‘Yeah, well not all of us have a mammy we can run to.’ She shrugged, mustering the sardonic smile. ‘Some of us just take it on the chin. And I genuinely find spunk’s better than Protect & Perfect serum for fine lines and eye bags.’

‘That’s a Bridge too far.’ Gill looked shocked. ‘Put those heels down and sit up. Another quick pipe-opener, ladies?’

The riders cut through the Church Meadows, cantering up to the still-frosted standing stones before dropping back to walk along the narrow track between the old kennels and the tennis club, Craic on springs.

Belly still fluttering with the thrill of the quick-speed fix, Bridge cursed her forked tongue again. In truth, it was a tongue that had been nowhere near Aleš’s dick in weeks; a ban imposed after some petty row about him not pulling his weight around the house had turned nasty, a stubborn stand-off she regretted every time he stood up to magnificent attention. In retaliation, his beard was no longer tracing its way between her thighs either.

Although still far more active than the other Bags, their sex life was definitely on the wane, a bedtime routine made ever more time-saving and point-scoring, like hastily loading their dinner plates in the dishwasher when they’d once spent a giggly, messy, foamy hour washing up. Add on a passion-killing fortnight with his close-knit family in Poland, crammed on an inflatable mattress between a travel cot and a bunk, and her mojo was twitching for better times. Bridge sympathised with Petra’s desire for a healing touch, but not from a TDF, DDG fantasy figure. Hers was still six-feet-four Aleš with his gunmetal eyes and Atlas shoulders. But even if she’d die for him, a petit mort at a time, that wasn’t a reason not to start living again. They all deserved a life beyond marriage, even depressed redheads.

‘Whatshername – Pax,’ she said. ‘She needs a SMC.’

‘She’s not having the Horsemaker,’ growled Petra.

*

It was only when he was pulling his yard boots on after breakfast that Lester spotted Ronnie’s little black phone still on his hall table. Tutting, he put a flat cap over it and pulled on the fur trapper hat Pax had bought him for Christmas, a masterful invention for keeping his ears warm.

The landline was ringing again. Confounded thing! Knowing it might be Pax, he reluctantly plucked the receiver from the wall and lifted a furry ear flap.

‘Stud.’

‘Ronnie there?’ Man’s voice, sleepy and peaty, not British.

‘No.’

‘Luca O’Brien.’

‘He’s not here either,’ he growled.

There was a loudspeaker announcement in the background at the other end, a different foreign accent. ‘Listen, I’m about to board. My flight details have now changed, yeah?’

‘Yes,’ Lester corrected. The Captain had loathed ‘yeah’.

‘I transfer in Schiphol, not Dublin, so I’ll not be staying the night in Ireland now.’

This peaty voice was Irish, Lester realised, closing his eyes in disappointment. Deep and dulcet. He’d been expecting a reedy jockey’s whine, not a husky baritone. This was Luca.