‘Of course he does.’ Brian claps his hands together. ‘Prezzies. Must be that time?’

He sniffs and reaches under his chair. I want to stop him, ask him what he means about Jo-Jo, what he knows, what’s been said. He pulls up a small backpack and produces a boxed bottle of Moët identical to the one we’ve already drunk.

‘Well, happy fifty-five-and-a-bit, I suppose, old man.’ He leans across the table and hands the box to Simon. ‘Bubbly. Can’t go wrong with bubbly on a birthday, can you? Unless you’re second getting your bottle out.’

‘Still very welcome,’ Simon says. He opens the lid of the box and draws the bottle out to take a look at it. ‘Thank you. Great minds, and all that.’

With his other hand, he picks up his wineglass and clinks it against Brian’s.

Gloria reaches into the black leather tote bag propped against her chair and draws out a present wrapped in gold paper.

‘Happy birthday.’ She gives it to Simon with both hands. The lower part is the size and shape of a bottle, but the top has a bulge where it should taper. ‘New year, new arteries, new start.’

‘I recognise that shape,’ he says. ‘Mostly . . .’ He squeezes the bulge. ‘Wine from both of you? What are the two of you saying?’

He tears the paper and reveals a watch or a Garmin on a black band around the neck of the bottle.

‘It’s the new Vivosport,’ she says, as he lifts it off and buckles it around his wrist. ‘It’s got GPS, so you can track your walking and jogging. It monitors recovery, too.’

‘Perfect,’ he says, tapping at the screen. ‘Great.’

‘You should give ours,’ Lacy tells me, nudging me under the table with her knee.

The box is on the sofa, gift-wrapped, a Girdwood Brewing T-shirt on top of the Tom Petty box set.

‘Lovely,’ Simon says as he pulls the T-shirt over the collared shirt he’s already wearing. It’s snug but will fit when it’s worn alone. He smooths down the wrinkles as he reads the outside of the Tom Petty box. ‘Oh my god.’ He puts his hands on his head. ‘Do I play it or do I keep it MIB? Aargh. I want to play it.’

‘Mint in box,’ Brian says, for the sake of the rest of us. ‘Go on. Play the bugger. My guess is the aftermarket’s very niche. They made them for playing.’

Lacy prods me in the arm. ‘What about the other thing? The thing from Ellen . . .’

It’s still upstairs, a small box wrapped in blue tissue paper, held in place by a single piece of tape, exactly as Ellen gave it to me.

‘It wasn’t really part of the birthday . . .’

‘It’s a gift. Let’s make it part of the birthday,’ she says. ‘It’s in the small suitcase.’ She points upwards, towards the stairs or the ceiling, up at our room.