The door to The George and Dragon burst open twenty minutes later, blowing a swirl of leaves into the pub and Jemma Browne into my life. She pushed her windswept hair out of her face, looked round the pub, and beamed directly at me. I wondered how she knew it was me from my sparse description, but then I realised that the only other punters were an old man perched on a bar stool clutching a pint, a young couple snogging in the corner, a group of students, and an elderly couple seated side by side, staring into space.

‘Sam!’ she said, walking towards me with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m so grateful to you.’

I shook her hand. ‘It’s no problem. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No! Let me get you one. You’re doing me a huge favour and I’ll have to walk out and go home if you don’t at least let me buy the drinks.’

‘Honestly, you don’t have to do that.’

‘Yes I do and, if you don’t let me, I’ll dig my pet snake out of my bag.’ She winked cheekily and I liked her immediately. It was the same instant warmth I’d felt towards Tiff

‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But if we have a second drink, it’s on me. Deal?’

She pursed her lips for a moment then laughed. ‘You drive a tough bargain, but okay.’

Drinks purchased, we settled back into the corner booth where I’d been sitting before. She shuffled in her seat and bit her lip. The haunted expression and awkward mannerisms were reminiscent of so many relatives of patients who clearly wanted to ask questions but weren’t sure whether they should, especially in front of the patient. Even though her mum wasn’t present, Jemma probably felt just as uncomfortable.

‘Your mum’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, right? Why don’t you tell me a bit about her?’

‘She’s amazing, but I’m so worried about her. What do you want me to tell you?’

‘Anything you want to share with me. For example, her age, her job, her home life, her health until the diagnosis. Focus on your mum as you know her for the moment and then we’ll talk about what led up to the diagnosis.’ I indicated a pen and notepad on the table. ‘Do you mind if I make a few notes?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s fine. She’s called Julie and she’s forty-six. She’ll be forty-seven in March. She’s divorced. My dad left her when he found out that she was expecting my little brother. I was eighteen at the time. Logan’s ten now.’

I nodded. That made her twenty-eight, then – six years younger than me.