I filled a glass of water, becoming fearful at the thought of eating a whole plate of the stuff. Not just because of the kick, or the layers of saccharine cake that lay heavy on my stomach, but because I had to sit opposite him, make conversation, enjoy the food he’d laboured over, after what I’d just done.

He removed two plates from the oven and spooned rice from a pan onto them. Then the curry.

‘So how was Edward?’

I delayed my response by taking a swig of the water, some of which dribbled down my chin and neck. ‘Yeah, good.’

He smiled.

I took my seat. ‘It looks amazing, Dale. I’m really impressed. Thank you.’

He placed a plate in front of me and sat down with his.

‘I . . . I thought we were just going to get a pizza or something. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.’

‘On your birthday? A pizza isn’t enough for the woman I love on her birthday. But if you don’t like it—’

‘No . . . no, I do. It’s delicious.’ As I took a proper mouthful, I realized it really was, and I at least didn’t have to lie about that.

He poured us both a glass of wine. ‘Believe it or not, this is courtesy of Mr Papadopoulos. I bumped into him on his way out, and when I mentioned it was your birthday, he went back up and returned with this. It’s Greek. Not sure what it’ll be like. But we’ve got this other bottle of Sauvignon Blanc if it’s rank.’

‘I . . . I don’t deserve all this. Everyone’s been so nice.’ The image of you pushing up my skirt, pulling my knickers to the side trespassed my mind.

He paused, his fork suspended. Waiting, proud, for me to have more. And only when I said, ‘Honestly, it’s delicious. Hot . . . but really tasty,’ did he begin to eat.

I dropped my head as I ate. Stared at my plate. Avoided his eyes.

‘Are you OK? Is something up?’ he said.

‘Yes . . . No . . . I’m fine. It’s just really lovely of you, that’s all. I think I’m in shock at how kind everyone’s been.’ I told him about the cake at work and how Linda and Dr Harris weren’t massive arseholes for once.

‘Sounds like a good birthday.’

‘Yes, it was . . . is . . . and Edward let me wear a real diamond tiara and gave me a book.’

‘A book? Which book? I’ve never known you to read.’

‘No . . . well, I don’t, but he said I should start and that I’d like it . . . It’s an old copy of Wuthering Heights.’

He gently rested his fork against the edge of his plate. ‘That’s nice,’ he said, looking directly at me. Latching on to my eyes. ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’