‘I’ve told you, Flynn’s a mate.’ He scratched his fingers through his hair and she noticed the joints were red and scraped. ‘You don’t work for mates.’

‘What’s Skully, then?’ she asked him, reaching for his hand, not dropping his gaze.

The horn outside beeped long and hard.

Her palms folded warm and firm round bruised knuckles, and she saw a muscle in his cheek jump in pain as he regarded her levelly, the sleepy sweetness gone, silver eyes armoured.

‘He works for me. Now stop asking questions.’ Kissing her on the forehead and pulling his hands from hers, he turned away to bite into his toast.

Janine was beeping furiously.

‘At least let me talk to Flynn, Ash.’

‘It’s a free country. Talk to anyone you like.’

Carly grabbed her coat and bag, muttering. ‘Just not you, eh?’

*

The Bags waited at the fork by the Green for the bus to drop a couple of pensioners at the stop before it edged its way cautiously past them with a hiss of air brakes that sent Craic bounding into reverse. The bus had an advert for a slimming club on the back.

‘I’m going to get so fat, stuck at my desk,’ Petra grumbled. ‘This time, I’m digging out the 30 Day Shred DVD Charlie gave me.’

‘OHM!’ The Bags’ combined chant might sound to an outsider like a mounted Buddhist meditation, but OHM stood for Off-putting Husband Moment, from fat-shaming gifts to cutting their toenails in bed.

Petra laughed. ‘It’s the most exhausting sixty minutes imaginable, and I’ve only watched it once, lying on the sofa with a glass of wine.’

‘You need one of them personal trainers,’ suggested Mo. ‘Why not try Ash Turner? He’d make you a good Roundhead for your book, all silent and brooding. Bet you wouldn’t say no to a few burpees with him in your plotting shed.’

‘Only if it’s free.’ Petra laughed. ‘Maybe they’ll do me a BOGOF if I hire husband and wife together?’

‘He’s not qualified yet,’ said Bridge proprietorially.

‘Petra could be his guinea pig,’ Mo suggested.

‘The Turners already have two guinea pigs, named Claudia and Tess.’ Bridge didn’t want her fantasy stolen, and certainly not by Petra who was already casting her that milky-eyed, knowing look.

‘How come you know so much about our village war hero and his pets, Bridge?’

She was spared answering as Craic sprang sideways, a small group of cyclists in lurid Lycra whizzing past, breathing hard. Also taking exception, Petra’s mare skittered across the lane.

‘Bloody mamils,’ hissed Gill as the riders regrouped, her husband’s cycling obsession having lent her a deep resentment of all road-hogging, shaven-legged men in knee-length stretch fabric. When the others looked blank, she explained, ‘Middle-Aged Men In Lycra.’

The Bags loved their acronyms, especially Gill.

‘What does that make us, love?’ laughed Mo. ‘Middle-Aged Birds In Breeches?’

‘Speak for yourself,’ snapped Bridge. ‘I vote slits: sexy ladies in the saddle. Let’s all rock Viv Albertine!’

‘Is she in the Comptons WI?’ asked Gill.