Jem carefully divided a parsnip baton into three equal pieces. While she was glad to shift the focus from Harriet, this topic wasn’t exactly an improvement. Stacking the parsnip onto her fork, she debated lying through her teeth and then wondered why telling the truth seemed like such a betrayal.

Rosie took a measured sip from a mug of coffee as she waited for Jem to answer. She wasn’t blatant in her scrutiny, but Jem was nevertheless reminded that Rosie’s career depended on her ability to read people. To make matters worse, Jem was generally rubbish at telling fibs.

“I have a date,” she said, deciding to pull the metaphorical sticking plaster straight off the wound.

“Fab. Tell me all the gruesome details,” Rosie said, seeming genuinely intrigued. She leaned closer to the table, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Is it one of those swipe left, swipe right affairs?”

“Christ, no,” Jem blurted, and then worried she’d sounded like a prude. For all she knew, Rosie spent her free time searching online swiping sites for potential partners. She set down her fork, the parsnip forgotten. “I’ve never used one of those. Have you?”

“Oh, all the time. I can’t get enough of them. I have to leave my phone on silent, or the notifications drive Kash berserk. I can’t help it, I’m insanely popular.” Rosie held Jem’s gaze for a beat before cackling and stabbing another sprout. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you.”

“How much are you asking?” Jem said, dead serious.

Rosie choked and wiped her eyes with her fork hand, launching her sprout into oblivion. “Fuck me,” she said, halfway beneath the table on a rescue mission. “I think I’ve hit night shift hysteria.” She reappeared, sprout intact. “So, who’s the lucky chap or chappess? Delete as appropriate.”

“Chappess,” Jem said, reasonably confident that wouldn’t come as a shock. “Her name is Sylvie, and she’s a friend of a friend of my housemate, Ferg. I’m guessing he’s not told her much about me, because she said to wear ‘something comfortable, with trainers.’”

“Hmm.” Rosie cradled her mug, deep in thought. “Could be one of those spa day and cream tea fandangos.”

“That’d be nice.” Jem hadn’t considered the possibility. She’d been too preoccupied conjuring up images of assault courses and boot camps, whilst planning to succumb to a migraine first thing Tuesday morning. “I wish I was sportier,” she admitted. “I walk the dogs as often as I can, but I can’t seem to find another exercise that suits.”

“You mean one that doesn’t set your chest off?”