Olivia had no such reservations. ‘Do we all get to say exactly what we think, or is it just you? I wasn’t going to say a word about how ridiculous this whole charade is, your loony engagement . . .’

‘That policy has subsequently been revised, I take it?’ Charlie snapped.

Liv didn’t get the chance to answer. Shouting was coming from the bottom of the stairs near the presents table. Simon’s voice. Everyone who could hear it was shifting in that direction, not wanting to miss out.

Stacey Sellers was crying. Simon was holding a large vibrator, wielding it like a truncheon. ‘This is what you thought we’d want, is it?’ he yelled, throwing it on the floor. It landed amid strips of wrapping paper, next to what was left of its cardboard and plastic box.

‘There’s nothing wrong with sex toys. They’re not dirty,’ Stacey screamed back at him. ‘Haven’t you ever watched Sex and the City? Don’t you know anything?’

‘She’s got a point,’ Olivia whispered in Charlie’s ear. ‘A libido might not be essential but a sense of humour is.’

‘Liv says she’ll have it if we don’t want it,’ Charlie shouted down the stairs.

Simon looked up at her. ‘Get your stuff,’ he said. ‘We’re going. ’

‘Going? Simon, it’s only ten past nine. We can’t leave—it’s our party.’

‘I can do whatever the fuck I like. Give me your keys. I’ll see you later.’

Keys? Did he mean he planned to spend the night at her house? He had to mean that—it was unambiguous. Charlie looked around to see if anyone was smirking. Most people seemed more interested in Stacey’s weeping. There was no way anyone could know that Charlie and Simon had never spent the night together at either of their houses or anywhere else, that she’d feared it might never happen, even after they were married. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she told him, grabbing her coat and bag from the stand at the top of the stairs.

Olivia was waiting to pounce. ‘I’ve only just got here. Can’t Simon wait?’

He certainly can, thought Charlie. Let no one say of Simon Waterhouse that he couldn’t wait. He could wait so long that Charlie’s heart was in danger of fossilising. She was the one who couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘So. Are you going to tell me?’ Simon sat on Charlie’s lounge floor, knees pulled up to his chin, an unopened can of lager in his hand. His skin looked grey and grainy. Charlie could see specs of grit in the parting in his hair. Hadn’t he showered before coming out?

She stood in the middle of the undecorated, unfurnished room, trying not to howl. They were missing their engagement party for this, to be mired in this grim atmosphere, this stilted conversation. ‘It doesn’t matter, Simon. For Christ’s sake!’

‘So you’re not going to tell me.’

Charlie groaned. ‘It’s a TV programme. About four women who live in New York, all right? They’re friends, they screw lots of men—that’s about it.’