I’m sure that she’s finding this break-up with Jude incredibly hard, but I’m equally sure that it’s the right thing to do. I know that she’ll need my support if she’s going to get through this.

Greg comes into the kitchen and eyes my tray of cakes. ‘They look good,’ he comments.

‘Good enough to eat?’ I tease.

He laughs at that, and I realise that I haven’t heard the sound of my husband’s laughter for some time – and I also realise that it’s all my fault. How bad does that make me feel?

‘Help yourself. You can do a consumer road-test for me.’ I hand him a chocolate chip muffin. ‘I’m making sandwiches and cakes to sell to my colleagues – Chelsea’s idea.’

‘I might have guessed,’ Greg says.

I find myself gripping the sides of my bowl more tightly. ‘I don’t want to argue about this.’

‘Me neither.’

I notice that my husband looks very miserable. I’d like to put my arms round him and give him a hug, but we’re too far apart for that.

‘It wasn’t meant as a criticism, just an observation,’ Greg says. Then, as he tries the cake, he tentatively asks, ‘What happened to the car wash?’

‘I dropped that idea,’ I shrug. ‘It was too difficult on crutches.’ Frankly, the excuse of my broken foot gives us both an out, and my husband is wise enough not to say anything further.

He nods at the muffin in his hand. ‘This is wonderful.’

‘Thanks. I’m a bit out of practice. You think I’ll sell out?’

Greg nods, his mouth full. ‘I’d make another batch.’

‘Perhaps I will.’

My husband sighs at me. ‘You’re still intent on going to Peru?’

‘Of course.’ I fail to meet his eyes. ‘If I can raise enough money.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t go.’

‘And I wish you’d be happy for me.’ I tip another load of flour into my mixing bowl and splash in some milk. ‘Better still, I wish you’d come with me.’

‘I’m worried about you,’ Greg says. ‘What if your foot isn’t right? Who’ll look after you?’

He regards me with an expression that might or might not be loaded.

‘I’ll have to look after myself,’ I say firmly. ‘I know that you’re against this and that it’s going to cost a fortune and I’m not fit enough. But I want to get there by hook or by crook.’

My husband sighs again. He’s doing a lot of it recently. ‘Then I should probably help you.’ We exchange a wary glance. Is this what’s called a truce? Greg risks a smile. ‘Give me that mixing bowl.’

Is this mixing bowl our equivalent of a white flag? In case it is, I release my death grip and hand it to Greg. ‘Thank you,’ I say.