‘One does tend to think that every time,’ said her father.

Marnie shook her head impatiently. ‘No, I’m serious, Dad. This is different.’

‘Is that so?’

Jerry Donovan looked at his feisty, interesting first-born child, who not so long ago he’d nearly lost and who had caused him much anxiety over the years; his only daughter, for whom he’d always had a sneaking admiration even when she was an awkward, obstinate, plain little girl. He guessed she could still be awkward – not his daughter for nothing, he thought – but looking at her now he thought the plain little girl had grown into a very attractive woman and something – or more likely someone, by the sound of it – had certainly caused her to bloom since he’d last seen her a couple of months ago. That mad old contessa who’d given him such a drubbing had seen some special quality in her all those years ago that wasn’t obvious to anyone else at the time – and she’d been right. ‘One day I think your daughter will surprise you,’ she’d said. ‘I shan’t be there to see it, but you will. Mind you look after her. This is what I propose to do,’ and she’d unfolded her weird scheme to him.

‘I don’t approve of dangerous drivers,’ said Jerry Donovan severely, now. ‘A car is a lethal weapon and should be treated accordingly. I’ve always taught you and your brothers how to handle them with that in mind. On the other hand . . .’ He looked at Marnie’s anxious face. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘I do have a weakness for a really good thriller and I’ve always wanted to meet a successful author.’ He watched her face light up with relief and amusement. ‘Maybe this soulmate and I’d better meet sometime soon,’ he went on. ‘See if our souls sync with each other, or whatever souls do, only it’ll have to wait till I come over to London. He certainly won’t be allowed over here. Did you figure that out?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He warned me,’ and she sent out a grateful thought to Christopher. Lucky he’d told her.

‘Now,’ said her father. ‘I want to give you a letter. Prepare yourself for a shock.’

He fished in his pocket and took out a square envelope of thick ivory-coloured paper addressed in blue-black ink. Marnie recognised immediately the elegant, spiky handwriting she knew so well.

‘Dad?’ She looked at him uncertainly.

‘Read it,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept it for you for over twenty years.’

She held it for a long moment before she tore the envelope open with shaky hands.

Dear Marnie-Jane,