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understand the minds of …?’ Neville hesitated, ‘… people?’
    â€˜You were going to say the minds of women, and then thought I’d accuse you of being sexist,’ said Liz.
    â€˜What an awful thing for Rita to do, though,’ said Betty Sillitoe, over-explicit as usual.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Liz. ‘How to upstage everybody by not being present.’
    â€˜That wasn’t what I meant,’ said Betty.
    â€˜So, what are you two planning now that your chickens will never come home to roost again?’ enquired Neville.
    Rodney Sillitoe, who still looked as though he had spent the night in a chicken coop in his suit, even though he was no longer the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens, having let all his battery chickens go free in a fit of remorse, explained their new plans briefly, but with evident enthusiasm. ‘We’re opening a health food complex.’
    â€˜With wholefood vegetarian restaurant,’ added Betty proudly.
    Liz laughed. Her laugh trilled through the tense gathering like the cry of a curlew on a misty morning.
    â€˜Liz!’ said Neville.
    â€˜Sorry.’ Liz seemed contrite. ‘But Mr and Mrs Frozen Drumstick selling nut cutlets!’
    â€˜Why does everybody think vegetarian food is just funny laughable old nut cutlets?’ protested Betty.
    Liz’s dainty hand fluttered to her neck, to be impaled there, a dying butterfly. ‘My God! You’re serious converts,’ she said, and laughed again, a less elegant laugh, a magpie’s malicious cackle.
    â€˜Liz!’ said Neville.
    â€˜Oh Lord,’ said Liz. ‘I shouldn’t laugh at anything today, should I? Sorry, Neville. Social lapse over.’
    There was an uneasy pause. Neville, usually the first to fill uneasy pauses, leapt in. ‘Can I get you two a drink?’ he asked, before remembering that it wasn’t wise to offer the Sillitoes drinks.
    â€˜Oh thank you,’ said Betty. ‘Grape juice, please.’
    â€˜Apple juice, please,’ said Rodney.
    This time Liz’s laugh was an owl’s hoot.
    â€˜Liz!’ said Neville.
    It would have been impossible for all the guests to have remained hushed all afternoon. It would have been unnatural if they had all continued to behave unnaturally all afternoon. So, as the sundipped, as clouds bubbled up in the increasingly unstable air, as champagne flowed and sea trout slithered down throats, and an Egyptian cherry tomato with no respect for class squirted down the waistcoat of a merchant banker from Abinger Hammer, it was only natural that stories should be told, that laughter should be heard, that cautiously desirous looks should be exchanged between the head waiter at Chez Albert and the mysterious yellow lady whose blonde hair might have been natural.
    By the time Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, approached the cynical Elvis Simcock and his long-haired fiancée, Carol Fordingbridge, a casual observer could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a happy occasion.
    â€˜Hello,’ said Simon. ‘What an extraordinary … er … what can I say? What can one say? I’m … er … I’m …’
    â€˜This is an unprecedented moment in our island’s history, Carol,’ said Elvis. ‘An estate agent lost for words.’
    â€˜Here we go again,’ sighed Simon. ‘It’s bash an estate agent time. It’s mock an easy target time.’
    â€˜You could say the situation leaves considerable scope for improvement,’ said Elvis. ‘Which is estate agent-ese for a ginormous cock-up.’
    â€˜Except it isn’t,’ said Carol, who looked charming in an apricot crêpe, short-sleeved, belted dress.
    â€˜What?’ said Elvis.
    â€˜You never wanted your mum to marry him.’
    â€˜No, but … I didn’t want her to do that to him.’
    â€˜I believe you’re starting to like him now