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You must have.’

She crouched and rooted in her rucksack amongst the litter of their picnic. Find a pen, please have a pen, you must have a pen . . .

‘Hurrah! A pen!’

‘Hurrah’? You shouted ‘hurrah!’, you idiot. Stay calm. Don’t blowit now.

She rooted in her wallet for a scrap of paper, found a supermarket receipt, and handed it over, then dictated her number, her parents’ number in Leeds, their address and her own address in Edinburgh with special emphasis on the correct postcode, and in return he wrote down his.

‘This is me.’ He handed her the precious scrap of paper. ‘Call me or I’ll call you, but one of us will call, yes? What I mean is it’s not a competition. You don’t lose if you phone first.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m away in France until August, but then I’m back and I

thought you might want to come down and stay maybe?’

‘Stay with you?’

‘Not for ever. For a weekend. At mine. My parents’, I

mean. Only if you want to.’

‘Oh. Okay. Yes. Okay. Yes. Yes. Okay. Yes.’

‘So. I should get back. Are you sure you don’t want to come for a drink or something? Or dinner?’

‘I don’t think I should,’ she said.

‘No, I don’t think you should either.’ He looked relieved and she felt slighted once again. Why not? she thought. Was he embarrassed by her?

‘Oh. Right. Why’s that?’

‘Because I think if you did I’d go a bit mad. With frustration, I mean. You sitting there. Because I wouldn’t be able to do what I want to do.’

‘Why? What do you want to do?’ she asked, though she knew the answer. He put one hand lightly on the back of her neck, and simultaneously she placed one hand lightly on his hip, and they kissed in the street as all around them people hurried home in the summer light, and it was the sweetest kiss that either of them would ever know.

This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.

And then it was over. ‘So. I’ll see you around,’ he said, walking slowly backwards away from her.

‘I hope so,’ she smiled.

‘And I hope so too. Bye, Em.’

‘Bye, Dex.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’

Acknowledgements

Continued thanks to Jonny Geller and Nick Sayers for their enthusiasm, insight and guidance. Also all at Hodder and Curtis Brown. I’m grateful to those who submitted themselves to early drafts: Hannah MacDonald, Camilla Campbell, Matthew Warchus, Elizabeth Kilgarriff, Michael McCoy, Roanna Benn and Robert Bookman. Some points of detail were also provided by Ayse Tashkiran, Katie Goodwin, Eve Claxton, Anne Clarke and Christian Spurrier. I continue to be indebted to Mari Evans. Once again, Hannah Weaver is thanked for her support and inspiration, and for putting up with it all. A debt is owed to Thomas Hardy, for unwittingly suggesting the premise and some clumsily paraphrased prose in the final chapter. Also to Billy Bragg, for his fine song ‘St Swithin’s Day’. It is in the nature of this novel that certain smart remarks and observations may have been pilfered from friends and acquaintances over the years, and I hope that a collective thank you – or apology – will be enough.

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