She smiles as she accepts a glass of champagne and regards him coyly over its rim as she brings it to her lips. Jack doesn’t catch the young man’s words, but Gwen giggles in response and lays a hand on his lapel in a display of mock chastisement. The flirtatious gesture fans the flames of Jack’s irrational jealousy and before he knows it he is striding forward, his steps silent upon the lawn, until he stands below her.

‘Gwen.’ His voice comes softer than he intends and it fails to carry. He calls again, firmer this time, and it catches her attention. She glances about her, her nose wrinkling with confusion, convinced she has heard her name but unable to determine from where. Cursing under his breath, Jack calls again and as he does so he steps into a strip of light donated by the windows above. Gwen emits a mew of surprise and leans over the lichen-speckled balustrade.

‘Goodness. Jack?’

Her voice is different, and the artificial crispness of it – the concentrated enhancement of her accent, her uncharacteristic choice of exclamation – rankles more than he can explain.

‘I say, who on earth is that?’ The young man’s voice quivers with laughter as he joins Gwen at the balustrade, but his humour fades as he sees Jack below.

‘Oh, it’s all right, Gordon, it’s only Jack – our farm hand.’

Her belittling remark drives a knife into Jack’s chest. ‘I’ve come to fetch you home.’

‘What on earth are you doing skulking around the back? Why didn’t you go to the front door?’ the young man demands.

‘I knocked. No one came.’

‘I thought Dad was coming?’

‘He’s … feeling unwell. So, I offered to come.’

His words douse the merriment that just moments before had lit her face.

‘Oh now listen, you can’t leave yet.’ The young man makes an ostentatious show of taking her hand. ‘Stay longer, I’ll drop you home.’

‘No, Gordon, really. I must go.’

‘Running away like Cinderella before midnight?’ he teases, bringing her fingers to his lips. ‘Deserting your Prince Charming?’

Gwen laughs. ‘I’m sure you’ll survive.’

‘I might survive, but you’re breaking my heart.’

To Jack his voice is like syrup – thick and rich and sickening in large doses. He steps forward.

‘Gwen. We need to go.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She retrieves her hand from Gordon’s. ‘I’m sorry.’

He leans close to whisper something into her ear and Jack can’t help but notice the familiarity their bodies seem to share, like worn pieces of a puzzle that have been fitted together on more than one occasion.