Rosie checked her watch. “Should be. Why?”

“Original or treacle toffee, wasn’t it? If you can fit me in for a restyle this evening, I’ll buy you a box of each.”

* * *

“Not what you imagined, eh?” Rosie said, unlocking the door of a tiny whitewashed cottage.

“Not at all,” Jem admitted. “I had you in a city centre flat, all polished laminate and mod cons and service charges.”

She knew Stanny Brook well. She occasionally went there with the dogs, wandering along the footpaths that zigzagged across the surrounding fields and dipped down to the river, where she’d seen kingfishers and the glint of brown trout in the deeper pools. Wild garlic and bluebells filled the woods in spring, and the town seemed miles away, despite only being a ten-minute drive. The secluded patch of countryside fell within the boundary of Darnton Station, but she was rarely called to emergencies there, and she’d never imagined it as somewhere Rosie might live. She stepped back to admire the cottage’s mullioned windows and original stonework. Tucked away off the main road, with a view out toward Stanny Pike, it seemed like an ideal refuge for someone raised in a large, chaotic family, and Jem could only covet it.

Rosie kicked her boots off on the step. “It was love at first sight. I’d say ‘come in out of the cold,’ but it’ll be bloody freezing till I put the heating on.”

Jem stood on the doormat, wrestling with her trainers, while Rosie disappeared to tinker in the kitchen. After the hyperactive stress of the morning, the cottage felt like a haven. The lamps Rosie had switched on in passing cast the living room in mellow amber, and it smelled of fresh baking and woodsmoke.

“Make yourself at home,” Rosie called over the splash of a tap. “I’ll give you a tour when I’ve put the kettle on.”

Not quite ready to dispense with her coat, Jem sat on a worn, brown leather sofa and ran her fingers across the multicoloured blanket tossed over its back. The blanket was one of many dashes of brightness scattered about the room; all the cushions on the suite clashed, and what appeared to be an ongoing crocheting project was spread over the arm of the lone chair. A cast iron log burner took centre stage in the fireplace, and a modest television seemed little more than an afterthought, squeezed into the far corner with a basket of wool almost hiding it from view. Keepsakes and family photos lined the mantelpiece: Rosie’s mum and stepdad slicing a three-tier wedding cake, and a boy and two girls at various stages of growing up. Jem stood and picked up a picture that had drawn her eye: a daft-looking dog captured on a faded Polaroid, rolling around on a tatty back lawn with a far younger version of Rosie.