The lean, rapacious hostess whisked everyone round introducing them as if she were doing a grand chain in an eightsome reel. Daisy talked to a sweet girl who was giggling with nervous relief because she’d just got rid of her mother-in-law. ‘I’m going to get seriously drunk.’

‘I can’t. Mine’s over there,’ said Daisy regretfully.

‘There’s Basil Baddingham. Look at the colour of him – he must’ve been skiing or playing polo abroad,’ said the girl. ‘He’ll know the latest on Ricky.’ Then, as all the Rutshire wives converged, shrieking, on Bas: ‘He’s so wicked, he must have had every woman in the room.’

‘Not me,’ said Daisy, almost regretfully.

The girl laughed. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

Daisy was comforted to see people’s eyes glazing over at Biddy’s monologue.

‘My son’s in television,’ held them for five minutes, until they discovered Hamish wasn’t producing Rumpole and then drifted off. ‘This is my first Christmas as a widow,’ at least held the women for another five.

Daisy was so hot she thought she was going to faint. As Hamish was the other end of the room, she took off her crimson polo neck, which wiped off all her make-up and pulled the pins out of her hair, so it cascaded around her shoulders and splendid cleavage.

Bas, a connoisseur both of horse and female flesh, crossed the room. Hastily, Daisy slung the crimson polo neck round her shoulders, hiding her cleavage with the sleeves.

‘Shame to cover it up,’ said Bas, whose height gave him a good view. ‘You’re living in Brock House, aren’t you? I’ve seen you in the village, and I’ve met Perdita hunting. Christ, she’s pretty. Rupert and the twins and I are all drawing lots to take her out on her sixteenth birthday.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ll have to wait till next November.’

‘I like things on slow burn,’ said Bas idly. ‘I can see where Perdita gets her looks.’

‘Do you live near here?’ said Daisy hastily. He was so attractive, but it was difficult concentrating when little black spots seemed to be taking away half of his wickedly smiling face.

‘In Cotchester. I’ve got a wine bar. You must come and dine there one evening – er – when your husband’s away.’

It was definitely a come-on.

‘How’s Ricky France-Lynch?’ said Daisy, to change the subject.

Bas shook his head. ‘Fucking brave. I thought he’d top himself cooped up like that, and he’s already had three operations on his elbow.’

Daisy winced. ‘Will he be able to play again?’

Bas shrugged. ‘Won’t get much chance to find out if he’s convicted. The trial starts next month. I say, are you all right?’ He put a suntanned hand on Daisy’s forehead, then ran his fingers lingeringly down her cheek. ‘You’re absolutely baking. You ought to be in bed, preferably with me.’

As Daisy swayed, he pushed her gently down on the sofa. ‘Philippa,’ he yelled to his hostess, ‘have you got a thermometer?’

Turning round a couple of minutes later to check whether Biddy was all right, Hamish saw Daisy sitting on a sofa with a thermometer in her mouth, exposing her entire bosom to a tall, dark and very handsome man who was stroking her pulse. Hamish was across the room in a flash.

‘What’s going on?’ he said furiously.

‘You’re a lousy husband,’ accused Bas. ‘No, don’t try to talk,’ he chided Daisy. ‘You haven’t had it under your tongue for a minute.’

Through feverish, red-veined eyes Daisy looked beseechingly up at Hamish.

‘Why are you making a fuss, Daisy?’ asked Hamish coldly.

‘It’s no fuss,’ said Bas, whipping out the thermometer. ‘See for yourself, it’s nearly 104.’

‘You must take her home at once,’ insisted Philippa. ‘Poor darling, I expect you’re exhausted by Christmas and just moving in,’ then adding, as Biddy bustled up, ‘what a good thing you’ve got Mummy staying. You must keep her tucked up warm, Mummy, and not let her do a thing.’

Daisy didn’t dare look at Biddy.

‘See you when you’re better, darling,’ said Bas.

‘Do come back when you’ve dropped her and Mummy,’ Daisy heard Philippa say to Hamish.

Four days later, on New Year’s Eve, Daisy staggered up – only slightly comforted that she had lost seven pounds. Clutching on to the bedroom window, she could see Perdita stick and balling on the lawn in the fading light. She had used two of Eddie’s cricket stumps as goal posts. Now she was galloping flat out, then stopping, pirouetting Fresco round on her hocks, and shooting off in another direction, both their pony tails flying. On the last gallop, Fresco didn’t manage to stop and flat-footed all over the herbaceous border. Hamish would do his nut.

Jumping off, Perdita stuffed the pony with carrots, hugging her and covering her face with kisses. She’s never loved a human like that, thought Daisy sadly. If only Hamish ever showed a flicker of interest in her.

Clinging on to the banisters, Daisy staggered downstairs to an unrecognizable kitchen. Every surface was stripped and gleaming. Even the azalea Daisy’s mother had sent her from the alcoholic’s home looked quite sprightly. Drying-up cloths boiled briskly on top of the Aga, grey scum trembling on top. Humming ‘If Onlee’, Biddy was ironing a new emerald-green shirt which had somehow found its way into Hamish’s wardrobe. On the memo pad by the telephone, Biddy had jotted down Ajax, Domestos, Blue Loo, Shake and Vac, Freshaire x 3.

‘I can’t thank you enough for taking over,’ said Daisy as she collapsed into a chair.

‘Someone had to,’ said Biddy tersely.

‘Goodness, you iron well.’

Biddy had finished the green shirt and had started on Hamish’s Y-fronts. There was something obscene in the loving way she slid the hot iron with a hiss of steam into the crotch. Daisy could feel the sweat drenching her forehead.

‘I’m afraid I don’t bother to iron pants and socks,’ she mumbled apologetically. ‘Where’s Ethel?’

‘In her kennel outside, where she should be,’ said Biddy. ‘That’ll be Hamish.’ Her face really lit up as she heard wheels on the gravel.

Hamish, looking pale but elated, reeked of extra strong mints again.

‘You are a miracle,’ he said, kissing Biddy on the cheek. ‘Only you could get a polish like that on the front-door handle. We’ve sent your black shoes back to the manu-facturers and asked them to find an identical pair. Feeling better?’ he added turning to Daisy, but not looking at her. ‘You look much better.’

‘How was your day?’ asked Biddy. ‘Were you pleased with the rushes?’

‘Green grow the rushes oh, I love the lassies oh,’ said Daisy dreamily.

‘Better than I thought,’ said Hamish ignoring Daisy. ‘The bad news is that Melanie’s got flu, so we probably won’t be able to start shooting on Monday. The good news is that Wendy’s asked us to supper.’

Oh no, thought Daisy, I’m simply not up to it.

‘But Wendy’s been working all day,’ she protested. ‘She won’t want to be bothered.’

‘Course she will,’ said Hamish briskly. ‘I’ve accepted anyway. Good for you to get out, and Mother certainly needs a break.’

There was a mini-tantrum before they left because Gainsborough had shed ginger fur over the new green shirt which Biddy had ironed specially. Biddy also huffed and puffed because her stack-heeled brown shoes were less dressy with the red dress than the glacé kid.

Daisy knew she should have washed her hair but she felt too exhausted.

If Wendy had been working all day, reflected Daisy, it had been on the dinner party. The flat was gleaming, full of freesias, more tinselled and red-ribboned than Santa’s grotto in a department store, and the food exquisite and consisting of all Hamish’s favourite things.

Hamish, who’d brought lots of bottles, kept leaping up and filling glasses and clearing away as he never did at home. Wendy, whom Daisy vaguely remembered as a raver in black leather and chain belts, was dressed in a grey wool midi-dress with a white collar. Her long, dark hair, so shiny Biddy might have been polishing it all day, was held back by a black velvet ribbon. All evening she ‘targeted’ on Biddy, flattering her preposterously, laughing at her frightful jokes and displaying an encyclopaedic knowledge of Hamish’s work.

‘Burns is going to be a seminal work, of course, but I think Haulage is my favourite,’ she was now saying, as Biddy greedily scraped up the remains of a second helping of passion fruit mousse. ‘Hamish is a cut above other producers because he’s so caring – not just for actors and directors, but the crew as well.’

And for you too, thought Daisy, watching Hamish’s enraptured face. Hamish had been given to crushes throughout their marriage, but Daisy had never seen him so besotted. Nor did Wendy make the mistake of ignoring Daisy. She kept suggesting other food when Daisy couldn’t manage to eat anything, bringing her into the conversation as a coarse fisherman occasionally pulls on a spare rod.

‘What a lovely meal,’ said Biddy, folding her napkin.

‘As it’s Hogmanay I should have served you haggis,’ said Wendy, ‘but I couldn’t get one. “Great chieftain of the pudding race”,’ she added skittishly to Hamish.

‘I see you know your Burns,’ said Biddy approvingly.

‘The Hag is astride, this night for a ride,’ muttered Daisy.

‘I really like that young person,’ yelled Biddy, when Wendy, refusing any help, went next door to make coffee.

‘What a poppet,’ yelled Wendy, as Biddy went off to the loo.

Daisy only started getting jumpy when Wendy, having asked Biddy if she’d like some background music, put on ‘If On-lee’.

‘I really love this tune,’ Wendy said, dancing a few steps. Her eyes shining, she couldn’t have been prettier.