She looks at the clock on the wall. ‘Well,’ she tells him, popping the last of the pastry in her mouth. ‘You don’t got me. I’ve been summoned to reception for 8 a.m. by Daphne.’

‘How is it that Daphne has your number and I do not?’ he asks, faking a pout.

Evie smiles cheekily and as she’s halfway out of the door tells him: ‘Because you’ve never asked for it.’

In the lobby, Evie searches out Daphne. Her text didn’t say what she needed to talk to her about, only that if she was free, Daphne would love it if Evie could come down for a coffee with her – and it’s not a photo op. I promise!

She picks a spot in the corner: a small round coffee table with two big, cosy leather armchairs. Perfect, Evie reflects, as a little reading nook. Urgh. Reading. Thinking of reading makes her think of writing, which makes her think of her MacBook lying untouched upstairs. To some people, 65,000 words sounds like chapter and verse but to Evie, who needs 100,000 words, it’s pitiful – and haunting. She’s never asked for a deadline extension in her life. Is this book going to be the one she pleads for longer with? Her editor won’t be happy. You don’t get to publish in a regular spring and winter slot year after year if you don’t deliver your manuscript on time. And yet, despite what she’s promised herself, there seem to be so many interesting distractions that she finds herself struggling to commit to her work.

She hears somebody say, ‘Oh no, don’t worry, I’ve got it,’ and it sounds like Magda. Her heart pines for her friend, then – she can’t remember the last time they were apart for this long.

Evie sits back in the armchair, promising herself she’ll do it later and absent-mindedly admiring the lobby. And then she sees her, stood by the automatic doors, waiting to be noticed.

‘Magda?’ Evie says, too stunned to stand.

She waves. ‘Thought it was time for me to take a little trip,’ she says, grinning. ‘Shake this place up a bit.’

Evie squeals then – full-on, top-of-her-lungs screams, getting up and launching herself at her best friend.

‘What the hell!’ she says, excitedly. ‘How are you here? How the hell are you actually here? Why didn’t you say?’

The friends hug, and it’s so powerful, so full of love, that Evie actually manages to knock Magda to the floor, which makes them both squeal then, and then they’re laughing, lying on the carpet runner of the five-star hotel, just giggling and giggling. Evie turns her head.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she says, and before Magda can reply she sees Duke’s face loom into view, hovering above them, amused.