“Have you ever been here before?” I ask as I click the indicator and pull into the car park of an old pub. Made of the same Cotswold stone as the rest of the village, it has wisteria growing prettily up its sides and mullioned windows that gleam in the light of the sun. The pub garden has lots of benches with bright red umbrellas, and even though it’s just midday, there are already a few customers sheltering under the umbrellas. Their happy voices reach us as we enter the pub and blink to clear our eyes and let them adjust to the cool dimness.

“No, I’ve never been here,” he says. “My mum and dad spent one of their anniversaries here though. They loved it.”

I wander over to the bar. “I thought we’d have lunch before we get there and our appetites totally disappear,” I throw over my shoulder.

The barman comes over and I order an orange juice for myself and the cider Jesse requests. After a look at the menu we add our requests for Ploughman’s, and on an assurance that they’ll bring our food out to us, we head out to the garden by unspoken accord.

“I suppose we should get our stories straight,” he says and I turn abruptly, almost tripping in the process.

“What?”

He grabs my elbow gently and steers me to a table in the far corner by a big lilac bush. Bees are dancing lazily amongst the flowers and the air is heavy with the scent.

“I mean,” he says, “that we should work out our story. Where we met, how long we’ve been together. That sort of thing.”

“I never even thought of that,” I say in astonishment as I sit down on the sun-warmed bench.

He smiles wryly. “That’s because you’re very straightforward. I bet you haven’t told many stories.”

“Lies, you mean,” I say baldly. “No, I haven’t. I had enough of…” I stop abruptly, unable to believe I was just about to bring my father up.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. And they’re not really lies. They’re more what my mum used to call fibs. Something that doesn’t harm other people. We’re not harming anyone, are we?”

I shake my head. “Of course not.” I consider his words and find that I’m peculiarly okay with them. “Alright,” I say slowly. “Where did we meet?”

“Patrick doesn’t know what I look like, does he?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, he knew your name at one point, but I don’t think he’ll remember it now. He doesn’t retain people’s names well unless he needs them for something.”

“Okay then, we met at a club. I think it was Magenta,” Jesse says promptly. “You spilt your drink on me and promised to pay for the dry cleaning. That’s how you got my phone number.”