‘How exciting,’ the receptionist replied, before she handed over their room keys. ‘I’ll definitely make a note of that.’

As Jo and Ewan walked towards the lifts with their cases, she thanked him. ‘You didn’t have to say that.’

‘You write, don’t you? Then you’re a writer! Own it.’

Jo was still replaying that sentence over and over in her head when she walked into her sea-view room and threw herself down on top of her super king-size bed, luxuriating in the feel of the starched Egyptian cotton sheets. ‘I’m a writer! I’m a writer!’ she said. Ewan was right. She had to own it.

Ewan was right about a lot of things, it seemed. Including his advice that Clara could and would cope if and when she moved out. She just had to find the right place. Near to Ivy Lane, with a little garden space. And a second bedroom for Clara to have sleepovers. She’d need her own writing desk in the corner of her living room, too. When she got back home, she would start to search the rental listings online just to see what was out there.

Jo was suddenly filled with a sense of peace and burgeoning self-confidence. Her friends would be so impressed with her can-do attitude. Lorcan, she thought, would be so impressed with her can-do attitude. Of course, she quickly remembered that Lorcan was now not her friend, and she was still mad at him.

That didn’t stop her checking her phone to see if he had sent her a text – which, of course, he absolutely hadn’t.

With a little less vigour this time, she repeated to herself that she was a writer. Ewan McLachlan thought so, and in that moment his opinion was the only one that mattered to her.

Jo unpacked her case and unwrapped her laptop from its towel. She fixed her hair, pulled on her jacket and a light scarf and made her way down to the lobby to wait for Ewan.

‘I’m a writer,’ she told herself as she walked. ‘I’m here to work and learn and live my best, big life. I am here on my own merits. I deserve it.’ And maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to believe it.

Jo was sipping from a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc and Ewan had ordered a pint of Guinness, saying it had to be done because he was in Ireland. He’d taken a picture of it and uploaded it to his Instagram, telling his fans he was doing research for McCreadie’s next big adventure.

Along with the drinks, Ewan had a printout of notes he had made about her book, and he had scribbled more in the margins in red pen. She was a little bit more than mildly intimidated by the sight, but she was there to listen and Ewan did know what he was doing.