“Well, I know it often runs in families, and you said gardening was therapy. I assume this means you have depressed moments, too, like your mum. Gardening helps to lift your mood.”

“I’m not depressed,” I snap.

“OK. Sorry.”

I stare out of the window wishing I could leave and never see this guy again. Who does he think he is, trying to diagnose me? I’m nothing like my mother. Nothing.

“I knit,” Scott says.

I glare at him but don’t speak.

“If anyone’s a nana here, it’s me,” he continues. “And just so you know, I keep this information very much to myself.”

“You knit?” I croak.

Scott nods. “It’s my therapy too, I guess. My little sister taught me while she was… She spent a lot of time in hospital after she had to have surgery on her spine and she was a big knitter. I was always going to the wool shop with a list and bringing her in supplies. One day, I asked her to show me and that was it. I was hooked – excuse the pun.”

I resist the urge to hassle him. Lily would have a field day on this one. All of my friends would. I hope for Scott’s sake they never find out.

“What do you knit?”

Scott’s cheeks are red with embarrassment.

“All sorts. I started out just knitting scarfs, but then I got better and now I knit jumpers and beanies. I knitted a blanket last year. It was a difficult pattern – took me forever.”

“I can’t believe you knit,” I mutter.

“My ex-wife was horrified when she found me at it one day. I swear the way she looked at me when she walked into the bedroom – it was like she’d just caught me in bed with another woman.”

I can’t help but smile. “That’s harsh.”

“She was a harsh woman. Sometimes I wonder why on earth we married.”

“I thought you were madly in love with her. You seemed pretty heartbroken in Tokyo.”

“I was in love with her, but I was also in love with the whole ideal. The wife, the nice house, the trips back and forth to Japan – the whole ‘till death do us part’ thing. It was important for me that our marriage was a success. But it failed.”

I nod. “I guess everyone wants their marriage to work out.”

“My parents divorced when I was fourteen,” Scott says, a slight catch in his throat. “It was brutal. They went from being nice people, to being savages. I swore when I married, it would never end that way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. After their divorce, Dad moved back to Fiji and I’ve barely seen him since.”

That would explain Scott’s lovely brown skin.

“So, your dad is Fijian?”