Jo was not convinced. Nausea was not something she enjoyed. Fear was something she enjoyed even less.

‘Trust me,’ Libby added.

‘I’m trying,’ Jo said. ‘Honest, I am.’

‘Sometimes excitement feels like fear,’ Libby said and Jo looked at her as if she was mad. To her, those emotions were very different and while, of course, she was delighted that Libby was enjoying her book, she couldn’t help but feel unsettled. The thing with taking a risk, she thought, was that it was a risk. Things could go wrong as easily as they could go well.

‘Jojo!’ Clara called. ‘Can we go to the park now and to see Erin? Please?’

Jo was glad of the distraction because she truly didn’t know whether she wanted to hug or thump Libby.

‘Look, I’d best be going. I’m sorry if I’m sounding really ungrateful. I just—’

‘No,’ Libby said, defeated. ‘I’m sorry. I overstepped the mark. It was with the best of intentions, but still…’ Libby looked sad and Jo felt immediately guilty.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said before she started to help Clara pack up her things and clear up the tsunami of crumbs her little sister had left on the table. She had started to worry that she and Libby would get caught up in a big apology loop. She took a deep breath and told herself to focus on the positive. Libby had loved her book – actually loved it. And she didn’t think Libby would lie about that.

She was just zipping up Clara’s coat when the bell above the door rang and Lorcan Gallagher, Harry’s grandson, swaggered in like he owned the place.

Jo rolled her eyes and hurried Clara along just as she heard him ask Libby for a skinny caramel latte with two shots. She couldn’t help but smile when she thought of what Harry would think if he heard his grandson’s order. Harry was famously known for his belief that ‘fancy coffee’, which was essentially anything different from black coffee, was just an affectation and that there was absolutely nothing wrong with a jar of instant. If he was feeling particularly chatty, he would also launch into his view on biscuits which were good enough for elevenses and which were just ‘plain biscuits with notions on themselves’. For the record, Biscotti were particularly ‘notiony’.

As she started to bustle Clara out of the door, she heard Lorcan ask for a ‘latte machiatto’ for his grandad. She was so shocked, it stopped her in her tracks and she looked around to make sure it was Lorcan who had asked for it – even though his distinctive English accent stood out in a sea of Derry voices.

‘Ah, are you the famous Lorcan then?’ she heard Libby ask. ‘Are you sure you want this for your grandad? He normally has plainer tastes.’