“One of the truants who was in the Nook the other day.”

“Is that wise?”

“Why? Because he was playing hooky? Didn’t you ever bunk off?”

“Well, I,” John spluttered indignantly, “yes, I suppose . . .”

“And did that mean you were untrustworthy?”

“No, but . . .” He shrugged. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve not got a leg to stand on.”

“Ely vouched for him, Billy and his grandad used to fish with him. Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about Billy. I think he needs someone to give him a chance.”

John looked at her for a long moment and said: “I think Billy is very lucky.”

The evening had felt as if they were in their own little cocoon, despite the hubbub around them. It was just her and John: his face; his mouth; his deep, smooth voice; the curl of his words; his long, slender hands; the worry lines on his forehead; the sharp line of black stubble at his jaw. Was it just the booze? she wondered. The conversation between them was easy. It had been a long time since Annie had talked like this with anyone, and she didn’t want it to stop; she felt as though she could talk with John forever and never get bored. Ridiculous, she knew. And yet here she was, sharing her thoughts and hopes in a way she hadn’t done since she was teenager.

When the bell rang for last orders, Annie was shocked by how quickly the time had gone. She was even more surprised, when, what seemed like only a moment later, Raye came gingerly to their table and said apologetically that they were closing up. Annie looked around her. The last customers left in a flurry of scarves and coats; a swirl of damp leaves gusted in like a swarm of brown butterflies as they opened the door. And just like that, the spell was broken: Annie was a grown-up again, with responsibilities and saggy boobs.

“I’ll walk you home,” said John, getting up from the table.

“Don’t be daft. There’s no sense you walking all the way down to the Nook, only to have to come all the way back up here. I’m perfectly capable of walking myself home.”

She stood up and felt the carpet shift beneath her feet as though someone were pulling it from the other end of the room. The sangria had really packed a punch. She stumbled, just a little, as she bent to pluck her coat from the back of the chair. John put his hand out to steady her. Annie recovered herself, swayed a little on the spot, and laughed.

“Maybe I’ll get a taxi,” she said.