I cast a glance around the rest of the kitchen—anything rather than watch Jake metamorphose into Nigella Lawson. We’ve got more pans, plates and dishes than you can shake a stick at. How many can you use at once? Although I have to qualify that, as I note that Jake seems to have attempted to use all of them in the course of creating shepherd’s pie. I feel I want to put all of my life in bin bags and just throw it on the local council dump. Or, even better, give it to someone who needs it more. I feel out of place here, out of time—like one of those time travellers who get the co-ordinates mixed up on their time machines and end up in the wrong location or the wrong century. Maybe world travel is too easy now and we don’t give due reverence to being whisked out of our culture and plopped, unsuspecting of the impact it might have on our lives, into another one. I think British Airways have a lot to answer for. I can feel the wine making my eyelids heavy and perhaps it’s just the dreaded jet lag that’s making me feel so weird and displaced.

Jake pops the oven gloves on and whips open the oven door. ‘Ta-da,’ he says, as with a flourish he produces his creation. He oohs and aahs as he carries it to the table, the hot dish burning his fingers despite the protection of his asbestos gauntlets. He’s being excessively chirpy and I wish I could rise to meet his enthusiasm.

My ex-boyfriend grins at me, expectant of praise.

‘It looks lovely,’ I oblige. And it does. The potato topping is golden and crisp, the scent of herby lamb mouth-watering.

‘I’m going to learn to cook more things,’ Jake promises as he dashes back for the dishes of vegetables. ‘This is just a start. I’m going to change.’ He looks at me, worry etched into his forehead. ‘I have changed.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘I want to do more for you,’ he says. ‘More for us.’

‘Mmm.’ I focus my attention on the food. He’s being so considerate that I want to cry, but I can’t break down because then he’ll want to put his arms round me and I really, really couldn’t cope with that. Why couldn’t he have been like this months ago? Months ago when all I wanted was his baby and all he wanted was another woman. There’s a huge void between us—a void that’s been filled by other places and other people. Could we ever really get back to where we were before? And if we could, would I want to? I don’t know if I sigh out loud, but Jake straightens slightly.