Dear Harvey,

I have come to a very difficult decision to end our relationship and leave London. I know that my decision will hurt you and you will be disappointed that I’m writing this down and leaving without telling you but I want to explain my reasons why.

For a while now I’ve felt that things between us haven’t been right and I’ve felt pressured into doing things your way: behaving in a certain way to please you, avoiding speaking to my family when you’re around, even eating and drinking things you approve of. This week, your reaction to our conversation about fostering and the way you lost your temper when I told you about my promotion upset me. You are a big strong man and when you get mad, it frightens me.

The last six months have been an adventure. You’ve taken me out of my comfort zone and I’ll always be grateful to you for that. Living in London is great for you. With your energy and enthusiasm and irrepressible drive, I know your business will be a great success.

But you have such an assertive personality that sometimes I’ve felt swallowed up by you and your plans and lately I’ve lost a sense of myself and what I want out of life. Since the crematorium gave me the chance of promotion, I’ve realized that a permanent life in London isn’t for me. I’m a country girl at heart. I’m used to space and quiet, where people know me and I can feel part of a community. I want to build a home, somewhere peaceful, where I can feel safe and loved and that’s not going to happen here, with you.

I’ll always remember the good times we had together and I wish you every happiness for the future. I hope that you can find someone else who shares your dreams, but I know that that person can never be me.

With love

Lottie x

I left the letter, along with my door key, on the kitchen work surface next to the fridge where I knew he’d go first. And then, before I could change my mind, I transferred my cases to the communal hallway and closed the door firmly behind me.

Goodbye, London; I was going home.

Chapter 5

I passed through many tiny stations on my way home, but none as pretty as Fernfield, I thought, smiling at the guard who kindly handed my cases down to me. Colourful hanging baskets were dotted along the platform, trailing braids of purple petunias, gaudy geraniums and wispy ivy. Glass window panes were sparkling, the wrought-iron benches and railings were painted to glossy perfection, and in pride of place, on the wall outside the ticket office, was a shiny plaque commemorating a visit by Prince Charles when he was on one of his ‘Aren’t British farmers just the bees’ knees?’ campaigns.