I wrap my arms around his shoulders. I can’t shake off a sense that there is something he’s not telling me. I worry that he’s found out about my past, but there’s no way he could have done. Not after all this time. He turns and wraps his arms around my hips, presses his head against my abdomen and briefly kisses my stomach, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I stroke his hair and he looks up.

‘I love you,’ I say.

‘I know you do.’

‘Then come to bed.’

He smiles and closes his laptop, then takes my hand and we go upstairs. I watch him undress with that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach that is part familiarity, part excitement. After those awful, confusing years with Douglas, I feel so lucky to have met him.

‘Fuck!’

‘Nick?’ I mumble, pushing myself up on my elbow and fumbling in the darkness for the light switch.

Nick is crouched in a corner of the room, with his arms crossed over his face, shrinking back against the wall as though he’s being attacked. I dash over to him, but he lashes out when I try to help. I lurch back, landing on my bottom.

‘Nick, it’s OK. It’s not real.’

When was the last time he had one of these episodes? Not for at least three years. They’re brought on by stress and change.

He lets his hands drop to his knees and goes still. When I hold him, I feel shudders ripple through his body.

‘It’s OK. Everything’s OK.’

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No. I’m fine. Come on, back to bed.’

He gently prises my arms away, pushes himself up off the floor and crawls under the duvet, rolls over and falls asleep.

Why now? I spoon into him; feet, calves, knees, thighs, stomach and breasts; the length of his body against mine, my head pressed into the gap between his shoulder blades, my hand cupped round his hip. Then I can sleep.

The next day I get in with Lottie to find Nick already home. He says he needs to concentrate on a presentation and goes up to his study. I follow him, feeling anxious because he hasn’t kissed either of us hello. When I open the door he’s sitting hunched over his computer, one elbow on his desk, his head supported by his hand. The room is tiny, one of those half-landing ones. It feels as though it’s floating over the surrounding gardens. He has it because he’s the birdwatcher and nature lover. Mine is at the top of the house and looks down on the street.

‘Hey.’

He swivels his chair round, and I walk in. I stroke his hair, but he takes my wrist and pulls my hand down to his chest.

‘Do you want to talk about last night?’ I ask.

‘Last night?’ His brow creases.