Alice puts down her glass, rubs a hand across her mouth. She wants to scream that it’s not OK– that Faith hadn’t made it clear that Mitch would be joining them this evening. But her friend looks so excited. This is important to her. And Faith has been such a support to Alice, the least she can do is take a long deep breath and meet the man of her dreams.

Faith met Mitch Fisher at a Whitby war weekend battle re-enactment. She sets up stalls on Sundays at festivals and events, selling her homemade jewellery and floral headdresses. He approached her wanting to buy one of her necklaces for his mother’s birthday.

‘I so want you to meet him,’ she says now, screwing up her face, hunching her shoulders. ‘If I’m totally honest, he’s a bit overwhelmed that your dad was—’

‘What? Oh God, Faith, you never said that was the reason.’ Alice rubs her neck, takes another gulp of her wine. She doesn’t want attention being drawn to who her father was. He would have hated it too. She thought Faith knew that.

‘I never told him who you were, Alice, truly I didn’t.’ Faith puts down her pint. ‘He saw you comment on my Facebook status, recognised you from the papers. He’s a huge fan of your dad’s work. He’s read all of his books. I wouldn’t have …’ Her eyes are wide, glazed.

Alice knows Faith feels bad. She touches her arm. ‘Don’t worry. Seriously. It’s fine.’ But it’s far from it. The music, chatter, laughter – all sounds too loud, closing in on her. She wishes she hadn’t come.

‘Hey, Faith.’ The voice booms from across the bar. Alice turns to see Mitch heading towards them, and folds her arms like a barrier. She knows it’s him from seeing photos on Faith’s Instagram and Facebook accounts. From reading his arrogant, sexist remarks – the latest being that men are put on this planet to dominate – she already knows she doesn’t like him.

His dark hair, shot through with strands of grey, is tied back in a stubby ponytail. He’s closer to fifty than he looks in his social media photos; he’s wide-shouldered – over six foot. His lime-green rain jacket is zipped to the neck, his jeans faded, his leather boots battered.

Faith jumps to her feet as he approaches, rises on tiptoe to kiss his dry lips. She grips his arm as though he might escape, and spins round to face Alice. ‘Mitch, Alice; Alice, Mitch.’