Stig glances up with a grin and my fear evaporates. He hasn’t done anything to make me doubt him. I’m being overly suspicious. ‘Something smells good,’ he says. For a second I think he means me, then instantly feel stupid.

I enter the kitchen to find the table set, complete with wine glasses, napkins and candles. He’s even used one of Mormor’s best tablecloths. Feeling underdressed in my grey jogging bottoms, I drag my fingers through my damp hair, wishing I had blow-dried it. Stop it, I tell myself. You can’t do anything about your face, so what’s the point of worrying about your hair?

Gandalf is curled up in his basket, head on his paws. ‘Feeling better now, boy?’ His ears prick up at the sound of my voice. I kneel down and pat his head, and he licks my face in return. That’s the good thing about animals: they love you for who you are, not how you look. He stares at the door as if he’s trying to tell me something. ‘What is it?’ I whisper, but he only lowers his head with a sigh.

Stig’s right, dinner does smell good. Grabbing a tea towel from the rail, I open the oven and take out the casserole. Mormor was the one who taught me to cook. Not that I made much in London; it was something we did together. Disappointment tugs at my heart as I remember that we’ll never do it again.

Stig sees my face and gives me a sad, knowing smile. He grabs some oranges from the fruit bowl on the dresser, then starts to juggle. ‘What do you think? Good enough for the circus?’

I try to sound impressed. ‘Not bad.’ I know he’s trying to cheer me up and that Mormor would want me to be happy, but it feels wrong to have fun without her. Like it feels wrong to be using her best tablecloth and wine glasses.

Stig’s oranges tumble to the ground. I reach out and grab one, then knock my head on the table.

‘You OK?’ Stig crouches down and I move away from him without thinking.

‘I’m fine,’ I snap, annoyed with myself for being so clumsy.

Stig picks up the oranges, then stands and takes a banana from the bowl. He threatens me with it. ‘Do you know what the Swedish think Norwegians call a banana?’

I shrug.

‘Gulbøy. It means, yellow bend.’

‘Really?’

Stig laughs. ‘Yes, really,’ and starts to juggle again.

I watch the fruit whizz in circles, then lay the plates on the table. ‘Let me guess – fruit salad for dessert?’

Stig grins. ‘I tried juggling custard but it got messy.’

We sit at the table and smile shyly at one another. Stig clears his throat and I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do.

‘So you don’t speak any Norwegian?’ he asks.