As well as sending flowers, Matt phoned every night that week. Sometimes he was at work and we only managed a quick chat. Other nights, we talked for an hour or more. He discussed articles he’d read in the paper and the new film he wanted to see and told me about the homeless man, Barney, who sat on the pavement near the hospital holding a cardboard sign reading ‘Smile!’. Matt picked up a cappuccino for him on his way in, when he bought his own coffee. Barney was very exact: skinny cappuccino, two sugars.

And when Matt wasn’t talking, he listened. I wasn’t used to anyone showing interest in me, in my day, in my opinions. It took me a while to get used to it. He teased me when I hesitated before answering or asked him: ‘Really? Do you really want to know?’

We arranged to go out again that weekend, for a quick dinner and then a film. I was still nervous but excited too. I counted down to it. Planning what to say, what to wear. And then, that afternoon, Dianne called – my one and only decent babysitter – and said she was so sorry, she had flu.

I texted Matt to cancel. V sorry. Another night?

He texted straight back. Tonite! Can I cook at yrs?

I stared at the screen. I was flattered, I admit it. He seemed determined to see me. But I couldn’t imagine him cooking in my kitchen.

Another text appeared. I’ll bring it all. OK?

He arrived just after seven, earlier than I expected. The spillage from your egg on toast was congealing on the front of my blouse, my hair was in clumps and I was only halfway through reading you a bedtime story.

He carried a bulging gym bag into the kitchen and swung it onto a chair. The zip was open at one end, showing groceries.

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave him alone in the kitchen, in our home.

‘I’m not quite ready.’

He nodded. ‘That’s OK. There’s just a few things I need.’

He ran through a list: weighing scales, cheese grater, knives, saucepan, wooden spoon. He looked over each item as I rooted it out of a cupboard or drawer, then lined them up in a neat row along the back of the kitchen worktop. He bent over to peer at the cooker, trying the ignition button to check that the hobs lit.

‘Fine. Leave me to it.’ He looked directly at me for the first time since he’d come in, gave me one of his disarming smiles, then turned away again, opened his bag and drew out ingredients with his long fingers. A packet of Gruyère cheese. Parmesan. Roquefort. Fresh pasta. He placed everything on the counter with precision.

He saw me watching and said: ‘I hope you like cheese.’

‘Mummy!’ Your voice, from upstairs, was shrill.

Black pepper. Double cream. A bottle of mineral water, then a bottle of red wine. Valpolicella. He really had brought everything.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Really.’

You were sitting up in bed, your arms round your bear. Other cuddly toys jumbled along the wall. A pile of picture books sprawled across your knees. You handed me the one we’d been reading.

‘Where were we?’

‘Has he come? Is he downstairs?’

‘If you mean Matt, yes, he is. He’s going to cook Mummy’s dinner.’

You looked thoughtful. ‘Why?’

I shrugged, opened the book. ‘Because Mummy’s hungry. Now, let’s see what happens, shall we?’

I curled on the bed beside you and put my arm round your shoulders and you leaned in, your head against the soft pad of my arm. I started to read.

‘Is he a doctor?’

I broke off, looked down at you. ‘Matt? Yes. In the hospital. Remember?’

I went back to the book. Your expression was preoccupied for a while, as if you were thinking this over. Finally, your attention returned to the story.

When we reached the end, you cuddled down with your bear and I tucked you in.

‘Goodnight, my love.’

A faint clatter of pans from downstairs. The rising smell of garlic.

‘Where’s Grandpa, Mummy?’

‘Grandpa?’ I reached out and stroked your soft hair. ‘I don’t really know. I think he’s having a long sleep.’

You hesitated, considering. ‘If I go to sleep, will I see him?’

‘You might. If you dream.’

You lifted your head from your bear, your face creased. ‘What if it’s a bad dream?’

‘Then shout out and I’ll come upstairs and chase it away.’

You smiled, pulled your bear close again and put your head on its stomach.

I got up. As I crept away towards the door, you said: ‘Matt won’t play with my railway, will he?’

‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise. Now go to sleep.’

I gave myself ten minutes to brush my hair, change my blouse, spray a little perfume.

Downstairs, Matt was in full swing. He’d taken my apron from its hook on the back of the door. It was so short on him that it barely covered his groin, slightly absurd where it strained round his waist and yet endearing. He was standing at the stove, tossing spaghetti in sauce with the wooden spoon in one hand and a salad server in the other. The tiles at the back of the cooker were splattered. The kitchen was warm with steam, rich with cheese, with garlic, with homeliness.

He looked round, used his forearm to brush his mop of a fringe out of his eyes.

‘Glass of wine?’ He gestured to the worktop.

The Valpolicella was open, breathing. Two wine glasses sat beside it. He must have found them in the end cupboard, a dumping ground for things I didn’t use. They had broad rims and coloured green stems. A Christmas present, years ago, when Richard and I were still a couple and people bought everything in pairs.

‘I’d pour you one but I’m just—’ Matt’s hands rose and fell as he tossed the spaghetti on the hob. Whatever he was doing, it looked complicated. I poured us both an inch of wine and hovered there, warming it in my hands. He’d rolled back his sleeves and the muscles in his forearms bulged as he worked. I leaned back against the counter, admiring them. He looked like a TV chef, all confidence and quick, competent movements.

‘I’m nearly done. Five more minutes and it goes in the oven.’ He nodded to one of my casserole dishes, greased and ready beside him. ‘You go and sit down. I’ll be through in a minute.’

I sat on the settee and crossed my legs, then, self-conscious, got up again and moved to one of the armchairs instead. I sipped the wine, looked through to the kitchen. Matt bent over the casserole, spooning the pasta, then tipping up the pan and scraping out what was left.

The wine tasted rich and full. The oven door closed. The kitchen tap ran in a furious stream. My God, he even washed up. I sat very still. It had been so long since someone had cooked for me, I could barely remember how it felt. It was a relief to have someone else take control.

‘Everything OK?’

He stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on the apron. I opened my mouth to ask him to use a towel, then closed it again.

‘I think so. All quiet upstairs.’

He pulled off my apron, came through with his glass. ‘You read a good story.’

I must have looked baffled because he pointed to the monitor. Of course. I’d forgotten. He must have heard every word.

‘One of life’s joys,’ I said to the mantelpiece. ‘Reading stories.’

He perched on the arm of the settee with the air of a man who had his mind on the oven. ‘I heard her ask about her grandpa.’

‘My dad. She asks about him sometimes. Wonders where he is.’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s not easy, being three. Life, death, what happens to people. She’s got a lot to figure out at the moment.’ I hesitated. ‘And it’ll be divorce, next.’

‘Divorce?’

A long pause. ‘Richard’s putting pressure on. We’re not actually divorced, you see, just separated. I suppose I always thought maybe—’ I felt my mouth twist and stopped, studied the carpet, then took a few breaths. ‘He and…’ I couldn’t say her name out loud. ‘Anyway, he says he wants to marry her.’

My breathing sounded loud in the room.

Finally, Matt said: ‘How does that feel?’

‘Not great.’ I looked into my glass, my stomach tight. ‘But, you know, what can I do? If that’s what he wants.’

After a while, I dared to raise my eyes and found him watching me. His expression was gentle.

‘You really try, don’t you? To do the right thing.’

‘I try.’ I lifted the glass to my mouth but didn’t drink, lowered it again. ‘I don’t seem to manage very well.’

A piece of green Lego lay under the table. A scrap of torn paper. A raisin.

The alarm on Matt’s watch went off and he fiddled with it.

‘Saved by the bell.’

‘Not at all.’ He gestured towards the kitchen, got to his feet. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

I sat in silence and thought how strange all this was, how little I knew this man and yet how much I felt understood by him. Noises drifted through from the kitchen as he bustled about in there. It was peculiar to hear another person clattering my dishes, opening and closing my cupboards and drawers.

Finally, he appeared in the doorway and called me through. I entered the kitchen and stopped in my tracks. It looked like someone else’s kitchen, a happier one, full of life and warmth.

The kitchen table, usually so grubby, was covered with a fresh white linen cloth. He’d set it for two with the Royal Derby crockery. It was a wedding present from Richard’s mother and kept in the cupboard for special occasions, which meant it hadn’t been used for years. Linen serviettes, pleated restaurant-style, stood upright on the side plates.

‘Have I done the wrong thing?’ His hands were in my oven gloves. He stood, poised, by the oven door, his eyes on my face. ‘I hope I haven’t—’

I shook my head. ‘No, it’s just—’ He’d made such an effort. For a moment, I thought I might cry.

‘Come on. My cooking’s not that bad.’

I crossed to the table, set down my empty glass and sat, my hands clumsy and large in my lap. He bustled round me, serving his pasta with a flourish. The top was crusty with baked cheese.

‘It smells wonderful.’

He reached over and re-filled my glass.

‘I love cooking,’ he said. ‘Well, I love eating. Maybe that’s it.’

He wound spaghetti in the bowl of his spoon like a pro. ‘Anyway, I didn’t want to miss seeing you this evening. I was looking forward to it too much.’

I concentrated on eating, my eyes on my plate.

‘I thought we could still watch a film later, if you like? I brought some videos…’

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You think of everything, don’t you?’

He looked pleased. ‘Maybe not everything.’

He started to talk about an experimental play at The National. He’d seen it at the weekend, he said. Very Ionesco. It was a name I remembered from my English degree but hadn’t thought of since. The only theatre Richard liked was Noël Coward.

Matt sat back in his chair, inhabiting the space as if it were his own kitchen, his own home. His hands drew pictures in the air as he talked. I wondered who’d been to the theatre with him or if he’d gone alone. He didn’t say.

The sight of him, here in my kitchen, was a wonder to me. When he leaned back, he almost touched the fridge, which was empty apart from Diet Coke and TV dinners and plastic containers of pre-schooler food. It was decorated on the outside with crayoned pictures fastened in clumps by magnets showing faraway places. Places I had dreamt of visiting before you came along, before I married Richard.

When he got to his feet to offer seconds, I suddenly said: ‘It must seem dull to you.’

He looked round, eyebrows raised: ‘What must?’

‘All this.’ I hesitated, embarrassed. ‘Living with a three-year-old and never going out.’

He shook his head, brought the hot dish back to the table to spoon out more.

‘You do go out.’

‘Not much. I used to.’ The rising steam made the kitchen shimmer. ‘I used to go to the theatre, to the cinema. I used to have friends, you know. I was a normal human being. But then—’

‘I know. I get it, Jen.’ He dropped a spoon of pasta onto my plate and smiled. ‘I think you’re amazing. You adore Gracie. Of course you do. Of course she comes first. And anyway, it won’t be forever.’

‘What won’t?’

‘Just—’ he hesitated ‘—the way things are at the moment.’

‘What do you mean?’ I just wanted Matt to keep talking, to find out what he thought about me.

He twisted his fork in the spaghetti and started to eat again.

‘You do what you have to do. That’s all. I take the long view.’ He waved his fork in a sweep of the kitchen. ‘It’s a privilege to be here. Don’t you see? We’ll go to the cinema another day.’

He sounded as if he’d really thought about it. His tone was so gentle, so thoughtful, that my eyes moistened and I had to bite down on my lip.

I stared down at my plate. ‘OK, but I do wonder why you’re bothering.’

‘Then I can’t explain.’ He sat beside me at the table. ‘Now, make me happy. Finish your pasta.’

Later, he produced dessert. Two slices of chocolate cake, the upmarket type that you buy by the slice in a patisserie.

As we ate it, I asked him more about his work. He seemed more comfortable talking about the shift system and the quirks of his colleagues than about actual cases.

‘It must be hard,’ I said. ‘Working with sick children.’

I thought of you, such a tiny scrap of a person, lying on that hospital bed, all tubes and machines. I didn’t know how anyone could bear that, day in, day out.

‘You just have to be professional.’ His tone was sad. ‘It has its rewards.’ He paused and seemed to retreat into a memory. ‘Some children respond dramatically once you hit on the right treatment. It seems miraculous, sometimes. And the look on their parents’ faces when that happens…’ He smiled to himself.

‘They must adore you.’

He gave me a sideways look. ‘Let’s just say, I get a lot of whisky at Christmas.’

‘And single mums eager to meet after hours?’

‘One or two.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Even dads, once in a while.’

I laughed. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Why can’t I find you on the Internet? Haven’t you written any cutting-edge research papers or anything?’

He pulled a face. ‘You’ve been looking? I’m flattered.’

I tutted. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never searched for me.’

He spread his hands. ‘Of course. But what did I find? Just some stuff you’d written about personal development and setting goals. No scandal at all.’

‘I could have told you that.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘The hospital website’s useless – everything is password-protected.’

‘You tried?’

‘Of course. I wanted to read up about you.’

He laughed. ‘They’ve got a terrible photo of me up there. Doesn’t do me justice at all.’

‘Still, I’d like to see it.’

He shrugged. ‘The hospital worries about giving out information about doctors. And they’re probably right. It’s better to keep a low profile.’

He was looking past me, towards the darkness of the garden.

‘Why?’

‘Some cases are very painful. You know?’ He finished his dinner and set down his knife and fork.

I sat back in my chair, watching him, waiting.

‘There was a little girl last year. Bernadette. Bernie, they called her. She was perfect – blonde curly hair, long eyelashes, you can imagine.’ He paused.

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘Meningitis. I had her transferred to ICU in a matter of hours but she deteriorated so rapidly, there wasn’t much we could do.’

‘How awful.’

He got to his feet, gathered up our plates and clattered them as he stacked the dishwasher.

‘Anyway, let’s move on.’ When he turned back to me, his face was resolutely cheerful. ‘Time for a film?’

I made coffee and carried it through to the sitting room. He handed me the films to look through.

I was still reading the covers when Matt leaned over and touched the corner of my mouth with his finger, lifting a stray flake of chocolate. He held it to my lips to eat and, without thinking about it, I took the tip of his finger in my mouth too and drew on it. He froze. I sensed the tension in him, the tremble in his muscles. I shivered and reached again with my mouth for his finger and drew on it a little more firmly, teasing the tip by making a warm circle with my tongue.

He lifted the videos from my hands and set them on the coffee table, then opened his arms to me. His mouth was firm and moist and tasted of chocolate and, as it closed on mine, I was the one grabbing at him, reaching my arms round his broad back to clutch at the folds of his shirt, hurrying him along even as he tried to steady me. He eased me backwards onto the settee and lifted my shirt, put his strong hands on my hips and kissed his way slowly between them. I arched my back and sucked in my stomach.

He lifted his head. ‘Just relax.’ He looked more closely, arrested by something in my expression. ‘Is it too soon?’ He hesitated. ‘Should we stop?’

Stop? He had to be joking. Suddenly, lulled by wine and good food, my problem wasn’t uncertainty; it was frustration. It had been a long time. Richard and I hardly bothered with sex after you were born. With the new lumpen look of my pouched stomach and fallen breasts, I didn’t think I could ever feel desirable again.

Matt was studying me, his eyes intense. ‘I want to look after you, Jenny. You know that?’

‘Do you?’ I blinked.

‘We’re two of a kind,’ he whispered, ‘you and I. You feel it too, don’t you? We’re good together.’

He turned his face back to my stomach and I felt the warmth of his tongue on my skin. After a few minutes, he unbuttoned my jeans, slipped them down to my knees and, pinning me there, pressed his mouth between my legs.

I sank back into the settee and groaned. Images rose and fell through the alcohol in my head – the sensible black pants I’d put on that morning and which he was now peeling away, the rough wool of the rug in my parents’ house where my first serious boyfriend, Jimmy Brent, had taken my virginity when I was eighteen, and you, my love, lying on this same settee on my chest, downy haired and smelling of milk and the most perfect, beautiful creature I had ever imagined.

When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I pushed him off and scrambled to unbuckle his belt, tug at his jeans. He lifted himself on top of me and we rocked together, creaking the settee springs. The clock chimed on the mantelpiece and I counted with it as far as three and then gave up.

I clung to Matt’s shoulders, his back, as if I were pulling myself out of a pit, out of hellfire itself, and when I came, I heard myself cry out ‘God in Heaven!’, and then struggled through the fog to remember who had said that, close in my ear, whose voice was it, before remembering it was Richard, there in the hospital, when you came back to me in a rush of life and I fell into his arms, surrounded by rushing doctors and beeping machines. My God in Heaven.

‘Are you alright?’ Matt’s voice was breathy in my ear.

His weight, collapsed on top of me now, pressed the air from my chest and it was a relief to be crushed. I didn’t have the power to answer him. I lay with my face in his neck, shuddering, sloppy with crying, coming back to myself from whatever place he’d taken me, limp and ready to sink into sleep against him.

He raised himself on his arms to look down at me. Cool air flooded in.

‘Are you OK?’

I nodded, wiped a hand across my eyes and settled him beside me, lying tightly together on the settee, arms wrapped round each other to stop ourselves rolling off onto the floor and buried my face in the sour-sweet smell of his neck as my breathing slowly slackened.