After she and her mother had washed up, which didn’t take long as her mother was a very tidy cook, they spent the evening watching television. There was a documentary on about world poverty and the arms trade. Tears she hadn’t allowed herself to indulge in for a while slid silently down Laura’s face. Everything came back to her in a rush. Dermot; her overwhelming love for him, not returned . . . She could hardly bear it.

‘I’ll just watch the news and then I’ll make us all a cup of tea before bedtime,’ said her father.

‘Oh, we never opened that wine,’ said her mother.

‘Never mind. Tea’s fine.’

No wonder I spent all my time reading, thought Laura when she was back in her old room.

All her old childhood favourites were there, marking the progress of her growing up. There were the pony books that she adored until she moved on to Georgette Heyer in her early teens. Then there was her D. H. Lawrence phase, Iris Murdoch, Edna O’Brien, and then Dermot’s two slim volumes. She’d bought these second-hand and loved them. When she went to university she found she could study them and bought new copies. It was these copies that she had taken with when she left home. She sighed, wondering how her life would have turned out if she’d never read his books. She laughed forgivingly at her old self, and congratulated her new one. She’d come a long way!

Now, she burrowed in her bag for the book that Veronica had signed for her at the festival. She’d been saving it for emergencies: a time when only a really good page-turning, romantic read would do. This definitely qualified as an emergency.

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Saturday morning routines were not altered because Laura was there. The three of them went shopping, and then went to a café for lunch. Here they each had a bowl of soup, a bread roll and a sandwich. Then Laura’s father had steamed pudding with custard and her mother had a small portion of vanilla ice cream. Feeling terribly rebellious, Laura had a cappuccino.

‘I never could get on with coffee,’ said her mother, seeing Laura stir in some sugar. ‘It gives me a headache.’

‘It does make me a bit buzzy sometimes,’ said Laura, ‘but I thought it would make a change.’

‘From what?’ asked her mother, puzzled.

‘I don’t know really,’ Laura said apologetically. ‘Shall we get out the paper and start on the crossword?’

‘Not till we’re home,’ said her father. ‘I don’t like the paper to get all creased.’

‘Besides, it rude to read at the table,’ said her mother.

Laura’s flight was for Monday morning but she was seriously considering changing it to Sunday, to end the agony a bit sooner. But what reason could she possibly give?