Pip arrives. I think he’s very brave to have agreed to share the same air space with my family. I’m fairly reluctant to do it sometimes. He kisses me as he comes through the door and gives me a tentative squeeze. I take his motorbike helmet and the ton weight of his jacket. My inability to bear even moderately heavy loads is beginning to worry me.

‘Oh, my word,’ my friend says as he picks his way through the pile of equipment and children on the floor. ‘This looks like serious stuff.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what to do with half of it yet.’

‘I’m not sure I would,’ he admits.

As well as tons of equipment and clothing, I’m taking loads of books in case no one talks to me. Pip picks one up and examines it. ‘Interesting reading matter,’ he observes. ‘Possibly not the best selection for someone who’s going to spend a month in a tent.’

As well as the obligatory guidebook, I’ve chosen only paperbacks that feature murder, horror and serial killers.

‘Ah yes,’ I say, ‘but there are no children, no angelic babies, no romantic heroes, no happy families—especially after the serial killer calls—and definitely no happy endings.’

Pip laughs. ‘Then they’re very appropriate.’ He rubs his chin and ponders. ‘Where exactly are you going to put them?’

‘Goodness only knows.’ I haven’t worked that out yet. I’m hoping my rucksack performs miracles and holds all that is stuffed into it.

‘Look,’ I say, pulling my attention back to my guest. ‘You can make a run for it now if you’d like before my relatives get their claws into you. It could be a wise move.’

‘Nonsense,’ Pip says. ‘I wanted to be here to wish you bon voyage.’

‘Come and meet my sister then,’ I suggest as I’m not sure what else to do with him and Edie’s eyes look as if they may be about to shoot out of her head. ‘Edie meet Pip. Pip, Edie.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Pip says and looks as if he would shake hands with her, but her one hand is clutching a wine glass and the other a small child.

‘You too,’ Edie says. ‘What do you make of this?’

She points Archie in the direction of my clothing mountain. Pip turns to check out the full-colour glory of my trekking gear again—as if he can’t quite believe how terribly unstylish it is. Mind you, Pip’s wearing a shirt that looks like the purple wrapper off the nut whirl in a tin of Quality Street. My mother will view this with the utmost suspicion. She does not normally mix with men in purple, metallic shirts.

Edie mouths to me, ‘He’s gorgeous!’ just as Pip turns back.