‘Good. It’s the first almond cake I’ve ever made. It’s hard to find recipes without wheat in them. I’m wheat-intolerant, you see.’

‘Coeliac?’

‘Worse. I seem to be intolerant of all cereals except rice.’

‘Must be a nuisance.’

‘Sometimes. But far worse things than that can happen to a person.’

‘Well, the cake’s delicious, whatever’s in it. Um, would you mind if I—’ He broke off. ‘No, I shouldn’t ask.’

‘Go ahead. I can always say no.’

‘Could I stay here for a bit longer, please? It’s so peaceful. And you’re the first person I’ve met in a long time who doesn’t try to fill the silences with babble or pester me with questions about how I’m feeling.’

‘I enjoy silence.’

‘So do I. Which may sound strange coming from a muso.’

‘I don’t think so. We all need peaceful times in our lives. I love your music, by the way.’ She waved one hand towards her CD collection. ‘I have all your albums. Such beautiful melodies. “Tears May Fall” is my favourite track.’

This time his smile was unforced. ‘It’s one of mine, too.’

‘Stay as long as you like.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll be in my office. When you want some company, come and find me. There’s no hurry. I’m at the far end of the corridor. I’m only working on correspondence today, so I can stop and start at will. Oh, and the cloakroom is on the left.’

It was a full hour before she heard movement, first the sound of him limping along the corridor then water flushing in the cloakroom. After that the footsteps came towards her office, so she turned to greet him.

He stood framed in the doorway, still looking utterly exhausted. ‘I’ve just realised I don’t even know your name. I do apologise. It was very rude of me not to ask.’

‘Sophie.’

‘No second name?’

‘Sophie Carr.’

He frowned. ‘That sounds vaguely familiar.’

She picked up one of her books and handed it to him in silence.

‘You’re a novelist.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve not read a novel for ages. I must buy a copy of this. Unless it’s full of angst and violence. I couldn’t stand that at the moment, I’m afraid, however well written.’

She wasn’t surprised. A deranged intruder had broken into his home and held a knife to his throat, then a month later he’d been involved in a car accident, which had badly damaged his left side. ‘You’re quite safe with my books. I write relationships novels. Women’s fiction, they call it sometimes, though men read my stories too and email to tell me they’ve enjoyed them. And the stories always, always have happy endings, because it’s my choice for the hero and heroine to get together.’

His expression was bleak. ‘It’s a nice fantasy – that relationships can be happy, I mean.’

‘My parents were happily married for fifty-nine years. Where’s the fantasy in that?’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound so negative. But you must admit that’s unusual these days.’