She unwrapped her chef’s knives, secure in the sturdy wrap her father had proudly bought her when she’d graduated. The thick linen was tired now, but she’d carry on using it until it fell apart, or until it was too threadbare to protect the blades within. For much of her life, right up until she’d signed the contract on the Fishergirl’s Luck, the knives had been the most valuable possessions Anna owned. She knew the weight and feel of each as if it were an extension of her own hand. Working with them felt like home. As she checked them over, Anna realized that she was looking forward to cooking in her new kitchen after all. And, for the first time in a long while, there was no faintly derogatory running commentary from Geoff about her ideas. He hadn’t followed her inside this space. The kitchen in the Fishergirl’s Luck, cramped as it was, was hers and hers alone. The thought lit an unexpected glow in her chest.

As Saturday drew nearer and Anna slowly became more comfortable with her new surroundings, Cathy’s assumption that she’d make something to take with her to the party kept popping back into mind. The thought of cooking had started familiar cogs turning in Anna’s head. She could do a few bits and pieces, couldn’t she? Nothing too labour intensive, but delicious, nonetheless. It might even be fun to try out her ‘new’ kitchen properly. Gradually, Anna’s thoughts of Geoff were replaced with thoughts of food: her food, not his. She never had to cook another bloody Geoff Rowcliffe recipe in her life. The thought made Anna smile.

After toying with a few ideas, Friday morning saw Anna driving back to Fraserburgh for provisions. Back at the Fishergirl’s Luck, the kitchen filled with herbs, spices and oils as she unpacked and found homes for everything she needed and the additional items that had simply taken her chef’s fancy. Standing amid the rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, Anna had rediscovered the pleasure of shopping for produce, of finding the unexpected and thinking spontaneously about flavours and textures. Sure, a megabrand supermarket wasn’t a patch on standing in the middle of Borough Market on a Friday morning. But then even Borough Market had lost its magic, the rough-and-ready nature that had sustained it for a century replaced by hipster brands relying on tourist curiosity and city workers more interested in picking at bits and pieces than in cooking themselves.

By late that evening, the fridge was full, because once Anna had started she hadn’t wanted to stop. This renewed joy in cooking had come as a complete surprise. She’d thought that might be something else she had left behind in London, in her other life.