Lucy’s face lit up with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. She nodded.

‘That would be lovely. What do you think, Chris?’

He peeled off his gardening gloves and stood up. His T-shirt showed off the bulge of his muscles: his thick arms and broad chest. He nodded up at Jamie, one side of his mouth twitching in what Jamie interpreted as an attempt to show enthusiasm. ‘Sure. Sounds good.’

‘Great. Well, let’s make a date. Say, seven-thirty, this Friday? Fantastic. We’ll see you then.’

He went back inside, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Kirsty punched him lightly on the arm. ‘What the hell have you done?’

‘I thought you’d prefer to meet them on your own home territory.’

‘Oh God, I don’t believe this. That’s my week ruined.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because I’m going to be worrying about this bloody dinner party now. What to cook. What to wear. Does the flat look a state? Why couldn’t you have accepted their invitation? Or if you didn’t want to go down there, why didn’t you make up an excuse?’

‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’

‘Huh! I should make you cook the meal. That would teach you.’

‘OK, I will.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re the worst cook in London.’ She marched back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. ‘I think I’ll invite Heather and Paul too. Paul can entertain them.’

Jamie tutted. ‘Look, Kirsty, it will be fine. I genuinely thought it would be easier to invite them up here. We don’t want a repeat of that time we went to Sally and Jason’s and they served lamb because I’d forgotten to tell them you were a veggie.’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘I know, I know. I realise you were doing what you thought was best. I just wished you’d stalled them and asked me first.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’d better get going now, before the tide goes out and I miss my chance to drown you.’

Paul turned up first, bearing a bottle of cheap Chardonnay.

‘So what are we having?’ he asked after he had handed Jamie the wine and kissed Kirsty on the cheek.

‘Jamie’s having beans on toast.’

‘Yum. And the rest of us?’

She tapped the side of a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Onions and garlic cloves lay on the worktop, along with a bowl of shelled pecan nuts, a plate of mushrooms and artichokes, bottles of olive oil and vinegar, a can of tomatoes and a tube of tomato puree. Fresh tagliatelle already waited in the saucepan. ‘The rest of us are having pasta.’

‘Veggie stuff.’

‘That’s right, and if you don’t like it’ – she waved the wooden spoon at him – ‘you can have beans on toast too.’