Stein laughs. Kristoffer gives the briefest of smiles. I glance down at my keywords. I’d planned on turning it into a sweet story about Marthe and Mum and me, about how I was looking forward to becoming an equally spritely sixty-five year old myself, fawning over her a little, and then I’d wrap up with a quote from the speech they never heard, try again, fail again, fail better, but now I find myself looking at my own handwriting and none of it makes sense to me. There’s nothing here. There’s nowhere I can go from here. Do we know each other at all, good girl Ida, cuddly Marthe, we come here every year and do all the same things, how did we become what we are, what does it mean to fail better, why am I asking Mum to fail better, it doesn’t make any sense, you either fail or you don’t, she’s not the one who’s failed.

‘So, anyway, happy birthday,’ I say, raising my glass, and we have to toast before anyone has a chance to ask if that’s really it, and I sit back down. Mum looks confused but smiles at me; Marthe furrows her brow. Stein claps.

‘Ida, Ida, Ida, lovely.’

I watch Marthe’s hands as she places one prawn after the next on Olea’s plate, her fingers are shorter and stubbier than mine, and she bites her nails, she always has. Twisting the head off, squeezing the back, pulling off the tail, peeling 119away the shell. I take a few prawns from my plate and lay them on Olea’s. Marthe looks up at me.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘I just thought Olea might like them,’ I say. ‘It just saves her waiting while the rest of us are eating.’

‘Are you really going to make a thing about how fast I peel prawns?’ Marthe asks.

I hold my slice of bread with both hands and take a large bite. The prawns are good, they are, firm as I sink my teeth into them. Marthe snorts with laughter for a moment, looking at Mum and then at Kristoffer.

‘I gave Olea two prawns,’ I say, putting my bread back down, smiling. ‘Is that really so bad?’

‘Can we not,’ Kristoffer says, waving a hand, Olea buries her face in the crook of his arm, just like I did last night, I think to myself.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think Marthe must be a bit hormonal.’

Stein chuckles, Mum shoots an irritated glance in his direction.

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ Marthe says, shaking her head and pursing her lips, she pushes her chair back with a clatter and stands up.

‘Marthe,’ Mum says, reaching out for her. ‘Don’t go.’

Marthe pushes her arm away, slamming the door behind her. Mum looks over at me.