“No,” I said, with a sharpness that surprised even me. Because I was wearing my Gwen-clothes: my black trousers again, the stripy gray shirt, a sleeveless jersey over the top, and slouchy black suede boots. “I can’t wear these. I’d feel all wrong.”

“I’ve got something for you,” Gwen said. “A birthday present.” She held out a small packet. “Go on, open it.”

I tore off the wrapping paper and found a little box. Inside there was a plain silver bangle. “It’s beautiful.” I slid it over my wrist and held up my arm so Gwen could admire it.

Her face changed, but not in the way I’d expected. “Ellie, you’ve taken off your wedding ring.”

I felt a terrible flush spreading over my face and down my neck as we stared at my bare finger. “Yes,” I said finally.

“Is that because—”

“I don’t know why,” I said. “It’s in my purse. I might put it back on. Shall I?”

“God, Ellie, I don’t know. We’ll talk about it when everyone’s gone home. Now we’re going to choose your clothes.”

In the end I dithered and fretted in front of the mirror until Gwen chose for me: jeans and a thin white shirt that was quite new and I’d never worn because it was too nice, too crisp and clean, and I was always saving it for a special occasion. I brushed my hair and piled it on top of my head. “There, will that do?”

“You look gorgeous.”

“Hardly.”

“No, you do. I invited Dan. Is that all right?”

“Who’s Dan?”

Gwen blushed deep crimson. “Someone I met.”

“That’s great,” I said. “As long as Dan knows how lucky he is to be invited by you.” Gwen didn’t have much luck with men. I always told her she was too good for them and, in a way, it was the truth. Men, I thought grimly, go for women like Milena, who treat them badly, who don’t care. It’s caring too much that’s our downfall.

The doorbell rang.

“Who’s that? Is it time already? I wish it was nine o’clock and everyone had gone home and it was just you and me again, discussing how it went. And Dan, of course.”

“It’ll be Joe. He said he’d arrive early with the drink.”

Sure enough, it was Joe, his car parked by the pavement with the boot open. He gave me a bear hug; his stubble scratched my cheek and his overcoat itched against my skin. “How’s the birthday girl?”

“Doing fine.”

“Right, I’ll put it in the kitchen, shall I? Twelve bottles of champagne—well, sparkling wine, to be honest. Twelve bottles of red.”

“That’s twenty-four bottles, Joe!”

“You can keep the rest for later. Let’s open a bottle now, shall we?”