Oddly, I get the feeling Harper’s in on the joke. Like she knows exactly what everyone thinks of her and doesn’t give a damn as long as she’s getting what she wants.

As I said: she reminds me of my wife.

‘Of course it’s OK,’ I tell her, getting a packet of Hobnobs out of the cupboard where I keep my secret stash – Millie’s not big on empty calories – and putting some on a plate. ‘I told you: drop by any time. Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Coffee, please.’

‘Still sobering up?’

Harper laughs ruefully. ‘I’m not gonna lie, it took a couple of days.’

‘Wait till you hit forty.’

‘You were really kind to me the other night,’ she says, suddenly serious. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

‘Not at all. You didn’t. I had a great time. And at least you didn’t puke on my shoes.’

She produces a glossy bag with string handles and pale blue tissue paper peeping out of the top. ‘I just got you a little something to say thank you for looking after me,’ she says, pushing it across the counter. ‘It’s not much—’

‘You didn’t need to do that!’

‘I wanted to.’

I move the plate of Hobnobs aside and take out the wad of tissue paper. Nestled in the bag is what is clearly a very expensive linen shirt.

‘I saw this, and I thought, it’s the exact same shade of blue as Tom’s eyes,’ Harper smiles. ‘I had to get it.’

Millie doesn’t do personal gifts, not like this. She never forgets a birthday – she’s far too efficient – and she knows what I like, but her presents are practical, something she knows I want or need. An all-singing, all-dancing power tool. Tennis lessons. Tickets to see ZZ Top. But romance isn’t her thing. We’ve never celebrated our anniversary or Valentine’s Day, though she lets the kids make a fuss of her on Mother’s Day. But that’s more for them than her.

Not that Harper’s gesture is romantic, of course.

‘That’s incredibly kind,’ I say, touched. ‘But I can’t accept this.’

‘Well, it’s too late to take it back,’ she says.

‘I’m sure your husband—’

‘I want you to wear it.’

‘OK. I don’t know what Millie’s going to say,’ I laugh, putting it back in the bag. I’m only half-joking. ‘But thank you. It’s lovely.’

I know what’s going on here. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t think I’m flattering myself by picking up on a little subtext. If I wanted to try my luck, I don’t think I’d be slapped down.