‘Let me see if I can take your mind off it, shall I?’ He lowered his head and my last sane thought was poor Digby. I must let him in very soon.

In the morning I woke up on the sofa to the smell of fresh coffee and the jolly twittering of breakfast radio. Blinking against the light, I couldn’t think where I was – until Seb appeared in the kitchen doorway, shirt still unbuttoned, coffee-cup in hand. I stared at him for a second, feeling confounded; as if he wasn’t the person I’d expected to see. As if Alex might step up behind him and come and get his coffee.

‘Morning, beautiful.’

I blushed. ‘Hello.’ I yawned widely, hiding behind my hand. ‘God, what time is it?’

‘About eight. I didn’t want to wake you before – you looked so peaceful.’

Oh Lord. And ridiculous, no doubt – sleep-soaked and tufty-haired and panda-eyed, still wrapped in an old throw.

‘Coffee?’

‘Oh, yes please.’ Considering the level of intimacy we’d achieved last night, I felt absurdly shy. Digby pattered out behind Seb, wagging his tail happily; a welcome distraction. ‘Aha. I see you’ve met.’

‘Yeah, I let him in from the roof terrace. Poor thing, he was very glad to see me.’

‘Oh God, Digby. Sorry, darling.’ The dog jumped up on the sofa and slobbered all over me as Seb handed me a cup of steaming black coffee. I was too shy to ask for milk.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get going.’ He was buttoning up his shirt now. ‘I’ve got a meeting about publicity for Twelfth Night on the other side of town at ten, and I really should get changed first.’ Slipping his jacket on, he bent to lace his shoes. ‘Turning up in Armani might get everyone’s backs up, don’t you think?’ Seb grinned that crooked smile at me. ‘Thanks for a great evening.’ He planted a kiss on my neck that made me squirm rather like I had last night. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’

‘Okay.’ This was all going too fast for me and my poor befuddled brain. I was barely awake yet, and feeling quite peculiar – which may or may not have been the hangover. Seb winked at me from the top of the metal stairs I’d always hated, stairs Alex had designed in a fit of modernism and insisted on; and then he was gone.

With a nasty twinge, I realised I would mind if I never heard from Seb again. I scooped Digby up in my arms, waiting for the door to slam downstairs. I’d mind – but, conversely, I also felt a bit dirty: like I’d just let myself down. I wasn’t ready for this yet; these feelings, this man. I stuck my face in the dog’s soft back. ‘Oh God, Dig. What have I gone and done now?’