They were all six months raw.

‘Do you need introductions?’ Rob said easily, rising as well. She’d recognised the women but was given introductions anyway. ‘Tori, you must know Miss Glenda Parling-postmistress to Combadeen until fifteen years ago. And Mrs. Doreen Ryde? Doreen’s Glenda’s sister. You’ve already met Mrs. Matheson, our own personal wizard-chef, and of course you know Jake. Sit down and wrap yourself round some of Mrs. Matheson’s cooking.’

Jake was holding her chair for her. There was nothing for her to do but sink onto the lovely upholstery-and sink into the night.

Jake and Rob were chatting, drawing the elderly ladies out between them. They let her be, as if protecting her. The conversation had obviously been going on before she got there. She was free to take in her surroundings and the people around her. The lilt of soft music in the background. The fragrance of…more gardenias?

And then the food arrived.

For six months she’d been living on snacks on the run. Whatever Jake and Rob planned for this place, it was obvious snacks on the run were not on the menu.

For all her life afterwards she remembered that meal.

First there were tiny garfish with slivers of lemon and curls of melting butter, cooked to perfection and leaving her mouth exploding with flavours of the sea.

She’d barely finished when fingers of crusty toast arrived, spread thickly with a creamy trout pate, with caviar on the side. Around the plate were tiny tomatoes, shreds of lettuce and curls of shallots. How could a salad taste of sunshine when winter was barely over? The greenhouse at the edge of the balcony gave her the clue.

The night grew more dream-like. Jake was filling her wineglass with something white and cool and luscious. She was achingly conscious of his presence, but he didn’t speak to her and she didn’t speak to him. Conversation was happening around her but she felt as if she was in some sort of bubble, free to be her with no intrusion.