‘This is me,’ he says. He hasn’t brought up last night. Cathy can’t work out if he minds, but of course he did. She doesn’t know how to broach it.

He has two ragdoll cats milling around. There is absolutely nothing on his floors. His doors are farmhouse-style, painted such a bright white they shine. It’s very tidy.

‘You’re very neat,’ she says as he hangs her coat on a hook. His parka and a lighter jacket hang there. Nothing else, no jumble of scarves or reuseable bags that flap around. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’

He throws his head back and laughs in that way that he does, his face creasing like a fan. ‘Stuff’s overrated,’ he says.

He’s cooked for her. Baked aubergines that swim in cheese as he removes them from the oven in a cloud of heat. She stares at the aubergines. It doesn’t look like this is something casual. Something fun. ‘What?’ he says, a small laugh escaping his mouth.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she says, glancing away from them and up to him.

‘No, what?’ He puts down the tray and places a hand on his hip, looking at her, an amused expression on his face.

‘You’re, like, cooking for me.’

‘I am cooking for you. Would you rather I didn’t?’ He goes back to the aubergines. ‘Or what?’ he says, throwing a sidelong glance at her.

‘Maybe,’ she says with a small laugh. Tom looks at her. It might be the first serious long look he’s given her. Gone is the banter, the childlikeness, the laughs. In its place are a pair of serious brown eyes.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ she says. She rubs at her forehead. ‘I’m just mad.’

‘Oh, crazy is the best,’ Tom says, she thinks earnestly. He pushes away the aubergines.

‘Last night … I didn’t mean to … I didn’t want to …’

‘Come here,’ he says. She crosses the short distance between them, into his waiting arms. ‘Come up,’ he adds. They walk upstairs, their bodies joined together, a three-legged race, into his bedroom. The third – and last – door on the right. It opens on to a room painted a pale, duck-egg blue. More immaculate emptiness. More clean lines.

‘I like your skirting boards,’ she says.

Tom laughs. He laughs so easily, like the laughs are queued up there waiting for him to release them. ‘My what?’ He glances at her then. It’s just a glance, but Cathy’s insides turn to burning liquid. They’re standing so close together in the doorway.

‘It’s all so neat and lovely,’ she says. And then she points to them, to the bright, white skirting boards.

His curtains are open, the twilight sky beyond them. Cathy heads further into the room, thinking that they should eat the dinner, that she should go. Should, should, should. Tom crosses the room and lies down on the bed, both a clear invitation and an act of relaxation. He pats the space next to him.

She sits, an elbow propped up on the pillow, feeling so warm and comfortable up here with him. He entwines his feet with hers, pulling her towards him. ‘What’s with the aubergine fear?’ he murmurs into her ear.