‘We were at school together. She lives in Canterbury somewhere, I think.’ ‘Could you find out?’ asked Libby. ‘I suppose, I could. Is it important?’ ‘No, don’t bother, Sophie,’ said Fran, ‘but it’s very kind of you.’ ‘But –’ began Libby. ‘No, Libby. It’s nothing to do with us.’ Fran stood up. ‘Come on, if you’ve got to cook dinner for us all.’ ‘Oh, all right.’ Libby got to her feet. ‘Do you want to come back with us, Guy?’ ‘How would I get home?’ He patted her shoulder. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll drive over and possibly beg a bed from Ben.’ Libby reddened and opened her mouth, then thought better of it. ‘Bye, Sophie,’ said Fran. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Guy ushered them out of the gallery. ‘See you about eight, then?’ he said. ‘We do seem to do a lot of eating, don’t we?’ said Libby, as they walked back down Harbour Street. ‘Most people do,’ said Fran. ‘Yes, but we always seem to have our important chats over food and drink.’ ‘Well, you don’t suggest meeting friends to watch television, do you?
