He turned. ‘I’m not much of a cook but the chilli was close to burning, which would be a waste as it smells good.’

She remained just inside the kitchen unable to move forward. He was the last person she had expected to see cooking. Her mother possibly, but not Alex and definitely not Alex in an apron wielding a wooden spoon.

‘Speechless at my beauty?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Something like that.’ She swallowed. He had no right to look so good and she had no right to feel the way she did. ‘More than mildly curious as to why you are here in the kitchen saving my chilli.’

He nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He paused. ‘I’m making my dinner as the cottage doesn’t have a functioning kitchen and I’ve been giving George a hand with cooking.’

‘Ready-meals?’

‘And fresh veg.’

She frowned. ‘Mrs Blitho, the daily?’

‘With her daughter . . . who is on bed rest expecting her second set of twins.’

‘Not brilliant timing.’ She frowned.

‘No.’ He left the stove and went to the sink and began to wash the veg.

She took a deep breath, she needed to speak now, not later. Lottie had longed to say these words for years and had rehearsed them in her dreams, hoping that somehow, she could make at least part of her past right.

‘Alex.’

He turned with lettuce in hand. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s been a long time . . .’ Her voice faded away and she took a step to the nearest chair, grabbing the back of it. He stared at her with a guarded expression on his face. She preferred the jokey one of a few moments ago.

‘What’s been a long time?’

‘Sorry. Ten years ago.’ She ran her hands over the battered oak of the chair, feeling the strength of the wood. She could be strong. This was the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘But I’ve told myself it’s never too late to apologise.’

He raised an eyebrow. She took that as encouragement to continue. ‘I’m sorry for so much and if I could, I would do many things differently.’ She twisted her hands together. In her head the words had rolled out but now they were fading in her mouth, coming out at half strength. ‘But I can’t. But I can say . . . I’m sorry . . . to you.’

He leaned against the sink, remaining silent. She looked around the kitchen at the pine table and the painted wooden cabinet that lined the north wall. It was scarred with a few more marks and chips in the paintwork, showing the passage of time. ‘I treated you appallingly in that whole mess. I should never have said what I did. It wasn’t true.’ She hung her head studying the red tiled floor and taking a deep breath, but then she glanced up, making sure she made eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I was so very wrong.’

Weighing a beef tomato in one hand, he passed it to the other. He didn’t look away and she held his stare. She didn’t deserve forgiveness, she’d been vile, saying things that were hurtful and untrue.