Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That’s another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since . . . Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)

“It’s absolutely gorgeous!” I say enthusiastically. “Absolutely beautiful!”

“It is, isn’t it?” says Tarquin earnestly. “Just look at those colors.”

“Mmm, lovely,” I say, nodding.

“And the brushwork. It’s exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.”

“It’s a really wonderful picture,” I say. “Makes you want to just. . . gallop off over the downs!”

Whatis this drivel I’m coming out with? Why can’t I just be honest and say I don’t like it?

“Do you ride?” says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.

I’ve ridden once. On my cousin’s horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I’m not going to admit that to Mr. Horse of the Year.

“I used to,” I say, and give a modest little smile. “Not very well.”

“I’m sure you’d get back into it,” says Tarquin, gazing at me. “Have you ever hunted?”

Hunted? Little furry foxes? Is he joking?

“Hey,” says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. “Shall we have a titchy before we go?”

“Absolutely!” I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. “Good idea.”

“Oooh, yes,” says Fenella. “Have you got any champagne?”

“Should have,” says Suze, and goes into the kitchen. At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.

“Hello?”