‘I’m calling this evening “Lizzie’s favourites”,’ says Olly, plugging his phone into a speaker. ‘Your favourite food. Favourite music. Favourite everything. I’ve got sea bass.’ He goes to the fridge and slaps a wax-paper packet of fish on the kitchen counter. ‘New potatoes in the oven. Lots of tomato ketchup in the fridge, because we’re both philistines.’ He winks. ‘Sour-cream Pringles to start. And Joni Mitchell on the stereo. Oh – and black forest gateaux for dessert. The one you like from the café.’

I smile, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You did all this for me?’

‘Just for you. Right this way, madam.’ He hesitates when he sees my face. ‘Hey. Lizzie? Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Lizzie.’ Olly pulls me close. ‘What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?’

I shake my head against his chest, tears pressing into his shirt. ‘No. Not at all. The opposite.’

‘The opposite?’

‘All this for me. I don’t deserve it.’

Olly laughs then, his big, cheery, confident laugh. ‘You deserve this and much, much more.’ He kisses my head and hugs me for a long time. ‘Okay?’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

‘Let the evening commence!’ He leads me to the table, snatching up a purple napkin. ‘Your favourite colour.’ He grins, opening the napkin with a flourish.

Purple isn’t really my favourite colour. It’s just the colour of the coat I wear. But I don’t tell Olly that.

We eat Pringles, sea bass and new potatoes, drink Chardonnay and listen to Joni Mitchell. Then Olly lights a fire.

‘I borrowed a Monopoly board,’ says Olly, leading me to the sofa area. ‘Your favourite game, right? And mine too, actually. Come on. You can thrash me.’

‘Love to,’ I say.

‘Of course, we could play strip poker instead,’ says Olly, flashing his lovely white teeth.

I’m hit by an uneasy feeling that this evening might be too traditional for Olly. The wine, the fire, the board game. What if he thinks I’m boring?

‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘How about strip Monopoly?’

‘Strip Monopoly?’ says Olly. ‘You’re on!’

We make up a few rules, deciding to lose an item of clothing every time we land on the other person’s property. Then we start playing.

It doesn’t take long before I’m down to my underwear.

‘Are you cheating?’ I accuse, taking off my bra.

Olly watches me, mesmerised. Then he says, ‘You’re beautiful, do you know that? Hurry up and roll again.’

‘It’s your turn,’ I protest.

Olly struggles out of his clothes, revealing a beautiful toned body and crazy orange tan lines at his wrists and collarbone. Then he stands to remove his underwear.

‘Turn taken,’ he announces, standing naked. ‘Now roll again.’

‘That’s definitely cheating,’ I laugh, shy now. ‘You can’t take all your clothes off at once.’