‘Well, no, I realise that.’

‘Sorry.’ He recovered himself a little. ‘It’s just all so bloody manipulative.’

‘I had no idea you felt like that.’ I dried my hands slowly, considering his words. ‘I mean, granted, it’s bad. It’s not something that sits comfortably with me, all the manipulation.’

‘Really?’ He looked back at me, his face blank.

‘Yes, really.’ I was beginning to feel irritated. ‘But come on, Seb, actors are hardly paragons of virtue. You’re all pretending to be something that you’re not.’

‘Yes, but that’s for entertainment.’

‘So – supposedly – is what I do.’

‘Supposedly, Maggie. You said it. I just think it’s – it gets abused sometimes.’

‘Can we discuss this another time? I’ve got to go and make the bed.’ I put the tins back in the oven and shut the door, hard. ‘We need to leave in about an hour if we’re going to miss the traffic.’ I strode out of the room before he could answer.

‘Maggie,’ he called up the stairs a minute later. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No thanks.’ I stomped into the bathroom and pulled the airing cupboard open to find clean sheets. Something fell out with a crash. I picked it up slowly. It was a photo of me and Alex kissing under the mistletoe that first Christmas. I looked horribly adoring. Horribly in love. God knew what it was doing in the airing-cupboard; I couldn’t have put it there. Could I? Anyway, it was broken now, the glass in smithereens – just like our relationship. ‘Bollocks.’

‘All right up there, butterfingers?’ Seb was trying for jolly now – too late. I tried to think why this photo would have been in there. I thought I’d removed all traces of Alex months ago, but surely I hadn’t stuffed them in the airing cupboard?

‘Okay?’

I jumped as Seb put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Oh God, you scared me.’

‘Sorry, babe. Can I help?’

‘You could get a dustpan and brush if you fancied.’ I tried to hide the photo, but too late, he’d seen it.

‘Friend of yours?’ he asked calmly, taking the frame from my hand. I still hadn’t spoken about Alex and, fair play to him, Seb hadn’t asked. ‘You’re bleeding, you know.’ He took my scarlet-stained finger and put it to his mouth; he sucked it slowly.

I breathed deeply. I breathed long and hard, then I looked up at him.

‘I was thinking, actually,’ he pulled me into him now, dumping the picture on a chair, ‘I was thinking, actually, you might be coming down with something, mightn’t you? A bug, you know. You feel a little warm.’

Slowly I ran my hands up beneath his sweater, ran them over his bare flesh. ‘I think it’s called Monday-itis.’ His skin was smooth, his shoulder-blades taut under my hands.