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‘Barbara Plum’s cookery book is out of print.’

His face lightens. ‘You remembered the name of it without checking your notes. That means something to me.’

I smile. ‘I will need to speak to my contacts who run second-hand bookshops.’

‘Will you do that for me?’ With a shaky hand, he scratches his tuft of white hair.

‘Yes, I will, Mr Ellis. I have your contact details.’

He smiles. ‘That cookery book is my time machine. Thank you for helping me.’

I watch him hobble away. As the doorbell rings behind him, I reflect on how he still wishes to cook the dishes his wife used to make when she was alive. Surely love doesn’t live on within a recipe for chicken casserole.

16

‘Welcome home,’ Oliver croaks from the sofa as I enter the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa with a damp flannel over his forehead and a hot water bottle against his abdomen. ‘I’m very hungover. My head is throbbing and my belly hurts.’

‘Yes, I saw you come in last night.’

He lifts his flannel and casts me a bewildered look. ‘You saw me drunk?’

I nod. ‘I also met Jamie.’

‘Nelly, I’m sorry. Did we wake you?’

I don’t want to moan or sound like the parent of a teenager who comes home in the early hours from a nightclub and wakes the entire house up. Oliver and I are adults. I want him to feel relaxed and that he can come and go as he pleases. Last night was a celebration, and from the look on his face, he must have partied the night away. In the end, I go for, ‘Yes, but I am glad you had a good time.’

He scratches his stubbled chin before pulling the pink flannel over his forehead. ‘I need to apologise. That must have been late.’

He can say that again!

I remind myself that he’s paying rent. He can do whatever he likes.

‘It’s a bit embarrassing as I only drank…’

‘Two and a half pints,’ I say, finishing his sentence for him.

He groans. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Jamie told me.’

‘I’ve never been great at drinking. How about a cup of tea?’ he asks with a reddening face.

I nod. ‘Milk, no sugar, and make sure it has a bit of colour.’

He staggers into the kitchen, clutching his aching head. After a good ten minutes, he comes back with a mug of tea. ‘I’m sorry, Nelly.’

As he approaches, I survey his tousled hair, his white shirt, untucked from his faded blue jeans, and the top two shirt buttons, which are undone, revealing a triangle of tanned chest. It’s a struggle to drag my eyes away and focus on him, handing over my mug of tea. A fluttering sensation in my chest distracts me, and our fingertips touch.

I wait for the light and the vision.

There is nothing.

He’s staring at me. ‘Are you okay?’

I blink several times. Why didn’t I see a vision? I haven’t banged my head again.

‘Nelly?’