions but if not I was just glad to help out with the wake.’

‘It was a wake,’ Geoffrey says, stabbing at a miniature carrot with his fork. ‘I hope you were appropriately sombre.’

He winks at me. What a …

‘I pitched up in a glittery leotard, tooting a vuvuzela, was that not the right thing to do?’

‘Oh the chill wind of such withering sarcasm!’ says Geoffrey, whose funeral I could happily go to.

Esther returns with more gravy and there’s no way she didn’t hover in the kitchen counting backwards from fifty until she could be sure she wouldn’t throw it in anyone’s face.

‘The food is lovely,’ I say to her and she gives me a tight smile and says Mark did most of it.

‘Ahem, and the Yorkie pudding maestro here,’ Geoff says and everyone’s nice to him and choruses praise. I can’t bring myself to join in. There’s about nineteen things on this table, Geoff basically management consulted the oven temperature for one element and thinks he’s equally worthy of thanks. Argh.

‘How’s Robin?’ my mum asks, a note of disapproval high in the mix.

‘We’ve split up,’ I say, hoofing half of another spectacular roastie into my mouth.

‘Oh!’

Just when I think my singlehood is about to be dissected with the same sensitivity as my unemployment, Nana Hogg interrupts: ‘I’ll have some of that meat, please. I’ll suffer for it but I don’t want to go home hungry,’ and Esther pushes her chair out with a loud scrape and announces I’llgetmorewine.

As I help clear the table after dinner, Esther leads Milo back in by the shoulder, the pout on his face visible from twenty paces.

‘Auntie Georgina, Milo has something for you, don’t you, Milo,’ Esther says.

‘Do you, Milo?’ I bend down.

He puts a finger in his mouth and hands over a folded piece of paper he had behind his back. I open it – a drawing of a female stick figure in a triangle dress, with thatch of yellow crayoned hair. She’s in front of a house with a smoking chimney in the background, and there’s a male stick figure in brown, in an outsize hat.

‘This is brilliant! So that’s me … that’s … my house?’

Milo nods.

‘Minus the marauding maggots,’ says Geoffrey, back in Geoffrey mode.

‘And who’s this? In the hat? Mr Hat?’

‘Dat’s your husband.’

‘But I don’t have a husband.’

‘When you grow up and get married.’

I can’t help but laugh, which is fortunate as everyone else is. ‘I am very pleased you don’t think I’m grown-up as I think it means I look young.’

I lean down and give him a kiss and a squeeze.

‘I will put it up in my room to fill me with hope for the future.’

Milo nods emphatically and putters back to the living room to his Ewoks, while Mum mutters to Geoff and Esther.

As I get ready to leave, Esther jerks her head backward as she hands me my coat to indicate I’m to step into The Situation Room, where we can’t be heard. I coined the name for the understairs loo when I noticed it was always used for tellings-off. It seems to be some sort of ‘Try not to make it obvious how much you hate Geoffrey’ caution but I decide to head her off and pursue my own agenda. She’s also better forewarned if I do end up at The Wicker.

‘Hey I don’t know if you heard over lunch, I’ve had a full-time job offer. Last night, the wake? Mark’s client has offered me the chance to run the bar.’

Esther’s face drops. ‘Well that’s good but be careful, Gog. Remember Mark’s reputation is on the line if it goes pear shaped.’

‘The wake went well. Thanks again for the vote of confidence!’ I say jokily, but I’m hurt, and make short shrift of leaving, the drawing of Mr Hat in my hand.