“No,” he said, “you won’t.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No. You’ll be sleeping in the cottage. With me. OK?”

“I don’t believe you. I’m not sure I want to, anyway.”

“Yes, you do. I told her so. And I told her she’d been incredibly rude to you and she was to apologise. And I said there was no question of cancelling the festival, and if she tried to, then I was leaving. Leaving home, leaving the farm…”

“You can’t do that,” said Abi. “You love the farm.”

“I know. But not as much as I love you. I meant it; I wasn’t just saying it.”

“But… what would you do?”

“I don’t know. Help you with your events company.”

“You’d be terrible at that,” said Abi. “Really terrible.”

“Thanks. OK, well, I’ll go and run someone else’s farm. Abi, I’m so sorry. I… suppose we’re so used to her, we just let her… let her behave how she does for the sake of peace. When we notice, that is. She’s not such a bad old thing underneath. Her bark’s so much worse than her bite. But… well, that was so awful tonight. I was so ashamed. Of her and myself. I have been feeble-I know I have-but I just kept hoping she wouldn’t find out about the festival until it really was too late.”

“William,” said Abi, “it would never have been too late. She’d have turfed everyone off when the bands were playing, and I’ve got to hand it to her: she’s very formidable. She should have gone into politics. Mrs. Thatcher rides again.”

“Well… maybe. But… please, Abi, please come back. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I can’t lose you again. Please.”

She hesitated, then looked at him and grinned. A wide, happy, glorious grin.

“OK,” she said, “you win. Fair enough. I don’t suppose it’ll be the last battle we have with her. But that’s OK. Oh, shit, William, I love you too. You’re getting awfully wet.”

“Lock your car up,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the cottage. I’ve got the key.”

“OK.”

Inside the door, he looked at her and grinned.

“You know, I told you those clothes weren’t a good idea. You’d have done much better if you’d worn your usual stuff. I think you should take them off right now. Starting with those very boring trousers…”

And thus it was that when Mrs. Grainger arrived at cottage number one, wearing a most determined smile, her arms full of clean linen, and bearing a flask of hot coffee, she found Abi sitting on the stairs, naked from the waist down, and William tenderly removing her flat shoes, kissing her toes as he did so.

In the event, the cab was at least forty minutes; they always were, Emma thought. Why did they do that, say they’d be there before it was remotely possible? She had finished her drink long since, and had actually left the table, was waiting in the lobby of the restaurant, amongst the wet coats and umbrellas. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so unhappy. Yes. She had. Lots of times lately. God, she was turning into a misery. What had happened to her; where had the bouncy, smiling, always happy Emma gone? Maybe it was just as well; she’d probably been a bit annoying…

The taxi seemed to be going a long way round; the fare would be running up into thousands. Well… tens, anyway.

“You know I wanted Rosemary Gardens, don’t you?” she said finally. “By Rosemary Park.”

The driver didn’t seem to hear her. He just carried on speaking into his phone, a headset, in Polish. Or Bulgarian. Or Czech… Probably didn’t understand English anyway, she thought; he was taking her to some completely different place that she didn’t know, and the fare would be so stupendous, she wouldn’t have enough money, and…

“We here. Fifty pounds…”

“Fifty!”

“No. Fifty. One five.”

“Oh… fifteen.”

“That’s what I said. Fifty.”

“OK.”

She counted out sixteen pounds, got out. It was absolutely pouring. There was another car parked on the street. It had its interior light on. The person in the back was reading. Must be waiting for someone.

She got out of the cab, ran towards the house, went inside, slammed the door shut. She thought she’d heard footsteps behind her; she didn’t want to hang about. She put the chain on the door, turned away.

The bell rang. She ignored it. It rang again. She really didn’t want to open it. Not at this time of night. But… maybe she’d locked someone for one of the other flats out.

“Who is it?” she called finally.

There was a silence; then: “It’s Barney.”

This had happened so many times in her imagination, and her dreams, that she more or less assumed he couldn’t be real. She waited, unable even to move the chain, to open the door a crack, too afraid that if she did, she would wake up, or he would simply not be there.

“Emma! Please open the door. Please.”

It did sound like him. It really did. There was a big mirror in the hall; she looked at herself in it. She looked terrible. She was very pale, and her eye makeup had smudged, and her hair was all lank and wet. She couldn’t open the door to Barney looking like that. If it was him.

She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a comb, dragged it through her hair. Wiped a tissue under her eyes, which promptly seemed to smudge more, licked it and tried again, tried desperately to find her makeup bag…

“Emma, what on earth are you doing?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” She had to do it, had to open the door. Whatever she looked like. She did-very cautiously, leaving it on the chain. She peered through the crack. And…

“It is you. Isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, standing here in the pouring rain, begging you to open the door…”

She fumbled at the chain; it seemed to be jammed; it took ages. Finally she pulled it out. Opened the door. And…

“Hello, Emma.” There was a pause. Then he added-and then she knew it was him-“Hello, the Emma. You all right?” He was staring at her, very intently.

“I’m fine. Yes. Hello, Barney. The Barney. Come… come in. Please.”

He came in. She stood looking at him, trying to take in the enormity of it, that he was really here, actually standing in front of her, looking a little dishevelled, not smiling.

“I can’t believe I’m really here,” he said. And put out his hand to touch her arm. She put hers out. And absurdly took his hand and shook it. And giggled.

“Oh, God,” she said, snatching her hand back. “I’m sorry. This is so, so stupid. Oh, Barney, Barney, but why are you here?”

“I’m here,” he said, “because Tamara told me to.”

“Tamara! Now I know I’m dreaming.”

“No,” he said, “you’re not.”

“You’ll have to explain.”

“All right.”

“Well…” She caught sight of herself again in the mirror. “I’m sorry I look so awful.”

“You don’t. You look beautiful to me. Absolutely beautiful.”

It was still all rather surreal.

And then they were standing inside her flat and he was still staring at her and looking very serious, and not touching her, and he said, “I can’t believe this is happening. I really can’t.”

“Nor can I.”

“I’ve tried so hard to get over you. I couldn’t.”

“Nor could I.”

“I… wanted to call you so much, find out what had happened. I just couldn’t.”

“Nor could I. Even after I knew you’d finished with Amanda.”

“I was so afraid you’d… you’d…”

“I know,” she said. “I know what you were afraid of. Same as me. That I was getting over it, had someone else.”

“And,” he said, moving towards her, reaching out, taking one strand of her hair, winding it just a little round his finger, beginning to smile now, “how stupid was that? How stupid.”

“Of both of us,” she said, “so, so stupid. As if that would have been possible.”

“As if indeed.”

“So… what happened?”

“Well… like I said. Tamara told me to ring you. So I did.”

“Since when did you do what Tamara says?”