The cottage felt chilly and lifeless without the family, both cats out hunting. Bridge pulled on the chunky home-knitted sweater from Aunt Broda that Aleš teased looked like a poo emoji. She lit the wood burner, scraped her hair up into a tight bun secured with a popsock, selected a Rebel Girl playlist on Spotify and neatened every surface to OCD satisfaction before opening her laptop at the little crackle-glaze table.

Her freshly edited CV, carefully tweaked for Suzy David, looked exquisite on the page.

‘Fuck truffle caviar and gingko nuts.’ She deleted it, cracked her knuckles and typed:

PLAN A: Get high-flying HR position and flick SD two fingers No openings atm.

PLAN B: Start own business and flick SD one finger No start-up capital atm.

PLAN C: Apply for part-time job at school and do not flick fingers.

‘Just Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes,’ she muttered, about to cross that one out before remembering that during her drunken midnight rethink – now rethought – Ash had said something very sexy about how much she’d liven the place up. Not that she’d let herself imagine livening it up in a very short suit and heels, locking up alone after a parents’ evening, Mr Turner running in late, all sweaty from his gym. Oh no. There were safeguarding considerations to factor in here. Not to mention Carly and the kids.

‘Stay in the car,’ she growled.

Twenty minutes into Googling through situations vacant, Bridge was increasingly depressed by the lack of anything new. Meanwhile, Fantasy Ash was kicking hell out of her boot outside, demanding to come in. It was a lousy time of year to look for work, she reflected, weakening, listening to his army boots pummelling against her spare wheel. No HR department worth their salt would advertise until everyone had their feet back under their desks in January, or in her case, their Uggs under a small plastic table at a soft-play centre.

Fantasy Ash sprang the car boot.

She leaned back and stretched luxuriously, allowing herself a quick dreamscape in which he kicked open her front door, dressed in full paramilitary garb, to ‘rescue’ her from domestic servitude. Off came the flak jacket – witness dog tags, tattoos, hard muscles, narrow hips and big boots – off came the khaki vest. Oh, those egg-box abs. Carly hadn’t been wrong.

Don’t think about Carly.

‘Come here, gorgeous,’ growled Fantasy Ash.

Reaching for her phone, Bridge changed Spotify to Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Do I Wanna Know’, pulled out the popsock bun and shook loose her hair. She closed her eyes and licked her lips. ‘You’ll have to come and get me.’

There was a sudden blast of cold air and Bridge’s eyes snapped open in shock as she heard the front door crashing open against the upcycled umbrella stand. ‘Kocham Cię na zawsze!’

Beard, gargantuan shoulders, duffel coat, Christmas jumper.

Her husband, so huge he had to duck to come in. Biscuits box in one hand, vodka in the other, brows lowered.