Two hours later, my time spent frantically cleaning up, grateful for the distraction and the smell of bleach that I'd always found soothing, the door opened quietly once more.

In that time, I'd travelled a roller coaster. Doom and gloom. Despair, the sucker punch of pain when I wondered, 'is this it? The end of the lockdown bunk-up experiment? Who would be as idiotic to think two people could move in together after three dates and expect everything to be hunky-dory, happily ever after?

Answer? The stupid person lying on the floor sobbing her heart out.

Flashback to Friday night just before Josie and Darla turned up. Tom in the kitchen, studying a recipe in the one Nigella Lawson cookbook I owned. "How about this?"

He spun the book around. A photo of yet another over-rich dish, fat making the sauce glisten. When I said 'oh, okay then," he opened the fridge door, seeking out the ingredients, me resisting the opportunity press up against his back, hands splaying over his chest.

You belong here, never leave, the jumble of thoughts in my head, and the realisation that I couldn't wait to introduce him to Josie. Look at him, Jose! Isn't he wonderful?

I froze, Marigold-covered hands hovering over the kitchen counter I'd just wiped and disinfected. Did everything that was going on in the world add additional pressure? Or perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the last seven years—the stress of mum dying, the court case, the adjustment to my super-rich status and the way I'd stopped trusting everyone.

Birthday cards received on March 19, Sophs. Count 'em up. An embarrassingly tiny total thanks to the boundaries I imposed, too afraid to let people in.

Dominant emotion now? Anger, when I analysed it—fury, pure and simple.

Disappointment too. Tom, you were meant to be The One. Handsome, kind, principled, willing to accept me, flaws and all. Or more likely a future where we drifted, and I let the troublesome past hover in the background. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.

"Hey."

The wind had reddened Tom's cheeks and blown his hair into an almost halo around his head. It made him Christ-like. How fitting. Loves his mammy. Doesn't believe in jumping into bed with anyone straight away. Is repulsed by wealth.

A saint indeed.

I threw the cloth onto the counter and pulled off the gloves. "What do you want?" The words came out much louder than I'd intended. "Shall I give this all up? Walk around in sack cloth and ashes—that might appeal to you, eh? Good Catholic boy that you are. I inherited this!"

As I thrust my hand back, it banged onto the countertop behind me. "Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I gripped my hand, the knuckles reddened. Tomorrow, a yellow-blue circle would bloom there.

Tom edged forward. "Are you—"

I stretched out my arm in front of me, palm facing upwards to stop him coming any closer. "No, I'm not finished! This wasn't my choice! If you'd told me years ago, I'd be vastly wealthy, but I'd have to lose my mum way, way, way before I was ready or that I'd spend the next seven years never inviting people round here because I didn't want them to see this and realise that I'm not like everyone else, I'd have told fate to take a running jump!

"To go fuck itself, in fact! Piss off and bother someone else. Knock on another person's door and... oh, for crying out loud, I've no idea where I'm going with this stupid analogy!"

Tom's lips twitched. Mine did too before I stopped myself. "Not funny!"

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. Not used to rich people. And I guess..."

His gaze took in the kitchen once more, eyes fixing on the copper pots and pans that dangled from hooks hanging above the cupboards.

"I asked meself, do you know this woman at all?"

That made me turn away, cursing the tears that had started up. Well, he was right—he had no idea about me at all, and I might say the same. Even if I could now fill in the blanks to those questions I'd asked myself before he moved in.

1. Tom loved coffee. Lent was due to finish tomorrow. This morning, he'd told me he would leap out of bed on Easter Sunday, dash to the kitchen and brew himself the biggest cup of Joe the world had ever seen.

2. The Labour Party—I guessed right. What he might not have attributed to me was that I voted for them too. And that I donated substantial sums to the party.

3. As a twenty-two-year-old, he'd left Ireland five years ago. After the Celtic tiger's roar petered out, jobs for young people dried up in Eire. He thought his chances would be much improved in the UK.

4. Then there was his dating past. A childhood sweetheart left behind in Ireland. They drifted apart. Followed up by a steady girlfriend until the end of last year. The split thanks, once again, to a couple falling out of love with each other.

5. A youngest child too. Behavioural experts might argue two youngest children do not make stable couple material, what with those offspring too used to indulgence from their parents.

6. What his second name was.

Things Tom had found out about me. The cleanliness obsession. The age stated on my passport and the scale of my wealth. But he was no further forward on the thing that shuddered me into wakefulness at three o'clock in the morning far too often.

"Well, then. No, you don't. Not at all."

I pushed past him, opening the patio doors and stepping out onto the decking at the back. Easter Weekend and the weather had played fair with we Scots stuck in lockdown, the Friday and Saturday dawning bright and sunny. Tom, in stereotypical binary couple fashion, had wanted to take over the gardening. I'd argued in favour of my gardener as it kept him in a job. The consequences of lockdown would put tonnes of people out of work.

Donald's efforts meant the garden was shaping up nicely—the large blossom tree scattering pinky-white petals on neat grass, and the sweet peas beginning to emerge scented the air. I sat on the bench on the patio and blew out air.

Anger dissipated, now there was only regret and bitter disappointment. I brushed my eyes. Maybe Josie was right, trying to set me up with other upper middle-class types—the only people qualified to deal with such wealth.

Urgh.

Over the last few weeks, requests from the charities I supported flooded my inbox. All of them looking for extra money. The pandemic, they pleaded, would have a disproportionate effect on the poor and dispossessed. Super-rich people like me needed to dip their hands further into their pockets. I did. How much was enough? Would Tom, a socialist at heart, approve/decide that made me better?

Yes. No. No.

"We still haven't had lunch."

Tom. Red-eyed too. Like someone trying not to cry.

Made two of us.

I blinked. He slid along the bench opposite me. We faced each other.

"When I said to you, I'd asked meself, do I really know this woman—you didn't give me the chance to reply."

"No."

"See—the ting is," he stretched his hands out, gripping mine in both. "The answer came back loud and clear, 'Tom, you know everything you need to know. Sophie's open-minded, fun, amazing company and kind-hearted."

My hand flipped up in protest. He was kindness personified. Look at the way he helped Mrs Whittaker.

Tom shook his head. "No, you are. I take you at face value. I hope you do the same with me. And the ting is... call me shallow, but I've never met someone I fancied so much. You've no idea how challenging it is, sitting next to you on the sofa night after night, desperate to roll on top of you. Or listening when you take a shower and forcing meself not to barge in."

I put my hand back on top of his and squeezed hard. "Well, it's important that I—"

... "respect your principles", would have ended the sentence, but I didn't get the chance to finish. Tom leant forward suddenly, his mouth landing on mine. The kiss insistent—hard, deep, urgent.

I broke off first, breath coming in ragged gasps. Tom sat back. "Sorry, couldn't help..."

My turn. I hauled myself up on the table and onto all fours. My lips landed on his cheekbone, a gentle feather-light press. "Want me to stop?" I whispered, accepting the barely perceptible shake of the head as permission to continue. Another wisp of a kiss on his forehead, the hollow underneath and the corner of his mouth.

He pushed the bench back, and I scooted forward and clambered on top of him, legs either side. I took his head between my hands. "Still okay?" A nod, permission to press my breasts into his chest and push my mouth onto his, tongue prodding itself between his lips, enjoying the control I held and the way it made every nerve in my body explode.

His hands gripped my hips—their position only just this side of respectable. I pushed them closer to my bottom. His fingers curled up as he pulled me closer, digging into flesh. No mistaking what that was, either... I slid my hands under his shirt and kissed his neck, opening my mouth to let the teeth lightly graze the surface. A killer move on most men, Tom was no exception. He groaned—a guttural sound low in his throat. Hot breath on my ear.

"D'you want to... is it too soon to—" I said, fingers virtually crossed behind my back.

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by furious barking. Roger was at our feet, tail zig-zagging, the barks ceasing once he realised he had our attention. As we stared at him, he jumped up on the bench next to us, head butting against Tom's side until Tom lifted his hand to rub his ears.

"Roger, Roger! Come back here at once!"

Mrs Whittaker's lung problems had no effect whatsoever on how far her voice could carry. Tall leylandii hedges separated our gardens, though there was a gap at the far end. Enough for a dog and a small, thin human such as Mrs Whittaker to squeeze through.

"I'm frightfully sorry—oh, ah..."

I wriggled off Tom as fast as I could, heat rushing to my cheeks. He bent over—in theory coaxing Roger, who'd ran off again sensing an end to his fun, close enough to grab hold of his collar. More likely, running through postcodes for different areas in Glasgow or whatever else it was he did to get rid of an erection in a public situation.

He stood up, Roger in his arms. My eyes flickered to his crotch. Nothing to see there, thank goodness. Nevertheless, Mrs Whittaker had turned pink too, skinny hands fluttering up to fiddle with the rope of pearls around her neck.

"He likes you so much," she wittered as Tom put the dog down and he trotted over to her, shooting Tom a reproachful look as he did so. "He must have sensed you were in the garden."

"No problem," Tom said, straightening up. "D'ye want me to take him for a walk now?"

"No, no, no!" She flapped a hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt what you... Anyway, I shall go back inside the house. You can... oh, erm. Well. See you tomorrow."

And with that, she was away, the gap in the hedge rustling as it appeared to swallow her and Roger up.

Tom turned to face me. I waited until I heard Mrs Whittaker's back door bang shut and burst out laughing. He joined me, hands on thighs as waves of almost hysteria washed over us. Mrs Whittaker's startled face kept popping up—the second she'd realised what she'd interrupted. Her face—mouth open, eyes that clocked us locked together and darted away. But I doubted the experience would do anything to spoil her hero-worship of Tom. Might even enhance it.

"Come here," Tom, hysteria abated, held out an arm.

"We're not picking up where we left off then?" I asked, burying my face in his shoulder. The disturbance seemed to have killed the mood.

"It's not that I don't want to."

"... but it's too soon."

"Yeah, I know you a lot better for sure," he pushed me back, eyes searching mine. "And I love what I have found out."

And with those words ringing in my ears, we returned to the house.