‘How was she?’ her mother asked, as she carried in two mugs of tea and handed one to Jo.

‘She was fine. We got some new books, had lunch and took Paddy for a walk. Noah said he will call round to see you later – save you going into the pub. She only mentioned her birth mum once or twice and was maybe a little bit more clingy than normal, but she was showered with love and attention,’ Jo said.

‘Oh thank goodness. Thank you, pet. I’ve been so worried about her. I spent this morning on the phone to her social worker for advice. Then I phoned your dad and I had to talk him out of jumping on the first plane back. He’ll be home soon enough and he might as well finish the contract,’ her mum said and took a long sip from her mug and sighed with contentment. ‘He says it’s ridiculously hot there and he can’t wait to get back to the rubbish weather and a cold pint down at The Ivy Inn.’

Jo smiled. She couldn’t wait for her dad to be home either. She loved it when he called into the pub and took residence in his usual seat in the corner and read the papers, spoilt Paddy and was there to chat to during her breaks. The place just wasn’t the same without him. ‘First pint will be on the house,’ she said. ‘And probably most of the rest of them too.’

‘There have to be some perks to having your daughter and son run the local boozer,’ her mum said with a smile.

Jo looked at her mother’s smile, and thought of how warm her voice sounded when she spoke about her husband’s return. It warmed her heart, but at the same time she couldn’t help but feel a little sad. When her dad came home, even more would change, not least in terms of where Jo would live. There was no reason her dad coming home would mean she had to move out, but it just felt as if his return meant her being here was no longer necessary. She’d go from being a helping hand to a third wheel, however much her parents would assure her she always had a home here.

Determined not to give in to her low mood, Jo announced she was going to take a nap. When all else fails, a couple of hours in her own bed, fast asleep, normally did the trick.

She climbed the stairs, slipped off her jeans and sweater, and climbed into bed wearing just a T-shirt and her underwear, socks included. She felt the hairs on her legs bristle against her skin. She needed to shave them, she realised. Or wax them. Or was that all just exceptionally vain for a woman who was likely to be a homeless spinster mocked by a famous writer soon?