‘There’s cheese and biscuits,’ proposes Ben. ‘I bet they do some nice stinky cheese.’

‘Hmm.’ I smile politely. Normally I love stinky cheese, but there’s nothing normal about tonight. ‘Sorbet?’ I suggest.

Ben gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. It’s a look that says who, in their right mind, would order sorbet for a pudding? Especially at £7.50 a scoop. Even if it is mango.

We both look back at the menu. It really is very fancy.

‘You know what I really feel like,’ I blurt out, then quickly stop myself. ‘No, forget it.’

‘What?’

I hesitate, looking round to make sure no one is listening, then lean closer and lower my voice.

‘The sticky toffee pudding they serve at the Crooked Billet.’

‘With loads of custard,’ Ben adds, his face lighting up.

For a moment we both look at each other, imagining its sweet, gooey deliciousness, then give up with the dessert menu. Because, of course, now the thought’s out there, neither of us can think of anything else.

‘If we leave now, we should just make last orders . . .’

Ten minutes later we’re in the van and driving back to Nettlewick – Ben at the wheel, me in the passenger seat – feeling like we’re on the run, Bonnie and Clyde-style, from the maître d’, who tried very hard to convince us to have the millefeuille and got very sniffy about it all when we refused. It gave us both the giggles and we’re still laughing about it. It’s like being drunk, except we’re both stone-cold sober and I’ve never felt more wide awake.

‘I make it a rule not to eat a dessert I can’t pronounce,’ I’m saying now as we wind along the country lanes, full beams on.

‘What is bloody millefeuille anyway?’ says Ben, in a way that no French person has ever said it, which makes me burst out laughing again.

I dig out my phone. ‘I’m going to check on Maya . . .’

‘You mean Harry,’ he grins and, busted, I smile. ‘You love that dog, don’t you?’

‘He’s not just a dog – he’s my one good thing.’

‘Hey!’ he cries, pretending to be offended. ‘What about me?’

‘No, I don’t mean it like that,’ I shake my head. ‘I’m talking about before, when everything fell apart and life felt so hopeless.’ As my mind flicks back, I become serious. ‘All you need is one good thing to turn life around and make it worth living again. Do you know what I mean?’

For a split second our eyes meet.

‘It could be anything really,’ I shrug, thinking about the email I wrote to Josie, in which I’d tried to explain it all. ‘Just some small, random act of kindness – something seemingly inconsequential. Like a smile from a stranger, or a song on the radio, or a beautiful sunset . . . or the barista giving you a love heart on your coffee.’ I smile, thinking how sometimes brightening up someone’s day can be life-changing.