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‘—what he did,’ I finished weakly.

A tiny smile with no warmth in it broke through her composed expression.

‘The rest of the series,’ she said, and she let out a small sound somewhere between bemused sigh and bitter laugh. It was a dangerous sound; it had broken glass in it.

I waited a moment, let a little time pass.

The clock ticked and the river rolled by.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know coming to you with this isn’t ideal but I think he might be in trouble.’

‘He’s not in trouble.’

‘Do you know that for sure?’

Sophie didn’t answer.

‘You see? Because he’d never just come out and ask anyone, would he, never just say what’s on his mind. He can’t do what normal people do, and there’s an urgency to this—’ I pushed the note towards her. ‘I’m – concerned about him; I really am.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Tom. You don’t like him either.’

‘That’s. That’s not—’

‘Of course it is.’

I looked at Sophie.

‘Of course it is,’ she said again. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with it. Why would you like him? Why would you care so much about him and his fucking book, Tom? Maybe you should spend some more time with that, rather than—’ She waved a hand at the note in from of her.