‘I’ve left the checklist there for you.’ She points at a sheet of paper which she has placed on top of the counter. Muriel was not happy when Cahill’s bakery left her short twelve doughnuts last week. I’m not sure how she knew when she wasn’t here but she does a stock check every so often against the till sales and she discovered the error. She’s brilliant like that. She knows everything that goes on here. Which is why she’s the owner and I’m just an employee. Someday I want to own my own coffee shop. I’ve already mentioned this to Lucas and he says we can look into it when we get to Melbourne.

Immediately, I feel excitement taking hold. This time next month I’ll be on the far side of the world. I picture myself lying on a beach wearing the big round Gucci glasses I got in a sale last month. My hair will be tied back, I’ll have on my red bikini and my skin will be golden brown. In my hand I’ll be holding a tall cold drink which I’ll hold against my forehead to cool me down. The realisation that this is actually going to happen makes me giddy with excitement as I plug in the till.

But what if I can’t go? The fear hits me like a bullet. What if those detectives decide I must stay in Ireland until they’ve finished their investigation into the death of Avril Ryan? My heart sinks. What will Lucas do? Will he go without me? No. They won’t do that. They can’t do that. Not without some decent evidence… surely.

With the excitement gone and my head throbbing, I reach for the machine and make a second cup of coffee. This is turning out to be a real nightmare. It could spoil my wedding, force me to make changes, to delay everything. To stay here, making coffee, while my husband takes a flight to the far side of the world. My trembling hand is twisting the portafilter into place when I hear the push of the door.

The first customer has arrived. Hard as it is to do, I put my nightmare on hold and a smile on my face. It’s Sean, the solicitor who rents one of the offices above the coffee shop from Muriel. He is always the first through the door every morning. I gulp down some of my coffee and turn to say good morning.

‘Let’s hope so,’ he says, pulling his wallet out of his trouser pocket.

‘Why, are you expecting trouble?’ I’m trying to sound cheery, trying to ignore the worry coursing through my veins.

Sean laughs too. ‘I’m always expecting trouble, Tara. I’m a solicitor, I deal in trouble.’