I didn’t sleep that well on Saturday night. I kept coming down to check on Rusty and the puppies who were totally fine. Although the little brown spotted one kept blending in with Rusty’s fur and I panicked because I thought she’d escaped. I ended up sleeping on the sofa, but I didn’t mind. I could stare at those dogs for hours. Actually I did stare at them for hours. Who needs TV when you’ve got puppies?

Once I heard Maggie was awake I went and had a shower and put my best top on and clean jeans because Farah was coming for Sunday lunch. I know Maggie noticed because she smirked as I came in the kitchen. She thinks I fancy Farah, which I do. Who wouldn’t? But I’ve been doing some serious thinking over the last few days. Maggie was right when she said Farah was a good friend. Maggie is usually right about most things.

Farah’s dad dropped her off and he and Maggie had a chat at the door about the library and agreed that Farah would call on Maggie’s phone when she was ready to be picked up. I took Farah on a guided tour of the farm. She’d brought her own wellies – pastel stripes. They were like the cutest boots ever. Her feet are tiny. I’d never noticed before.

‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ I told her and I jogged off to the barn. She was looking at the view when I rode the quad bike across the yard and she turned around. I could see she was well impressed. Her mouth actually dropped open and she squealed. I knew exactly how she felt, I’d felt the same when Maggie had driven it out that first time. Farah got on and I gave her the tour of the land. She asked loads of questions and was seriously interested about Maggie’s self-sustaining lifestyle – those were Farah’s words not mine.

I stopped by the henhouse. ‘Do you like eggs?’

‘Yeah.’

I handed her the wicker basket. ‘Then let’s get you some fresh ones.’

I loved how much Farah was grinning. It reminded me how much I adored it at Maggie’s. I opened one of the hatches on the henhouse and a chicken was sitting there roosting, which made the chicken cluck and Farah jumped backwards. It was real funny.

‘How are things with your dad?’ she asked, as we were dodging the chickens.

‘All right.’ She was watching me closely. ‘Well. Not great.’

‘You know you can share stuff. I won’t blab.’ She looked at me and waited.

‘Yeah. I know that but…’ What was I meant to say?

‘I might be able to help. I’d like to if I can.’ She was lovely – how could I not tell her?

I took a deep breath. ‘He’s an alcoholic.’

‘Oh, Tom.’ She looked shocked.