‘A pizza joint? Somewhere that can rustle me up a stuffed-crust Margarita with a generous drizzle of chilli oil? You know what it’s like when you are in a hotel, and all that truffle-infused whatnot and micro portions of grub leave you feeling a bit, meh.’ He shrugged.

‘And you want that right now? This morning?’ She glanced at the clock and hesitated to recommend the breakfast buffet that would be in full swing in less than fifteen minutes.

‘Yup. Jet lag. This is my night time.’ He grinned.

‘Yes, of course, let me find you a menu or at the very least a link to a website. Failing that, I will have the kitchen contact you directly and see what they can whip up. And I will have someone either bring it to your room or I will email you the link. Your room number, please?’

‘One oh eight.’

‘One oh eight. Consider it done.’ She smiled sweetly.

‘Thank you, and don’t let me keep you. I know you put that guy on hold.’ He winked at her and helped himself to a couple of the wrapped mints that sat on the desk in a natty glass bowl bearing the family crest.

‘Thank you.’ She immediately picked up the phone. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir . . . hello?’ But the line was dead. She felt the flare of guilt that she might at worst have lost a potential customer or at best offended one.

The front door opened and in walked a handsome man with dark hair and the gorgeous golden complexion that suggested he might be from the Mediterranean.

‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Milbury Court. How can I help you?’

‘Hello!’ He beamed, his accent a London one and his manner friendly. ‘I don’t know if I should have used another entrance.’ He took in the grand reception. ‘I’m the new restaurant manager.’ He walked forward and held out his hand. ‘Miguel. Miguel Rochas.’

Merrin shook it and felt a little shy, as the armour of her position slipped away and she was now aware of addressing a colleague.

‘I’m Merrin.’

‘Nice to meet you. Where’re you from?’

This a standard question in this industry, where a team was, more often than not, international.

‘Cornwall.’

‘I went to Cornwall once.’ He smiled at her.

‘Did you like it?’

‘No,’ he answered sharply, and she laughed loudly. It was a laugh that came without hesitation, a reminder of the old Merrin who used to act with glorious spontaneity, before each movement and sound that left her body had to travel through a filter of hurt and second-guessing. He was funny. ‘Of course I did! It was beautiful.’

‘It is.’ She pictured the view from the cobbles out over the cove and her heart danced at the image.

‘What about you?’