Finally, she settled for: I don’t mind at all, it’s probably sensible for you to have my number anyway, in case of emergencies, which I don’t anticipate, but then nobody ever does, which is why they are called emergencies. Yes please to helping with Halloween, a grumpy forty-something man will be a welcome addition to proceedings. Annie

She added and deleted a single smiley face emoji several times before deciding that John Granger was not the smiley face emoji type. She hoped that he would be encouraged by her sign-off to start using her name rather than addressing her as Ms. Sharpe, which made her sound like a Dickensian spinster.

She pressed send and lay back against the pillows. She was wide awake now; there was something furtive about late-night texts, and despite herself she felt a thrill rising up in her chest . . . or maybe that was just the garlic, mushroom, and leek mac ’n’ cheese she’d had for supper repeating on her. Would he reply to her text? Was he smiling at her witty response? She reprimanded herself for the consideration. Was he one of those people who replied straightaway or left the message hanging for a day? Would he reply at all?

Annie wasn’t sure why she was allowing this to take up so much space in her thoughts. She sighed loudly, disturbing Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, who squinted at her disdainfully before going back to sleep.

It wasn’t like she fancied John Granger, though he was undeniably attractive—in a scowling sort of way. But just because someone was pleasing to the eye didn’t make them pleasing company. His features, she thought, would be considered by most to be agreeable, though his nose was pencil sharp at the tip and he probably had to pluck to prevent a monobrow. His eyes were blue-gray, deep-set with black lashes, which were annoyingly long, hiding away beneath a prominent brow. Max had grown a beard as he’d got older, conscious of his weakening chin, whereas John’s chin remained distinct, his jawline strong and untouched by the softening of age, shadowed permanently by a beard awaiting permission to grow through. Her musings were punctuated by her inner self wagging a warning finger at her. Annie blew a raspberry at her inner self and checked her phone. Nothing. She tutted at herself. It was clear that she wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon, so she opened Lady Audley’s Secret at her bookmark and began to read. She was an hour in when her phone vibrated beside her on the bed. She snatched it up.

Great. I’ll probably be there late morning. John

Annie placed the phone back down and opened her book again. She realized she was grinning like an emoji. Her phone pinged again.

If you could only have one drink for the rest of your life, what would it be?