She didn’t look at him. She had learnt this trick long ago: when Nicky first came to them, the social worker had said he would open up a lot more if Jess didn’t make eye contact with him. They were like animals, men. They found too much direct contact threatening.

‘I can’t tell a soul. I mean legally.’

She stretched out a leg and gazed at the sunset. ‘Well, I don’t count, do I? I’m a cleaning wench.’

He let out a breath. ‘Fuck it,’ he said again.

And then he told her, his head down, his hands raking his short dark hair. He told her about a girlfriend whom he couldn’t think how to let down nicely, and an ex-wife who never quite left him alone, and how his whole life had come crashing down. He told her about his company and how he should have been there now, celebrating the launch of his last six years’ obsessive work. And how instead he had to stay away from everything and everyone he knew all the while facing the prospect of prosecution. He told her about his dad who was sick, and who was going to be even sicker when he heard what had happened. And he told her about the lawyer who had just rung to inform him that shortly after he returned from this trip his presence would be required at a police station in London where he would be charged with insider trading, a charge that could win him up to twenty years in prison. By the time he’d finished she felt winded.

‘Everything I’ve ever worked for. Everything I cared about. I’m not allowed to go into my own office. I can’t even go back to my flat in case the press hear of it and I do another stupid thing and let slip what’s happened. I can’t go and see my own dad because then he’ll die knowing what a bloody idiot his son is.’

Jess digested this for a few minutes. He smiled bleakly at the sky. ‘And you know the best bit? It’s my birthday.’

‘What?’

‘Today. It’s my birthday.’

‘Today? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Because I’m thirty-four years old, and a thirty-four-year-old man sounds like a dick talking about birthdays.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘And what with the whole food-poisoning thing, I didn’t feel I had much to celebrate.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘Plus you might have started singing “Happy Birthday” in the car.’

‘I’ll sing it out here.’

‘Please don’t. Things are bad enough.’

Jess’s head was reeling. She couldn’t believe all the stuff Mr Nicholls was carrying around. If it had been anyone else she might have put her arm around them, attempted to say something comforting. But Mr Nicholls was prickly. And who could blame him? It felt like offering an Elastoplast to someone who had just had an arm amputated.

‘Things will get better, you know,’ she said, when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Karma will get that girl who stitched you up.’

He pulled a face. ‘Karma?’

‘It’s like I tell the kids. Good things happen to good people. You just have to keep faith …’

‘Well, I must have been a complete shit in a past life.’

‘Come on. You still have property. You have cars. You have your brain. You have expensive lawyers. You can work this out.’

‘How come you’re such an optimist?’

‘Because things do come right.’

‘And that’s from a woman who doesn’t have enough money to catch a train.’

Jess kept her gaze on the craggy hillside. ‘Because it’s your birthday, I’m going to let that one go.’

Mr Nicholls sighed. ‘Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. But right now I find your relentless positivity exhausting.’

‘No, you find driving hundreds of miles in a car with three people you don’t know and a large dog exhausting. Go upstairs and have a long bath and you’ll feel better. Go on.’

He trudged inside, the condemned man, and she sat and stared out at the slab of green moorland in front of her. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be facing prison, not to be allowed near the things or the people you loved. She tried to imagine someone like Mr Nicholls doing time. And then she decided not to think about it and hoped quite hard that Nicky hadn’t used up all the hot water.

After a while, she walked inside with the empty glasses. She leant over the bar, where the landlady was watching an episode of Homes Under the Hammer. The men sat in silence behind her, watching it too or gazing rheumily into their pints.

‘Mrs Deakins? It’s actually my husband’s birthday today. Would you mind doing me a favour?’

Mr Nicholls finally came downstairs at eight thirty, wearing the exact clothes he’d worn that afternoon. And the previous afternoon. Jess knew he had bathed, as his hair was damp and he had shaved.

‘So what’s in your bag, then? A body?’

‘What?’ He walked over to the bar. He gave off a faint scent of Wilkinson Sword soap.

‘You’ve worn the same clothes since we left.’

He looked down, as if to check. ‘Oh. No. These are clean.’

‘You have the exact same T-shirt and jeans? For every day?’

‘Saves thinking about it.’

She looked at him for a minute, then decided to bite back what she had been about to say. It was his birthday after all.

‘Oh. You look nice, though,’ he said suddenly, as if he’d only just noticed.

She had changed into a blue sundress and a cardigan. She had been going to save it for the Olympiad, but had figured that this was important. ‘Well, thank you. One has to make the effort to fit one’s surroundings, doesn’t one?’

‘What – you left your flat cap and dog-haired jeans behind?’

‘You’re about to be sorry for your sarcasm. Because I have a surprise in store.’

‘A surprise.’ He looked instantly wary.

‘It’s a good one. Here.’ Jess handed him one of two glasses she had prepared earlier, to Mrs Deakins’s amusement. ‘I figure you’re well enough.’

‘What is this?’ He stared at it suspiciously. They hadn’t made a cocktail here since 1987, Mrs Deakins had observed, as Jess checked the dusty bottles behind the optics.

‘Scotch, triple sec and orange juice.’

He took a sip. And then a larger one. ‘This is all right.’

‘I knew you’d like it. I made it specially for you. It’s called a Mithering Bastard.’

The white plastic table sat in the middle of the threadbare lawn, with two place settings of stainless-steel cutlery and a candle in a wine bottle in the middle. Jess had wiped the chairs with a bar cloth so that there was no green left on them and now pulled one out for him.

‘We’re eating al fresco. Birthday treat.’ She ignored the look he gave her. ‘If you would like to take your seat, I’ll go and inform the kitchen that you’re here.’

‘It’s not breakfast muffins, is it?’

‘Of course it’s not breakfast muffins.’ She pretended to be offended. As she walked towards the kitchen, she muttered, ‘Tanzie and Nicky had the rest of those.’

When she arrived back at the table, Norman had flopped down on Mr Nicholls’s foot. Jess suspected Mr Nicholls would quite like to have moved it, but she had been sat on by Norman before and he was a dead weight. You just had to sit there and pray that he shifted before your foot went black and fell off.

‘How was your aperitif?’

Mr Nicholls gazed at his empty cocktail glass. ‘Delicious.’

‘Well, the main course is on its way. I’m afraid it’s just the two of us this evening, as the other guests had prior arrangements.’

‘Waterloo Road and some completely insane algebraic equations.’

‘You know us too well.’ Jess sat down in her chair and, as she did, Mrs Deakins picked her way across the lawn, the Pomeranians yapping at her feet. With the same care as a head waiter holds up cordon bleu dishes in a five-star restaurant, she held aloft two plates upon each of which sat a huge foil-clad pie and chips.

‘There you go,’ she said, placing them on the table. ‘Steak and kidney. From Ian up the road. He does a lovely meat pie.’

Jess was so hungry by then she thought she could probably have eaten Ian. ‘Fantastic. Thank you,’ she said, laying a paper napkin on her lap.

Mrs Deakins stood and gazed around, as if seeing the setting for the first time. ‘We never eat out here. Lovely idea. I might offer it to my other customers. And those cocktails. I could make a package of it.’

Jess thought about the old men in the bar. ‘Shame not to,’ she said, passing the vinegar across to Mr Nicholls. He seemed temporarily stunned.

Mrs Deakins rubbed her hands on her apron. ‘Well, Mr Nicholls, your wife is certainly determined to show you a good time on your birthday,’ she said, with a wink.

He glanced up at her. ‘Oh. There’s never a quiet moment with Jess,’ he said, letting his gaze slide back to hers.

‘So how long have you two been married?’

‘Ten years.’

‘Three years.’

‘The children are from my previous marriages,’ Jess said, slicing into the pie.

‘Oh! That’s –’

‘I rescued her,’ said Mr Nicholls. ‘From the side of the road.’

‘He did.’

‘That’s very romantic.’ Mrs Deakins’s smile wavered a little.

‘Not really. She was being arrested at the time.’

‘I’ve explained all that. God, these chips are delicious.’

‘You have. And those policemen were very understanding. Considering.’

Mrs Deakins had started to back away. ‘Well, that’s lovely. It’s nice that you’re still together.’

‘We get by.’

‘We have no choice right now.’

‘That’s true too.’

‘Could you bring out some red sauce?’

‘Oh, good idea. Darling.’

As she disappeared, Mr Nicholls nodded towards the candle, and the plates. And then he looked up at Jess and he was no longer scowling. ‘This is actually the best pie and chips I’ve ever eaten in a weird bed-and-breakfast somewhere I’ve never heard of on the north Yorkshire moors.’

‘I’m so glad. Happy birthday.’

They ate in companionable silence. It was astonishing how much better a hot meal and a fearsomely strong cocktail could make you feel. Upstairs Jess could hear Nicky watching television, occasional growls of frustration echoing through the open window when the static electricity interrupted his programme. Crows cawed obscenely from a nearby telephone wire. Norman groaned and flopped over onto his side, releasing Mr Nicholls’s foot. Mr Nicholls stretched his leg speculatively, perhaps trying to see whether he still could.

He looked up at her, and raised his refreshed cocktail glass. ‘Seriously. I do feel better. Thank you.’ Without his glasses on, she noticed now that he had ridiculously long eyelashes. It made her feel weirdly conscious of the candle in the middle of the table. It had been a bit of a joke when she’d asked for it.

‘Well … it was the least I could do. You did rescue us. From the side of the road. I don’t know what we would have done.’

He speared another chip and held it aloft. ‘Well, I like to look after my staff.’

‘I think I preferred it when we were married.’

‘Cheers.’ He grinned at her. And it was so genuine and unexpected that she found herself grinning back.

‘Here’s to tomorrow. And Tanzie’s future.’

‘And a general absence of more crap.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

The evening crept into night, eased by strong alcohol, and the happy knowledge that nobody had to sleep in a car, or needed frequent, urgent access to a bathroom. Nicky came down, ate his pie and chips, gazed suspiciously from under his fringe at the men in the snug, who gazed equally suspiciously back at him, and retreated to his bedroom to watch television. Jess drank three glasses of acidic Liebfraumilch, went inside to check on Tanzie and take her some food. She made her promise she would not revise later than ten o’clock. ‘Can I keep working in your room? Nicky has the telly on.’

‘That’s fine,’ Jess said.

‘You smell of wine,’ Tanzie said pointedly.

‘That’s because we’re sort of on holiday. Mums are allowed to smell of wine when they’re sort of on holiday.’

‘Hmm.’ She gave Jess a severe look and turned back to her books.

Nicky was sprawled on one of the single beds watching television. She shut the door behind her and sniffed the air.

‘You haven’t been smoking, have you?’

‘You’ve still got my stash, if you remember. You said you were going to throw it away.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She had completely forgotten. ‘But you slept without it. Last night and the night before.’

‘Mm.’

‘Well, that’s good, right?’

He shrugged.

‘I think the words you were looking for are “Yes, it’s great that I no longer need illegal substances simply to fall asleep.” Right, up you get for a minute. I need you to help me lift a mattress.’ When he didn’t move, she said, ‘I can’t sleep in there with Mr Nicholls. We’ll make another bed on the floor of your room, okay?’