He was flying to France the next day, for his sister’s birthday gathering. He’d be away for four days. He’d heard from Olivia that Eliza would be gone by the time he returned. He asked if she was free for dinner that night. Just the two of them. Yes, she told him. She was.

They’d arranged to meet in the hotel foyer at seven. Just as she’d finished putting on her make-up, her phone rang.

It was Sullivan’s mother Lisa, calling from Melbourne. She’d arrived home from her American trip. She was ringing to ask a favour. She understood of course if Eliza didn’t want to do it, but Sullivan had still begged her to ask. He wanted to change his flight back to Australia so he could not only leave early, but also be on the same plane as Eliza. So he could accompany her, help her cope with the flight, rather than be an unaccompanied minor himself in a week. His father’s permission had been sought, and granted. Too swiftly granted, according to Lisa. But the final decision was Eliza’s.

She didn’t need to think about it. That would be great, she said.

Lawrence was waiting in the foyer when she came down the stairs.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said.

She felt a blush rise.

She was nervous, she realised as they stepped outside. A mixture of self-consciousness and over-consciousness. Of Lawrence walking close beside her. The smell of his aftershave. The feel of his hand, a gentle touch on her back as they turned a corner. The memory of their kiss in Ireland.

He’d chosen a restaurant within walking distance of the Montgomery, on the edge of the city centre. They were given a warm welcome, seated at a table that seemed to be reserved for special guests.

She’d been anxious that there might be silences, awkwardness. But once again there was so much to talk about. They spoke about his new job. The possible sale of the Montgomery. His sister’s birthday. She told him all that had happened with Emmet.

‘Are you okay?’ he said.

‘Yes, I am,’ she said. It was the truth.

During their meal, the manager came over to greet Lawrence.

‘Have you seen his work?’ he asked Eliza. ‘He’s wasted in that hotel. That’s one of his, you know.’

The manager gestured towards a portrait of himself and his wife, laughing in front of the restaurant. It was full of life and personality. They’d walked past it on the way in.

‘He didn’t mention it was his,’ she said.

‘Lawrence, my friend. Here with a beautiful woman. What better time to boast?’