Ben looks unprepared for my answer.

‘Sorry, is that completely insensitive of me?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s the truth.’

There’s a pause. ‘I don’t feel like I can talk about getting my heart broken, after what you’ve been through,’ I say after a moment.

‘Why not? It’s not a competition. I don’t get the gold medal for heartache. Though I did get a lot of Tupperware,’ he adds.

‘Tupperware?’

‘Mountains of the bloody stuff. When you’re a widower, women like to cook you food; they bring it round in Tupperware dishes, or leave it on the doorstep. I still have a chest freezer full of it.’

I start laughing, then apologize. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.’

‘What’s the alternative?’ He shrugs and smiles, that long, slow, lazy smile of his. It used to exasperate me, when it was in response to any problem we encountered in the building works, which I felt demanded urgency and immediate sorting-out, but now it has quite the opposite effect.

‘Well, you don’t get anyone cooking for you, if you’re a woman and you get divorced, that’s for sure,’ I smile. ‘Though your girlfriends bring you lots of white wine.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘I think I would have preferred the Tupperware, actually.’

‘You can have some of mine – I’ve cupboards full of it.’

‘Do any of the lids match?’

‘Ah, well, that’s another story.’

The mood has lightened and the conversation drops for a few moments, as we sit in the comfort that comes from shared truths and allowing yourself to be naked – not physically, though we are in our underwear, but emotionally. We’ve known each other for more than thirty years, but it’s only now I feel like we’re finally getting to truly know each other.

It’s after ten at night, but there’s still a glow across the Dales. Small fireflies dance around us, and the air is fragranced with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. Despite the earlier chaos, it’s one of those warm, fuzzy-around-the-edges kind of evenings when everything seems peaceful and at ease with itself. I’d forgotten how this feels.

‘Oh, wow, look! See the bats.’

Ben points into the sky and I look up to see dozens of them, swooping and twirling in the night sky.

‘Gosh, they’re beautiful,’ I gasp as we both watch, spellbound.

‘So they should be – they cost you eight grand,’ he replies. And I laugh and think how funny life is; how one minute something can feel like a disaster, and the next a delight. And how lovely it is sitting out here with Ben, and how I don’t want the night to end.

The doorbell rings and I snap back to the present.

‘That’ll be the electrician,’ Ben says and I feel an unexpected crush of disappointment. ‘Well, best get dressed, eh? We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.’

We both stand up, trying not to drop our towels as we grab our damp clothes from the branches of the trees.