‘I’m making penne arrabbiata for supper,’ I say, trying to erase the image, and everything it represents, from my mind. ‘I’m just hoping we’ve got enough basil.’

‘Sounds delicious, thanks, Nessa,’ says Georgie. ‘There should be a bunch of basil in the fridge but if not I can go and pick some from the garden pots.’

A feeling of guilt sweeps through me as I walk over to the fridge. I should be contributing more, paying my way. I make a mental note to place an online grocery order in the morning.

I open the fridge and find two large bunches of basil. I take one, along with an onion, three cloves of garlic and three red chillies, and bring them over to the chopping board.

‘More than enough basil,’ I say to Georgie as I start chopping onions. ‘No need to go out there.’

Behind me I hear her pour another glass of wine.

‘I was thinking about Lottie earlier,’ she says, coming over to stand by me as I chop. ‘Do you think that was her you saw in the village?’

‘It certainly looked like her,’ I say as I press the back of Jack’s expensive Kitchen Devil knife down on to a fat clove of garlic. ‘Though it probably wasn’t. The sun was in my eyes and then that daft guy jumped out at us.’

‘Oh yeah, the pantomime horse,’ says Georgie, taking a slice of raw onion from the chopping board and popping it in her mouth. ‘The things people do for money. It beggars belief. Why don’t you give Lottie a call? See if it was her.’

Though Georgie knows that Lottie and I have fallen out, I haven’t told her that Lottie went so far as to change her number, and I haven’t the energy to tell her now, not with everything that has happened today. Though I must admit it would be nice to see Lottie again, to tell her what’s been going on, to have her reassure me that it’s all going to be okay.

‘Like I said, it probably wasn’t her,’ I say, taking a frying pan from the hook above the hob and pouring a glug of olive oil into it. ‘And if she had come back to the UK for a visit she would have probably gone to Edinburgh to see her mum. There would be no reason for her to be in London.’

I turn to look at Georgie. She has returned to sit by the open French window, sipping wine and fanning herself with a copy of Wimbledon Life.

‘You’re right. Plus, she would have called you if she’d been here. No matter how pissed off she might have been by you moving out of the flat. I’m sure she’s got over it by now,’ says Georgie. ‘God, it’s humid tonight. Perhaps we should eat outside.’