‘Okay.’ Suddenly he looked very tired. ‘Just keep me posted. And now I really need some sleep.’ He turned on his side and I hooked my arm around him, pulling myself tight against his back. In no time, he was snoring softly but even though I was absolutely exhausted, my head kept racing.

I couldn’t let Luke undermine the life I’d rebuilt. That moment earlier when I’d wondered what I was doing with Quin and the others? There couldn’t be a repeat of that.

Yes, Quin had flaws—so did I, so did everyone. No one on earth was perfect. Maybe even the Dalai Lama left the light on all night in the bathroom, keeping the fan running, even though he’d been repeatedly asked to turn it off when he’d finished cleaning his teeth.

It was absolutely okay to have moments when you thought, This person is a bit of an arse. It was normal. Quin wasn’t a perfect person—but Luke hadn’t been either. It had taken a long time to realize that, because I’d idealized everything about him. Which was why his behaviour at the end had seemed so unexpected and terrible.

When I finally got to sleep, it was probably no surprise that I dreamt about Luke and Yara. She was in his arms. His eyes were closed, his lips were pressed against her forehead and he was holding her with unbearable tenderness.

He was the first to notice me. His eyes opened and, silenced by shock, he stared straight into my soul.

Then, still in his arms, she turned to me and smiled.

24

Ah, for God’s sake! Patch Dooley had promised he’d be here at 9.15 a.m., it was now ten twenty-five, there was still no sign and no one was answering his phone.

Murdo was holding the fort for me in group, but I hadn’t expected to be so late. Just then, an old-looking, low-to-the-ground, brown Merc turned into the drive and bumped towards the house. Something about its energy told me it had no tax, no insurance, no suspension and had failed its last five NCTs. Dennis’s brother, I’d stake my life on it.

The car swung itself in, straddling two parking spots, then the driver’s door opened, releasing a cacophony of high-pitched barks, which ceased abruptly when the door slammed shut again.

I went to reception and moments later Patch burst in. He was a second Dennis—the same ill-kempt saunter, the same hail-fellow-well-met likeability, the same bang of low-level lawlessness.

Bright eyes met mine. ‘Rachel?’ His greying curls bounced. ‘I’m late and you’re hopping with me! Blame the bagel fella. Drove a hard bargain. But to make it up to you, didn’t I get you one!’

‘Got me what?’

‘A pup. A bitch. Fine size. On the back seat—will we take a look?’