Fiona leant forward so her voice would carry. ‘I was thinking how brilliant it is we’re all online now. Instead of having to post the newspaper cutting to your folks in Melbourne, you can just send them the link. I could do it tomorrow if you give me an email address.’

There was silence, followed by the noise of Pete spitting out his toothpaste. He wandered back into the bedroom and pulled off his T-shirt. Fiona noticed the rolls of fat around his midriff; too much tasting his good food.

‘I don’t know why you don’t tell me more about them. I mean, that’s three years we’ve been together and I’ve never even spoken to your parents on the phone.’ Fiona smiled. ‘Do they actually exist?’

Pete sat down on his side of the bed and slipped off his jeans. ‘What time does Doreen get the papers in on a Saturday?’

‘Well, the shop opens at eight, but the papers only come up from Alyth about half nine. If you’re desperate to see the review you could check it out online first thing.’ She put two pillows back to his side, popped a couple of pills in her mouth and swigged from her water bottle, then switched off her bedside lamp. ‘Anyway, come to bed. You’ll need a good night’s sleep – if it’s a five-star review, Michelin may well come calling!’

‘To the sleepiest village in Perthshire? Bloody doubt it.’ He slipped into bed, gave her a kiss and rolled onto his side. ‘Night.’

A couple of minutes later, he turned and whispered, ‘Fi, you know I love you, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, darling.’

* * *

Next morning, Fiona woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. She looked at the clock: 08:30. How had she slept so long? She ran downstairs and grabbed the phone. It was Mrs Cumberland, the receptionist at Glenisla Hotel.

‘Is that you, Fiona?’

‘Yes, is everything okay?’

‘Well, no, not really. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, and when he’s got a late night tonight too, but can you tell Pete to get over here as soon as he can? That new sous-chef can’t get the grill on and a guest’s wanting kippers. Pete’s always saying not to do them in a pan as they stink everything else out.’

‘Sorry, Mrs C, he’s not here,’ said Fiona, walking through the cottage. ‘No idea where he’s gone.’ She frowned; usually on a Saturday morning he loved long lies. ‘I’ll call you back.’