‘You impressed him,’ Toby said. ‘In that chat you had over tea.’

‘Maybe,’ Rachel said. ‘But I think he’d have done it for anyone. He’s like that. I owe him… well, everything, really. I don’t know what I would have done without him. I have no idea where I’d be now. Sleeping rough, probably.’

Toby wondered where home had been before the van, who her family were and why she couldn’t go back to them. But all he said was, ‘That’s why you’re so tolerant of Gilly. Isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is.’ Rachel looked thoughtful for a moment, distant, and then brought her attention back to him with a smile. ‘Anyway, that’s more than enough about me,’ she said, which wasn’t at all true because Toby had been left with even more of a feeling of mystery about her than when she’d started speaking. ‘Tell me about you. How did you end up as a journalist?’

‘I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything else, at least not seriously,’ Toby said. ‘I was going into my GCSE years at the time of the war in the Balkans. It was horrifying for many reasons, obviously, but I was also fascinated, because on screen there were kids my age on both sides of the conflict. There were teenagers cowering in the corner of basements while shells landed over their heads, and there were others in camouflage gear with guns, and there was I, spending my days struggling with math equations. I wanted to know how their lives could be so different to mine. I was also fascinated by the journalists who put themselves in harm’s way to ask the questions I wanted to ask. It was before the age of citizen journalists. It seemed – I don’t know, like a noble profession, I suppose, to show the rest of the world the stories of people who couldn’t tell it for themselves.’

He glanced at Rachel to find her watching him, listening intently, and was a little unnerved by the strength of her gaze.

‘And is it?’ she asked. ‘A noble profession?’

He finished his pint. ‘I think so. Mostly, anyway. You don’t agree?’

She looked away. ‘I think your sort probably is. Or at least sets out to be.’ She looked back at him. ‘Do you miss it?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s the only work I’ve ever known, and it was never just a job. It was my whole life, really. But I’ll never get insurance to go out again, not with my leg the way it is, so unless I’m happy to confine myself to a desk job, or a local beat… I have no choice but to accept that it’s time to move on.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s the risk I accepted when I chose the life. Anyway, that’s why Sylvie – my ex – is badgering me so hard about this memoir. She’s convinced it’s going to lead into some great new career. I’ve a hunch she sees me as the new Michael Palin.’