‘Come on,’ Becky says, appearing in her dressing gown. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘It’s all fun until someone drowns in a hideous boating accident,’ says Alex, grimly. But his mouth lifts in a smile and he nods, slowly.

‘All right. I think you two are insane. But all right.’

‘Excellent,’ says Becky, giving him a high five.

As he’s leaving the kitchen he turns, a hand on the door, his early-morning hair rumpled. He scratches his beard and looks from Becky to me, a slow smile stretching across his face. ‘Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.’

‘I told you he’d think it was a good idea,’ Becky says in a whisper, as we hear his feet on the last – squeaky – stair.

‘What are you two brewing up?’

I look at Rob, who has walked into the room and headed straight for the fridge. ‘Oh hello,’ I say. ‘It’s the scarlet pimpernel.’ Our anticipated cheese night didn’t happen in the end, because Rob was called in to work to cover someone else’s shift.

‘One of these days I’m going to have a week off,’ he says, in his deep Glasgow accent. ‘And you’ll be complaining ah’m under your feet.’

‘I think it’s a myth. You basically work 365 days a year as far as I can see,’ teases Becky.

‘I’ll have you know I’ve got today off to make up for going in on Monday, and I’ve got no plans.’

‘Ooh,’ Becky says, glancing at me. ‘Do you want some?’

‘Depends what they are.’ Rob grins. ‘You’re no’ wanting me to do DIY or something like that?’

She beckons him over. Looking pleased to be included, he comes and sits down, and listens while we explain that we’re on a mission to keep Alex’s mind off what today should have been.

‘I’d love that. And then mebbe when we get back I could make something nice for dinner. What about a curry? Alex likes curry, doesn’t he?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Right. What time are we leaving?’

Becky looks at the clock. ‘Oh God, not for ages yet. About half twelve?’

‘Great.’ Rob rubs his hands together. ‘I’m away to the shop to get some bits and pieces for dinner. I’ll make a feast that’ll blow his socks off. He won’t have a chance to think about whatshername when I’m done.’

In the time it takes me and Becky to get showered, find something to wear, and bumble around the house in a Saturday-morning sort of way, Rob has been out to the market on Portobello Road, picked up huge bagfuls of meat and the freshest of veg, and he’s standing at the kitchen worktop chopping onions and garlic with lightning precision. Despite his huge hands, the knife moves so quickly I can’t quite take it in.

‘I thought you were making dinner later?’ I pinch a piece of chopped red pepper.

‘Aye,’ he says, slapping my hand and laughing. ‘I’m just leaving this lot to marinate for a few hours.’