‘I’m glad you found it useful.’ Standing outside the parsonage, I’m pleased by the success of the visit. ‘So shall we head back to the bus stop?’

‘What’s Top Withens?’ As we turn to leave, she points to a sign for a footpath.

‘I think it was inspiration for Wuthering Heights.’

She looks incredulous. ‘You mean it’s actually a real place?’

‘Well, I should imagine it’s a ruin now.’

‘Can we go?’

‘What? Now?’ Our trip to the museum has already gone on for much longer than our allotted hour for the tutorial lesson. ‘Don’t you have to get back to school this afternoon?’

‘No, it’s a free period.’

I look at my watch, then at the signpost again.

‘It says it’s six miles there and back.’

‘So?’ she says eagerly. ‘It’s still only lunchtime – we’ve got ages before it gets dark.’

‘And it looks like it’s going to rain.’

As I gesture towards the dark clouds I watch Maya’s face fall with disappointment. I feel a beat of regret. She’s so keen, I don’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. Still, I need to collect Harry and was planning on spending the rest of the afternoon trying to find more tutoring work. I should be sensible and go home.

As opposed to following in the actual footsteps of the Brontë sisters and seeing the actual farmhouse which, legend has it, was the setting in Emily’s mind when she wrote her famous novel. Really, Liv?

‘OK, you’re on.’ Turning away from the moors, I set off walking in the direction of the village. I still need to be a little bit sensible. ‘But first we’re going to need an umbrella.’

After calling Valentine’s house to check on Harry – ‘Oh, he’s grand, we’re getting on famously, no need to rush back’ – and arming ourselves with a huge golfing umbrella that I find in a gift shop, ‘just in case’, we set off, following the signs for Brontë Waterfall.

‘I don’t understand why Heathcliff’s supposed to be this big romantic hero,’ Maya’s saying now, as we make our way along a rough track that leads towards the moors.

‘Brooding, tortured, passionate. What’s not to love?’ I quip, remembering my own teenage crush.

‘But he’s so fucked-up.’ She catches my eye. ‘Sorry, but he is.’

‘Bad boys usually are.’

‘And that’s attractive?’

Climbing over a stile that leads out onto open moorland, I turn to see Maya looking at me with genuine incomprehension. She seems a lot more savvy about boys than I was at her age. I think back to my younger self, lying awake at night, crying hot, salty tears over idiots like Ben Armstrong.

‘Normal boys of my age seemed so immature and dull. Whereas Heathcliff was so tragic and misunderstood,’ I say. A blast of cold wind makes me shiver and I wrap my scarf tighter. ‘I wanted to save him . . . to be loved as much he loved Cathy.’

‘You wanted to date someone who would dig up your corpse?’