Gemini. Mark Burnell

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       I look up at him. ‘From time to time?’

       ‘Well, I’ll be pretty busy, I imagine. Pub crawls, football, poker nights …’

       ‘Not to mention Cameron Diaz’s hip flexor.’

       ‘Exactly.’

       ‘Bastard.’

       ‘Bitch.’

       We stop to kiss.

      We’ve had an idyllic day: a lazy morning in bed with Bloody Marys for breakfast, lunch at E&O, a restaurant on Blenheim Crescent, then a movie. This evening, when we get home, Mark will cook something simple for me. The wine we drink will be special: Cos d’Estournel 1989. This has become part of the pre-Petra routine. Mark knows how tense I get the night before I leave, even though he has no true idea why. We’ve never talked about it. We’ve never had to.

      When I was a child my mother did the vast majority of the cooking at home. Occasionally, though, my father, who was a poor cook, would make my favourite dish, spaghetti bolognese, for us. Except it wasn’t for us. It was for me. And he did it when he knew I was upset. He didn’t do it for the others when they were upset. Just me. And it was never because I’d made a scene. On the contrary. It was always when I was doing my utmost to hide it. Yet he could always tell. And spaghetti bolognese was his way of putting his arm around my shoulder without letting the others know.