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Rooter’s progeny now. There are shaggy yellow dogs of varying sizes on every street corner. No, this is an earlier vintage. My friends the Gallaghers – do you remember?’
    ‘We had dinner with them when we stayed with you.’
    ‘Yes, darling – and they had a little Manchester terrier called Bet with a very wet nose that was prone to point up unfortunate places?’
    ‘I remember.’ Sally crossed her legs.
    ‘Well, the Gallaghers have moved back to Edinburgh now – Hamish’s job, I think. And Rooter clearly rooted just a few days before they came back. Poor little Bet – Lord knows she must have winced, she’s so small. Anyway, halfway through quarantine out popped five puppies. This is the runt. She’s already four months old, but not as big as her ma. Hamish Gallagher saved her for me.’
    ‘She’s divine.’ Sally lifted up the coat and looked at the strange little creature – a leggy mixture of black and tan fluff, pointy snout, vast opal eyes and big, petal ears the colour of golden biscuits. She was utterly endearing with her gamine Audrey Hepburn face and waifish, waggy tail, and was now quite settled in her fuggy hideaway.
    Niall returned just as Pascal was threatening to throw the drying meal out of the window. He was weighed down with crockery, had knives and forks poking out of every pocket and smelled slightly of the two vast Bushmills that Marco Angelo, their local Italian landlord, had pressed upon him.
    ‘He asked if you could do a portrait of Denise for her birthday next summer.’ Niall hiccuped slightly, winking at Tash and setting his load down on the table with a clank. ‘Says to make her look ten years younger and three stone lighter, or she’ll never talk to you again.’
    ‘Bless him.’ Tash grinned, hastily setting places.
    Marco and Denise Angelo ran the immensely successful Olive Branch with its Michelin-starred Italian restaurant. Known locally as Ange and Den, they were only slightly more famous for their food and hospitality than they were for their flamboyant bilingual arguments and smashing china. Today was obviously a harmonious day at casa Angelo, Tash surmised, from the stack of chip-free china that Niall had returned with.
    ‘Now – at last – you can both have your present!’ Alexandra gasped with relief and opened her coat, just as a small, fluffy bundle of long legs and big petal ears threw up on her expensive woollen trousers.
    ‘ À table! ’
    They were still madly opening presents when Pascal called them over to eat, leaving Polly, Tom and Tor sulky and frustrated as they were forced to relinquish new toys before trying to break them properly.
    The meal was a glorious victory of skill over time. Pascal had taken the turkey off the bone to cook it quickly, poaching it in gallons of wine and double cream before grilling it in a cranberry glaze. The result was as moist and melting as watermelon, and surrounded by piles of glossy, crisp vegetables dripping with butter and black pepper.
    Sally eyed the others’ plates jealously as she ate the soggy pizza which Tash had hastily defrosted and microwaved when Matty announced that he and his family would not sacrifice their vegetarian ideals for Christmas. She was also sipping mineral water as she was the designated driver for the day.
    ‘Can I have a piece of turkey?’ Tom begged.
    ‘No, you can’t,’ Matty snapped, pedantically picking pieces of pepperoni from his pizza slice before reaching across to do the same on Tor’s. ‘These pizzas aren’t all veggie, Tash.’
    ‘Aren’t they?’ she asked guiltily. She had realised that earlier, but had hoped that if she burned them enough they wouldn’t notice.
    Etty, who had called Pascal ‘James’ three times now, was eyeing Tash’s left hand beadily.
    Tash hoped she’d remembered to wash her hands since returning from the Moncrieffs’. She had a feeling that she hadn’t. No wonder Matty was picking at his pizza like a medieval king’s