‘Well,’ Libby spoke first. ‘If you ask me, it’s about time. You’ve been squirrelled away in that nook for a year, writing and dreaming. Noah tells me you’ve piles of notebooks bursting with ideas. I see it in you, you know. You have the heart of a writer and I’ve been dying to read what you’re working on. Do you think you could show me?’

Before Jo could answer, Noah spoke. ‘You know having time off isn’t a problem,’ he said. ‘I always wondered how much of the bar was your dream or if I was just dragging you along into it all.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Jo said. ‘I love the bar. I don’t want to leave. You absolutely didn’t drag me along and I’m so happy to be a part of it. It’s very special to me, but it’s not my everything. It’s not what I dream about when I put my head on the pillow at night.’

‘You dream about writing?’ he asked.

‘Not just writing, but being successful at it. Having people read it and like it. And Tom Hardy. I dream of him too, but I think I probably have more chance of being a writer.’

‘Why not aim for both?’ Noah said with a wink. ‘You are single after all? Tom Hardy would be lucky to have you.’

Jo laughed. Already her fears were being washed away. No one had told her she was mad. Not her mum. Not Libby. Not Noah. ‘You’re very kind, Noah,’ she said. ‘But I think Tom Hardy can probably do better. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s married, or else I’d be in there like a shot.’ She turned to Libby. ‘Okay, this is taking every ounce of courage I possess, but I’d love you to read it. As long as you promise to be honest. If I’m going to be serious about it, then I need that from you.’

Libby reached out to Jo, and Jo let her take her hand. ‘I promise,’ Libby said. ‘I will be honest and constructive. I’m so excited for you.’

‘Oh please don’t get too excited,’ Jo said. ‘Not until you’ve read it, at least.’

‘Tell us more about it,’ Noah said as he opened another bottle of beer and sat back in his chair. ‘I want to know what goes on inside your mind. All these years I’ve seen you scribbling in notebooks or losing yourself in a daydream. But you’ve never let me in to that part of you. So let me in. Pitch me the book as if I’m a red-hot agent and you have five minutes to sell yourself to me.’