I’m so tired I could lie down on the wet pavement and go to sleep, and I don’t know why because I was in bed and asleep by nine o’clock last night. A big patch of skin over my side is also hurting. It’s likely a bruise I got during my last turn.

“Charlie?” I’m not sure how many times Misha has said my name, but from the exasperation in his voice, it’s obviously more than once. I give him an apologetic glance and he says, “You’re a bloody space cadet this morning. The lights are on green.”

We walk quickly across the road and down into the bowels of the car park. He clicks his key fob, and I hear the expensive-sounding chirp of the car ahead of us. He makes quick work of sticking the bags in the boot, which is as pristine as the rest of the car.

I think nostalgically of my old Volkswagen Golf. You couldn’t see the seat material, as everything was covered in books, papers, and sweet wrappers. I sold it when I became epileptic and lost my license.

“What are you thinking about?”

I look over the roof at Misha. “My Golf.”

“Ah, how I miss the days of putting on a hazmat suit to travel with you.”

I climb into Misha’s baby and run a hand down one of the leather bucket seats. “There is a benefit to being extremely anally retentive about cleaning,” I muse. “And being a soulless banker.”

“That makes me sound like one of the undead.” He laughs. “Not to worry though. According to Jamie, you’ll be in no danger from little old vampire me, unless it’s death by the Famous Five’s picnics or ginger beer.” He pauses. “Or rampant sexism and questionable parental decisions.”

I sigh. “Misha, promise me you won’t mention that this weekend.”

He considers me and then nods solemnly while mouthing the word, “No.” I open my mouth to chastise him, but he starts the engine and looks over at me. “Rock, paper, scissors on who gets to choose the music?”

I shake my head. “Misha, I’m not sure why you keep doing this. Surely the better option is just to let me play my music.”

“Only if we want to die from an overabundance of upbeat poppy tunes and Christmas music.”

“My music tastes are very catholic.”

“The Pope does look like he might appreciate Taylor Swift.”

“Everyone should appreciate Taylor Swift,” I say firmly. “She makes me happy. And you should listen to her. It might have a positive impact on your mood.”

“Only if we’re classing positive impact as wanting to throw myself out of a fast-moving vehicle.”

“Give it up,” I advise him and get out my phone, synching it to his Bluetooth.

Misha frowns as he looks at the display. “You actually have something called a happy playlist,” he says in a tone of great disgust.

“Yes, and by the time we get to Brighton you’ll be so happy you’ll be glowing.”