I had estimated that he must be at least seventy years of age, but had no idea how I might recognise him. The only thing he had said in another Facebook message last night was that he would be wearing a white shirt and a navy waistcoat.

I concluded he might be a bit of a silver fox; one of those lounge lizard types still trying to cling on to the last vestiges of their youth.

The thought made me draw my mouth in with disapproval.

I fought the temptation to make assumptions as I sat there, waiting for Flynn Talbot to arrive. What sort of man was he? Everything pointed to him having upped and left to go to Africa with his wife all those years ago, but having failed to return after a year like he had promised. Is that what happened? Did he break his promise to Lily about coming back?

But he had obviously returned to Scotland at some point, though not to Merry Wood, and poor Lily had been pining for him ever since. In her mind, was Merry Wood like some sort of shrine to him? If so, I was beginning to decide he wasn’t worth it. I felt sorry for his wife and for Lily. They no doubt deserved so much better.

I took a sip of my breakfast tea and tried to stem my apprehension and annoyance by appreciating my surroundings.

The Sycamore Tea Rooms were inspired by Charles Rennie McIntosh and consisted of a mix of circular and square tables covered in snow-white table cloths and surrounded by walnut-brown high-backed chairs.

Christmas holly, ribbons, and a white and silver tree decorated with Rennie McIntosh coasters and pens instead of baubles adorned the tea room entrance.

The menus were black leather-clad affairs. Straight through from the tea room was a Charles Rennie McIntosh inspired giftshop decked out with white walls and silver cabinets and spotlights, boasting everything from scented candles to pictures, and clocks.

I glanced down at my watch. Flynn Talbot was five minutes late.

My stomach clenched as a couple of well-dressed women arrived and were escorted to their table.

Like composing photo-fit pictures in my head, I imagined him to be all craggy and distinguished, with a sun-kissed complexion and twinkly eyes.

Oh. Hang on! Was that him?

A tall, confident-looking older man with a generous head of silvery hair appeared and stared around himself.

That must be him.

I scraped out my chair, almost knocking over my pot of tea in the process – in time to see him break into a grin at a lady over by the panoramic windows and stride towards her. They embraced.

Ok. So that wasn’t him then.

I sank back down, drawing puzzled glances from the waitress.

Had he had second thoughts? Perhaps he had decided not to turn up.