[Footsteps. Slam.]
HAWTHORNE:
Jesus, Ben, what’s wrong with Sauvignon Blanc?
WESTCOTT:
We can get Sauvignon Blanc if you like.
VANE:
She was a bit of something, wasn’t she?
WALLACE:
Grow up, Con. She looked younger than your Becky.
VANE:
Don’t be a prude. I’ll tell you something about Becky’s friends …
[There are a few further comments here that I’ve edited out for reasons of taste. Then there’s some inconsequential chat for a few minutes, while the actual wine waitress turns up and takes their order, then a bit more desultory stuff about Hawthorne’s recent bout of gout, Vane’s ‘absolutely rank’ constituents and their boring problems, and so on. The drinks arrive; the waitress leaves.]
WESTCOTT:
Shall we have a toast?
