‘She’s like some ghastly Carry On character: how hot is your furnace, Pete? Do you ever take your shirt off, Pete?’ she mimicked. ‘I mean, honestly.’ She sank down in a heap at Jennie’s kitchen table. ‘I thought: any minute now she’ll be feeling his biceps!’ Jennie and I exchanged a guilty glance. After Angie had left early – in a bit of a huff, it has to be said – there had been a bit of bicep comparing. Quite a few people had rolled up their sleeves in a bid to compete with Pete’s monumental brawn. But, in our defence, we had all been terribly drunk, what with Peggy’s Calvados slipping down a treat and not having had any supper apart from a few meagre bits of smoked salmon. It had all got faintly giggly. Possibly out of hand. Angie had missed quite a party. ‘Peggy just gets a bit overexcited,’ I assured her, trying not to recall the arm-wrestling match between Peggy and Saintly Sue, with Pete as referee, the rest of us cheering them on.
