‘Oh …’ Finch stopped beside her, halfway up the steps at the Regent Street exit to Piccadilly Circus, where there was still some shelter. It was not just raining, it was absolutely bucketing down, the streets awash, people pressed against the sides of the buildings, desperate to get out of the downpour. Their planned stroll to the theatre was barely ten minutes, but without an umbrella – and absolutely no chance of a taxi – it would leave them drenched.

‘We’re late already. We’ll have to make a run for it,’ she said dubiously, glancing up at the blackened sky and finding no joy.

‘Here, have my jacket,’ Finch said, beginning to pull it from his shoulders. But she stopped him, pressing her hand to his chest.

‘Thanks, but it’s coming down too hard to make much difference.’

For another moment, they stood there in silence. Then they gave each other a resolute smile as Finch grabbed her hand and they ran, sploshing through the puddles, waiting impatiently for the lights to change and dodging the crowds of tourists – many in emergency waterproof ponchos – as best they could until they arrived breathless at the theatre entrance.

Even in the few minutes it had taken, they had been soaked through and stood – arms held out from their wet clothes – looking at each other in amused dismay. Finch’s hair was plastered to his head, face slick with rain, white shirt stuck to his chest, his tan brogues now mahogany from the puddles.

Romy began to laugh. ‘We can squelch through the first half and hope we dry off by the second. It’s probably warm inside.’

Finch didn’t reply. He seemed to be considering something as they stood dripping in the milling foyer. ‘Or …’ he began ‘… radical suggestion …’

Romy heard the urgent clang of the three-minute warning bell.

‘I’m a member of this place around the corner, for when I need to stay in London – two minutes away. It’s definitely warm there.’

‘You mean miss the play? Seems a terrible waste.’ But she was already beginning to shiver, the wet linen of her jacket clinging heavily against her skin. Plus she had been up to the common the previous day, where Phil, the group leader, had introduced her to coppicing. She had thrown herself enthusiastically into the task, but as a result every muscle in her body had stiffened achingly overnight.

Finch held out his hands, palms up. ‘Decision time.’ He raised first his right like a scale. ‘Sit in wet clothes for two hours, get pneumonia and quite possibly die?’ Then he lowered his right and raised his left. ‘Or … get warm and have a large martini and a steaming bowl of chips?’ He was grinning mischievously as the rest of the audience filed past to find their seats.

‘It’s clear where your allegiance lies,’ Romy said, laughing, as he took her hand again and they went back out into the rain.