‘Yes,’ he said, flicking on the kitchen light, his feet cold on the tiled floor. ‘I have started the book.’

Sylvie gave an elaborate sigh of relief and, not for the first time, Toby wondered how she hadn’t ended up on stage. It would have suited her, the limelight. Instead his ex-wife spent her life pursuing that for other people.

‘Well thank the Lord for small mercies,’ she said, oblivious to Toby’s mental meanderings. ‘What have you got?’

‘Three chapters,’ Toby said, staring out at the garden as he filled the kettle, ‘and they’re in no state to be read by anyone yet. Even me. Why?’

‘Send them over, would you? Lickety-split.’

‘Did you not hear what I just said?’

‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ Sylvie scoffed. ‘I’ve seen you write copy for print faster than I can unpack an Estée Lauder gift bag. Send them over and stop being precious. Simon & Schuster are thinking of making an offer.’

‘Sylvie, I really don’t think I want anyone seeing this, not yet. Writing a book – it’s entirely different to writing a piece of journalism. For a start, this is about me. That’s not something I’ve ever done before and it’s going to take me a while to get right. Surely you can understand that.’

This time the sigh was a heavily dissatisfied one. ‘All right, all right.’

They lapsed into silence, during which Toby heard her light another cigarette and he stirred his tea.

‘How are the dreams?’ Sylvie asked eventually. ‘Or does the fact that you were still asleep at 9 a.m. tell me all I need to know?’

He slid open the glass door and breathed in the morning air. It looked as if it was going to be another sunny day. There had been a string of them over the past week, the Scottish weather finally conceding to a late summer.

‘They’re pretty bad,’ he said honestly. ‘As bad as they’ve ever been, really.’

Sylvie tutted. ‘You should be in therapy.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you asked this woman you’re caught up on out yet?’

Toby took a mouthful of tea. ‘That’s quite a segue.’

‘Have you?’

‘Not exactly.’

There was a pause. ‘What does that mean?’

Toby sighed, wondering how this was an appropriate conversation to have with one’s former spouse. ‘I really have to get some other friends.’

‘I’m not arguing. So? What happened?’

‘Really, Sylvie. Can you not just drop it?’

Sylvie exhaled audibly. He imagined the resulting smoke curling round her face. ‘Suit yourself, darling,’ she said. ‘All I really care about is that you get me those chapters as soon as you can. Let me earn you some money, why don’t you?’

‘I’m worried about her,’ Edie said, of Rachel, her long artist’s fingers framing her pint glass. ‘Doesn’t she seem distracted, to you?’

The bookshop regulars, minus Rachel but including Toby, were drinking together in the Fretted Goose. Toby wasn’t sure whether this had been as regular an occurrence before Cullen’s death, or whether the loss of their friend had encouraged the habit. Either way, he found himself pleased to be included. Rachel, though, had rarely joined them.