Upstairs there was a tiny single bedroom without a bed, just a desk with a computer, trays of papers, a printer and a small wooden chair. Across the way was a more spacious double, the bed swathed in a thick duvet that felt like duck down, with a crocheted bedspread folded across the foot end, and two big fluffy pillows. She was already tired from the journey, and the bed certainly looked inviting. It was the longest she had been behind the wheel of a car for months and the effects of her treatment were still leaving her feeling constantly washed out and listless. No bath or shower up here though, or even a toilet, so she made a mental note not to drink too much before bedtime if she was to avoid nocturnal trips down the steep stairs every time she needed the loo. Still, the cottage had a certain rustic charm about it. It served her purpose. It would do.

She gripped the banister tightly as she tottered back downstairs. Perhaps her usual heels were a little out of place here, so it was a good job she’d brought flats. It was not as if anyone of importance was going to see her. She could relax and let her appearance take a back seat for once. She was glad she’d thought to bring trainers, baggy jumpers and blouses and a couple of pairs of jeans, even though she was still annoyed with herself for coming into the depths of the countryside and not thinking to bring boots.

The note Sian had mentioned was lying on the kitchen table, held down by a smoothly polished pebble. Madi skimmed through the typed list of phone numbers, the instructions for rubbish removal repeating what Sian had already told her, almost word for word, and the details of the wi-fi code. There was a note about the immersion heater and how best to time it for hot water without having to leave it on all day, and a long section detailing how and when to feed the cat – a cat that Madi realised was, so far, noticeably absent. Scribbled at the bottom, as if as an afterthought, was a single sentence in what must be Prue’s handwriting. ‘Sorry, no central heating,’ Madi read. ‘But once the fire is lit, the place soon warms up. Thick walls!’

Oh, yes, the fire. Sian had offered to come and help her light it. Staring at the fireplace with its rather intimidating black and glass stove and huge wicker basket piled with old newspapers and chopped-up logs, she thought perhaps she should have accepted after all. To a townie like her, working out how to light it was as alien a concept as rubbing two sticks together and hoping to make a flame. Why couldn’t it just have a button to press? Something that said Off and On, with a dial to set the temperature? She felt the cold far more than she’d used to when she was younger, especially in recent months, when she’d lost so much weight. Damned illness. Other than the occasional cold, and that highly inconvenient sore throat that had kept her off stage for three days right in the middle of a touring run of Hamlet in 1988, she’d never had a day’s illness in her life before this, and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d rather be fat, healthy and working than skinny and scared, and stuck here recovering with nothing useful to do, any day of the week.