Ash’s signal was breaking up.

‘Ash?’

‘I’ve been thinking on… farrier apprenticeship… more, yeah?’

‘You mean it?’ she shouted back over the wind.

‘Worth… conversation.’ He sounded very upbeat.

She air-punched. ‘What changed your mind?’

‘Full of nags, this village.’ His laugh broke up.

She could see across the paddock to their farrier friend’s big van parked on Petra’s stable yard. ‘I get him to call you.’

The signal came back, his voice overbearing in her ear. ‘Tell him we’ll talk.’

‘Love you, bae.’ She punched the code into Petra’s electric gates. ‘Catch you later.’

As she waited for the gates to open, she scrolled her other missed calls. The most recent was a mobile number. Dropping to her haunches to pick up one of Jackson’s boots, she pressed Return Call. It went straight to voicemail: It’s Ronnie, leave me a message!

Carly felt like an Alka Seltzer dropped in water. Ronnie Percy had called her.

Hesitating, uncertain what to say, she found the phone snatched out of her grip by Sienna in the buggy, eager to get back to her favourite game.

‘Pou!’ she screamed into the phone.

‘Give that back.’

The gates were closing. She hurriedly pushed on through, at the same time trying to grab back the phone which her daughter was gripping tightly, demanding to nurture a small, brown, unfortunately named blob.

‘Pou! Pou! Pooooooooou! Want POU!’

The call was still open when Carly wrestled it back. What was the number for rerecording? She jabbed at 3 on the keypad just as two hands grabbed her from behind and Flynn growled his customary greeting, ‘Run away with me this minute to have my babies, sweetlips,’ making her jump. Her screen now read Call Ended.

*

It had taken Ronnie almost an hour to take her leave from Lester while he listed every overall show champion triumph the stud had achieved during his long tenure, so engrossed he hadn’t even noticed her making several calls and taking a power nap. Now she was trying to navigate her way back through from the Hathaway wing the hospital to the car park exit, a labyrinthine maze that had taken her past the Macmillan volunteers twice and accidentally into Phlebology and X-ray, her feet squeak-squeaking along furlongs of polished floors.

An incoming text from Blair cheered her somewhat. The message simply read, You?

Good. You? she replied on the move, matching his brevity.

The reply came straight back. All good.

Not trusting Lester’s rumour-mongering or her heart ringing the changes like out-of-time church bells, Ronnie asked, Where’s my horsebox?

Up yours.

Up yours too!

It’s up at your place.

She laughed, hearing his dust-dry voice. Then she felt sad. Sorry. Misunderstood.

Missed you, Ron.

God but I miss you too, she replied before realising that he was probably just saying she hadn’t been there when he’d dropped by. A pragmatist like Blair didn’t engage in anything as metrosexual as emotional texts. He was much more direct. She’d just given herself away.