Later that evening, while being eyed suspiciously by Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Annie got ready for her date-not-a-date with John. She had settled on a tie-waisted shirtdress in baby-wale cord: navy blue with a ditsy print of little red flowers with yellow middles over it. She teamed it with dark red knitted tights and brown knee-high boots. She noticed, as she applied makeup in the bathroom mirror, that her roots needed doing; little twists of gray stood out in relief against her conker-brown hair. She brushed her hair and it shone in the light, grays and all, and bounced and kinked at the sides. With a steady hand, Annie painted a swish of liquid eyeliner and managed to achieve a near-perfect flick thanks to a helpful tutorial on YouTube. Her hand hovered, holding the lipstick while she debated whether to go the whole hog, and then, spurred on by Tiggs’s disapproving glare, she applied a coat of bright red lip stain called Cherry Passion and smacked her lips together, pouting in the mirror. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle left the bathroom in disgust with her nose and tail in the air.

—

It wasn’t overly busy in the bar area of the Captain’s Bounty, but the restaurant end was full. Annie was acutely aware that this was her second time having dinner with a man in this pub. She wouldn’t like people to think she was sampling the local men as well as the produce. Then she reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. They were just two friends—they were friends now?—having dinner together. If you took into consideration that Annie was a potential buyer for his aunt’s property, you could even describe it as a business meal—she wondered briefly if she could offset it against her tax bill as expenses; he’d said it was his treat but she didn’t like to take these things for granted.

The air was heavily scented with garlic, sizzling meats, fresh coriander, and the ever-present undercurrent of woodsmoke. Annie’s stomach growled. She found John at a table for two near a deep-set leaded window. John smiled when he saw her and stood as she drew near. There was an awkward moment when both of them hovered, clearly wondering if they were in kissing-cheek-on-arrival territory or not. They decided yes, and Annie took full advantage, breathing in the smell of his cologne against his warm skin before sitting down, Annie taking the chair opposite him. John closed his book—a ragged, yellowing copy of A Scandal in Bohemia—and set it to one side. Annie nodded toward it.

“You’re a Sherlock Holmes fan?”