Back at the house, she had made a nourishing soup, dusted the sitting room and even cut some branches from the garden and put them in a vase when she could stand it no more – Dermot Flynn was going to wake up!

She stood at the doorway of the bedroom thinking what to say when a rasping voice made her heart pound.

‘What the hell is going on?’

Trying to give an appearance of calm, she went into the room so he could see her. ‘It’s me.’

A long list of blasphemous expletives issued from his lips but he didn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised.

Laura was not impressed. ‘It’s all very well you lying there and saying all that, but have you any idea what time it is?’ she demanded. She was tired, had been worried and was hungry. This all combined to make her angry, too.

She saw his stomach muscles ripple as he chuckled. ‘What do you think?’

‘The time isn’t a matter of opinion!’ Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Nearly five o’clock. Good God! I’ve been here for hours!’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Through a window. Dermot, everyone’s been so worried about you. Are you ill? Have you been ill? Why haven’t you washed, or eaten proper food, or done any washing up for . . .’

‘Just over a fortnight.’ He was still lying there, showing no signs of moving.

‘Listen, get up, have a shower, a long shower, shave, and then I’ll give you soup. Leek and potato. I made it myself.’

‘How could I possibly resist?’

She stomped out of the room and downstairs. Once in the kitchen she shut the door and sat at the table. Then she did what she’d been longing to do for some time. She allowed herself to weep. What had she done? She’d travelled hundreds of miles, cleaned his disgusting house, made him soup, done his washing, probably got herself drummed out of the feminist sisterhood, and for what?

She’d done it officially because Eleanora had asked her to come, to find out what had happened to him. She also needed to know if he really meant not to come to the festival. That furious text might have been sent when he was at the height of his anger; maybe he didn’t really mean it. But in her heart she knew she’d also come because she loved him. That was why she’d cleaned his house and cooked for him. If she’d only come for professional reasons, she’d have just chucked a bucket of water over him or something and retreated to a safe distance, explaining to the neighbours that he was fine, just in a drunken stupor. Eleanora would have expected her to do a bit more than that, possibly, but she wouldn’t have demanded she became a domestic drudge for him.