It riled rebel-hearted Bridge that her family now accused her of being the snob, especially sister Bernie, who claimed this was because they were born either side of midnight on the twenty-first of March, meaning she, as the older twin, was a generous, broad-minded Pisces while Bridge was a tough, ambitious Aries. ‘That’s also why you argue with everyone,’ Bernie had insisted when they’d last spoken across whatever time zone divided them, ‘it’s star-crossed.’

Bridge – who held no truck with astrology – thought she argued with everyone because she was just plain cross. There nothing starry about Bridge Mazur.

‘Sous Vide can stuff her fecking job.’ She thrust her chin up, still smarting from the rejection. She’d never dream of telling the Bags that the cook had accused her of being out of touch, finding every hole in her CV and tripping her up on her data protection know-how.

‘Good for you!’ Gill rallied.

‘She doesn’t deserve me.’ Bridge summoned a big smile to show the others she wasn’t bothered, turning to look at the pretty old limestone inn as they trotted past it. The painted hoarding boasted a grand reopening of ‘Suzy David’s The Hare at Compton’ on Burns Night. ‘Which is a pain in the arse because it’s fecking well-paid and practically next door.’

‘Utter hell to work for, I should imagine,’ Gill reassured her as they slowed back to walk at the junction. ‘They said that poor little Russian she danced with on Strictly had to go into therapy afterwards.’

‘I feel much the same after taking to the dance floor to “Come on Eileen” with my husband,’ Petra pointed out. ‘And Charlie can’t rustle up a seared plantain black rice risotto afterwards.’

‘Is it going to be all veggie food, then?’ Mo read the hoarding in alarm.

‘Vegan.’ Gill shuddered. ‘Her raw food fine-dining restaurants are all the rage: Cirencester, Cheltenham and Chippy have one. The Bardswolds are the last preserved limestone outpost south of Birmingham. Sous Vide vient ici. Allumez les feux, mes copains!’

‘Is that one of her dishes?’ Mo sniffed.

‘It’s all smoke and mirror glazes.’ Petra winked at Bridge.

‘Gill’s saying light the fires in French, queen,’ she translated for Mo’s benefit.

Of all the corners of the Cotswolds, the Fosse Hills were the one restaurateurs always found hardest to crack. Known as the Bardswolds for its proximity to Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon, its wealthy home crowd was less fashion-led and London-centric than the other wolds, strong-willed Midlanders and old money, taste buds still craving comfort food and hearty British puddings. Eating remained a noisy, sociable recreation around here, not an on-trend artform.

‘When Suzy asked me if I preferred kimchi to kefir, I thought she was talking about Greek fecking islands,’ Bridge admitted. ‘Not my thing, all that sour grub. And I can’t imagine any locals popping in for wood-aged single-hop organic craft beer at a tenner a pop, can you?’

‘What’s the use of all that trendy nonsense round here?’ chuckled Mo. ‘It’ll go out of fashion before the blackthorn loses its blossom. We’ll get the old Jug back by the time the spring lambs are ready to roast, ladies.’