‘But you just won!’

‘I know, but you haven’t had a chance to bat yet, poor thing,’ she pouts. ‘Come on. Have a go. Take me on!’

The Copes all love the idea of this — there’s a low, pagan rumble of excitement, bizarrely vaguely sexual, and clearly he has no choice. His honour, the honour of the Mayhews is at stake here. Solemnly Dexter puts down his glass, stands and takes the baton.

‘You’re sure about this?’ he says, kneeling on the carpet an arm’s length away. ‘Because I’m a pretty good tennis player.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she says, grinning provocatively, shaking out her hands like a gymnast as the blindfold is tied.

‘And I think I might be quite good at this.’

Behind him, Sam ties his blindfold tight as a tourniquet. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

The arena falls silent.

‘Okay, are you ready?’ says Dexter.

‘Oh yes.’

He grips the baton with both hands, arms level at his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m ready when you. .’

Momentarily an image flickers in his mind — a baseball player on his mound — as he slices diagonally with the bat, a tremendous uppercut that swishes audibly through the air and from behind the blindfold the impact feels fantastic as it sends tremors along both arms and into his chest. A moment of awed silence follows and for a moment Dexter is sure that he has done very, very well. And then he hears a crash, and an appalled cry goes up in unison from the whole family.

‘SYLVIE!’

‘Oh my God!’

‘Sweetheart, darling, are you okay?’

Dexter tears off his blindfold to see that Sylvie has somehow been transported to the far side of the room, slumped over in the fireplace like a marionette with all her strings cut. Her eyes are blinking wide and her hand is cupped to her face, but it’s already possible to see the dark rivulet of blood as it trickles down beneath her nose. She is moaning quietly to herself.

‘Oh my God, I am so sorry!’ he exclaims, horrified. Immediately he crosses towards her, but the family has already closed in.

‘Good God, Dexter, what the hell were you thinking?’ barks red-faced Lionel, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK IF SHE WAS THEREMORIARTY!’ shrieks her mother.

‘Didn’t I? Sorry—’

‘No, you just lashed out crazily!’

‘Like a madman—’

‘Sorry. Sorry, I forgot. I was—’

‘— Drunk!’ says Sam. The accusation hangs in the air. ‘You’re drunk, man. You’re completely pissed!’

They all turn and glare.

‘It really was an accident. I just caught your face at an odd angle.’

Sylvie tugs on Helen’s sleeve. ‘How does it look?’ she asks in a tearful voice as she discreetly removes her cupped hand from her nose. It’s as if she’s holding a fistful of strawberry sorbet.

‘It’s really not too bad,’ gasps Helen, her hand clasped to her mouth in horror and Sylvie’s face crumples further into tears. ‘Let me see, let me see! The bathroom!’ she whimpers, and the family haul her to her feet.

‘It really was just some kind of flukey accident. .’ Holding her mother’s arm, Sylvie hurries past him, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Sylvie? Sylv?’ There is no reply and he watches in misery, as her mother escorts her into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.

He listens to the footsteps fade.

And now it’s just Dexter and the Cope menfolk. A primal scene, they glare and glare. Instinctively he feels his hand tighten around his weapon, the tightly rolled-up copy of today’s Daily Telegraph, and says the only thing that he can think of to say.

‘Ouch!’

‘So — do you think I made a good impression?’

Dexter and Sylvie lie in the guest room’s large soft double bed. Sylvie turns to look at him, her face unmoving, the small fine nose throbbing accusingly. She sniffs but says nothing.

‘Do you want me to say I’m sorry again?’

‘Dexter, it’s fine.’

‘You forgive me?’

‘I forgive you,’ she snaps.

‘And you think they think I’m alright, they don’t think I’m some sort of violent psychopath or something?’

‘I think they think you’re fine. Let’s forget it shall we?’ She turns onto her side, away from him, and turns out her light.

A moment passes. Like a shamed schoolboy, he feels as if he won’t sleep, unless he gets some further reassurance. ‘Sorry for. . fucking up,’ he pouts. ‘ Again!’ She turns once more, and lays one hand fondly on his cheek.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You were doing fine until you hit me. They really, really liked you.’