She handed him his laptop case. “It’s only five days, Ferg. I just need to drag my poor aching bones to the end of this shift, and then I’m planning a long weekend of lounging about with my feet up. I might walk the dogs if I’m feeling energetic, which, I have to admit, is unlikely.”

“You could always ask Officer Rosie to lend a hand,” he said, and reacted with exaggerated innocence when she walloped him. “What? You speak very highly of her, and you’ve already been on a couple of dates.”

“We have never—those weren’t dates!” Jem folded her arms, the poster child for indignation and denial, though she knew she was playing right into his hands. As predicted, he paid no heed to her protest.

“There are few things more romantic than sharing a McFlurry at B&Q, Jemima.”

“I can think of plenty of things.” She wrapped his scarf around his neck, pulling it tighter than was strictly necessary. “Stop being an arse and grab your suitcase, or you’ll be catching the bus to Piccadilly.”

The station’s drop-off was half empty, and Jem risked the ire of the taxi drivers by getting out to hug Ferg.

“There’s a chicken and mushroom pie in the fridge for your tea tonight,” he said. “And I made a lasagne as well.” He winked at her. “It’s big enough to share.”

Unable to be cross with him when he’d gone to so much trouble, she kissed his cheek and gave him a bottle of Lucozade, a box of paracetamol, and a hip flask full of whiskey. “Hangover cures,” she said. “The choice is yours. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

He laughed, tucking the hip flask beneath his kilt. “See you Tuesday, hen.”

She waited until he reached the main entrance, where a growing throng of impatient commuters assimilated him. The traffic heading away from Manchester was starting to pick up, most of the cars heading to the flyover that would take them out of the city and into Trafford Park. After almost being sideswiped by a speeding VW at the Apollo roundabout, Jem drove up Hyde Road as if everything was out to get her, a tactic that had kept her collision-free for the years she’d lived within the city limits. The main strip of shops in Gorton was stirring to life, with shutters clattering open on its newsagents and cafes, while white van men made a beeline for the twenty-four-hour supermarket. She overtook a street sweeper, and, forgetting she was in her own car, waved at an ambulance, whose driver waved back regardless. She laughed and cranked the radio up a notch. She loved the city, loved its eclectic neighbourhoods and its fierce sense of pride. Like any sprawling multicultural metropolis, it had its problems, but it usually faced them cheerfully and head on, with a pint in its hand.