My mother-in-law brought thirty-eight friends into my restaurant, ordered the most expensive menu on it, and told them she was paying. Then she started boasting about my husband’s new girlfriend — and I looked across the room at the young woman refilling their water.

PART 1 — THE PRIVATE ROOM

“Come in, ladies, don’t be shy. My daughter-in-law’s place is practically family. Today we eat like queens, and I’m paying for all of it.”

Constance Rook’s voice went right across my dining room at half past one on a Friday, with every table in the building full.

Behind her came thirty-eight women. Good handbags, strong perfume, and the particular walk of people who have never once in their lives wondered who gets the bill.

Declan, my manager, was at my elbow inside four seconds.

“Juliet, they’ve got no booking. We’re full. Do you want me to tell them?”

Constance was already lifting a Reserved card off one of the long tables and telling a waiter to fetch more chairs.

“No,” I said. “Look after them.”

“All thirty-nine?”

“All of them. Whatever they ask for.”

He did not understand. Nobody on my floor understood.