‘Come on.’ Finn pushed himself out of the chair. ‘The doctor says I need to get exercise.’ He was walking perfectly – no limp – and he seemed to be back to normal apart from the nasty-looking bruise on his head. He had to be in some pain though, even if they had medicated him to minimise it.

‘Coffee break?’ she asked, looking at her watch. It was just before eleven. She was due on shift at twelve.

‘I was just about to suggest the same thing,’ he said setting off with her at a slow pace.

The coffee shop was busy, but they managed to nab a table near the window and Liv queued for the coffees while Finn looked out at the comings and goings at the front of the hospital. She had a feeling he’d need to catch his breath after the walk, even if it looked as if he wouldn’t admit it. They chatted for a while, easily covering over the daily pleasantries while occasionally dipping into the fabric of each other’s lives. Finn, it turned out, was a writer. He wrote young adult books about witches and warlocks. ‘No. Nothing like Harry Potter, nowhere near as successful, but good enough to allow me to dodge any real work.’ She discovered he had stayed in Ballycove a couple of times; renting a cottage in the winter months, just to write in peace. ‘It’s beautiful there, desolate and thrilling, perfect really for what I’m writing when the wind howls and the mist covers the land for as far as the eye can see.’

For most of the time, he lived in Dublin, in a little house near the docks. He’d been married, once to Mena Swan, but that had ended and there had been no-one serious since. Liv knew Mena Swan. Everyone knew Mena – she’d spent the last couple of years propping up Ireland’s longest-running soap opera, but she’d recently announced that she was leaving to pursue other projects across the pond, so she was cutting her ties to Dublin and presumably to her ex-husband also. There hadn’t been anyone serious since his marriage ended.

‘Does Estelle realise that?’ The question slipped from Liv and she knew as soon as she said it she was wrong to ask. ‘I’m sorry, just ignore that.’

‘Estelle?’ He threw his head back and laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Sorry, no.’ He put his hand on his side; laughing isn’t always the best medicine. ‘No. It’s a valid question – after all, you did buy the coffee, it gives you a right.’ He was joking with her now, but when he began to speak again, his voice was gentler, more thoughtful. ‘The truth is, Estelle and I?’ It was an unanswered question.

‘She’s very beautiful.’