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The venom was taken out of her words by her voice. It cracked on the last sentence, but she marched into the utility room and shut the door to get changed into the comfortable clothes I’d started laying out for her. With the wind taken out of my sails, it was on autopilot that I began wordlessly throwing the various cheeses I had chopped into the fondue pot alongside a substantial glug of white wine.

It was just starting to amalgamate and melt down when the utility room door opened and Petra emerged again. Her eyes were red but she gave me a brave smile.

“Is that fondue?”

“It is.”

“One of my favourites.”

“I thought you deserved it, with the week you’ve had.”

“I definitely need it. Is that wine?”

Without another word, I poured her a large glass and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She took a large gulp, then another.

“Bad day?” I said eventually.

“They’re all bad at the moment, Jean,” she said, not taking her eyes off the glass in front of her.

“I see.”

An awkward silence ensued, as I slaked some cornflour and water together and poured it into the bubbling cheese. I derived satisfaction from watching the mixture thicken into an unctuous river of golden goo, and within less than a minute I had the fondue pot on the set table alongside a crusty cob loaf from the bakery, some sliced bell peppers and – Petra’s favourite – even some grissini. She sat down opposite me and wasted no time in skewering a hunk of bread on her fondue fork. She gave a little moan of satisfaction as she covered it in cheese and stuffed it in her mouth.

That, and the sound of our forks occasionally colliding, was the only sound that could be heard in our house during the meal. It wasn’t dead silent – the clock was ticking, and I had the window open now that it was May, so we could hear the sea and the faint noise of the beach. I suspected that Petra had skipped lunch, from the way she was devouring her food, and she refused to meet my gaze as if she knew I knew.

I couldn’t help thinking of the first time we’d used this fondue set. It had been one of our very few wedding presents from one of Petra’s old university friends, who had clearly known about her love of fondue. We’d cracked it out a few days after getting back from our honeymoon. Within a few minutes of sitting down to eat from it, at the exact same table at which we were eating now, it had dissolved into a miniature fencing competition with the fondue forks. And from there, it had descended into a tickle match, until we realised we’d forgotten the fondue entirely. Drunk on love, I think the term was.

“I’m sorry,” Petra said, bursting into my reverie. She had put down her fork and was staring into the cheese pot, looking forlorn.

“Huh?” I managed around a mouthful of cheese.

“For being pissy. I was worried that you’d have a go at me for being late. I know I’ve been working a lot this week. I thought you were being sarcastic when you said good evening.”

“No, I was being genuine,” I said, having swallowed my food finally. “I made this for you because I know how hard this week has been. To say congratulations for making it through. And, you know, to say that I’m proud of you. And I love you.”

Petra nodded and smiled, but her eyes were glassy. She looked up for a second and must have caught my concerned expression, because she wiped them roughly.

“Sorry. I’m just super tired, and the wine’s gone to my head. Maybe the alcohol didn’t burn all the way off, or something.”

“Can you have a rest day tomorrow?”

“Even if I could, you’re working, so what would be the point?”

“So I am. So much for quality time, then.”

“Yeah, we never did get that chance to finish off what we started, did we?” She eyed me through heavy lids and gave me an impish smile. “When Victoria phoned. Last Saturday. So rudely interrupting us.”

I shook my head, understanding the question buried within her words. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Her tone indicated that she had been wholeheartedly expecting my rejection, and wasn’t that bothered. She stood up. “Let’s wash up, then I think I’ll have a bath. Try and unwind a bit. I feel like a tightly wound coil.”

“You look like one, as well,” I said honestly, noting her hunched posture. I beckoned with my hands. “Let’s give you a little massage, shall we?”

“No.” She put me in mind of a firework, the way she suddenly rocketed out of her seat. “I’m desperately in need of a trip to the ladies’ room. That wine’s gone straight through me. You get started. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay,” I said to the empty air as she vanished back into the living room.