She dressed quickly in what she now thought of as her hot-weather uniform: cropped linen trousers with a loose shirt. She fastened the trousers and grimaced as the button strained against her waistline. Some people lost weight when they were unhappy. Not Milly. Misery didn’t put her off her food, it made her hungry, although it was more complicated than that.

Cooking was her favorite form of relaxation. Some people smoked or reached for a glass of wine to relieve the tension of a long day. Some went for a long run. Milly’s sanctuary was the kitchen.

There was an almost ritualistic quality to preparing food, and she found it soothing. She loved the process, from the selection of the freshest ingredients to the presentation on the plate. It used all the senses, took her mind off her problems and left her with a sense of well-being. She loved the sound of mushrooms sizzling in hot oil, the scent of garlic, the sweetness of strawberries, the feel of a ripe mango as it gave a little under the pressure of her fingers.

It took her back to her childhood and cooking with her mother and Nanna Peg, her grandmother, who had lived with them for a while after Milly’s father had left.

Her love of baking had started with them. Some women dreamed of spa days, but for Milly nothing surpassed the soothing quality of beating butter with sugar until it turned into a soft, creamy fluff.

She’d known from an early age that food was about more than simple nutrients. The way food tasted, the whole dining experience, the way it made you feel, was the reason some people would spend a small fortune on a meal out in a top restaurant.

Milly knew all about feelings. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know quite so much. She pictured her emotions as powdered sugar sprinkled over the surface of a cake, vulnerable to the elements instead of being buried deep where they might have been harder to reach. But over the years she’d learned to handle those feelings, and cooking helped. It calmed her and conjured up happy memories of those days in her grandmother’s kitchen when they’d stirred and sifted and she’d been bathed in a warm conviction that life, while unstable and frightening a lot of the time, was ultimately going to be okay.

Since Richard had walked out she’d cooked more than ever before, and once she’d baked something it was impossible not to sample it.