‘Is that what you want?’ he said.

She drew her knees up to her chest. ‘It might be the best thing.’

They sat there in the silence. The skies darkened to pitch around them. Twice Jess opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Mr Nicholls stared through the windscreen at the closed curtains of the hotel room, apparently deep in thought.

She thought of Nicky and Tanzie, sleeping peacefully on the other side, and wished she was with them. She felt sick. Why couldn’t she have just pretended? Why couldn’t she have been nicer? It would only have been for a couple of days. She was an idiot. She had blown it all again.

It had grown chill. Finally, she pulled Nicky’s duvet from the back seat and thrust it at him. ‘Here,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ He looked at the huge picture of Super Mario. ‘Thanks.’

She called the dog in, reclined her seat just far enough for it not to be touching him, and then she pulled Tanzie’s duvet over herself. ‘Goodnight.’ She stared at the plush interior a matter of inches from her nose, breathing in the new-car smell, her mind a jumble. How far away was the station? How much would the fare cost? They would have to pay for an extra day’s bed and breakfast somewhere, at least. And what was she going to do with the dog? She could hear Norman’s faint snore from behind her and thought grimly that she was damned if she would vacuum that rear seat now.

‘It’s half past nine.’ Mr Nicholls’s voice broke into the silence.

Jess lay very still.

‘Half. Past. Nine.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘I never thought I’d say it, but this is actually worse than being married.’

‘What – am I breathing too loud?’

He opened his door abruptly. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ he said, and set off across the car park.

Jess pushed herself upright and watched him jogging across the road to the mini-mart, disappearing into its fluorescent-lit interior. He reappeared a few minutes later with a bottle of wine and a packet of plastic cups.

‘It’s probably awful,’ he said, climbing back into the driver’s seat. ‘But right now I couldn’t give a toss.’

She gazed at the bottle.

‘Truce, Jessica Thomas? It’s been a long day. And a shitty week. And, spacious as it is, this car isn’t big enough for two people who aren’t talking to each other.’

He looked at her. His eyes were exhausted and stubble was starting to show through on his chin. It made him seem curiously vulnerable.

She took a cup from him. ‘Sorry. I’m not used to people helping us out. It makes me …’

‘Suspicious? Crabby?’

‘I was going to say, it makes me think I should get out more.’

He let out a breath. ‘Right.’ He glanced down at the bottle. ‘Then let’s … Oh, for crying out loud.’

‘What?’

‘I thought it was a screw top.’ He stared at it as if it was just one more thing designed to annoy him. ‘Great. I don’t suppose you have a bottle opener?’

‘No.’

‘You think they’ll exchange it?’

‘Did you take the receipt?’

He let out a deep sigh, which she interrupted. ‘No need,’ she said, taking it from him. She opened her door and climbed out. Norman’s head shot up.

‘You’re not going to smash it into my windscreen?’

‘Nope.’ She peeled off the foil. ‘Take off your shoe.’

‘What?’

‘Take off your shoe. It won’t work with flip-flops.’

‘Please don’t use it as a glass. My ex did that once with a stiletto and it was really, really hard pretending that champagne smelling of feet was an erotic experience.’

She held out her hand. He finally took his shoe off and handed it to her. As he looked on, Jess placed the base of the wine bottle inside it and, holding the two together carefully, she stood alongside the hotel and thumped them hard against the wall.

‘I suppose there’s no point me asking you what you’re doing.’

‘Just give me a minute,’ she said, through gritted teeth, and thumped again.

Mr Nicholls shook his head slowly.

She straightened up and glared at him. ‘You’re more than welcome to suck the cork out, if you’d rather.’

He held up his hand. ‘No, no. You go ahead. Broken glass in my socks is exactly how I hoped to end tonight.’

Jess checked the cork and thumped again. And there – a centimetre of it protruded from the neck of the bottle. Thump. Another centimetre. She held it carefully, gave it one more thump, and there it was: she pulled the rest of the cork gently from the neck and handed it to him.

He stared at it, and then at her. She handed him back his shoe.

‘Wow. You’re a useful woman to know.’

‘I can also put up shelves, replace rotting floorboards and make a fan belt out of a tied stocking.’

‘Really?’

‘Not the fan belt.’ She climbed into the car and accepted the plastic cup of wine. ‘I tried it once. It shredded before we’d got thirty yards down the road. Total waste of M&S opaques.’ She took a sip. ‘And the car stank of burnt tights for weeks.’

Behind them, Norman whimpered in his sleep.

‘Truce,’ Mr Nicholls said, and held up his cup.

‘Truce. You’re not going to drive afterwards, are you?’ she said, holding up her own.