He’d stroked her head as she lay there. ‘I’m doing supper. Going to surprise you.’

She’d laughed, looking sceptical. ‘Beans on toast?’

He’d tapped his nose with his finger. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Over the next hour or so, Connie had been aware of waves of intense and focused industry emanating from the kitchen. Occasionally, as she dozed or read her book, Devan would pop his head round the sitting-room door, cheeks flushed with his exertions. ‘Where’s the sieve?’ or ‘Have you seen that small knife with the black handle?’

Eventually he summoned her to the table, almost carrying her into the kitchen, where candles lined the centre of the carefully laid table. The smell was mouth-watering. She noticed her River Café cookbook open on the side – which she’d read, but never cooked from, the ingredients mostly high-end Italian and not available locally. He never does things by halves, she’d thought, amused at the rooky cook’s ambition.

Devan had uncorked a bottle of wine, and her tummy rumbled in anticipation at the dish of steaming penne and bowl of tossed green salad he set before her.

‘Hope it’s OK,’ he said anxiously, as she prepared to take the first bite. ‘I couldn’t get proper Italian spicy sausages, so these are just normal ones and I added more chilli.’ He watched her closely, seeming to hold his breath as she lifted her fork to her mouth.

The pasta was gorgeous, rich and robust but … She gasped. Her mouth was suddenly on fire, her eyes spouting water, her head feeling as if it were about to explode. She spluttered and grabbed for her glass, gulping the wine as if it were water. But it did no good, only made her choke.

She could see Devan’s stare – clearly offended – through the blur of her tears.

‘Hot … hot …’ She tried to speak, fanning her open mouth. And as she saw him lifting his own fork to his lips, she held out her hand. ‘Don’t.’

But Devan kept going, thrusting in a huge mouthful of pasta, his scornful expression implying she was being pathetic. She watched as he chewed for a moment. Then his face, too, contorted and he dropped his fork with a clatter. She could almost see steam coming out of his ears.

A second later they were laughing – huge gasps of mirth that had them clutching their napkins to their burning mouths, tears of laughter and pain running down their bright red, sweating faces.

‘Didn’t you check it?’ she managed to ask, when she could finally get her breath.

Devan wiped his eyes, his face crumpling with laughter again. ‘I thought it tasted a bit insipid, so I threw in three of those dried chillies from that old plastic bag in the herb drawer.’