‘Lucky old you.’ She tried to punctuate his rambling, self-consciousness urging her to end their chat and disappear from view.

‘I shall in fact be at the Glade Hotel this afternoon, with a view over the park and a bottle of bubbly on ice . . .’

‘Oh well, that . . . that sounds nice,’ she said, swallowing.

‘Room 626 – that’s room 6-2-6,’ he enunciated, with a brief flash of his pearly-white teeth. ‘I shall be there from one p.m. onwards and it would be delightful to have some company.’ He stared at her and she stared at him, quite at a loss as to what to say. Was he really suggesting she join him for sex? Had she got the wrong end of the stick? She felt her face colour further and was simultaneously thrilled and horrified at the prospect.

‘Well . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I’d best get these flowers in water.’ She closed the front door and saw the shadow of his dark suit striding away through the frosted glass panel at the top of the door. Sinking on to the floor, Bess slid down until she was concealed from the outside world and laughed until she wheezed, putting her hand over her mouth and cringing with embarrassment.

‘Well I never, Chuts, and the Glade Hotel – very fancy!’ She giggled until her laughter exhausted itself and her cringe level dropped. He was so blatant, so confident! And she would have been lying if she didn’t admit to finding the whole exchange more than a little exciting. There was something about him, something about being propositioned by a good-looking man who knew his wines . . .

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Bess!’ She pulled herself together and scrambled up, then ripped the card from the top of the box and read the printed message:

Happy Birthday with love from Philip and Nanette. X

‘Ah, how lovely.’ Her brother always sent flowers on her birthday and she kept his printed cards in the drawer of her dressing table. She thought of her sixteenth birthday, when he had bought her stripy legwarmers and presented them to her in his pants. The memory of that moment, the smell of pancakes on the stove top, the dust of their childhood home, the morning smell of her dad as he enveloped her in a hug: it was almost more than she could bear. ‘Actually, I think if I could turn back time, it would be to then . . .’ she confessed into the ether. That perfect moment. Before . . .

Just as Bess was tugging open the stubborn cardboard flap of the delivery box, which was thoroughly glued down, the phone rang.

‘It’s a madhouse today, Chuts!’ she said to the dog, who looked up at her briefly but said nothing.