And now. Jesse Marlon has come into my kitchen, and my heart hammers. Navy jersey, jeans and battered brown rigger boots.

I wouldn’t necessarily call him ‘rock star’, which was Mimi’s description, but he is athletic from all the hewing of wood and drawing of water he has to do at Spodden’s Hatch, with thick eyebrows, and curly black hair springing away from a high, patrician forehead.

He always smells deliciously smoky because of the wood-burner in his house, and roll-up cigarettes. He strolls in as if he, not Pierre, has the freedom of my kitchen, and comes over to warm his narrow hips on the Aga.

Doors are always left unlocked around here, and keys in ignitions as a sign of trust.

Jesse Marlon leans against the rail, removes a pouch of tobacco from a pocket and starts rolling. But what makes me catch my breath is that as he does this, his eyes are not on the little white tube in his fingers, but on me, as I reboil the kettle, remove it from the hotplate, and then concentrate as I pour the water over the Arabica ground beans (from the Court Place Farm Shop – I like to buy Cath Cobb’s stuff to show I don’t mind how successful she is). I am facing into the Aga, he’s facing out, with his jeaned hip touching my Ralph Lauren patchwork cowgirl skirt.

‘So… you on your own?’ He checks. My heart now backflips. Why does he want to know? What does it matter?

I nod, casually. ‘Yes. Pierre’s out.’

And I can’t help but feel his hip burn into me, as if we’re soldered together. I definitely hold the pose for a beat longer than is strictly necessary (the steam is merrily spigoting out of the Aga kettle and making a very apposite whistling sound).

I suddenly have that faraway, long-lost sensation, that wonderful warm itch, that feeling of rats swarming through the dark sewers of my own entrails.

I allow the fierce heat of the boiling plate to scorch my face, a move that I hope will save me from grabbing him and making an utter fool of myself. He stays close by. Very close, in fact. We are almost on top of each other.

Well, I suppose I am fairly appealing compared to the hairy women in the eco-village, who all seem to have children at least four years old perma-clamped to the breast and wear jumpers that look as if they have been knitted out of reeds.

But Jesse Marlon… he is probably thinking, ‘Steady on, Grandma,’ even though I’m only just forty. But still, I am almost twice his age and could easily be his mother. Oh I don’t know. All I can safely say is that the whole episode, although nothing of course actually happens, ignites something inside.

I think I must have started sniffing the air around him, as if I were trying to inhale him, because he suddenly asks me if I have an allergy and starts asking whether the Aga runs on oil or gas or some other renewable energy source.