Ferg touched the smaller of two scars below her left eye. “I know, hen. I’m not really taking the piss. Besides which, toy dogs are brilliant for meeting women.” He scooped up Delilah, the tiny Chihuahua struggling to keep the pace, and nodded and smiled at a pretty thirty-something blonde who’d slowed her jog to coo at their Pomeranian. Barely acknowledging Ferg, the woman beamed at Jem before accelerating away. He shrugged, not offended in the slightest. “I rest my case.”

“I met someone last night,” Jem said, too shift-addled to consider how the statement might be interpreted. “No, no, not like that,” she stuttered, as he gaped at her. “She’s a police officer, and there was this lad, dangling, he was dangling off Barton Bridge, and we pulled him up together, and then the lad got dinged by a car, and she came to the hospital and made me a cup of tea.” She ran out of air, coughing as she tried to inhale and exhale simultaneously.

Ferg steered her to the closest bench and waited until the rasp in her chest became less audible.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

“That little escapade going to cause you any trouble?”

“No. Kev didn’t seem to think so.”

He tickled Delilah beneath her chin, making her tongue loll out. “And what might be the name of this police officer who’s got you in such a tizzy?”

“Her name is Rosie. And I’m not in a tizzy. She was nice enough, but she was nuttier than a fruitcake.” She and Ferg leaned back in unison, considering the pack of diminutive pooches milling around their ankles.

“So, basically you’re made for each other,” he said at length.

She slapped her knees and stood. “Absolutely. She’s the Thelma to my Louise, the Butch to my Sundance, et cetera, et cetera.”

“You do realise all four of those went over a cliff.”

She thought that one over, perturbed that even her subconscious tended toward pessimism. “Hmm, yeah, good point. Butch and Sundance survived, though. Well, for a while.”

A fine drizzle began to fall, misting over the lake and gathering on her eyelashes. She dabbed them dry and held out a hand to pull Ferg up.

“If you’re Sundance, exactly how butch was this Officer Rosie?” he asked, in a blatant attempt to lighten her mood.

She let out an exaggerated breath. “Off the scale, mate. Hard as nails. She’d make mincemeat out of you.”

He yanked his dogs to a halt and looked at her. “Really?”

“No.”

He snorted and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Okay, fair enough, I asked for that. Fancy a brew and a cake at the cafe?”

“Are you buying?”

A quick slap of his jeans pocket made coins jingle. “Yes, unless those all turn out to be pennies.”