40.

Buzz says, ‘You’ve lost weight.’

He says, ‘Your hair’s longer.’

He says, as he gives me a bunch of yellow roses in a pale blue jug, ‘I got these, because I thought you’d prefer something simple.’

He says, as he shows me the suitcase of my own clothes he’s brought from my house, ‘I didn’t know what you’d want, so I asked your sister to help choose.’

He says, as he soaps my back in the large white rolltop bath with claw feet that stands in the prettily decorated upstairs bathroom, ‘Your face, babe. It looks terrible.’

He says, as we go through to the bedroom, and the big white bed, and the rose-patterned wallpaper and the sweet peas in a glass on the window sill, ‘We can take it slow.’

And I say, as I lie beside him afterwards, staring up at the ceiling and burying my hand in the thickets of his hair, ‘Oh Buzz, I would get so lost without you.’ And we press up close and I don’t talk much and don’t let him talk much except that, when we get hungry, he’s allowed to walk downstairs naked to the kitchen and come back with brown bread and butter and smoked salmon and (for him) a bottle of beer. And we eat sitting up in bed, telling each other off when we drop crumbs onto the sheets, and we lick each other’s fingers clean, and when Buzz settles back with his beer, I sip the foam from the head and start nibbling the hillock of muscle at the top of his arm.

Slowly – because I’m not very alert to these things at times – I realize that there is a feeling spreading outwards from my belly. At first, I thought it had something to do with the bread and salmon: a feeling of being replete. Then, as I belatedly turn my attention to the sensation, I think, This isn’t what I usually feel like after food. I’m perplexed enough that I start interrogating the feeling the way I used to. The way my doctors used to train me. Try to name the feeling, Fiona. Just see what fits. Is it fear? Anger? Jealousy? Love? Happiness? Disgust? Yearning? Curiosity? Most of those feelings, I can quickly discard. The feeling is quieter than most things, so not curiosity, or fear, or anger, or jealousy. Quieter than those, and warmer.

I remember once sitting in a stairwell, bum on a concrete step, wearing a floaty mint-green dress and strappy shoes and thinking, This is love. Love, plus a good splash of happiness. I had just starting dating Buzz and he had just kissed me. That feeling then: it was a bit like this.

I say, to myself more than anything, ‘I think I might be happy.’

Buzz laughs at me. ‘You think? You don’t know?’

‘It’s complicated. Or at least, it is for me. I don’t know how it is for other people.’

Buzz strokes my hair and the stroke turns into a long rub which ends at my knees, with stops en route to explore sites of particular local interest. I kiss his neck.

‘You just feel something and that’s it. You feel it.’

In philosophical terms, I’d say that Buzz’s position makes him a strong non-cognitivist, a reputable position to adopt, even if it isn’t mine. But I don’t think he’s seeking that kind of discussion. I keep a hand on my belly, feeling the warmth. Its settled, confident glow.

Happiness. This is happiness.

I roll over in bed, facing Buzz. Say, ‘Can we look at wedding dresses soon?’

‘Yes, love, of course we can.’

Love and happiness: the sunshine twins.