He’d moved in by then. I was still adjusting. It takes time – the rearrangement of your innermost parts, making space, accommodating. I rearranged myself, and my house, for him.

He said: ‘Stop stirring a sec.’

I stopped stirring (outside. I was still stirring inside).

‘You know you’ve been in here since everyone arrived.’

‘I’m busy making things.’

He turned me around. ‘Are you? Or are you hiding?’

I laughed. ‘Hiding! Why would I be hiding, in my own house, from my own friends? Hahahah!’

‘Why are you making four hot cocktails?’

‘Because it’s a party!’

‘Are those … canapes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You look insane.’

I felt insane.

He whispered: ‘I don’t really want all these people here, either. I like a lot of them, but I’d much rather we were relaxing in front of the TV.’

‘It’s a party! Parties are relaxing! I love parties.’

‘Do you? Or did you just want a houseful, and then you created a chaos to remove yourself from the situation?’

Fucking hell. That enquiry seared me to the bone. Here he was, slicing through my carefully curated kindness. I wondered how many other times he’d seen through my little charades: when I crossed a room to talk to someone who was on their own, knowing he was watching. I wanted all those people there because I wanted to be liked. And I liked a lot of them, really I did. But did I actually want to talk to them, all at once? Did I actually think I could talk to them all? Or did I fumble introductions, panic when more than one person tried to speak to me at once, make excuses to go to the toilet too many times, plan extravagant cocktails that would keep me in the kitchen until I was sufficiently liquored to blunder through some two-inch small talk with the equally liquored? All those exhibitions I smiled through. All those parties I hosted. All those dinners I presented. All that I was, I was not. I was a lie. The antisocial party girl.

He smiled – the archaeologist moving from hammer to brush. He said: ‘You know no one gives a shit? Everyone’s happy with wine. Calm down.’

‘Are you telling me to calm down? As a man, to a woman?’

‘No, just … Yes. Calm down. Calm the whole fuck down, is that better?’

‘Nope.’

He tried some cocktail and winced. ‘You know when you asked me about my worries? You know how you still ask me about my worries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, this is me, doing that. Checking in. Taking your temperature.’

I thought of the thermometer by the bed. I said, ‘Okay. Thank you.’

‘Now, what is this?’

‘Hot rum punch. My mother’s recipe.’

‘How is Carmen?’

‘Oh she’s good. It’s Halloween. Busiest time of the year.’

SOMEONE SAYS

‘Excuse me, can I sit down, please?’