In this, the fourth and last article on the topic of Food in Fiction, I thought I’d let you into a badly kept secret.

Having been married since forever and having brought up a family of five, I can cook – but I wouldn’t say I was good at it. Perhaps that’s why none of the main characters in my novels have been great cooks. I’ve had my share of disasters too, though not ever on the scale of Hugh’s in my WIP, For What it’s Worth.

By the time she turned into the communal stair of the flats, Sandra had built up a fair head of steam in her boiler, fuelled by the indignity she suffered at work set against the memory of Hugh lying warm and sleepy in their bed when she left him this morning and sitting with his feet on the coffee table all day…