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‘Oh, I don’t care about the shipwreck. I’m obsessed with Murray. He’s wild. I’m going home to write notes on him.’

I laugh, and then nudge him. ‘You’re talking about making notes. For a novel.’

‘I never said for a novel,’ he says, but he smiles at me, and I can’t help grinning back. The spark is there, I can see it in his eyes. He’s a writer again. I know that look. And when a writer is in the zone, suddenly everything and everyone is potential fodder.

‘Anyway,’ Xavier says, leaning across me to open the gate, his arm brushing mine. ‘You’re still my real research project.’

I roll my eyes, but hearing him say it gives me a giddy little thrill, which I try my best to ignore.

22

BY THE TIME we are sitting down for lunch at Simone’s, Hillary has an email from Murray.

‘Charlotte, I don’t know what magic you worked, but he’s agreed to keep his tour to ninety minutes,’ Hillary says.

I smile, filled with relief that my plan didn’t backfire in the myriad of ways it could have, and I try to look unsurprised.

‘You’re now the official Murray O’Healy whisperer,’ Kat says, as she picks up the menu. ‘Anything Murray-related that pops up, I’ll send straight to you.’ She grins at me.

‘I think handling more than one Murray-related problem a year goes against the employee mental-health policy, surely,’ I say. I’m joking, clearly, our tiny office doesn’t have a mental-health policy for a start, but Hillary suddenly looks up and around at us all with a serious expression.

‘How is everyone’s mental health?’ she asks solemnly.

Jamila, who was in the middle of saying something, pauses. Kat, who was sipping her water, gives a startled cough. We all stare at Hillary, and we must present a mixture of confusion and fear, because she tries to soften her approach.

‘I just mean, how are you all coping with the workload? There’s a lot going on, we’re under a lot of pressure, and I thought a check-in would be good. Jamila?’

Jamila looks like her blood pressure is spiking.

‘I’m good. I’m great!’ She clears her throat, glancing at me.

‘And Kat? Charlotte?’

‘Good,’ we say in unison.

‘Well. Good. That’s done then,’ Hillary says. ‘And how are other things? In your lives?’

Again, a silence falls. In our lives? No one seems quite sure how to answer that because Hillary has never been interested in our lives before. What kind of specific information is she looking for, I wonder.

Hillary, looking impatient at our seeming inability to hold a conversation, ploughs ahead with a new tactic. ‘Are you dating anyone? Jamila? What about that boy from the cafe?’

Dating questions? The sex with Graham must have cracked open a part of her mind that has suddenly made her interested in other people’s sex lives. Or maybe it was Graham’s remarks about her previous assistants—maybe she wants to prove she is a good and attentive boss. Whatever it is, Graham is to blame, I’m sure.

‘Darius and I are just friends,’ Jamila says, her face turning red.

‘Charlotte?’ Hillary says. ‘How’s your dating life?’

‘Non-existent,’ I say.

‘Why is that?’ Hillary asks.

‘Well, this town’s offerings are pretty bleak,’ I say, and then I grab my phone and open the dating app I keep meaning to delete, leaning over to show her a sample because Hillary likes statements to be backed up with evidence.

She puts on her glasses and squints at the screen as I swipe. ‘Good grief, look at him, why is that one holding a fish, that one is too, why are they all holding things, how can you possibly know what they look like when they’re wearing a hat and sunglasses, what does that say?’

I pause so she can read the charming caption: ‘NO politics, NO drama, NO kids, NO fattys!!!’

‘Good lord,’ Hillary says. ‘There must be other ways to meet people.’