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Jules slapped a hand on the table and Sophie nearly dropped her drink. “There’s only one thing to do,” she announced.

“What’s that?” asked Sophie, slightly suspicious now that the wine might be getting to everyone, not just her.

“It’s simple,” said Jules. “If you like Tilly and still want to date her, but she doesn’t want to date you because she thinks you’re a criminal. Or thinks your family’s the Sopranos or whatever—”

“I’m an alto,” Sophie felt the need to add.

“Fine, your family’s the Altos,” said Jules. “Well, there’s only one solution to all this.”

“We take out a hit on her,” said Cass.

“What?” Both Amelia and Jules turned to her.

She shrugged. “It’s what they’d do in The Sopranos. Sorry, the Altos.”

“No,” Jules said. “The only thing we can do is clear Sophie’s name. If we do that then Tilly won’t have an excuse not to be interested, will she?”

There was silence while they all digested this.

“Actually,” Amelia said after a minute. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“It’s… not,” Sophie said, trying to think clearly and not succeeding terribly well. Then she did come up with something. “How are we supposed to do that, though?”

Cass was opening another bottle of wine. “Easy,” she said. “We find the real chip shop.”

There was another moment of silence, more confused this time.

“I think she means chop shop,” Amelia said finally.

And Sophie grinned. “That’s it,” she said. “We find the real chop shop and Tilly won’t be able to blame our place anymore.” She stood up and her legs were a bit wobbly. She’d drunk a lot of wine quite fast.

“I’ve just opened a new bottle,” Cass complained.

“We can go in a bit,” said Jules. “We should eat something first, too. It might be a long night.”

“Fine,” Sophie said, sitting down. “But nothing with pineapple in it.”

It felt better to have a plan.

Chapter Eighteen

There was a knock, then another, then a very polite voice saying, “Sorry, sorry!”

“I’m in the bath,” Tilly said. She had, in fact, been in the bath for nearly two hours. She wasn’t sure if it was helping. She had imagined various scenarios in which Sophie had, for a variety of reasons, lied about her identity.

All of the scenarios had involved them kissing again.

“I know,” Mila said from outside the door. “And I’m really sorry. But there’s a problem. Dougie McKeefe thinks he’s got the car thieves and Max is still at the cinema.”

But Tilly was already getting out of the bath. She started toweling off. “What do you mean he’s ‘got’ the car thieves?”

“Um, I don’t really know,” Mila said. “But he’s a farmer. He’s got a shotgun, I’m sure.”

“Oh god,” Tilly said, abandoning her towel and pulling her clothes back on. Her trousers stuck to her wet legs. “You’ll have to tell me where to go.”

“It’s… Crap, I’ll have to come with you,” said Mila. “It’s right outside of the village. You’ll never find it by yourself. Come on, I’ll find the car keys and keep trying Max. I’ll meet you outside.”

Three minutes later, Tilly was pounding down the stairs, throwing the front door open, and then skidding to a halt as she saw Mila sitting in the driving seat of a tiny, red Renault Clio. “What the hell?”