‘Wait a minute . . .’ said Tina. ‘Is that Angie?’ 

‘What?’ said Bette.

‘That’s Angie. That’s her car.’

The vehicle drew to a stop. It was a black VW Golf, the same car Angie had since high school.

‘Hey, Moms,’ she said as she got out. 

‘Honey!’ said Tina, going to hug her. 

‘Oh God, Mom, no . . .’

Tina’s face fell, until she remembered her wet, bedraggled appearance. 

‘What are you doing here?’ Bette asked.

‘Just, y’know . . .’ said Angie, with a shrug. Her mothers stared at her. ‘Is it okay if I stay a few days?’

‘Of course!’ said Tina.

Angie went to get her bag from the back of the car. Bette and Tina exchanged nonplussed looks. But now the second car began to approach, again right up the private drive.

‘Is everything okay?’ Tina asked Angie.

‘Sure. I just wanted to . . .’ Angie trailed off as the second car drew near. ‘Oh, come on.’ 

Bette heard the dismay in her daughter’s voice a split second before she knew its cause: a red Mini Cooper with a very loud stereo. Bette couldn’t ID the music, but she knew the woman behind the wheel. Intimately.

‘Alice?’ said Tina.

‘What is even happening?’ said Angie.

Alice cut the motor, got out and shut the door on Joan Didion. In rose-gold aviators, white satin pyjamas, pink Rick Owens hi-tops and a Monkees tee-shirt, Alice Pieszecki was firmly in her Baby Jane era as she stood with one arm propped against the car roof, the other holding an e-cigarette.

‘Well, good evening!’ she beamed at everyone. 

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Angie.

‘Sweet Jesus, what is that smell?’ Alice pulled her tee-shirt up over her nose as she waved her e-cig at Bette and Tina. ‘And what’s this? Wet tee-shirt night at the vineyard?’

‘Alice, what the fuck are you doing here?’ asked Bette.

‘Nice welcome. Actually, I was invited.’

‘What? Who by?’

‘Dani. But again, Porter, what have you been doing?’

Bette was stumped, thinking for a split second that Alice actually wanted to know about the role of punching down in wine production. But then Alice stared hard at the Crocs.

‘And what the fuck is on your feet?’