‘Ravi.’ My voice shrinks. ‘We met at uni. Were friends for years. I guess we kind of fell into being something more. He asked me to marry him last year.’ I clear my throat. ‘And I couldn’t think of a reason to say no.’

‘Maggie,’ Will says, and when I look at him, I’m surprised by the kindness in his eyes. ‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’

‘We had a terrible relationship,’ I say. I laugh, and somehow it comes out sounding normal – clean and clear. ‘I mean it was terrible.’ I drain my wine. ‘Even by my standards.’

I won’t tell Will how long I’d rehearse conversations with Ravi. Practising them in the mirror, so that he wouldn’t be able to see some weakness or failing that I hadn’t known was there. I’d smile through phone messages, knowing he’d notice if I didn’t. Being careful never to sound too high or too low; too upbeat or too quiet. I did anything and everything to avoid his eager concern, his casual condescension, his endless disappointment. And I certainly won’t tell Will that sometimes I still have those imaginary and profoundly unhealthy conversations. Because even though I hated being with Ravi, hated how small and weak he made me feel, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that maybe he was right. Maybe I do need someone to hold me down. Maybe he really was the only thing keeping me from being snatched up and carried away.

I think of Dr Abebe’s Perhaps you should just be on your own for a bit, Maggie. Try that out for size.

‘Hey.’ Will reaches across the table and takes both of my too cold hands in his, unclenches my fingers. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

He keeps on looking at me with that same steady gaze as his warmth spreads into my skin. ‘Look. I wanted to say earlier …’ He shakes his head. ‘You know, you can come to the farm. Anytime. I mean, you’re welcome anytime. You know, if you run out of sugar or whatever, or just, I dunno, to see me. Anytime. For any reason.’ He squeezes my hands, his suddenly clammy, and I can’t help the shiver that goes through me, the goosebumps that appear on my forearms.

‘Okay.’ I don’t say anything else. I can’t. Because it’s not just the heat of him that I miss when I take back my hands. It’s him. And I don’t know what to do about it.

‘Are we ever going to talk about this, Maggie?’ Will says, pointing first at himself and then at me, those goosebumps on my arms. ‘Or are we just going to get closer and closer to doing what we’re going to do without ever saying it out loud?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing up. ‘I need to go to the loo.’

In the toilets, I stand at the sink, run my wrists under cool water. I glance at myself in the mirror. I look like a Maggie I only vaguely remember. Her hair is tangled and her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are clear. My whole life I’ve wanted to be someone anyone – other than me, and suddenly I’m tired of it. And I’m tired of denying myself everything I want because I’m ashamed or afraid or because I think I don’t deserve it. I remember Mum’s laughter as we ran along that beach in the rain and roaring thunder, the stretched nylon of our kite snapping back against the wind. I remember that of all the things Mum hated, she’d hated cowards the most.