I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?

“Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.

“I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”

Aargh!

“I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here it he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was asking all about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom. Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.

Luckily, at that moment, Martin appears, clutching a piece of paper.

“Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”

I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius – so I’ll just have to do the best I can.

I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.

“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”

“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes Janice. “Swiss-made.”

“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”

Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from The Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.

Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember... but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.

“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.

“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”

“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea...”

“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would low far more...”

“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The financial expert herself.”

“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, with the mortgage and everything... But he says your articles are very good! Tom says–”

“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”

And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my ice on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.