That night, I came downstairs after reading you a story to see a dark shadow against the glass of the front door.

I went into the sitting room and peered out through the side window. Matt stood on the doorstep, with flowers in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.

When I opened the door, he said: ‘Hello, gorgeous. Surprise.’ He handed me the flowers. The neck of a bottle of wine poked out of the shopping. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

‘You shouldn’t have.’ I moved out of the way to let him in. We stood close together in the hall and kissed. I thought of the TV dinner in the fridge. Much, much better to have Matt here.

‘Missed you.’ He pulled back and looked into my eyes. ‘I was worried. You didn’t sound yourself this afternoon.’

I nodded. ‘It was a bit of a shock.’

In the kitchen, I sat on a chair and sipped wine and felt my shoulders relax. He tied my apron round his waist, pulled groceries from his shopping bags and set to work, washing and chopping mushrooms, yellow and red peppers.

I liked watching him work. It was the same pleasure as watching any devoted craftsman. He was so intent, so absorbed in his tasks, so quick with his hands. It was sexy as hell but in a soothingly lazy way, all the passion still to come, and it was comforting to be there with him in the light, in the warmth, watching those same capable hands which healed sick children.

It reminded me too of being a child, hanging around in the kitchen at home. My mother made terrific pies, with crunchy crusts and fluted edges and – from about your age, about three – she used to give me pastry off-cuts to roll out and cut. The bottoms for jam tarts and pastry people with currants for eyes and waistcoat buttons.

‘Earth to Jen.’ He paused to look at me, his knife poised. ‘You’re miles away.’

‘Sorry.’ I nodded, smiled. ‘How was your day?’

He shrugged. ‘Intense.’

I’d guessed that from the vehemence of his chopping. Some days his cooking seemed a kind of frantic therapy. Those days, we had a lot of diced vegetables.

‘Tough case?’

He shifted his floppy fringe from his eyes with the top of his arm. ‘A three-year-old boy. Pneumonia. I think we caught it in time but only just.’ He sighed, set his knife on the board and pushed the pile of chopped mushrooms off, into a bowl. ‘He was critically deoxygenated on admission.’

I nodded, tried to look wise. ‘What did you do?’

‘Gave him oxygen, basically. He’s a strong chap though. Responded well.’ He looked round, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Sorry.’

I shrugged, sipped my wine. ‘Don’t be.’

He sliced open a pepper, started to de-seed.

I swallowed, watching his hands. ‘When I called the switchboard, they couldn’t find you.’

‘Really?’ He was bent over the chopping board. ‘Did they page me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she got that far.’ My memory was obscured by a fog of cold panic. ‘She wouldn’t put me through to paediatrics. I remember that.’

‘Natasha, probably.’ He looked round. ‘Did she sound Bulgarian?’

I considered. ‘Something like that.’

‘And a bit chippy?’

‘Definitely.’

‘That’s Natasha.’ He laughed. ‘People are always complaining but they won’t get rid of her. She’s ruthlessly efficient, well, most of the time.’ He fell to dicing peppers at speed. ‘She seems to think it’s her job to stop people bothering us. Not ideal. Especially if people are upset to start with.’

I wandered over to the worktop. ‘What’s the recipe tonight?’

‘Ratatouille and pork casserole, a la Matt.’

‘Ah.’ I bent low and kissed the backs of his hands. ‘My favourite kind.’

‘Anyway—’ he turned, kissed me quickly on the lips, not ready yet to be distracted from his cooking ‘—if you need me, mobile’s best.’