Oh dear. That hadn’t quite come out the way she’d intended. And perhaps it was Lauren’s influence, or not having to set an example for an eight-year-old, but Rosaline decided to double down. “Yes,” she said sadly, “it makes it very hard to give hand jobs.”

There was a moment of silence. She was worried it was a shocked silence.

Then he laughed. “I see we’ve progressed from innuendo to outuendo. But in any case, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Alain. Alain Pope.”

He offered her his hand, which Rosaline took with all the suavity of a woman who’d just been talking about wanking. “Rosaline, um, Palmer?”

“Well, Rosaline-um-Palmer”—his very, frankly very, blue eyes gleamed at her through the twilight—“whatever are we going to do?”

“About my . . . Look, I’m not really a key grip with subpar job skills.”

“No, I’d taken that as read. I meant, what are we going to do about the fact that we’re trapped at an unfamiliar station when we need to be at a stately home somewhere else.”

Oh. That. “When is the next train?”

Alain consulted his phone. “Tomorrow morning.” He kept consulting. “And there doesn’t appear to be a taxi service, any hotels other than the one we’re trying to get to, and the nearest bus is two villages away, goes in the wrong direction, and stopped running an hour ago.”

Oh God. They were fucked. “Hot-air balloon?”

“Didn’t bring mine with me. You?”

“No, but I do have this”—she dug around in the front of her bag—“tin of travel mints I don’t remember buying?”

“Ah, then we’re saved. We can use these to . . . to . . .”

“Fashion a makeshift boat and sail up the river? Barter for transportation with a passing circus. Construct a distress flare with the aid of a bottle of Diet Coke.”

“Do you have a bottle of Diet Coke?” he asked.

“Damn. I left it in the hot-air balloon.”

“Don’t worry.” He tucked his phone away. “Worst comes to absolute worst, I’m sure the production company can send someone for us. Of course then we’d be the people who made them send a rescue team out the day before filming even started, and while they probably wouldn’t hold it against us, I’m not entirely inclined to take the chance.”

If there was one impulse Rosaline would always understand, it was the impulse to avoid doing things that people in a position of influence might resent and hold over you. In her experience, they usually did. “Yeah.” She tried not to audibly wince. “I think if we can get in under our own steam, we probably should.”

“At the very least, it’ll be an adventure.” He smiled his leave-your-mining-village smile. “So what do you say, Rosaline-um-Palmer. Do you want to come on an adventure with me?”

All in all, Rosaline told herself, it could have been a lot worse. The day was fading into a soft English evening, complete with pastel sky and mellow sunlight. It would have been an enjoyable walk if she’d been able to ignore the smell of silage and the fact she was late for the reality TV show that she wasn’t exactly staking her whole future on. But was also not not staking her whole future on. And if nothing else, at least she had company—the sort of company that, if she was being honest, she might have appreciated even if she hadn’t been dumped at a backwater station by a privatised rail company.

“I do hope,” said Alain as they tromped down a country lane that had about a thirty percent chance of leading directly to nowhere, “that you’re impressed by my bold and manly decisiveness. Rather than thinking to yourself, Oh no, he’s one of those clichés who won’t ask for directions.”

Rosaline gave a laugh which she hoped communicated “I am mildly amused” rather than “I am trying too hard.” “Who are you going to ask? That tree? The sheep?”

“I’m afraid I only took Sheep to GCSE, and the only phrase I can remember is ‘Where is the bathroom?’”

“Okay.” She had to ask. “What’s Sheep for ‘Where is the bathroom?’”

He had the grace to look . . . not to put too fine a point on it . . . sheepish. “I think it’s ‘Where is the baaathroom?’”

“You are really lucky I’m secretly into dad jokes.”

There was a measuring pause. “Hi, Secretly into Dad Jokes. I’m Alain.”

“Okay,” Rosaline told him, “I might have put too much emphasis on the into and not enough emphasis on the secretly.”

“Don’t worry. Jokes aside, I’m not ready to go full dad quite yet.”

This time Rosaline’s laugh was ever so slightly more forced. She was kind of used to most people her age, or even a little bit older, talking about parenthood like it was part of this unimaginable future you’d get around to once you got careers and relationships and your own dreams figured out. Which made it slightly awkward to come back with “Actually, I’ve been doing that for nearly a decade.”

Their country lane took them across a cattle grid and onto a subtly different country lane, which led onto another. And it was across a field from country lane number three that they finally spotted signs of human habitation. Well, apart from all of the things that were technically signs of human habitation but were so countryish that they barely counted, like the hedgerows, the little stiles over rickety fences, and the acres upon acres of grass.

Alain shaded his eyes against the gleam of the setting sun. “Is that a farmhouse? Tell me that’s a farmhouse.”

“Or a secret military base, and either way there’ll be someone we can ask for directions.”

“If it’s a secret base, won’t they just shoot us?”

She shrugged. “They might do that if it’s a farm.”

“I actually live in the countryside and I’ve been shot by farmers far less often than you might imagine. Shall we go and say hello?”

“Okay, but if I wind up full of buckshot, you’re picking the pellets out.”

“And if I wind up full of buckshot?”

“Then I’m using you as a diversion and running for the road.”

He gave her an arch look. “You’re a cold woman, Rosaline-um-Palmer.”