‘I’ll make some more tea.’ Laura disappeared into the kitchen to be joined by her mother seconds later. It was obvious her parents had no intention of retiring just yet. Usually nothing would stop their nightly routines.

‘Darling, who is he?’ she whispered, although it was unlikely she could be heard through two doors and quite a long corridor.

‘I told you!’ replied Laura, also whispering, finding mugs, the best china being still in the sitting room. ‘He’s a writer who came to the literary festival I helped arrange. I did tell you, about the festival, I mean.’

‘But why has he gone to so much trouble to find you? You’re not . . .’ she hesitated ‘. . . an “item” or anything?’

Laura put her arm round her mother and hugged her, just for using the word ‘item’. ‘Of course not,’ she said calmly. ‘I expect he just wants me to do something for him. I helped him run a writing course.’

‘I don’t think he would have made such an effort just for that,’ said her mother, refilling the kettle. ‘I think he likes you.’

These thoughts had been running through Laura’s mind like a tape on fast-forward. Why had he take such pains to track her down? Could it possibly be because he did like her? But was that enough for her to risk everything for? There were still so many unanswered questions she needed to ask before she even dared to hope that. ‘Well, maybe . . .’

‘And I wouldn’t blame you if you liked him,’ she confided. ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for wild Irishmen.’

‘Mum!’

‘Just as well I’ve got your father, isn’t it? Otherwise who knows what might have happened? Shall I just put milk in here? Or bring them through with the jug on the tray?’

Laura was reeling from her mother’s confession. It was not just that they shared a previously unsuspected predilection; it was the fact her mother had told her about it. ‘Oh, let’s just put the milk in here.’

Dermot gave up arguing about which of them would sleep in Laura’s bed and which on the sofa when he realised that the sofa option involved Laura’s single sleeping bag. He did not, he stated, relish sleeping like a sausage in a skin.

Laura had rearranged the cushions on the sofa for what seemed like the hundredth time but was still not comfortable. She suspected, however, that it was not the cushions or the sofa that was making it hard to sleep, but the thought of Dermot sharing the same three-bedroom semi as her and her parents. Him turning up like that was like a miracle, or a film, or a romantic novel . . . or something.