Despite this feeble attempt at humour, I laughed aloud, much to the chagrin of the other gallery-goers. We then spent the rest of the afternoon strolling around the exhibit admiring the artwork before heading for a drink. At the end of the night, we had swapped numbers and he kissed me, and we had been an item ever since.

I open my eyes and take in the intricate print of the sofa cushion close up. Perhaps I’m being pessimistic about the state of our relationship; just because he doesn’t want to hear about my day doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about my career, does it? Maybe in his head ignorance is bliss.

He is still as caring as he was when we met, though some of his humour has worn off, much more serious these days. I guess that comes with age and growing responsibilities but maybe that’s what I miss. I roll over and lift the wine glass off the floor, taking a sip of the crisp white and enjoying the fruity smell which fills my nostrils.

‘Dinner is served,’ Darren announces from the kitchen. I ease myself off the sofa, carrying my nearly empty glass of wine and follow his voice into the kitchen. Peaceful piano music plays from a speaker on the windowsill and I can feel the tears fighting to escape my eyes when I see the effort he has gone to.

Every surface has been covered with flickering tea-light candles and a beautifully presented meal sits pride of place on the table. Darren walks over to me and kisses my forehead before pulling a chair out for me to sit on. I take my place and pick up my knife and fork.

‘Darren, this is amazing,’ I say, gazing around the room. He smiles and raises his glass of beer, which I clink with mine. We ease into conversation, chatting about his day and carefully avoiding mentioning mine. We discuss the half marathon we’ve both entered and laugh at the training, or lack thereof, we’ve completed so far.

Once we are finished our meals, he excuses himself from the table, taking our empty plates and dumping them into the sink before returning with a chocolate cake which he claims he has baked himself, though the partially crushed box I saw in the recycling bin earlier may suggest otherwise.

As he sets the plate down in front of me, my phone, which I thought was on silent, emits a pulsating dance song from the 80s that indicates an incoming call. Darren casts a glance at the screen and his expression immediately sours. JOHN PATHOLOGIST flashing on the screen is one way to ruin the romantic atmosphere.

‘Please tell me you’re not actually going to answer it,’ he says, as my hand instinctively reaches for the device.

‘I have to, sorry, I’ve been waiting on this all day. I promise I’ll be quick,’ I reply as I open the kitchen door and step into the back garden. I press the green button and greet John.