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I knew Jackson was forever slagging off other authors’ work, but this was just plain unnecessary. He didn’t ‘do’ commercial and I doubted very much he’d even read Theo’s novels.

Theo is a brilliant writer and we work exceptionally well together. You’ve heard there’s a lot of buzz about our book, presumably, otherwise you wouldn’t have messaged me out of the blue like this?

I’d jabbed at the keypad, irritated now.

I could help you write something. Something more credible.

This was laughable. We had completely different writing styles and he’d never shown one iota of interest in us collaborating before.

Jackson, you’re entitled to your own opinion, but I’m quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you.

I stared at my phone, tempted to delete his messages one by one but then deciding to save them in case I needed a reminder of my newfound assertiveness and how I needed to keep it up. And then the doorbell rang.

‘Who’s that?’ called Dad, mutingPointlesson the TV.

‘Not sure,’ I said, putting my phone on the kitchen counter and heading out to answer the door. It was most likely the Tesco delivery I’d ordered. I padded into the hallway and casually flung open the front door expecting a guy in a blue uniform brandishing crates of food.

There wasn’t much light in Dad’s hallway, so it took a second or two for my eyes to get accustomed to the brightness of outside and to acknowledge that it wasn’t a delivery driver standing in front of me, it was Theo.

Shocked, I instinctively took a step back.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said, smiling at me and also looking a bit nervous.

‘You didn’t,’ I said, my body flooding with giddiness, confusion and an unexpected sense of relief.

‘I thought I’d come and visit you, since you can’t get down to London at the moment,’ he said, shuffling about on the doorstep.

I smiled, leaning against the doorframe.

‘You really did that? For me?’

‘Now don’t get panicky,’ said Theo, holding out his hands. ‘I know you don’t need help and that you’re perfectly capable of coping with all of this on your own. I just thought it might be nicer if you didn’t have to. And also, selfishly, I miss writing with you around.’

This was too much.

‘Have I done the wrong thing?’ he asked, seemingly doubting himself suddenly.

‘Definitely not,’ I said. And then I had a panic that he would want to stay here and upstairs was a mess and the spare room was full of Dad’s stuff and there were no spare sheets to even make up the sofa.

‘Oh, and I’m in a hotel,’ he said, as if reading my mind again. ‘In town. The one down by the river with all the punts on the walls.’

‘The Graduate?’ I asked, relieved. Not because I didn’t want to spend time with him, but because I didn’t particularly want to spend time with him here. I wanted him to myself, I realised, away from all the family stress. And Irealised now, looking at him, that I’d been deluding myself into thinking that I could just be his writing partner. If I was honest with myself, it had been more than that with us from the very beginning.

‘That’s the one,’ he said.

I beamed at him. He’d come all the way to Cambridge (now I sounded like Carla!) for me. And whether it was as a friend or something else, I couldn’t tell yet, but I wanted it to be more. There, I’d admitted it to myself. And perhaps later I would admit it to him.

‘I’d like to take you out for dinner. If you want. If you can get away,’ he said.

I nodded, a little too enthusiastically, probably, but I didn’t care.

‘I’d love that.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘Would you want to come in?’

He ran his hand through his slightly less-voluminous-than-usual hair. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’