I turned the first page slowly, letting them watch. “Three years ago,” I began, “Julian asked me for a loan to cover a business shortfall. Forty-two thousand dollars. He signed a note promising to repay it.” I looked at Camille. “The month after that, you asked for help with your car. Eleven thousand. Also written here. Also signed.” The table had gone utterly silent. Even the champagne bottles seemed to hold their breath.

But it was the next page that made Julian go pale. Because I was an accountant, and accountants keep records of more than loans. I had noticed, six months earlier, that a small sum had been quietly moving out of the joint account I still co-held with my son, an account I had never closed. Someone had been draining it in amounts small enough to hide. I set my finger on the figure and looked directly at Camille. “So before you ask me to pay for lobster,” I said, “explain this.”