The thought makes me flinch. Where once I couldn’t wait to start the new job and begin my life properly, now I just think of how much of a fucking hole he’ll leave in my life.

“You alright?” he asks, staring at me with a look of concern.

As much as I love that he seems to see me now, I also hate to be yet another person that he has to worry about, so I smile brightly and convincingly, pleased to see the shadow leave his eyes.

“I’m fine. Do you want to go in?”

He shoots a longing glance towards the door. “I’d love to. Would you mind?”

I stare at him. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, I can get a little lost in these places. Patrick always used to moan about it.”

“Remind me not to let you go to Waterstones with me,” I say, nudging him towards the door. “You can lose me for hours in there.”

“Oh, me too,” he says eagerly, a wide smile on his lips. “Especially with the sofas.”

“And the coffee. I could live there.”

We smile, and I follow him into the shop. It’s filled with light, and Zeb immediately makes a beeline for a group of pictures hanging near the front of the shop. They’re bold and vivid abstract paintings that would look amazing in the high-ceilinged rooms of his flat.

I study him for a second. He looks as if he belongs somewhere like this in those chinos that cling to the long muscled length of his legs and the checked shirt that makes his eyes look very blue. An assistant brushes past me, making hasty tracks to someone who obviously has deep pockets, and I turn away and wander further into the gallery. It’s quiet and has a very expensive atmosphere, and I walk from one exhibit to the next undisturbed by assistants or other customers.

There’s a lot of stuff from local artists, but it isn’t until I’m making my way back towards Zeb that I spy something I like. It’s a huge canvas filled with pink peonies painted on a black background and it seems to glow against the white walls of the gallery. The passion and talent in every stroke of the paintbrush is mesmerising. It’s part of a group of paintings, all obviously from the same artist, and I move from one painting to another but always come back to the original one.

I’m looking at it when I catch the scent of warm citrus and feel Zeb come up next to me. “You like this one?” he asks, standing next to me staring at the art. I nod thoughtfully, looking at the painting again.