Lola, who I barely saw since she had emigrated to the land of love and secured a permanent visa, was happy for me. She was monogamy’s greatest advocate now, an ambassador for relationships. If she could have done, she would have quit her job and become a missionary for it, knocking door-to-door and handing out literature on how you too can be saved with the right romantic partner. She persistently asked when we could all do a double date, and every time I managed to put her off with a vague excuse. What Max and I had rekindled felt fragile and I wanted to momentarily protect it from outsiders. I could tell Joe thought getting back together with him was a terrible idea, but diplomatically said I should trust my instincts while remaining cautious. Mum was delighted and desperate to meet him – she had a new recipe for carrot spaghetti that she wanted to try out on the both of us. I couldn’t tell Katherine, because Katherine and I still weren’t speaking.

Eventually, the darkness that preceded our reunion began to disappear and what remained was what I had loved about him, about us, before. We talked – openly and intensely – we laughed, we listened, we got drunk, we were spontaneous and filthy and domestic and peaceful. I remembered the surplus focus and energy that being with Max gave me – I lived every day wanting to do things, see things, learn things and achieve things that I could go back and share with him. And I did, most nights. At his flat or at mine – I gave him a key.

A month after we started seeing each other again, we went away together for the first time. It was set to be a hot June weekend so we hired an almost sickeningly chocolate-box cottage for three nights that had ponies roaming around it and a stream running through the back of its garden. And seeing each other outside our city felt like it would confirm us as a couple, taking us out of the interim state of ‘seeing each other’ again.

We drove down in his car and arrived Friday afternoon. Sleeping in a new place that wasn’t his or mine, but ours – even just for two nights – felt like we were playing house. As we unpacked our bags and put groceries in the fridge, we seemed like two children pretending to be adults. It reminded me of the first night Katherine and I spent in our first flat-share as graduates. ‘Grown-ups now,’ she said through a smile as we ate beans on toast while sitting on the stained carpet in a living room with no furniture.

In the late afternoon on Saturday, he went for a run. When he returned, pink-faced and damp-haired, I was making pastry for dinner. He stood, leaning in the kitchen door frame, catching his breath.

‘Fuck.’

‘What?’

‘This is all I want.’

‘What is?’

‘Walking into a room to find you doing something with flour and butter.’

I laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ He made a lustful groan. ‘That’s exactly what I want. But I also want you to have some flour on your face, just like a streak on your cheek, that would make it perfect.’

‘Women only bake with a perfectly placed streak of flour on their face in films. All domestic fantasies are a lie in films – we don’t drape a sheet around ourselves in the morning. And we don’t wear our boyfriend’s shirt and nothing else when we’re doing DIY.’

‘Just put a bit of flour on your face, c’mon,’ he pleaded. I reluctantly smeared some on my cheek. ‘Perfect. And I want you in a really big kitchen, maybe a barn kitchen.’

‘Okay, into that.’

He walked towards me and wrapped his arms around me from behind. He spoke into my hair. ‘And you’d be totally naked other than an apron.’ He kissed my neck. ‘And I’d obviously have to pinch your arse.’ I turned around to face him. ‘And you’d say, “Not in front of the kids.”’

My heart double-pirouetted. I had been betrayed by my biology which was a bandersnatch, a sneaky, fast-moving nuisance that was indifferent to logic. It would be a terrible idea to have a baby with Max any time in the near future – it was inappropriate to even talk about it. And yet, my body reacted to the thought of it as if it were the only solution. His joking words awoke an insatiable craving – deeply embedded desires that were placed inside me without my approval. Who had put them there? Had I inherited it? Was it my mother? Or my grandmother? I hadn’t made this choice. I got to choose the number of espresso shots in my coffee, the colour of my light switches and the accent and gender of my satnav’s voice. I was tirelessly in charge of every single tiny decision I made, every single day. So who had decided I wanted a baby, more than anything, on my behalf?

‘Why would I be cooking naked if I was in front of children?’

‘Shh,’ he said.

‘You’re conflating two fantasy narratives that should be kept completely separate.’

‘Fine.’

How easy it was for him to play this game. How enjoyable it must be, to throw these hypothetical scenarios into conversation, knowing the primal panic it might ignite in a woman over thirty. How powerful he must have felt. This was not the first time we had done this sort of wholesome role play and every time he pushed it a little further, to see how deep into the fantasy we dared to go. It was the dirty talk of this decade – when once couples whispered in each other’s ears about going out and picking up a girl who we’d take home and have a threesome with, now we talked about baby names and whether we’d have sons or daughters. Who cared if we’d ever see it through? That wasn’t the point of the game. It was exciting enough just to hear the words being spoken aloud.

‘And, Max,’ I said with a reprimanding tone, ‘watch yourself. Remember, I’m not saying any of this, it’s you. We don’t want you getting all confused and scared again.’ We had finally got to a point where we could laugh about what had happened, as it no longer threatened to repeat itself.

‘I know, I know,’ he said, giving me a playful spank and leaving the kitchen. We didn’t talk about it again.

We spent the following afternoon in a local pub. When he came back from the bar with our third round, he had a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps in his teeth and the newspaper and supplements in his hand. He dropped them both on the table.

‘You’re in today’s, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Column about rhubarb. And an interview with a chef.’

Max opened up the magazine and flipped to find my pages. He pointed at my severe by-line photo. ‘Look!’ he said.

‘Yep.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Really? It’s not that big a deal. You’ve read my work before.’

‘Yeah, but it feels so much more real and immediate sitting with you now, knowing that these words are reaching thousands of people today as they drink their pints or ate their breakfast.’

‘I suppose –’

‘Shh,’ he said, putting his hand over my mouth while keeping his eyes on the page. ‘I’m reading.’

I’d never watched Max read my words before. He nodded occasionally, he sometimes laughed. I knew he would have had thoughts that weren’t all positive – he was always observing and analysing. But I could tell that we were experiencing a relationship milestone – when you see the person you love through the eyes of strangers for the first time. As he read me, he could imagine other people reading me, and remember what it was like to see me and speak to me that first night we met.

He put down the magazine.

‘I don’t think you know how envious I am of you, Nina,’ he said, knocking back the last of his beer. ‘This pays your mortgage. Your interests pay your mortgage. It’s amazing.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘interviewing a hero is a particular highlight and doesn’t happen that often. It’s not all like that. Last week, thousands of people wanted me dead on Twitter because I miscalculated the ingredients for a recipe and said it needed ten kilos of Cheddar, rather than a hundred grams.’

He laughed into his pint.

‘And a huge portion of my days are spent on the phone to accounts departments, asking to be paid for work I completed months ago. And I had an argument with a really difficult food stylist on a shoot last week.’

‘But you love your job.’

‘I’m very lucky. For the most part, I love my job.’

‘You’re not just lucky, I know you’ve worked hard for it.’

‘Lots of people work very hard and they still hate their job.’

‘Like me,’ he said, spinning his circular beer mat on the table.

‘Do you really hate it that much?’

‘Hate it.’

‘There has to be something else you can do that uses your skills and makes you all right money that you don’t dread every morning.’ He nodded. ‘We’re all going to live for much longer than ever before, so we’re going to be working for the majority of our lives. We can’t hate the majority of our lives.’

‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘Trust me, I think about it a lot.’

‘I have an idea!’ I said with drunken enthusiasm. ‘Let’s make a list of all the things you like doing. Have you got a pen?’ A waiter walked past. ‘Excuse me, could I borrow your pen, please?’ He pulled a biro from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Thank you.’

‘Nina –’ Max protested.

I took a notepad out from my handbag.

‘Right, let’s make a list of everything that you love and everything that you hate. Can be big or small, professional or completely random. Even if it doesn’t feel relevant, we should still write it down at this stage. So. What makes you happiest?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I do. Being outside. Nothing makes you happier.’

‘Can we not do this?’

‘Come on, it’s only between us.’

‘Can you please stop acting like a school careers adviser?’ he said. ‘Sorry. I know you’re trying to be helpful. But it makes me feel like a child.’