In her hungover greed, Bridge had eaten most of the raw mix for her little rogaliki almond biscuits straight from the bowl. This, she realised later, was a blessing. Left in the oven too long, they had cooled to tooth-breaking bullets. Mercifully, her threat to village dentistry barely covered one brightly flowered vintage side plate.

‘Hard-core baking, baby!’ Ash Turner, all ink and muscle, pumped iron on her kitchen floor.

Bridge ignored the fantasy, stepping over it to get at the utensils drawer. Most dreams vanished with daylight, but hers was following her around. Just as alarmingly, her husband’s erotic emoji medleys had been lighting up her phone at regular intervals all morning, aubergines and doughnuts lined up colourfully, I’m coming, kochanie! repeated frequently. Fingers flour-covered and timer pinging, she had no time to reply.

‘I bet Mary Berry doesn’t get hassled like this,’ she grumbled at the cats.

Her kołaczci – absurdly easy cream-cheese pastry oozing Aldi jam – were a triumph, although Bridge had sampled so many waiting for Carly that they were demoted to a side plate too. Soon, as well as still feeling hungover, missing her babies and twitchy from horny dreams, she felt fat. When Bridge sensed cellulite forming, she was badass.

Fantasy Ash was doing burpies in her sitting room as she set down the plates on the leather-trunk coffee table.

‘Stop that!’ Bridge shooed him upstairs and checked her reflection in the mirror over the fire. Big blush. Guilty eyes. Biscuit mix on her nose.

At last Carly arrived, cramming a double buggy into Bridge’s tiny porch and letting loose three rampaging smalls. She looked happy and muddy, ultra-skinny, her hair in a topknot, cheeks flushed, talking in a rush. It seemed hers had been an enviably action-packed morning compared to Bridge lolling in bed, baking and bingeing and fantasising about Carly’s husband.

‘He’s a taskmaster, that Lester. No backchat. I can’t believe I mucked out, like, six horses. Did you ride Craic already?’

‘Woke up with a bit of a head.’ Bridge felt a cold rash of shame goosebumping her skin as she thought about her forbidden daybreak gym dream.

‘You were funny last night. Pick up that biscuit, Ellis!’ Carly’s children, having taken bites out of the little Polish biscuits and rejected them, were desperate for party rings and custard creams. Only baby Jackson, crawling around the low table trailing a soft book and slipping booties, sucked away appreciatively on a rock-hard rogaliki, soothing his aching gums where teeth were breaking through.

Bridge, feeling uncharacteristically humourless, would have liked to ask in what way she’d come across as funny last night, but Carly was again waxing lyrical about her highly active morning, leaning back against the magnet-studded fridge while Bridge made coffee amid a bomb site of baking sheets and spilled flour. Sleepy eyes wide and bright as silver coins for once, Carly described Lester’s begrudging acceptance of her help, the joy of handling the horses, and the thrill she’d felt when she went back with her kids to find Ronnie full of praise, then greeting the Horsemaker. ‘Like I’m already part of the team. He looks like Jesus or something – all these long golden curls and beard and eyes so green you’d think he was wearing funny lenses.’