Angie cleared her throat. ‘Well, this week we’re all reading The Ghost by Robert Harris. It’s not a frightfully intellectual book,’ she hurried on, ‘and of course we will read something more challenging later on, but it’s a rattling good read with a terrific plot. A good starter book, we thought.’

‘Oh, OK, good idea,’ Chad agreed. He took the book from Pete beside him, who offered it. ‘Hey, I like the sound of this,’ he said, reading the blurb on the back. ‘Makes a change from Philip Roth, doesn’t it, Honey?’

This, to Hope, who, if she was surprised by the popular nature of the novel, was hiding it beautifully. ‘It certainly does. In fact it looks wonderful,’ she said, turning it over in her hands as he passed it to her. ‘And what did you all make of it?’ She glanced around, smiling.

‘Oh, it’s tremendous!’ boomed Angus. ‘Absolutely first class.’

‘Really? That’s great.’ She smiled at Angus, perhaps waiting to be further illuminated. If she was, she was disappointed. He beamed back. ‘What about you, Pete?’ She turned kindly to her neighbour, having remembered his name. The blood surged up Pete’s neck and into his cheeks.

‘Oh, um … I thought it was very good too.’

‘Good, good.’

This didn’t give us a great deal to build on. And although Hope could have asked someone else, it would have thrust her into a dominant role, so she sensibly refrained. Instead she smiled encouragingly at Pete, hoping for more. Pete eyed the door as if he might make a run for it.

In the deafening silence that followed, Angie shot me a pleading glance. ‘Poppy, what about you?’

Sadly I hadn’t read it. I’d had too much on my plate this week. Although, actually, come to think of it, I was pretty sure I had read it, years ago.

‘I thought it was gripping.’ Angie’s eyes demanded more. Much more. ‘And … and I particularly liked the bit where the guy hangs from the cable car, in the snow,’ I said wildly. ‘Really exciting.’

‘That’s Where Eagles Dare,’ said Jennie, rather disloyally, I thought.

Everyone cast their eyes down to their book. ‘Anyone else got any thoughts?’ Angie said brightly. ‘Who didn’t enjoy it?’

Lots of shocked murmuring, head shaking and pursed lips at this. But no concrete ideas.

‘So … everyone enjoyed it.’

More enthusiastic agreement. But then something of a hiatus again. And don’t forget we were all in a circle, so it was a bit like Show and Tell at Clemmie’s school. A mistake, I felt. Too intimidating. We were also missing Simon, who surely would have had some erudite, eloquent remarks on the matter. Angie, Jennie and I looked despairingly at one another. We hadn’t thought this through. Did this need chairing? In which case, who was going to do it? Were there too many of us? Too few? How did it work? What was a book club?

‘Did anyone have any thoughts on characterization?’ suggested Luke, and I could have kissed him. Angie looked as if she really might clasp his head in her hands and plant a smacker on his lips. Of course. Characterization. We all glanced surreptitiously at the Americans to see if they’d clocked this bon mot. Hope was smiling, nodding. Unfortunately, though, no one did. Why were we all so tongue-tied?

‘I thought the characterization was good,’ said Jennie desperately. ‘Particularly that of Adam Lang, the hero.’

‘I agree,’ said Angus staunchly. ‘Best character in the book.’

‘And I particularly liked the way he was depicted as tough, yet tender,’ broke in Saintly Sue. We all turned to her gratefully. She went very pink. Opened her book to where a piece of notepaper lay within. She cleared her throat and read: ‘It seemed to me he emphatically fulfilled the role of romantic hero in the classical sense, much as Chaucer’s Troilus did in Troilus and Criseyde, adhering to the conventions of courtly love and the literature to which it gave rise in the Middle Ages, which emphatically supplied the first of several historical bases to underlie any adequate interpretation of the principal characters, and any situations in which Troilus – and therefore Adam Lang – emphatically coexist today.’ She slowly closed her book, eyes down, lips pursed.

‘Well,’ said Jennie faintly, after a pause. ‘Yes. Quite. Thank you, Sue.’

‘More wine, anyone?’ said Peggy wearily. ‘That is, if no one’s got anything emphatic to add?’

She got to her feet, and everyone, apart from the Americans, eagerly got to theirs, agreeing that was a jolly good idea.

‘Shall we pass round the food now, Angie?’ someone asked. They did so, anyway.

Bemused, the Armitages stood to join us.

‘A real page-turner,’ Angus assured Chad, pressing the book into his hands. ‘Go on, take mine. You’ll love it. Be up all night.’

‘Thank you,’ Chad said. ‘Although, I should probably read next week’s book, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, next week’s,’ agreed Angie, with a note of panic, looking at me.

But I was miles away. Organizing a plumber to fix Marjorie and Cecilia’s boiler, even though they lived sixty miles away in Ashford. But Phil was the man of the family, you see. Role-playing was important. Men were important. On one occasion, Marjorie had turned to me and asked: ‘Where are the men?’ One was in his cot, six weeks old. I’d found it diverting for days. I didn’t now.

‘Hope?’ Angie abandoned me and turned desperately to our new friends. ‘Any suggestions for next week? You must have been to loads of these things in New York,’ she gushed.

‘Oh God, too many. Twice a week sometimes,’ said Hope. ‘But we tended to decide on the next book at the end of the meeting.’

‘This is the end,’ Peggy informed her.

‘Oh, really?’ Hope blanched. ‘You mean … that’s it?’ She waved a hand at the empty chairs.

‘It’s the end of the booky bit. Not the end of the evening.’

‘No – no, it’s not the end of the booky bit,’ Angie insisted, flustered. ‘We’re all going to sit down again and – oh, look, here’s Simon. How marvellous.’

It was said with feeling, and indeed it was something of a relief to have Simon breeze in amongst us. He looked urbane and expensive in his suit, bringing something of London with him, and not just the Evening Standard. Jennie coloured up slightly but I noticed that although he greeted her warmly, he didn’t linger; he greeted everyone else then said hello to the Armitages, who he appeared to know – through mutual friends, he explained. He did some man-chat with Chad, whilst we women swarmed around his wife.

‘You must think we’re hopeless, Hope,’ said Angie. ‘Oh, that sounds dreadful – hopeless hope!’ she twittered. ‘Being so disorganized. But we’ll be much better next week.’

‘Oh no, not at all. I think it’s all going brilliantly. And Chad and I are so thrilled to be asked, anyway. We were just saying the other day that it’s high time we integrated more with the village. Really got involved in the community.’ We basked in her sweet smile and her wide blue eyes, feeling she really meant it. So lovely.

‘And we really would welcome suggestions for next week,’ Angie told her. ‘We’ve all loved this thriller, but maybe we do need something more stimulating to get the chat going a bit more. Any ideas?’

Hope lowered her voice. ‘D’you know, there are huge gaps in my literary education,’ she confided.

‘Oh, mine too!’ agreed Jennie.

‘So much I haven’t read.’

We all nodded enthusiastically. This we liked. Loved, in fact.

‘D’you want to stick to this particular genre?’

We all looked at her blankly.

‘I mean, the thriller?’

‘Oh no, we’re happy with any … genre. Tragedy, romance. I’d happily read Georgette Heyer every week!’ Jennie assured her.

‘I don’t know her.’

‘You don’t know Georgette Heyer?’ Jennie looked genuinely shocked. She clutched her heart. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got the whole lot. I’ll lend them to you. You’re in for a treat. Start with Faro’s Daughter and you’ll be hooked for life!’

‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. And meantime,’ Hope lowered her voice again and we all had to lean in because her voice was soft. And she was tiny, so we must have looked like we were mugging her. ‘Well, meantime, if you’re really looking for suggestions, I’m ashamed to say there’s one book which I know I should have read in high school, but just never got around to. I’d love to do it now.’

‘Oh!’ we breathed. Plenty of those. Whole libraries full. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve probably all read it.’

‘Noo, noo, not necessarily,’ Angie warbled.

‘It’s Ulysses.’

‘Ulysses!’ Jennie and Angie agreed in unison. They rocked back on their heels, glancing wildly at one another. It rang a faint bell, but not a very loud one.

‘Can you believe I’ve never read it? Must be one of the greatest novels in literary history.’

‘I’ve never read it either!’ squealed Angie, hand pressed to her heart. ‘I’ve been so ashamed of that for years!’

‘I’ve always meant to,’ Jennie chimed in. ‘Just never got round to it. Poppy, what about you?’

But I was hanging out Marjorie’s washing now, because she’d asked me to. Large white pants, huge conical bras, the cups of which a puppy could have curled up and had a nap in. Hanging them on my line, while she watched my television.

‘Poppy?’

‘Yes, I told you. I liked the cable-car bit.’