Martin lives in a perpetual swoon, envisioning himself in an idyll of postwar domesticity, with a wife who smells of lilies of the valley, children who make “merry japes” and, on Sundays, a leg of lamb served with gravy and peas and roasted potatoes, followed by a nutmeg-flecked custard tart. Fifty years old and never married, the author of a toothless mystery series about a girl detective named Nina Riley, he owns a Victorian house in Edinburgh that’s as snug as the bear’s hearth on a Sleepytime tea box.
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