The rest of the afternoon passes at the speed of treacle coming out of a tin. Finally, it’s time to close the library and get the book club meeting started.

After locking the main doors, I greet the group waiting for me on the soft furnishings in the reading room. We’re smaller in numbers tonight—it appears to be mainly my older people who have shown up.

“I’m just going to get the trolley with the drinks and food,” I say. “Joan, can you put out the books for next week on the table? You can have a look at them and start thinking about what you want to add.” One member a week gets to pick a wildcard book for the week to go with the books I select.

Joan smiles and starts to do as I ask. She’s a pretty middle-aged lady whose husband left her last year for another woman. One of her attempts to restart her life has been the book club, which pleases me because she’s a lively and funny member.

I find the trolley and put the kettle on so I can fill the urn. While I wait, I fish out my phone. My finger is shaking slightly as I swipe across the screen. I slump against the wall and groan. Misha still hasn’t replied, and it’s gone seven at night. There’s no way he’s still at work. He’s either in denial over what happened, or he’s really angry with me for my disappearing trick this morning—anger he has every right to feel.

The kettle clicks off, and I push my phone into my pocket. I can’t think about this now. I’ve got book club to get through.

I push the trolley through the darkened library, the wheels loud in the hushed spaces. The reading room lights shine on the group as if they’re on the stage. Everyone is clustered around the table, talking loudly.

“I made Bakewell tarts,” I say cheerfully, but my words falter as the group parts, and I see who’s at the centre. “Misha,” I gasp.

Chapter Twelve

Charlie

“Oh, do you know each other?” Joan asks, smiling. “That’s good. It’s so awkward being the new boy in the group.”

“New boy?” I ask.

Misha appears to be deliberately avoiding my gaze and staring intently at Joan.

“He knocked on the door,” Joan says, “and we let him in. Hopefully, that was okay, Charlie. He knew the password.”

“What password? We haven’t got a password,” I say stupidly.

Misha stirs. “I think you should have one and it should be ‘Rude Runaway,’” he says succinctly, still not looking at me.