Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years ago, I hadn’t met Stephen. The internet was in its infancy, no Facebook or Instagram. New York’s Twin Towers had a decade still to stand. Princess Diana was alive. No one had imagined fire storms like we’d seen, except scientists who seemed easy to tune out. Twenty-five years was a long time. Twenty-five years.

Stephen’s mother Claire said her first stroke symptom was smelling sulphur, as if her hair was burning. When she came round, doctors called the odour a hallucination caused by misfiring neurons. An instinct telling her something was wrong. But what was wrong wasn’t burning hair, it was her brain itself. My hair was burning. Singeing on ceramic straightener plates that rapidly sucked all water from its ends, then began to smoke. I dropped my straightener. Traitor. Smoke floated from my hot, crispy hair.

This is what you get for being vain, I told reflected me. She looked annoyed, not remorseful. With a few manicure scissors snips I chopped off the burned hair. And I abandoned my straightening iron. Jack didn’t care about frizz. He’d invited me for dinner, not a hair inspection. A ponytail it would have to be, though not my most flattering look. I knew what I needed from Jack. I didn’t know how I’d cope with him afterwards.

My phone rang. ‘Phoebe? Just checking you’re still coming.’

I forced a smile at my reflection, and rattled car keys near the phone. ‘Where else would I go?’

A few minutes later, Jack opened the door to his converted garage, and accepted the wine. ‘Thanks, Phoebe. This will be great.’ A smile deepened the lines around his eyes like a welcome. The warm aroma of garlic drifted past. Something that cooked well. As opposed to hair.

‘Come in and sit for a minute? I’ve made a stir-fry. It needs… stirring.’

Today’s newspaper occupied the crates that were his coffee table. I flipped through, impatient for him to come here where we could have the discussion I’d planned. Various of the United States were having election primaries, the leader of a small Eastern European country had been jailed for decades for crimes against humanity, an African virus was still spreading. Why didn’t Jack hurry back? I’d say this, and sound clever and amusingly cynical. He’d laugh.

He did grin when I said it, perching on a dining chair. ‘I hope you like prawns.’

‘I love prawns. You’re very talented – cooking – in this place.’

‘My brother’s a scientist. He says everything is moving towards chaos. It’s a physical law. Cooking is like making something from chaos. Pulling together different ingredients and turning them into one meal.’

‘I forget you have a brother.’

‘We’re not close. He doesn’t do enough for Mum. He says seeing her is too upsetting.’

‘Does your mum miss him?’