She was working on Sonnet 64 and had stumbled over two of the lines:

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That Time will come and take my love away.

Ruin. Was that where she was heading? Sometimes Lana wondered whether she knew herself at all. She knew she was attracted to danger and to risk, but why? Why jeopardize what she had? What was it inside her that drew her towards this weird kind of self-sabotage? Was she in some sort of tantrum with Gareth and Jude for being such good mates these days? For pushing her out? Did she resent it – was she in some way, indirectly, unjustifiably, looking for someone to make her feel special? Or was she simply bored? Hundreds of thoughts chased each other around her head – she’d met this guy just once! And she’d been drunk, for God’s sake! She couldn’t even remember what he looked like – so even if she did meet up with him, which she wasn’t going to, how would she recognize him? The whole thing was ludicrous.

She would throw the note from this Damo fella straight into the bin. And focus on going home in two weeks’ time for Christmas. It was going to be brilliant. A whole month with Gareth – sleeping in Gareth’s bed, being in the flat with Gareth, just hanging out. Judith would be there too, of course, but that was OK, it’d be fun! Of course it would. And being with Gareth properly would make everything better.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he said, handing her half a lager and laughing in a way that she found both irritating and irresistible. ‘Cheers!’

She took several gulps to allay her nerves.

She was standing in the bar of a busy pub down the road from the Collingwood Guest House. Half an hour earlier she’d been at the reception desk there, asking if Damian Magill was available. Just as the Carry On-obsessed Mrs Daniels was informing her that the contractors didn’t usually get home till about seven, she heard a voice behind her. ‘Ah now, what took you so long?’

Damian Magill was stood in the doorway, dusty in his work clothes, flask and Tupperware in hand, a copy of the Sun under his arm and a Bensons behind his ear. What a cliché, Lana thought. Whilst at the same time noticing the breadth of him and the height of him and his confident jaw-line and laughing green eyes. His complexion was ruddy, his hair was thick and sandy, and she realized straight away that she was in trouble. Struggling for something to say, all she could come out with was, ‘Well, I was just passing, y’know …’

He looked at her and grinned as if he was eyeing up his dinner. And Lana hated him in an instant. He was a bit older than she remembered. Thirty, maybe?

‘Give me those old things, Damian, and I’ll get them washed,’ interrupted Mrs Daniels as she took his flask and sandwich box.