at sheets of paper. I see Simon and Olivia sitting with Tilda and Toby, and head to the table, giving everyone a kiss.
‘Dan’s on his way,’ I say, pulling out a chair. ‘Just waiting for the babysitter.’
What with the cost of babysitting, plus tickets and booze, tonight has worked out pretty expensive for an evening we’re both dreading. As I was leaving home, Dan actually said, ‘Why the hell didn’t we just send along a fifty-quid donation, stay at home and watch Veep?’
But I don’t divulge this to the others. I’m trying to be positive.
‘Won’t this be fun?’ I add brightly.
‘Absolutely,’ says Olivia at once. ‘You can’t take these things too seriously. We’re just here for the fun of it.’
I don’t know Simon and Olivia very well. They’re about Tilda’s age, and have children at uni. He’s avuncular and jolly, with curly hair and specs, but she’s quite nervy and intense. She always seems to be clenching her hands, with her knuckles straining at her white skin. And she has this disconcerting way of looking away mid-conversation, with a sudden swooping, ducking gesture of her head as though she thinks you’re about to hit her.
The gossip is that they nearly divorced last year, because Simon had an affair with his assistant, and Olivia made him go away for a week’s marriage therapy in the Cotswolds, and they had to light candles and ‘brush away his infidelity’ with special mystic twig brooms. That’s according to Toby, who heard it from their neighbour’s au pair.
Although, obviously, I don’t listen to gossip. Nor imagine the pair of them brushing away his infidelity with twig brooms, every time I see them. (Believe me, if it was Dan’s infidelity, I’d want to do a lot more than brush it away with a twig broom. Thrash it with a mallet, maybe.)
‘What’s your specialist subject, Sylvie?’ demands Tilda as I sit down. ‘I’ve been boning up on capital cities.’
‘No!’ I say. ‘Capitals are my thing.’
‘Capital of Latvia,’ rejoins Tilda, passing me a glass of wine.
My mind jumps about with a little spark of optimism. Do I know this? Latvia. Latvia. Budapest? No, that’s Prague. I mean, Hungary.
‘OK, capital cities can be your thing,’ I allow generously. ‘I’ll focus on art history.’
‘Good. And Simon knows all about football.’
‘Last year we would have won if we’d played our joker on the football round,’ Olivia suddenly puts in. ‘But Simon insisted on using it too early.’ She regards Simon with stony eyes and I exchange glances with Tilda. Olivia is so not here for the fun of it.
‘Our team is called the Canville Conquerors,’ Tilda tells me. ‘Because of living on Canville Road.’
‘Very good.’ I take a gulp of wine and am about to regale Tilda with my day at the office, when Olivia leans forward.
‘Sylvie, look at these famous landmarks.’ She pushes a sheet of paper towards me. On it are about twenty grainy, photocopied photos. ‘Can you name any of them? This is the first round.’
I peer at the sheet with a frown. It’s so badly reproduced I can’t even see what anything is, let alone—
‘The Eiffel Tower!’ I say, suddenly spotting it.
‘Everyone’s got the Eiffel Tower,’ says Olivia impatiently, ‘Look, we’ve already written it in. Eiffel Tower. Can’t you get any others?’
‘Er …’ I peer vaguely at the sheet, passing over Stonehenge and Ayers Rock, which have also been written on. ‘Is that the Chrysler Building?’
‘No,’ snaps Olivia. ‘It just looks a bit like the Chrysler Building, but it isn’t actually it.’
‘OK,’ I say humbly.
I’m already feeling a bit hysterical. I don’t know anything and nor does Tilda and Olivia is looking more and more like a headmistress with pursed lips. Suddenly she sits bolt upright and nudges Simon. ‘Who are they?’
A team of guys in matching purple polo shirts walks in and sits down. Half of them have beards and most of them have glasses and all of them look fearsomely bright.
‘Shall we not do the quiz?’ I say to Tilda, only half joking. ‘Shall we just be spectators?’
‘Welcome, everyone, welcome!’ A middle-aged guy with a moustache mounts the tiny platform and speaks into the microphone. ‘I’m Dave and I’m your quizmaster tonight. I’ve never done this before, I’ve stepped in because Nigel’s ill, so go easy on me …’ He gives an awkward half-laugh, then clears his throat. ‘So, let’s play fair, let’s have some fun … please switch off your phones …’ He looks around severely. ‘No googling. No texting a friend. Verboten.’