At ten forty-five, I was crossing reception with a tray of mugs when the revolving door spun round.

James walked in.

He looked older. Still handsome. A very expensive navy suit, a leather folder, a confident walk. But there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before.

He saw me and stopped.

Then he smiled. The same smile from the restaurant.

“Holly Fraser!” he said. “Well, well. You haven't changed a bit.”

He looked at the tray in my hands.

“Still making the tea, I see.”

“Hello, James.”

“So you work here now? That's nice. Admin? Events?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Listen, I've got an interview at eleven. General Counsel. Big job. Do you know who's on the panel? Is the boss nice?”

“The boss is all right,” I said.

“Put in a good word for me, would you?” He winked. “For old times' sake.”

Then he turned to our receptionist, Morag, who was sixty-four and had worked at the docks office for thirty years.

He clicked his fingers at her.

“Water, please. Sparkling. No ice.”

Morag looked at his fingers. Then at me.

I carried my tray of tea upstairs.