‘You could make up some really good “Do you remember whens”,’ she said, ‘reminiscences of our early life together, y’know?’

‘Yes, I suppose I could.’

‘Try now.’

‘I’m not good at off-the-cuff invent—’

‘Did you like your breakfast? The one I made for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s hear the story of how we met.’

She stared at me in a dangerous fashion. The breezy, chatty Jonesy was really only one part of her – the saner part.

‘Okay, then,’ I said, trying to think of something original and failing, ‘we were – um – cast as  . . . the front and back halves of a pantomime horse.’

‘Trippy,’ said Jonesy, more intrigued than I’d hoped, ‘and why would that have happened?’

‘Part of a  . . . Winter talent show?’

‘Good.’

‘We don’t get along at first—’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because you insisted I was the back half?’

‘Totally plausible. Carry on.’

‘But because the show must go on and the “equestrian gavotte” requires synchronised footsteps, we sort of forget our differences, practise together in private and then emerge victorious  . . . and in love.’

‘Brilliant,’ she said, beaming all over.

‘Really? I thought it sounded particularly corny.’

‘The best relationships always begin like a bad rom-com in my experience. I’ll find a tartan travel rug and a picnic set for the Sno-Trac,’ she added, now quite enthused by the whole idea. ‘You’re washing up breakfast, but you can argue with me about it if you want – sort of like “I did it last time”.’

‘You made breakfast,’ I said, ‘it would only be fair.’

‘Well, okay,’ she said, mildly disappointed.

Jonesy got up, pulled on her coat and opened the front door.

‘I’ve left a basket of food on the kitchen counter. I’ll meet you outside at midday.’

She then wished me a pleasant day, told me to not force my first shit out as I’d definitely regret it, and that there was a package outside in the corridor.

‘Thank you,’ I said to her retreating form as she moved along the curved corridor, and she waved a hand without looking back.

The parcel was large and flat and wrapped in brown paper and string. I brought it inside, cut the string with my pocket knife to find it was a painting, a portrait, of me. I rested the painting on the bookcase, then stepped back.

It was the picture I had commissioned from the painter. But it wasn’t wholly original. It was the same painting I had seen in her studio four weeks before, the one of her faceless husband. But it was no longer her husband and no longer naked. It was me, with my features and a black one-piece swimsuit painted over. She’d even added white pumps over his previously naked feet, and a blue-and-white striped towel for me to sit on.