His head is bent over a spiral-bound notepad, chewing the end of a pen, and as she is led over to him by an over-effusive waiter, she spots ink stains on his index finger. It takes her back to when they were first married and he’d started his journalism course, always scribbling away in the corner of their tiny flat.

He looks up as she approaches and puts down the pen. He has one of those faces that appear stern, a little intense, like a boxer before a fight, until he smiles, when his features instantly soften. ‘Lorna!’ He stands up. At six foot two he towers over her. He bends down to kiss her cheek. He smells like he always does, of musky aftershave and laundry detergent, at odds with his ruffled appearance.

She slides into the seat opposite. They wait until they’ve been handed their menus and ordered their drinks before they speak.

‘You’re looking well,’ he says.

‘You too.’ And it’s true, he does. Still broad but leaner, less tubby around the belly. And even though he has lines around his eyes, at forty-two he still has a boyish quality.

‘How’s it going, living in Spain?’

‘Good. You know me. Itchy feet.’

He laughs. ‘Sounds about right.’

‘What about you? Met the woman of your dreams yet?’

‘Too busy working.’

‘Sounds about right,’ she quips back. They hold each other’s gaze.

‘I’m sorry to hear about Rose,’ he says, breaking eye contact.

‘About the dementia or the bodies?’ she asks, trying to make a joke but he doesn’t laugh.

‘It must be hard for you and Saffy.’

She fiddles with the napkin on her lap without meeting his eye. ‘It’s like we’ve lost her but she’s still alive. When I went to see her she . . .’ her voice cracks ‘. . . she didn’t recognize me.’

He reaches across the table and takes her hand. ‘Rose was good to me . . . even after we split.’

Lorna nods, ashamed that a lump has formed in her throat. She’s tried so hard, this week, to be strong for Saffy, to remain upbeat and positive. ‘It’s difficult because she gets confused and I don’t want Saffy to worry because of the baby.’ She looks up at him. ‘What do you make of that, then? Grandparents in our early forties.’

He grins. ‘It was to be expected, I suppose. Saffy was never going to play the field. She was born a grown-up, that one.’ He takes his hand from hers.

‘Such a serious little girl,’ she agrees, and they smile at each other, remembering their shared history.

They fall silent and their eyes lock for a few seconds until Lorna pulls her gaze away. She needs to be proactive and practical. That’s what she’s here for, after all. She bends down to retrieve the newspaper clipping from her bag, then pushes it across the table towards Euan.