He looks at me levelly. ‘You’re not, by the way. Not remotely.’ He turns and fills the kettle, as if he still lives here. Not that he needs permission to turn on a tap, or make tea – but still. I sense him trying to edge his way back to me, subtly, as if he’s hoping I won’t even notice it happening.

He clears his throat, and an awkward silence hovers between us, which seems ridiculous. Nine months ago we were living under the same roof, and wandering about naked, scratching our bums, picking at our toenails and spitting into the washbasin after flossing, all that unseemly bodily stuff.

We even did our loo business in front of each other. Okay, not poos – but wees, certainly. When you fall in love, you promise yourself that’ll never happen; you won’t become one of those couples where you pee merrily whilst remarking that the bin men seem to have changed to a Friday, and do we have much in for dinner tonight?

‘Viv?’ His voice jolts me back to the present.

‘Yes?’

‘Give me the address of that woman’s shop.’

‘No, Andy. I appreciate your offer but this is ridiculous.’

‘Remember when you badgered me for my address?’

‘Er … yes?’

‘I knew you didn’t really want to forward some mail to me,’ he retorts. ‘What could’ve been so important that it couldn’t have waited until I got back from Loch Fyne?’

I shrug. ‘Something could’ve …’

‘You sent me some junk mail from credit card companies,’ he remarks, ‘and a leaflet advertising conservatories. Like, really urgent. You just wanted to check out where I lived so you could do that omelette thing.’

‘No, I didn’t. I hadn’t even thought of—’

‘Just give me the address, Viv.’

He stands there, waiting. ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. ‘If you’re sure.’

He leaves, finally, and later, once I’ve said goodnight to Izzy, I text Tricia from Love Vintage to let her know the poncho will be picked up by ‘Andy’ (no further details supplied) at noon tomorrow.

Perfect, she replies. It’ll be waiting for him.

And now, in this still, quiet house, I wonder whether I’ve done the right thing, to allow myself to not be angry with him anymore. In the early days of this mess – and the not so early ones actually – I truly thought I would never get over the hurt. That I would hate him for ever and never involve myself with another man. That he’d ruined the part of me that could love someone. I was certain that he, coupled with the sweaty, hormonal mess I was in, had put paid to me ever being able to be close to anyone ever again. And it would just be me, alone in my clammy pyjamas, in my swampy bed, for ever.