He opens my card first. I’ve made one of those personalized black-and-white ones of a young couple gazing at each other lovingly and drinking champagne. The caption reads: “Ross and Lizzie spent the evening kissing and cuddling on the sofa.” Then, underneath in brackets: “Clearly, their internet connection must have been down.”

Mum and Dad have sent one of a cartoon doctor trying to listen to someone’s feet with a stethoscope. There are a few more on a similar theme. Ross laughs and draws the first of my gifts toward him. He looks delighted when he pulls the paper off. It’s a vinyl record—Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band. A 2017 Record Store Day exclusive I bought off eBay a couple of weeks ago.

“I love it,” he says, turning the sleeve over and reading the back. “But how did you know I wanted it? I don’t remember telling you.”

I tap the side of my nose and assume a mysterious expression. “I heard you mention it the night of the housewarming party, when you were talking to one of your old mates.”

I nudge the other present toward him. “Go on, open this one now.”

He makes a show of feeling it through the paper. Then he tears it open and draws out the framed photo of his mother, which I’ve had enlarged. He stares at it for a long time and I can see how surprised he is, how pleased. He gives me one of his bear hugs.

“Thank you. I’ve been meaning to get that framed for ages.”

“I know you have. That’s why I did it.”

Catherine appears in the doorway in her blue toweling bathrobe just as we’re in the middle of a kiss. Ross pulls away quickly and busies himself tidying up the discarded wrapping paper and envelopes. Honestly, I know he feels awkward having her stay with us like this, but I wish he wasn’t quite so uptight about it. We are allowed to be affectionate with each other in our own house, aren’t we?

“Hey, what’s all this?” she says. “You should have told me it was your birthday, Ross. I would have got you a card.”

He jams his hands into his trouser pockets and does a tight little smile.

She comes farther into the room. “I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid,” she says.

Ross and I both stare at her, expectantly.

“The landlord of my new flat contacted me last night.” She twists her mouth into an awkward shape. “I might not be able to move out on Sunday after all. There’s been a slight delay with the other tenant. I’ll know exactly how long we’re talking about later today, but hopefully it’s only a matter of a few more days.”