I blink and pull myself back into the present, glancing over my shoulder to see two men approaching our table, creased shirts and red faces a sure sign they’ve been here a while. Not bad-looking, but neither does anything for me.

“Are you interested?”

Sophie pulls a face and shakes her head.

I grin. “Okay—so who am I?”

Sophie looks at me. “You’re…Tanya Nibbington, a tree surgeon from Norfolk, here visiting a friend, celebrating graduating from tree surgeon college.”

My smile widens. “There’s a tree surgeon college? In Norfolk?”

She shrugs. “What am I?”

“Maeve Larson, undercover detective over from Sweden. Working on a case.”

She drains her drink. “Nice.”

“Or…” They’re almost through the crowd to our table. “Or we could just tell them to buzz off and enjoy our girls’ night.”

“Is that what you want? If you want to go somewhere quieter and talk…?” She says it quietly and seriously and it makes me aware of how off I’ve been tonight.

I’m not being fair. We play this game a lot. We come to this pub a lot. It’s full of city boys, looking for a pickup. I’m rarely interested, but since Sophie turned thirty she’s become keener than ever to “meet the one” and we’re here for her. But I don’t think he’s going to be here, in a sweaty shirt, five pints down on a Tuesday night.

I squeeze her hand. “Don’t be daft. I’m fine, and we don’t want to miss the chance of finding your Prince Charming, do we?”

“It’s all right for you, Tess, you’re twenty-six. Oceans of time before you’re old and wrinkled and on the shelf like me.”

I laugh at her. Sophie looks about twenty-two.

“But really?” I say, nodding toward the approaching sharks.

She sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. We should be going anyway—I’ve got twelfth graders first thing in the morning and I won’t survive the class with a hangover.”

“Ladies…” Creased shirt number one has reached the table. He crouches down, drapes his arms across our chairs. He smells of beer and sweat.

“Did you want our table?” I ask. “We’re just leaving.”

I stand up just as creased shirt number two arrives and manage to bump into him.

“Ah—don’t go. We wanted to buy you a drink.”

Creased shirt number one has said something to make Sophie laugh and I roll my eyes.

“Come on, Maeve Larson,” I say, pulling on her arm. “We’ve got school in the morning.”

“School?” This is from creased shirt number two, sounding alarmed. “You two are still in school?”

I swallow the urge to laugh. The lighting isn’t that dim in here—how much have they had to drink?

“That’s right,” I say. “We’re both fifteen. Still want to buy us that drink?”