But intelligent guesses take her to road signs, and then streets she recognises. Sighing with relief, she pulls up in the car park of the Premier Inn. She nudges her boss, who’s started snoring.

‘Robin!’ she hisses. ‘Butler! You stupid twat,’ she adds under her breath. She considers leaving him in the car park, but he wakes at the sound of her door opening and the interior light coming on.

‘Oh! We’re back! Good job,’ he mumbles at her, patronising.

He manages a wobbly shuffle into the hotel, then into the lift, and along the corridor. She finds his room key in his back pocket – a more intimate experience than she would have liked – and puts it in his door. He leans in the door frame and looks at her from half-open eyes.

‘We make a good team, you and me,’ he slurs with a lopsided smile.

‘Yes, Robin,’ she says, humouring him. ‘Now go to bed.’

He leans forward and, to her surprise, gives her a kiss on her cheek. But in his drunkenness he ends up missing slightly, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth.

‘Right then,’ he says. ‘Bedtime.’

And with a loud slam of the door, he’s gone.

She looks at the closed door for a second, then shakes her head in disbelief. Just when she thinks she’s got the measure of Robin Butler, it turns out she’s wrong.

36

Sunday

Robin can remember most of last night. Most. But despite the banging in his head and the desperate need for water, he feels okay. None of the usual haunting regret of having said something ridiculous, although he’s pretty sure he did. What made the difference was the company. Sandra had seen it all: the late-night vomiting with Finn, the fights, the teenage acne. And, as it was revealed last night, his early attempts with girls. One night with too much wine wouldn’t have fazed her.

And Freya… Well, Freya knows the worst of him. Trevor Stevens, and everything that happened there. The despair, the depths of his depression. And she took it all on, still working with him, day in, day out.

He lies in bed, listening to the hum of the air conditioner, the clatter and slam of doors opening and closing outside. Conversations in the corridor. He picks up his phone: no messages. He sends a quick text to Freya: Have a lie-in, this is your holiday after all. Will be back later. Then he adds a smiley face, which feels out of character but necessary.

He has a long shower under surprisingly hot and powerful jets, and gets dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt as yesterday. Out in the corridor, he pauses. There’s no noise coming from behind Freya’s door, and in the fuzz of his hangover he remembers saying good night. A kiss on the cheek missing, and a slight touch of the lips.