“You would?” There was an uncommon note of uncertainty in Rosie’s question. For the short time Jem had known her, she had always seemed larger than life, full of beans and brimming with an enviable confidence. It was odd to hear her so obviously in need of reassurance.

“Yes, I would,” Jem told her. “Has this been keeping you awake?”

Rosie yawned. “Possibly.”

“Are you any less worried about it now?”

Another yawn. “I think so.”

Assured that the Pom was on the way to a full recovery, Jem switched off the telly and snuggled under her quilt. “Are you going to sleep, then?”

“Mm.” Rosie already sounded halfway there. “I need to brush my teeth.”

“Me too, but I’m too cosy to move, so I’ll wait till I need a wee.”

“Sounds like a plan. Is your date still on for tomorrow?”

“Yes. Thanks for reminding me.” Jem tried not to look at the clothes she’d set out in readiness, but they crept into her peripheral vision regardless.

“Text me all the gruesome details. And shout if you need rescuing.”

Jem stopped in the middle of turning over and frowned. “Rescuing?”

“Yeah, you know, ‘Goodness, my friend’s just phoned me. My cat’s stuck up a tree. I really have to go!’”

“Ah, right, gotcha. If I need you to fake a cat emergency, I will be sure to text you.”

“Just don’t tell her you haven’t got a cat, or it won’t work.”

“Okay, enough.” Jem aimed for stern but spoiled the effect by giggling. “Go to bloody sleep.”

The rustle of bedding and a pillow being thumped suggested Rosie was settling down.

“Night, Jem. Sweet dreams.”

“You too,” Jem said, and ended the call.

Chapter Eight

The headlights of the Audi A3 convertible flashed once to acknowledge Jem’s wave, and its driver performed a neat parallel park to place its passenger door within touching distance. Jem had taken a wary step forward, unsure whether to let herself in, when the driver’s door opened and a woman jogged around to greet her.

“Jem? Hiya, I’m Sylvie.” She pumped Jem’s hand in both of hers, her enthusiasm overcompensating for the initial flit of disappointment in her expression.

“Hiya,” Jem said, determined not to write the date off in the first twenty seconds. “You made good time.”

Sylvie patted the car’s soft top. “This doesn’t half shift when you put your foot down. What do you drive?”

Jem thumbed toward her Skoda Fabia. It was a good car: reliable, economical, and snot green, which meant she’d got it for a steal.