The interior of the shop wasn’t a vast improvement on the outside, with uninspiring mushroom-coloured paintwork and a slightly musty smell. Tall floor-to-ceiling shelves were set closely together with barely space to walk between them. It meant she could browse unnoticed, and it didn’t take her long to discover that what the shop lacked in beauty, it more than made up for in its vast selection of old and rare books. She lost herself in them, taking out one after the other, turning crackly old pages in fascination.

She chose some to purchase, taking them to the sales counter. The middle-aged man behind it didn’t glance up as she approached, his eyes glued to his phone. Nor did he look up when Molly put the books on the counter.

‘Ahem,’ she tried politely.

Eyes briefly looked up. ‘I’m busy with something,’ he said, focusing again on his phone. ‘Give me a minute.’

Glancing at the books, she shook her head. She didn’t want them that desperately. Without a word, she left them on the counter and exited the shop. A glance through the window as she passed, showed her the man hadn’t appeared to notice.

Suddenly the absolute ridiculousness of her situation made her smile and with another shake of her head, she headed back to the station to catch the tube home. If Mr Turquoise Eyes dared to turn up, she was ready to confront him. She’d plead if she had to.

It was almost six by the time she turned the corner onto Elystan Street, looking ahead to the front of her house, closing her eyes on a brief prayer of thanks when there was nobody standing there, waiting for her. It was over.

Unwilling to make more excuses as to why she was late, she rushed into the house and up the stairs. A quick shower refreshed her, and when she came downstairs twenty minutes later in a pair of soft cotton pyjamas she was in a good mood and ready for a relaxing evening.

She put the kettle on for a cup of tea and investigated what they could have for dinner because, once again, she’d forgotten to buy anything. Maybe a big note on the kitchen counter would work. She picked up the house phone and dialled a local Indian restaurant that also did takeaways. They hadn’t had one for a while, it would be a nice change.

She sipped lemon and ginger tea, feeling the stress of the busy day ebb while she waited.

It arrived thirty minutes later. Paying, she took the bag straight to the kitchen, leaving it on the counter in the containers. It would be easy to throw it into the microwave when Jack got home. She checked the clock. He was unusually late.