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hands. There was no way he could check on whether she was still taking the pill. He didn’t know what to do about that.
    As Tony was morosely descending the stairs, Charlie Collins, fifty miles away, was smooching with Dawn to a Barry Manilow record. She was slightly high on rum and coke and giggled appreciatively as he murmured at her lasciviously. Their host had dimmed the lights and many of the couples moving slowly on the mock-parquet floor were discreetly feeling each other up. Charlie applied his tongue gently to Dawn’s right ear: from her reaction he guessed he had located an erogenous zone. He move his head back a little and caught a glimpse of his wife draped around the newcomer from No. 42. Great. That should keep her out of the way for the evening, leaving him clear to concentrate on this superior piece of crumpet. He whispered a suggestion and Dawn indicated agreement. ‘Only half an hour, though,’ she said prudently, ‘or someone might miss us.’
    They were moving towards the door of the living room when the music abruptly changed to an aggressive track from Saturday Night Fever . The exit became blocked by a crush of erstwhile dancers who had yielded the floor to the extrovert minority – just one couple. Charlie and Dawn sighed resignedly. Flight would have to be postponed for a while.
    Then Charlie saw that the woman strutting uninhibitedly up and down the room was Jill, led by No. 42 in ever more extravagant and space-consuming manoeuvres. Charlie waited for her breath to give out, but he had neither realized how much vodka she’d put back nor bargained for how No. 42’s enthusiasm might augment her euphoric delusions. As the tempo grew more frantic, she seized a coffee table from against the wall and leaped on it unsteadily.
    ‘That’s it, petal,’ called out No. 42. ‘Give it to us, baby.’ To Charlie’s embarrassment, she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Only his desperate lust for Dawn stopped him from intervening. Jill flung her blouse across the room to loud cheers. When her skirt followed it, the stretch marks on her belly and the spreading thighs were visible to all. Not till she began to grapple with the fastenings of her bra did Charlie accept that the party was over. Woodgrove might be a pretty permissive estate, but husbands couldn’t abnegate all responsibility. It was his job – yet again – to stop the fun and take her home.
    Graham Illingworth was at that moment happily putting the finishing touches to the bedroom of the doll’s house he was making as a Christmas present for Gail. He fixed the handle to the door of the tiny wardrobe and placed it in the left-hand corner. Now it was complete. He could find no flaws anywhere. Even the matching bedspread and curtains that Val had grudgingly made were exactly right, and toned in prettily with the sample he had cut down into a perfectly fitting carpet.
    He wondered if he had time to begin work on the fitments for the kitchen. Looking at his watch he was startled to find it was already 11:30. Val was late again: there must have been a lot of customers tonight. He picked up the doll’s house and locked it in a cupboard. As he pocketed the key he heard a little voice crying ‘Daddy’. He took the stairs in twos: as he entered the room, his arms were outstretched, ready to cuddle his little daughter.
    Horace and Rita Underhill had watched television for the entire evening. They both felt a sneaking gratitude that neither of the children had stayed in. It was so cosy to be able to watch what they liked without anyone complaining. They looked at each other affectionately from time to time. Rita thought how distinguished Horace looked in the new sports coat she’d bought for his birthday. She wished he would stop using the Grecian 2000 and let his hair go grey, but he seemed certain that a youthful appearance was important for his promotion chances. Anyway, that new diet seemed to be doing his ulcer good. Horace noticed how