Emily’s eye landed on an old-fashioned jukebox, the kind with vinyl records and strips of rainbow light. The whole space smelled of stale beer, sun cream, and a thin layer of fish, accompanied by the low, nasal voice of Liam Gallagher singing about cigarettes and alcohol.

“Whiskey?” Tyler asked as Emily climbed atop one of the stools against the other wall, and she nodded her reply, trying not to think of what the vicar would say if he knew where she was right this minute.

A tower of beer mats stacked one on top of the other, resting on the edge of the bar. Tyler smacked the back of his fingers against the underside, sent them spilling into the air and then all over the floor.

Emily spun one between her fingers, saw a flash of red cockerel with each turn, making her think of the packets of cereal in the cupboards back home.

The cockerel is the only bird in the Chinese zodiac calendar, seen as both confident and intelligent. She considered whether or not to tell Tyler the random snippet of information as well as trying to remember how it was she knew it in the first place.

Just like Antoine. A man who was a walking, talking encyclopedia, according to her grandmother, which made her wonder if she had inherited her artistry, her obsessive nature from him?

Except she couldn’t quite believe that Antoine and her grandmother had produced a love child as well as a phony engagement. That would have been extreme, even for her.

Tossing the beer mat into a woven basket with a solitary chip stuck to its side, she picked up her empty glass and added it to the collection they had been accumulating over the past couple of hours.

“So who is this Antoine guy?” Tyler asked as he signaled to the barman for another round of drinks. “Were he and Aunt Cat really engaged?”

“You read her diary.”

“I did.”

“Show me yours,” she said, holding out her hand.

“My what?”

“Notebook. You saw mine, read hers, it’s only fair I see yours.”

For a second she thought he wasn’t going to comply, would perhaps claim he left it back at the hotel, but she knew it was in the inside pocket of his jacket even before he reached to where it hung over a neighboring stool and handed it over.

Opening it to a random page, she frowned as she read, trying to make out some of the words.

“Your handwriting is awful.”

“You sound like my primary school teacher.”

Emily stifled a giggle. “It’s like a drunken spider making its way across each line.”

“If you’re going to be mean,” he said, reaching across for the book, but she batted his hand away.

He had written a song about the falling leaves of autumn, likened them to the people of your life, the ones you have to let go. There was another about the cruel hand of fate, that pulls you away from what your heart desires most of all. Not exactly Proust, but the sentiment was clear. Emily could see more, sense what was hidden in between all the letters and words Tyler wasn’t quite brave enough to say.