‘Leila gave it to me as a moving-in gift,’ said Minnie. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge.’ She paused, looking up at him. ‘Unless you’d have a glass with me now? There’s probably ice in the freezer. I can’t face unpacking any more boxes today.’

He had that look again, that look by the breakfast van, as if she was tempting him to do something he shouldn’t.

‘I have to drive back,’ he said.

‘Of course, silly idea, it’s warm anyway.’

‘I could have one glass.’

They abandoned the rest of the boxes in the hall and moved through to her sitting room. It was supposed to be a furnished flat, but the living room only contained a small two-seater sofa and a low rectangular coffee table. Though the room was tiny, there was a large window looking out over an empty block opposite, so the light streamed in, making it feel warm and inviting compared to the dark, claustrophobic kitchen. They sat next to each other on the small green and white baize sofa. There was no ice, and no glasses, so they drank the champagne warm out of mugs.

‘So I noticed one of the boxes I carried in was labelled “pie-making kit”,’ Quinn said, looking down into his mug of champagne. ‘Do you think you’ll go back to it one day?’

Minnie took a gulp of champagne.

‘I can’t really, can I? We sold everything.’

‘You gave up your lease – you didn’t get rid of whatever is in that box.’

‘Well, I didn’t say I was never going to bake a pie ever again, did I?’

‘That would be a travesty.’

The sofa was so small their legs were touching. Minnie felt very aware of every point at which his body was in contact with hers.

‘Warm champagne isn’t great, is it?’ Quinn said with a comical grimace.

‘Sorry,’ she said, taking a large swig. ‘Drink faster, it doesn’t taste so bad.’

He followed suit and then topped them both up. What were they doing? He had to drive home. But she didn’t want to ask questions; she just wanted him to stay.

‘I’ll leave my car here, fetch it tomorrow,’ he said, as though reading her mind. ‘Can’t leave you to celebrate alone, can I?’ He picked up his mug and clinked it with hers.

Minnie realised she wanted to be drunk, she wanted to relax, to turn off the anxious inner narrative that kept asking what she was doing, what she was hoping would happen. The champagne would dull that questioning voice, allow her to relax and enjoy herself. She got so tired of the barrage of questions constantly knocking away at the inside of her head; alcohol was sometimes an excellent mute button.

‘So, no more baking, just catering,’ Quinn said, getting comfortable on the sofa, sinking down into it.