If her fellow Bags could all juggle career, families and horses, Bridge knew she had no excuse, no matter that the climb back up the career ladder was far harder with a child on both hips. It had been straightforward after Flavia was born three years ago, maternity leave guaranteeing her return to the personnel department of a blue-chip logistics company. But she’d taken voluntary redundancy when they’d moved to the Cotswolds so that Aleš could go into partnership with his brother, and then she’d fallen pregnant again.

Aleš was very vocal in his belief that his wife had no need to work; his business was doing well enough for money not to be a worry, and he preferred Bridge at home with the kids, doing his bookkeeping for nothing, making more babies soon if he had his way. But Bridge craved a life beyond motherhood.

Her greatest freedom already came at a cost that was holding her to ransom: Aleš resented the money that went on Craic. It didn’t help that she had never discussed horses with her husband before buying one on their credit card. Craic had been the ultimate impulse buy. They’d just moved into the village, the need for a new sofa great. Like Jack and the Beanstalk, she’d gone to market focussed on cowhide, and got distracted on the way. While her head was saying vintage leather button-back chesterfield, the sight of a poster for a Horse and Pony Sale at the local auction room made her heart take over. A day later, Bridge was the owner of an unbroken Connemara pony, fresh off the boat from Ireland. For a young mum who’d had a handful of riding lessons, it was undoubtedly a crazy thing to do, but Bridge didn’t regret it for a minute. Craic made her feel alive.

She laughed as the little grey tearaway shot sideways, her rollercoaster ride of beating heart and flight instinct, her hand on his neck stilling him, the black-tipped ears flicking back. They were passing the Bernard Ugger Memorial Hall, known to locals as the ‘Bugger All’ after the antisocial local coach entrepreneur whose legacy to the village had been the slab-like, brightly lit eyesore, a pleasure palace of punch-ups and late-night police raids. While the others ambled past its ‘New Years’ Eve Disco Tonite’ banner, talking about their plans for later, Bridge reminded herself why she needed a job, and fast. Worried about her husband’s ever-louder objections to the smell of horse and the cost of keeping one in oats, she had vowed to pay for Craic herself. And the craic. It was time to shake off the guilt and the hormones and earn her spurs.

Mo drew alongside, breathlessly enthusiastic, ‘I meant to say, they’re looking for someone to run the office at the village school. The Head’s a bit of a battleaxe, but soft as putty underneath. I can put a word in, if you like?’

Bridge stared at the black-tipped ears in front of her, feeling her ego quietly fold into an origami warrior and commit hara-kiri. She mustn’t be proud. Sous Vide had made it clear she’d dropped a pay grade with each pregnancy. ‘That’s kind of you.’