“Oh, of course.” Her tone sounds innocent, but I know how satanic she really is. I give her a repressive look that doesn’t work.

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” she says, her smile widening.

“Why does that always sound like such a threat?”

“Because it is.” Chris laughs loudly.

Giving everyone a genial smile, I make my way out to the hall where Mags is waiting with my raincoat in his hands.

I take it from him and shrug into it while he pokes his head into the lounge and says goodnight. The response is much more enthusiastic than the one I got, and I’m smiling wryly when he turns around.

“What?” he says.

“You’re so popular, Mags.”

“That’s not my name, and why do you make being popular sound like I’ve got a dose of the clap?”

“It’s far worse,” I say.

He laughs as we leave the house and slide into the waiting taxi.

“When you’re popular,” I say, “you have to deal with people all the time.”

“I’m sensing you are not a people person,” he murmurs, settling back into his seat after giving the driver our address.

“Not really. I like them, but only in small doses.”

He shakes his head. “I bet you have a small circle of friends and rarely go to parties.”

“How did you know?”

“You’re too straightforward for social chit-chat, Laurie. I watched you tonight. You only really came alive when we were discussing politics. You’re not interested in celebrity romances or fashion.” His lip twitches. “You’re patently not interested in fashion.”

“Ouch. I dressed up tonight.”

“Yes, I notice the lack of holes in your clothes. It was quite startling.”

“Do you think how I behaved was wrong?” I ask impetuously. I’m not sure why, but his opinion matters to me. “Should I be better in company? More lighthearted? I was lighthearted before…” I trail off, unable to believe that I was going to mention the accident and the aftermath.

He watches me for a long second, his face cast in shadows. “Are you a good friend?” he finally asks.

I blink at the change in subject. “Yes. I love my friends.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry, then,” he says, his no-nonsense tone soothing me. “You’re obviously not a recluse.”

I think I’m more of one than I used to be, because being alone has been easier than facing my family’s anxious questions. But I say nothing, and we lapse into a silence that lasts through the journey and up in the lift. It’s why I’m so surprised when he stops outside his door and asks, “You coming in?”

I eye him warily. “Why?”

“So I can eat your liver with a nice shot of vodka.”

“Not chianti?”