“Mm, well in that case, we better make the most of it.” He pulls me in close for a kiss, and for a moment I think I am wrong, that he is still the same James he was when we kissed by the waterfall, but then he hesitates and pulls away, and I see something flicker across his face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him, trying hard to keep my voice level.

“Nothing.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m just hungry. Shall we cook or order in?”

“I’ve already ordered. Thai will be delivered at eight.”

“You’re pretty perfect, you know that?”

Which is, of course, incorrect. I am as defective as it gets. But I just smile sweetly and say nothing.

“OK if I just grab a quick shower?”

“Of course.”

When he emerges, damp and smelling of spicy aftershave, I feel an overwhelming surge of smug pride at the sight of him, wondering not for the first time how I got so lucky.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Much.”

“How was your friend?”

Immediately he looks shifty. It’s a fleeting look, but I know I haven’t imagined it. “He’s good. It was really good to see him.”

“Is he an old photographer friend?”

“Something like that.”

It is clear that he doesn’t want to discuss his day, which proves my earlier suspicions that something is wrong. But in that moment, I realize that I am scared to know the truth. If James is having second thoughts about us, I’m not sure I want to know, because I don’t know how I will cope without him. We are both saved by the doorbell. James looks at me quizzically.

“Dinner,” I say quietly.

“Of course.” He picks up his wallet from the bench and goes to make the transaction. I sink back against the bench and breathe deeply a few times. I can’t lose him. I can’t.

By the time he brings the bags of food into the kitchen I have composed myself, standing with two glasses of wine poured and a smile plastered on.

“I thought we’d eat outside,” I say.

“Good idea. Plates?”

“Already out there.”

I follow him outside. The sky has started to darken, the sun on its path to awaken peacefully slumbering folk on the other side of the earth. We sit and eat, or he does. I manage a few mouthfuls but I have no appetite. The food is tasty, and once upon a time I would have eaten so much I’d have suffered from indigestion and still thought it was worth it. But I am on edge. I have that uneasy anticipatory feeling one gets before a storm hits; when you’ve heard all the weather reports forecasting doom and don’t know whether to bunker down or go on one last, extravagant spending spree. James notices the food still on my plate and pauses in between mouthfuls.

“Not hungry?”

I shake my head.

“Are you feeling OK?” His voice is heavy with concern, but for the first time I notice an undercurrent of fear, almost lost in the deep timbre of his voice. It affirms my belief that he is worried about what is to come.