‘How did you get so capable of being in the moment?’ I asked after a while. ‘You’re so unafraid and enthusiastic. It’s nice to be around. I wish I could be more like you, really.’

‘Hmmm,’ he replied, noncommittally. He sounded uncomfortable at the compliment, which was strange because since we’d been hanging out Patrick never seemed uncomfortable. ‘Life’s short.’

‘But is it?’ I mused. ‘Or is that one of those things we half believe, when the reality is that life is actually very, very long, and so we need to be responsible and plan things and take it all seriously? Because that’s what I was always taught.’

Patrick considered what I’d said.

‘Look,’ he started, and I hated how my body sensed a big revelation was coming before my mind did. Was I bugging him? Had he already had enough of my neurotic and tightly wound sense of self? I couldn’t blame him if he had. He-who-I-was-trying-not-to-name wasn’t enamoured by those parts of me either. ‘There won’t ever be a good time to tell you this, but you should know …’

Bugger.

Bugger.

Bugger.

He was going to tell me being here with me was a ghastly mistake and that he wanted to part ways, wasn’t he? Officially only Day Two and he was going to call Mona Lisa.

‘Annie, I’m a widower.’

His eyes were sorrowful, his face hung in anticipation of how I would respond. My stomach sank for him. Oh poor, poor Patrick. Jesus. It occurred to me that what I said next was really important. I was only going to get one chance to say the right thing, but wow. I’d never known somebody my age whose spouse had died. What was the right thing to say? He’d said he’d had his heart broken but I never for one second thought he’d been separated from the woman he loved through death.

‘Patrick. I am so, so sorry,’ I said, finally, shaking myself back into the conversation. ‘That’s … so horrible. I had no idea.’

‘I didn’t mean to keep it as a secret,’ he deliberated. ‘But, it’s a funny one. When do you tell people? Because once you do, they act differently. They tiptoe around you, or look at you the way you’re looking at me right now.’

I scrunched up my nose. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Death is a head-screwer. People worry it’s catching, I think. That if my wife died, maybe theirs could too.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not it,’ I said. ‘People don’t think that.’

Patrick helped himself to more wine, then put the last of the bottle into my glass and played with the toothpicks meant for the olives.

‘How much do you want to talk about it?’ I asked. ‘And do we need to move to something stronger? Straight shots, maybe? Snorting tequila from each other’s belly buttons?’