David coughs to mask his discomfort, then reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and extracts a small cloth. When he removes his glasses to polish them, however, he promptly drops them on to the floor, then bangs his head as he begins rooting around beneath the table.

I would usually have been amused by such a display, but as it is, I find his obvious unease disconcerting. David was once the person I relied on to have the answers to all my questions, but nowadays, he falters whenever he speaks to me – even over a subject as benign as my date with an old friend. In his eyes, I have transformed from my robust self into something fragile, a delicate china ornament that must be handled with the utmost care at all times, just in case I crack.

Since Anna died in a horse-riding accident last Christmas Eve, it has felt increasingly like David’s playing a part; he is A Father and Widower Who Is Coping, rather than his real, presumably wobbly self. Would it be different if he had fathered me in the traditional way? If we were related by blood, would we have a mutual understanding that allowed each of us to better support the other? I wish I could do more to help him, but then, I wish he could help me more, too.

Once the glasses have been restored to David’s face, I do my best to steer the conversation away from the subject of my dating life, and the two of us end up sharing a laugh as we recall a comical habit from my childhood. I was very fond of pulling my jumpers up over my face and pratting around the house unable to see, which led to many a collision with not only the furniture, but also two long-suffering cats and, while seated at the dining room table once, a plate of macaroni cheese hot from the oven. That one was messy.

I have just put my knife and fork together across my empty plate when David drops his bombshell, beginning with the fairly innocuous comment that he’s worried about me.

That makes two of us.

‘I’m fine,’ I say automatically, only to chastise myself for the lie. ‘What I mean is, I will be fine. I just need a bit more time, that’s all.’

I twist a thick wedge of hair furiously around one finger, wincing when it starts to shred.

‘It’s been almost a year,’ David continues, and immediately I feel the all-too-familiar stinging sensation behind my nose.

‘Oh, Genie.’ David sighs and reaches across the table to pat my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

I shake my head and look down at my knees rather than at him. I have already learned that seeing my own pain reflected back in his expression does nothing at all to lessen it.