Dessie closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth on her skin. Perhaps it was about the money and he was too embarrassed to tell her. Pharmacy dispensers didn’t earn much.

She sat up, sunglasses sliding down her nose. That had to be it. His budget wouldn’t stretch to the kind of holidays she could afford with her extensive list of well-connected and lucrative clients.

A seed of an idea began to flower.

She would surprise him with a holiday. Book it. Pay for it. Surely, he couldn’t refuse such a generous gift.

Excited by her plan, Dessie ran through a list of possible destinations and dates. The Amalfi Coast in late September. Or New England with its spectacular display of color. Perhaps, if she could bear to hold on a few months, they could take a springtime trip to Japan and see the float and drift of its cherry blossoms. She’d always wanted to do that.

During awards season, her career as a makeup artist took her to some of the world’s most exclusive hotels. She didn’t stay in them, of course, but the “talent” did. Still, she might be able to hunt down a deal. She’d need to book flights, too, and for that, she’d need their passports.

Passports.

A bud of doubt.

She assumed that Fletcher had one, although she couldn’t remember seeing it. They’d been away for weekends together, but never abroad. And when they’d traveled to Scotland for a friend’s wedding, they’d driven, not flown.

She slipped on her flip-flops and went inside. When he’d moved in, she’d noticed he kept his important documents in a large box file. Perhaps it was in there.

An hour later, Dessie was still looking. She’d checked the spare room, the space above the wardrobes, under the bed and in the attic. The only place she hadn’t tried was the garage.

She unlocked the side door and walked into a mouthful of cobwebs.

He’d better bloody appreciate this effort.

She peered around, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. The skeleton of her old bike. A Black & Decker Workmate. Some half-used tins of paint and crusted brushes.

And there it was, sitting on a shelf.

With a sense of triumph, she edged her way through the assorted detritus of her life and lifted down the box.

A stash of plastic folders was crammed into the space. Each was neatly labeled. BANK STATEMENTS. NHS CARD. NATIONAL INSURANCE. CERTIFICATE OF IMMUNIZATIONS. BIRTH CERTIFICATE. PASSPORT.

A grin split her face. She flicked through the passport’s pages and there he was, sober-faced, but still handsome. A quick check of the expiration date confirmed he’d renewed it last year, a couple of months before they’d met. Excellent. This is going to be fun. She slipped it into the pocket of her shorts.