The bell on the door goes and I look up, expectantly, only instead of a teenager, it’s another hiker.

‘Do you want another coffee?’

One of the two ladies who run the cafe bustles over in a tomato-red apron, her cheeks flushed, balancing plates of toasted teacakes. The cafe is busy with cyclists, in training for the Tour de Yorkshire, and she’s rushed off her feet.

‘Actually, I’m OK, thanks . . . maybe in a minute.’

‘No worries, dear, just give me a shout.’ She smiles generously and weaves away through the tables.

Harry stirs under the table. The cafe allows dogs, so I’ve been able to bring him, which is lucky, as he still hates being left alone. In fact his separation anxiety seems to be getting worse, not better. Yesterday I only popped to the postbox and found him tearing up yet another squeaky toy. He rips them to shreds until they stop squeaking and then buries them in the garden. Kind of like some Swedish crime series.

I glance at my watch: twenty-five minutes. Not exactly the best start to my glittering new career as a private tutor. On the table my phone pings. That’s probably them texting to say they’re not coming. Wishing I’d told them there was a cancellation policy, I pick up my phone to text back – only it’s from Ajay at the car rental company instead. I’ve been chasing him about the return of my deposit. It’s been almost a month and it still hasn’t been paid back onto my credit card. I’ve given up emailing and have begun texting him directly.

‘Are you Olivia Brooks?’

Before I have a chance to read his text, I look up to see a figure bundled up in a beige furry coat and a bright yellow bobble hat, standing by my table. So this must be my long-awaited pupil.

‘Hi, yes,’ I smile, taking in the young teenage girl. ‘You must be Maya.’

I was expecting to meet her with her parents – the arrangement being that they would drive her over, as they live a few miles away – but the plans must have changed.

She doesn’t smile or apologize for being late. Instead she stuffs her hands in her pockets, her expression unreadable.

‘Nice to see you. Please, sit down.’

Deciding against getting off on the wrong foot, I make no mention of her keeping me waiting and motion her to the chair opposite me. She sits down wordlessly, her hands still in her pockets.

‘So, tell me . . . your mum gave me a little information on the phone and told me you’re studying for your A-levels and that you might need a bit of help with some of the set texts. So is there anything in particular you’d like to start with?’

‘This is a total waste of time.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t need a tutor.’

She glares defiantly at me across the salt and pepper, as if willing me to challenge her.