‘She loved those boys. And she loved you, Robin. She’d tell me your news. How well you were doing at work. What unsuitable woman you were dating.’

He laughs. ‘There were many of those.’

‘No one now?’

He shakes his head. ‘Too busy.’

‘Too lazy, more like. You have to make the effort, you know. Beautiful women don’t just drop into your lap. You’re not getting any younger. Or better-looking.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Freya listens to this warm exchange and resolves to call her own parents. Make the time to go and visit. It’s been too long.

The conversation moves on, and Freya watches as Sandra and Robin reminisce. Now that the subject has shifted from his embarrassing teenage encounters, Robin’s happy to swap stories. Talking about his parents, his sister. Growing up together in the tiny Devon village. Dinner has finished, and Robin sits back in his chair, wine glass clutched in his hand, smiling more broadly than Freya thinks she has ever seen. It’s a different side to him. Relaxed. Himself. She realises just how little about Robin she actually knows.

This guy here teases and jokes. He’s more tactile with Sandra than she’s seen him with anyone else. And she is with him, at one point leaning over and enveloping him in a big hug. He helps himself to more wine without asking; this is somewhere he undoubtedly feels at home, despite all the years that have passed. His accent is more West Country: the long a, the drop of the h.

But then, she thinks, he’s never been this drunk around her before.

Either his new healthy way of life has lowered his alcohol tolerance or it’s the sheer amount of white he and Sandra are sinking, but Freya realises as they finish pudding that he is wasted. Sandra, too. They’ve moved back into the living room; Freya’s offer to wash up is dismissed quickly and Sandra’s eyes are half closed. Robin’s head lolls to one side.

She looks at the clock – it’s nearly eleven p.m.

‘Come on, Sarge,’ she says, rousing Robin from where he is clearly planning on taking a nap. ‘Let’s take you home.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?’ Sandra asks, eyeing them slightly cross-eyed.

‘Absolutely,’ Freya says. But as she grabs Robin’s hand to pull him up from the sofa, his other goes round her waist, steadying himself. And she has to admit, she kind of likes it.

They say their goodbyes, earning another bear hug from Sandra, and they stagger back to the old Volvo. This must be the only way Robin will let her drive, she thinks. When he’s so paralytic that unconsciousness prevents his usual hesitation.

His eyes close again the moment he’s strapped in the passenger seat.

‘Great,’ she mutters. She has no sodding clue where she’s going.