I narrow my eyes at him, and a flush rises on his cheeks as he pretends an absorption in the bookshelf next to us. I consider prodding him—he’s acting as though I’ve got him cornered—but I haven’t the heart for it. Instead, I proffer the book I’m holding.

“What about this one?” I ask meekly.

He takes it from me and looks down at it. He brings the cover up until it’s about two inches away from his face and squints even though he’s wearing his glasses.

“What’s the matter with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says abruptly. “My eyes are sore today. I worked late last night.”

It’s obviously a blatant lie, but I let it go. “So, can I have that one, Laurie?”

“It’s a legal thriller.”

I take the book back. “It’s fiction. I’ve already spotted three errors in the blurb.”

He shakes his head. “How happy this book will make you. I told you fiction was fun.”

I laugh, but even as we wander the shelves and exchange banter, I’m watching him closely. His mood seems to have deteriorated. He’s tense now and seems restless and almost cross, staring into space and tapping his fingers on a table.

I consider his bitten nails and his closed-off expression. He doesn’t seem to have taken any pleasure in looking around the shop that he claimed to have wanted to see. And even though I know he enjoys reading because his conversation is peppered with book references, today, he hasn’t spared a glance at the shelves. That’s rather odd, because I’m sure that any book lover couldn’t resist a shelf full of books.

I choose the last of my books and add it to the pile in his arms. Then, seeing the tight expression on his face, I take them back. “I’ll carry these,” I say.

He blinks, almost as if he’s forgotten I’m here, and it stings a little. I’m not used to behaviour like this. People are usually either glad to see me or detest me. There aren’t usually any half measures.

I continue to analyse his expression as we get into the queue to pay for the books. “Have you got a headache?” I ask softly.

For a second, I think he’ll respond sharply, but then he sighs and rubs his forehead. “A little. I’ll take my tablets, and I’ll be fine.” I go to hand my card to the woman behind the counter, and he exclaims, “No, I’m buying those, Mags.”

“Why?”

He smiles at me, his earlier mood easing slightly. “It was my idea, so it’s my treat.”