I begin to peel the garlic, trying to remember the steps of the recipe because I can’t look it up on my phone. I never used to be a good cook; I’ve become one in the last few months, which is ironic given that during the same period I’ve lost my appetite. While I’ve been battling depression, I haven’t felt in the mood to read my normal romance and thriller novels, but I’ve been able to page through recipe books, and every day I make dinner for Liam for when he gets home from work. At least then I feel like I’ve achieved something with my day, and I know he appreciates the effort. Liam grew up with a single mother who worked all hours. He was a latchkey kid who lived on TV dinners, and as an adult, working erratic hours and moving around a lot for work, he says he’s lived on junk food and Pot Noodles.

My mum would laugh to see how good I’ve become in the kitchen. I was spoiled as a girl because she would always make home-cooked meals every evening and even when I moved out, she’d still cook for me multiple nights a week. On the other nights I’d head back to my place and warm up a can of soup or a Marks & Spencer ready meal – knowing how to use the microwave was the extent of my culinary expertise. Now I’m capable of delivering three-course meals that would make a Michelin-starred chef envious – at least according to Liam.

I bend down to search for the lemon squeezer in the drawer and Liam comes up behind me again, pulling me back towards him. ‘You’re so sexy,’ he says, burying his face in my hair and kissing my neck.

My legs go weak as they always do when he touches me. I turn around to face him and he pushes me back against the counter and kisses me. Things quickly start to heat up, his hands stroking up my back, my breath becoming ragged, and it’s only when I hear the pan sizzling behind me that I leap out of his arms, laughing and catching the pan before the oil can splatter.

‘I’ll behave,’ Liam laughs, moving away to refill his glass.

I put the scallops in the pan and hear the satisfying crackle of the prosciutto as it starts to cook. I need to time things carefully, so the scallops don’t overcook, and the pasta is perfectly al dente. There’s nothing worse than undercooked pasta and overcooked fish.

Twenty minutes later I set two plates down on the table, adding a squeeze of lemon with a flourish to the scallops. I sit down opposite Liam and watch him take a bite. He chews thoughtfully and then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Incredible,’ he says. ‘You should go on MasterChef.’