‘Tara has many hidden talents.’

‘I do.’ Like he would know. ‘Plate spinning. Tightrope walking. Sawing people in half.’

Molly was watching their faces, turning from one to the other, following the quick exchange of words, struggling to understand the current of unspoken ones beneath. A faint, uncertain smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

She grabbed at the pause in the adult conversation. ‘Then where did you live?’

‘Me?’

Molly nodded.

‘Um, then I lived in a village called Much Larton in a tiny cottage that had been a pigsty a hundred years ago. That was … nice.’ It hadn’t been nice. It had still smelled, subliminally, of pigs. ‘And then I moved into a bigger house in Hartley with my … with Justin.’

‘Justin,’ Molly repeated solemnly. ‘Justin what?’

‘Justin Biggins.’

There was a pause.

‘And what happened to Mr Biggins?’ asked Keith conversationally.

‘Well, we lived together for a bit, and we, ah, thought about getting married, but decided not to.’

Molly made an ‘Oh, dear’ sad face that she’d obviously learned from an adult.

Keith topped up her glass with the sparkling pressé they were all, it seemed, drinking. It probably made Molly feel very grown-up but Tara couldn’t shake the feeling of being at a kids’ birthday party.

A double gin, she told herself, the second you set foot in that kitchen.

‘So, now you’re back in the house – are you staying?’ Keith asked casually.

‘I haven’t decided. There’s a lot to consider.’

Bryn the estate agent had left another message that morning, claiming that he had ‘several’ potential buyers lined up, inspired by the local paper’s fangirlish profile of Keith Hunter, saviour of village halls and also designer of luxury hotels. Two were apparently willing to go over the probate valuation price by a significant margin, sight unseen. Could she call back at her earliest convenience, if she’d come to a decision about selling?

Tara hadn’t called back yet. Her heart wanted to stay, more so every time she sipped her morning coffee in the garden and inhaled the glorious perfume of Ruth’s red roses, every time she soaked in the indulgently re-enamelled antique bathtub, and watched the candlelight flicker on the silvery fishscale tiles covering the wall. But her head kept pointing out that ‘Toby’s half’ was getting more expensive by the week. She’d been through her accounts several times, and couldn’t get around the fact that she needed the Centre Director job, or a lottery win. Ideally both.

‘It’s a big house for one person, I suppose.’ Keith tried to read her face. ‘But you could rent out the studio? Or work from home? It’d make a wonderful private practice room.’

Tara shrugged. Was this leading somewhere?

‘What does Toby think? Guess he’s happy just to leave it as an investment, is he? Can’t go wrong with property.’

Tara looked away, uncomfortable.