“I’d be very good at matchmaking if I actually believed in love,” he says crossly.

I lower my sunglasses and stare at him. “Putting you in charge of my love life would be like making Felix the boss of Manchester United.”

Hesitation crosses his face which is so alien to his normal confidence. “How is he?” he asks in a low voice.

“Fine,” I say tersely.

He scuffs his foot across the grass. “Is he still dating that wanker?”

“Do you mean Carl, who is lovely and polite and worships the ground he walks on? That wanker? Yes, he’s unfortunately still with him.” He opens his mouth and I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to know.” I turn to him. “Do you remember when all the shit kicked off and you told me to mind my own business?” He nods, looking surly. “Well, this is me. Minding my own business. Behold. See how good I am at it.”

“I just want to know if he’s okay,” he says, and his air of quiet desperation stops me in my tracks.

“He’s fine,” I say quietly. “Max, I–”

“Oh look,” he says with a determined cheerfulness. “We’re about to start.”

I let him pull me along as we move further onto the field next to the car park. The sun is blazing hot now, burning down on our heads and dancing dazzlingly over the cars. I accept the cold lemonade that a waiter hands me and listen as the man in charge of the shoot gives his safety talk.

After ten minutes he waves up the first person to shoot and I look idly round at the group. Most have obeyed Frances’s instructions to the letter, wearing various versions of shooting gear. They look quite hot and bothered and rather like extras from an historical drama. I brighten slightly. If Richard Armitage strides through the crowd, all bets are off.

The bangs from the gun are loud and the cheering and banter get louder and louder. I turn to Max to say something just as he laughs and his whole face lights up.

“Don’t talk about my trouble,” he mutters. “Yours is sauntering towards us now and he’s got it written all over him.”

I turn and shake my head even though my heart is pounding. “That is not on the dress code,” I say disapprovingly.

Jesse is wandering lazily towards us. His dark hair shines in the sun, the loose strands pushed back by a Union Jack bandanna. He’s wearing cut-offs that show off the tanned length of his hairy legs and old checked Vans, but my attention is on his T-shirt. It’s a bright green Sesame Street T-shirt with a picture of the Muppets on it along with the words in big type: Hi, my name is Jesse.

As he nears the crowd, it parts and the man in charge calls to him and offers the gun.