I think about feigning sleep on Monday morning as I hear Rupert up and moving around, getting ready for work, but when he leans over and kisses me, I open my eyes.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. And I’m sorry about this weekend.’ We have barely spoken since Friday night, Rupert busy on Saturday with rugby, and then meeting Will for a few pints after, and me borrowing the car to spend Sunday in Salisbury, browsing the artisan market alone. It would have been that way regardless of whether we had argued on Friday night, our plans already made, but because we had argued, I’d felt as though I’d moved through the weekend under a thick black cloud. Rupert’s kiss is like a chink of sunlight on a grey day.

‘Me too.’ I give him a sleepy smile. Part of me does want to stay cross with him, at the way he just seems to brush my concerns aside, but I’ve been through so much to get where I am – to be with him – that I can’t. Rupert kisses me again properly this time, not even minding about morning breath, and I wait until I hear the door snick closed before I get out of bed. Heading straight for the bathroom, I shower quickly and brush my teeth. It sounds ridiculous, but it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I brush them, I still think I can taste Friday night’s veal at the back of my throat. I managed to mask my horror as Rupert ordered it for me, but I couldn’t eat it. I try to drown it out downstairs by making a large mug of coffee, and then heading upstairs to brush my teeth again, but it’s still there, coating my tongue and making me feel slightly nauseous. Or maybe that’s just nerves.