‘Yes! We got married in Dubrovnik. Popular, I know, I know.’

‘Yes! Giles has a talent for picking birthday gifts.’

‘Yes! My brother is an artist. He has a studio in Oslo.’

Of course he does. I’m conscious of drinking my wine too quickly so I stand and wander across the carpet to admire the bookshelves. I sway to the electronic jazz, just a little.

‘I had so many good intentions of setting some time aside to do this on Jack’s shelves,’ I say, as I look at all the book spines arranged in colour order, red flowing into orange into yellow into green into blue into purple into black. ‘But, you know, tragedy struck.’ I accompany my words with a click of my fingers and a swing from my forearm, a silent, ‘Darn it’. There. I’ve done it. Addressed the white elephant – camouflaged well in this room – in a light-hearted fashion.

She’s behind me now, Ingrid. Her hand on my shoulder. She doesn’t hesitate to turn me around and pull me close. I think she pecks me lightly on my cheek – or perhaps I’ve just imagined that – but I’m so taken aback that I try to jovially break apart from her, only to elbow the wine glass in her hand. It falls to the floor and a red pool in the shape of Africa bleeds into the white carpet.

‘Shit! I’m so sorry, Ingrid. I can’t believe it. Oh, shit …’

Giles wanders in, apron on, smiling like an innocent puppy. He’s holding a glass of white wine in one hand and the bottle I presume to be the wedding present from Ingrid’s cousin in the other. I’m hit with a waft of warm garlic and spices from the kitchen, and I want to die.

SPLAT!

Giles has tipped his glass of wine onto the red stain, a perfect aim.

‘White gets rid of red,’ he sings, merrily.

‘Yes!’ Ingrid agrees, snatching the whole bottle from her husband and pouring the remaining contents all over the floor. And she’s laughing, as though this is a game they regularly play on a Saturday night. Giles has gone off to get ‘the cloth’. Not a cloth. The cloth. The one that magically removes wine stains created by clumsy guests.

I’m apologising profusely, the sound of my voice whiney and irritating. Giles and Ingrid both tell me, ‘It’s nothing,’ and ‘It’s no trouble,’ and ‘Really, Chloe, it’s nothing.’ I don’t do a single thing to help. Ingrid insists that I make myself at home, again.

‘I already overstepped the mark,’ I cry.

Giles jumps up to standing from a crouch. He clicks and points at the pink stain followed by a thumbs up and a closed-mouth grin, then repeats his routine in reference to the kitchen. Feeling the need to explain himself, he clears this throat.