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Joan felt a curl of unease. There was nothing behind the library—just a big weedy stretch of ground up to the fence. When had she last gone back there, though? Not in the last few months. Not since she’d returned after the summer.

‘That’s not your guy, though,’ Margie said. ‘It’s dedicated to some teacher who died ten years ago—way before our time.’

‘That’s not him,’ Joan agreed. Mr Larch was definitely alive. He was short and loud and kind. When Joan had struggled with the order of prime ministers, he’d made up a song on the spot for her. The tune still got in Joan’s head sometimes. Then John Major took the stage, and—

Margie popped another meringue into her mouth. ‘I’m going to hand-sell the hell out of these,’ she said with her mouth full. ‘I’m not letting them go off the menu.’ She grabbed the tongs. ‘Hey, you doing anything tonight? We could get those essays over early.’

‘Tonight?’ Joan echoed. She’d noticed things wrong with this timeline—big things, like the destruction of Holland House. Small things, like Nick going to her school now. But … No. Mr Larch wasn’t dead. He was just teaching somewhere else. For sure.

‘Dad’s making that pasta you like with the tomato and mint.’

‘Yeah,’ Joan said absently. ‘Sounds good. Oh, wait.’ Her heart sank. ‘I’m having dinner with my gran tonight. Dad and I are going down to London.’

‘Why are you making that face?’ Margie squashed her mouth. ‘I thought you loved going there.’

‘I do, but—’ Joan stopped as Margie gripped her arm painfully. ‘What’s wrong?’ Joan said, and then she realised that Margie’s face was pink with excitement.

Margie nodded at the window. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ she hissed.

Outside, a familiar muscled figure examined the display cakes, black T-shirt riding up as he bent. Joan swallowed. It was Nick.

Margie grabbed for her phone. ‘Is he coming into the shop? No. Yes. He’s—’

Nick walked around to the bakery door and pushed it open. Behind the counter, Joan’s phone lit up. A message from Margie.

Stop everything nick ward just walked in

Then one from their friend Chris: in where?? In the bakery???

Margie: he looks SO good

Chris: NO IM SO JEALOUS

A rush of emotions hit Joan. She’d promised herself that yesterday was an aberration—that she’d stay away from him. But here he was, and some stupid part of her was glad of it.

Standing here, in Joan’s ordinary world, he seemed larger-than-life. The school football star. The hottest guy in school.

Hollywood hot, Margie had said about him. He was classically handsome, with soft dark hair and a square jaw. He could have been the lead in a movie: the hero. It seemed absurd suddenly that any version of him had ever been into Joan, let alone that they’d been soul mates in a kind of way.

Nick’s gaze swept over them, and his face lit up. It took Joan a second to understand that he was smiling like that because he’d seen her.

‘Hi,’ he said. The hi encompassed Margie and Joan both, but his eyes returned to Joan as if he were compelled. ‘Did your phone survive the adventure?’

Joan could see Margie at the edge of her vision, staring at her, and she felt strangely on display. She nodded, and his smile warmed.

Joan’s phone lit up again. Another message from Margie—just from her to Joan.

Since when do you know nick ward??

Joan shook her head. Please don’t say anything, she willed Margie. She needed to get Nick out of here. ‘You came in at the right time,’ she said to him out loud. ‘Everything’s fifty percent off for the end of the day.’

‘I did come at the right time,’ Nick said, still smiling, and then he reddened, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Joan’s whole body felt too warm suddenly, like she’d been standing in the sun. In her peripheral vision, Margie’s smile was turning Cheshire cat.

Joan’s phone lit up again. She glanced down, expecting another message from Margie, but to her surprise, it was an incoming call from Gran.

Joan hesitated. She should answer it, she knew. But … she was at work. She’d see Gran in a couple of hours anyway. She hit the red decline button.