‘I know I don’t, but I want to. I’m doing it for you and Frank, mind, not for that old troublemaker. And someone else will have to take it down there, I don’t think I could bear to.’

Pat smiled, but it was a tired expression. ‘Frank can do that. Thank you. If you’re really sure, that would be a great help.’

Anna leaned forward and gave the older woman a hug. ‘Of course I’m sure. Can’t guarantee he won’t find something to complain about in my food, though. Probably best not to tell him who cooked it.’

Later that evening her phone rang. Anna answered it expecting it to be Cathy, but it wasn’t.

‘It’s Robert. Robert MacKenzie. Hi.’

‘Hi.’ For some reason her throat constricted. ‘I— hi. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve spoken to Frank and he’s told me what you’re doing for Dougie. I wanted to thank you, Anna. It’s a very kind thing, especially considering how he’s treated you.’

Anna found herself scrubbing her thumbnail against a non-existent mark on her worktop. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing,’ he said softly.

Anna cleared her throat, wishing she didn’t like the sound of his voice quite so much. ‘How’s Robbie? I didn’t hear how the bake sale went.’

‘That was my fault, sorry. That you didn’t hear, I mean.’

‘Oh?’

There was a pause. ‘He wanted to come and see you the next day to tell you all about it, but I got the impression that I’d overstepped the mark that night, by asking you to look after him. I thought it’d be better to take a step back.’

‘No,’ Anna said, ‘No, I—’ She stopped, unsure what to say. ‘It wasn’t that.’

‘It was the beetroot, wasn’t it?’ Robert went on, in the same tone of voice. ‘He told me you’d found it.’

‘No – yes.’ She sighed. ‘I mean – it wasn’t only the beetroot. It was – it was all a bit overwhelming, that’s all. And I know that sounds weird, when all I was doing was baking in your kitchen with your son, but I’ve got stuff going on myself at the moment and it…’ she trailed off, wondering why she couldn’t be more articulate, wondering why it had all become such a big deal.

‘No, I get it,’ Robert said. ‘I do. And I’m sorry, I really am.’

‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me.’

‘It’s really not,’ he said. ‘I told you before, didn’t I? Other people’s grief is hard to deal with.’

‘It wasn’t—’ Anna stopped herself. It wasn’t the grief, she thought. It was the love.

‘I’ve stopped buying it,’ he said. ‘The beetroot, I mean.’