The trip to Falmouth hadn’t been the most successful, all in all. From what Em could gather, Amelia had produced a bottle of tequila and they’d all tucked in (‘It was rank, I only had a sip, I swear,’ Izzie said meekly) and then Amelia – her again! – had suggested that old teenage classic: a game of Truth or Dare. Having glossed hurriedly over what the ‘Truths’ might have been – don’t think she hadn’t noticed, Em thought – Jack then revealed that his dare had been to steal something from the thirteenth shop they had come across. That, of course, had been the little gallery, and he had been stupid enough to pocket a seventy-pound ornament. Even the world’s most bored, lackadaisical shop assistant wouldn’t have allowed him to get away with that, let alone the irate sculptor and gallery co-owner himself.

Perhaps sensing her slight despondency as she replayed the scene in her head, George took her hand and folded it in his. ‘So. It seems I am dating the mother of a shoplifter,’ he teased. ‘And let me tell you, I’m horrified. What other torrid tales are you going to spring on me?’

‘Stop it! He’s not a shoplifter. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy trying to impress a girl and getting it badly wrong.’ She traced a finger along his knuckles. ‘I, meanwhile, am the fool who shelled out two hundred quid on a painting that will always remind me of my mothering nadir. I’m not sure who needs to learn more of a lesson here.’

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ he began, then stopped. ‘No, forget it, I’m not sure I can bear the shame.’

‘What?’

‘My own terrible youthful misdemeanours. My most shocking secret.’ Em could hear the laugh in his voice behind the sombre words and she smiled to herself, feeling a tiny bit better already.

‘You can’t leave it there,’ she scolded ‘Come on. What did you do? What’s this dreadful confession?’

‘I’m worried it will put you off me,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘Yes! Of course I do. Spill!’ She always wanted to know people’s dark, terrible secrets. Didn’t everyone? It made her feel special, as if she was being admitted to a private, exclusive club, welcomed into an inner circle.

‘Well, I was a bit older than Jack’s age. Seventeen, I think. Bunked off college and had a few lunchtime beers with my mates,’ George began. ‘These were the Dark Ages, obviously, when a pub would serve any skinny, acne-ridden little turd.’

‘You’re painting a very attractive picture of yourself here,’ she said, feeling a giggle rise in her throat. ‘Is that the bit that’s going to put me off you?’