‘We’ve been through this so many times. I can’t blame him having the hots for you. But why should it be anything to do with being in competition? He finds you attractive. Period.’

‘But why keep pushing it?’

He has a sip of wine, holding my gaze with his. ‘He doesn’t much, does he? Do I need to beat him up?’ His tone is mild, and I can tell he isn’t taking me seriously.

‘It’s always there,’ I insist. ‘An undercurrent. Come on, Miles. You know he came and took me to lunch, again, a few days ago. He put his hand on my arm. I told you.’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Wasn’t he just being friendly? It’s hardly making a pass is it – putting a hand on someone’s arm?’ A frown ripples across his forehead. ‘Or maybe it is these days.’

I lean back in my chair. ‘Women know when a man wants them. It’s instinct. Sometimes it’s hard to explain.’ I pause. ‘And I’m sure he’s jealous of you.’

He shakes his head slowly, and eats the last sweet potato fry. ‘I suppose Mother and Father always got on with me more easily. Aiden and Father clashed because they were both alpha personalities. Mother always doted on me. She had always been surrounded by feisty lively men: her father, her husband, her brother. She always seemed to prefer my peaceful personality to Aiden’s cheekiness.’ He pauses as he tops up our wine. ‘I do think he felt it from time to time.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘And I suppose brothers do sometimes fancy the same physical type.’ He frowns again. ‘But he’s not evil. Give him a break.’

‘I never said he was evil. Just that he makes me feel uncomfortable,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from sounding snappish.

And my stomach tightens because if Miles thinks brothers fancy similar women, does that mean he still feels more for Julie than he admits? Is that why he’s so tolerant of Aiden’s attention towards me?

‘My mother makes you feel uncomfortable too,’ my husband points out. ‘Not everyone who makes you feel uncomfortable fancies you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miles. Comparing your mother to Aiden isn’t comparing like with like.’

I take a mouthful of quinoa, and think about you, Caprice. And I’m back on my wedding day, swathed in silk and lace. You were the only guest who didn’t congratulate me. The only person who didn’t tell me I looked nice.

I think of you yesterday, when I returned from work, skulking about in the kitchen, tidying up the herb and spice rack.

‘You always have it in such a mess, dear.’

Dear. The way you say that word still annoys me. You overemphasise the d, and then swallow the rest of it.