She hit send before she had time to rethink the Elvis thing. He had enjoyed her humour in person so there was no reason why he would turn his nose up now. And why the hell did she care so much? Did it really matter if he never replied? If his email was just a polite way of keeping in touch and one of many he had sent to other speakers?

Yes. Yes. It really did. She wanted a reply.

She made a fresh cup of tea, returned to her desk and checked her inbox. Nothing. She pressed the refresh button. Still nothing. And this was how it went for the rest of the day. She told herself he was in a meeting and then that he’d been called away on some important business. She began to re-analyse her response the following morning. Had it been too informal? Should she have kept it professional? Had she been too keen?

She continued to check her emails incessantly. On day fifteen, she interrogated her sent items and outbox in case some unprecedented glitch had frozen her message. On day twenty-one, she decided that it had been just a polite email and that she needn’t have replied at all. The following Saturday she returned home from a party late in the evening and checked her laptop as she reheated a bowl of leftover curry. Her inbox contained one message. From Henry, Captain Peterson, Royal Navy.

She placed her food on the table and opened it.

Karene,

I am so very sorry for the delay. Can you forgive me?

I’m in London next Thursday. Could we meet for the interview then? Maybe early evening? (I would happily buy you dinner too.)

How’s life treating you? Are you still basking in the success of your research?

Harry

She wanted to reply immediately but forced herself to finish her food. She needed to sober up.

Dear Harry,

Of course you are forgiven. I understand you’re a busy man so there’s no need to apologize. I’m afraid next Thursday won’t work for me. Perhaps we could look at next month?

She deleted the whole thing. Sod it. What did she have to lose?

Hi Harry,

Thursday sounds great. Name the time and place and I’ll be there.

Karene.

She pressed send. A reply pinged back almost immediately.

5.30pm. Bistro Pierre on the Southbank. It will be quiet at that time and it does a great moules marinière.

H

Karene looked at his initial. The informality gave her confidence and she replied.

Having dinner then, are we?

8

‘I’ve found him, Augusta, but you need to come now.’

Bloom checked the clock. It was two a.m. She switched on her bedside lamp. ‘Where are you, Karene?’

‘Exeter Hospital. Harry’s here. But it’s wrong, Augusta. It’s all wrong. You need to come. Now.’ Karene sounded a little hysterical and Bloom feared the worst for Harry.