‘You sure you don’t mind looking after him?’ Lorcan asked for the third time as he pushed his empty coffee mug to the side. Much of the rest of the journey had passed in silence, which had given me the time to enjoy the views and make mental, and sometimes actual, notes about Patrick and Peyton’s wedding. I’d noticed my inbox was also looking a little healthier with enquiries too, and answering them was one of the things I planned to get done while Bod and I sat in the delightful dog-friendly café Lorcan had brought us to in Dublin. We’d enjoyed a delicious, home-cooked lunch followed with a slice of home-made cake, which I really shouldn’t have had but which tasted divine. What with all the full Irish breakfasts, various cake-tastings, along with the rest of the meals and now this today, the trip had certainly played havoc with my ordinarily regimented dietary routine. I’d seen Lorcan’s expression as he watched my hesitation over the choice of cake, clearly expecting me not to have any. Childishly I had some just so that he couldn’t be right. It was worth the calories just to see the look of surprise on his face, which he didn’t even bother to try and cover. Normally I’d have just added another mile to my run, but my sore leg wasn’t quite up to that yet. I’d managed to book an appointment on Friday with my local GP to hopefully have the stiches out and, with luck, things would improve from there. My weight hadn’t varied more than a pound or two in years and I liked to keep it that way. I knew where I was then.

‘Do you write down every single thing you eat and drink?’ Lorcan asked as I closed the app on my phone.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘It helps me keep track.’

‘Of what?’

‘What I’m eating,’ I said, giving him a look that suggested I had a special pointy hat in the car for him.

‘Well, yes. Obviously. But why?’

As I opened my mouth to repeat my previous answer, he waved his hand. ‘Exactly why do you need to keep track, I mean?’

‘Because I like to. I have a set number of calories I can consume and a set number of calories I need to burn to keep me at the weight I’m comfortable with.’

‘You’re petite.’

‘I’m a size eight and that’s where I feel comfortable. I’m not depriving myself and I’m not judging anyone else, just as I don’t appreciate people judging me. My mum was slim too.’

He was looking at me with a quizzical expression.

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t that take all the joy out of eating?’

‘Not at all.’