I served dinner and was duly complimented.
“This is the most delicious tiramisu,” said Oliver. “I’d payyou to make some for me.”
I laughed. “You’d have to pay, all right. Not me, though. Papa Giuseppe.”
A look of playful shock materialised on Oliver’s face. “Don’t tell me you cheated. And here was I thinking what a wonderful husband you’d make.”
It was only a light comment. Humorous. I knew that. But the black dog, it seemed, was never far away. I felt a flash of inadequacy. I shouldn’t have told him I’d bought the dessert. I should have made it myself. Hell, he’s going to think I’m useless. He’s going to…
I noticed Oliver’s smile had slipped.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head and forced a laugh. “Of course, not. I was wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“Wondering whether we should have some more dessert.”
Oliver laughed so I was pretty sure I’d saved the situation.
“Why not?”
I stood up. Oliver stood up with me.