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say, who is it? Why are you looking so sheepish?’ I ask, my interest instantly piqued. I bet it’s someone famous – it must be; I’ve only ever seen Lawrence behave like this once before, and that was when the novelist Fern Britton checked in. They were doing some filming for a TV programme nearby in Market Briar, but she wanted to stay somewhere quieter. Lawrence said she was a true professional, very gracious and down-to-earth.
    ‘OK, but you must promise not to tell a soul.’
    ‘I promise,’ I say right away, now dying to know who the famous guest is.
    ‘Okaaaaaay,’ Lawrence pauses. ‘It’s Dan Wright!’ he announces impressively, as if I’m bound to know who Dan Wright is. Lawrence’s face drops when he realises that I’m struggling to place him. ‘Come on, you must know him, Meg.’
    I lick my fingers before jumping up and running down the hall to retrieve my laptop. After lifting the screen into place, I go to type
Dan Wright
into Google and I get as far as the W.
    ‘Look,’ I tap the screen to show Lawrence. ‘Google has found him right away. And he has a Wiki page,’ I add, gradually piecing together a jumble of half-remembered facts and images.
    Dan Wright, celebrity chef and owner of The Fatted Calf, three-Michelin-starred restaurant in London’s Mayfair …
    ‘Of course it has. He’s famous. So, do you recognise him now?’ Lawrence says, standing up and joining me at the end of the table.
    ‘Yes, I think so … but when do I ever go to fancy restaurants in London?’ I shrug, remembering the last time I went out for dinner – at the Oriental Palace, a Chinese restaurant and takeaway in Market Briar. Jack chose it, citing a desire for a lovely last chicken chow mein with his mum before heading to uni – it was such a fun evening, us and four of his friends, all laughing and being silly with our chopsticks.
    ‘Fair point! You must have seen him on TV – he had his own show for a bit; though not for a while now, to be fair.’ Lawrence swivels the laptop towards him, pulling up another chair and clicking on to YouTube. He does a quick search. ‘Here.’ There’s a short silence while we both sit with our buffer faces on, waiting for the film to start. ‘Isn’t he handsome? In a filthy, Kit Harington about to do battle in
Game of Thrones
kind of way …’
    A young guy pops on to the screen, sniggering about something the interviewer has just said, before sweeping a hand through a thick, unruly thatch of black hair.
    I crinkle my forehead, staring at the image. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Blimey, he’s very young to be a three-Michelin-starred chef, isn’t he? Barely older than Jack,’ I muse, but Lawrence smiles.
    ‘Oh no, this film clip is ages old – twenty years, at least. I reckon he must be mid forties perhaps, by now. Sorry, I should have explained.’
    ‘Hmm, oh right.’ I turn to face Lawrence and see a strange expression on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not thinking I might fancy him, are you?’ I laugh. I’m quite used to people trying to match-make for me, so I learnt ages ago to put my foot down right away. Mum is the worst culprit. Whenever I’m with her in Tenerife, she always tries to palm me off with some lost soul – usually divorced with a big chip on his shoulder and a long boring story about how the ‘ex-missus stitched me up like a kipper’. Lawrence looks a bit guilty but faces me down, tilting his head to one side and giving me a curious look. ‘Well, would it be so bad if you did?’
    ‘
Weeeell
, I don’t know, he just doesn’t look my type.’ I fold my arms and look away. The fact is, I’ve hardly had any good experiences when it comes to men – my own father did a disappearing act before my fifth birthday and Jack’s dad, Liam, didn’t even last that long. He left before Jack was born, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a father – he needed to travel the world and find his passion before he could even contemplate settling down. But then