I open my mouth to ask more questions, but she whisks past me. “Go through,” she says. “He’s expecting you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I say, but she’s gone, walking down the cobbled street quickly.

I walk into Laurie’s house. It smells like him, I think wonderingly, feeling my spirits lift as I inhale the scent of linseed oil and paint.

I wander through the rooms, looking around eagerly. It’s a typical French cottage—small and charming and full of light. It’s painted in soothing tones of white and sepia, the washy colours complementing the terracotta-tiled floors and the sandblasted beams. Squashy sofas in pastel colours flank a fireplace where a display of flowers adds their scent to the air. I pass through a kitchen with mismatched cabinets that somehow flatter the stone walls and old tiled floor, and then through the French windows where I stop dead.

Laurie is sitting on the flagged terrace at a small table. The chairs are painted a shocking pink that echoes the big earthenware pots full of geraniums. Fragrant bougainvillea grows up the side of the house in a flashy display of shocking pink petals. He’s wearing shorts and a white T-shirt, and I huff at the fact that there’s no hat to protect him from the fierce Provencal sun. Someone needs to look after this man.

He hasn’t heard me and is staring into space, his face sad. I wonder if his head is hurting.

Endof obviously disapproves of the fact that we’re just standing staring at one of his favourite people in the world, because, with a big bark, he pulls free of me and with his lead trailing after him, he throws himself at Laurie.

“Shit,” the man in question shouts. “What the hell?” There’s a pause, and then he says, “Endof?” in a tone of astonishment.

I stay still, my heart beating hard in my chest as he spins around to see me.

For a few seconds, we gaze at each other in the golden evening hush, and I watch as joy and trepidation cross his sharp face. He looks older somehow, as if the last couple of days have lasted an eternity. I hope they have, I think selfishly. Then he’ll know how I feel.

“Mags?” he says, and everything that I want to hear is in his familiar voice. He pushes his chair away from the table.

I open my mouth to say something witty and clever and am horrified to hear myself say far too abruptly, “I made you this.”

His eyes widen in shock and he resettles in his chair. “What is it?” he asks cautiously, looking at my hand, which is brandishing the fucking mixtape.

My cheeks heat. “What does it look like?” I snap.

He bites his lip, darting cautious happy looks at me. “A cassette tape. Which is astonishing, because I haven’t seen one since the eighties.”