He looks me up and down, and I fidget, suddenly aware that I’m still in full morning dress. I’d raced off without bothering to get changed and had therefore caused a few raised eyebrows in the service station surrounded by people in holiday clothes.

“Now at a guess I’d say that either fashion has become very formal in London nowadays or you’ve followed my son who appeared in the same style a couple of hours ago.” His voice is warm and rich with an undercurrent of laughter.

“He’s here?” I gasp, feeling relief pour through me and weaken my limbs.

He nods. “He got here this afternoon in a fearful temper. I set him to mowing the graveyard. That will make him cool down a bit and give us time for a little talk.” He steps back, and, before I can blink, I find myself in a dimly lit hallway.

He ushers me into a study with lead windows open to the warm summer breeze. The walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that are crammed with books and papers and all around them are piles of more books. I look at his desk covered with folders and more paperwork and my fingers itch to organise it.

He smiles at me and gestures me to a chair in front of the desk. When I sit down, the leather is smooth and comfortable, obviously worn thin by the generations of penitent bums that have sat on it. He stares at me, and a silence falls, broken only by the sound of a mower in the distance. I wonder if that’s Jesse and feel a powerful yearning to get to him.

“So, you’re Zeb, then?”

I smile anxiously at him. “I am. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

He shakes his head. “Call me Michael.” He looks at me assessingly. “Jesse told me about you last week. He seemed very happy. Then.”

I squirm. “It’s my fault he isn’t happy now,” I hear a voice say and want to look around to see what idiot is talking, but it’s me, and I carry on. “I pushed him away and hurt him.”

“Why?” There’s no condemnation in his voice. Just honest curiosity on that kind face.

“Because I still can’t believe that someone like him would look at me.”

“With his looks, you mean?” A shard of disappointment crosses his face, and I shake my head.

“No. Oh, he’s pretty, but it’s not that. He’s such a good person,” I say earnestly. “He’s fun and clever and kind. And young.” I spread my hands. “You must see how much older I am than him.”