‘It’s because you’re nice?’ she suggested.

‘Yes. That.’ He gave up.

She smiled, stepping forwards and reaching up to his face. ‘Goodnight, Luca.’

For a ridiculous moment he thought she was going to take his bearded cheeks in her hands, the volts ramping up. Instead, she gripped the flaps of his trapper hat and lifted it off his head, cramming it back on her own and turning away in a waft of lime and lavender.

‘Goodnight, Pax.’

PART FOUR

16

Shocked emojis greeted Gill’s Monday morning revelation to The Saddle Bags’ WhatsApp group that she’d spotted Blair Robertson driving away from the stud at first light: it was either him or Gary Lineker.

Unimpressed, Bridge sent a ‘meh’ face, although she was ashamed to catch herself Googling both men afterwards to check out the comparison. She maintained a dignified silence through the two-day debate that followed, phone buzzing non-stop as the Bags argued whether or not footballers were sexy, photographs traded like Top Trumps, mostly of ageing pundits with fake tans, the general consensus being not, although they were all very taken with a vintage shot of George Best posing naked on a silk sofa, Miss World 1977 in his lap.

Enough! She interjected on Tuesday evening. You know the rules, ladies. NO retro pin-ups, sexism, exploitation or excessive body hair. To which she’d added a photo of Princess Leia in a gold bikini kissing a Wookie and a row of namaste emoji.

But the conversation refused to die. By the following morning Mo had shared a picture of a sexy Chelsea forward who she was always telling Bridge looked like Aleš. That’s his Balbo. Deny it!

More goatee than GoT, she pinged back distractedly over breakfast, bracing herself for another facial hair debate. Instead, she received a rain-soaked selfie of Mo and Gill setting out on a hack captioned Lightweight!

If only they knew how heavy her heart was.

Some of us have jobs to go to! Bridge drew beards on their picture and shared it back before setting off for Compton Magna Primary school – lazily taking the car, telling herself she should be relieved to let the duo brave the icy, needle-sharp rain that had driven in from the east.

As another morning crawled by trapped in Auriol’s office bringing order to chaos, Bridge reminded herself that the pay-off would be to blast across a field on Craic entirely self-funded. She wasn’t officially on the payroll until the beginning of February, but her quick-thinking boss – recognising that Bridge was a shaman of the spreadsheet who had saved her skin through the Ofsted inspection – had insisted upon ‘on-the-job-training’ to keep the office manned. She’d even found enough in the budget for an ‘emergency stipend’ (which given it was cash-in-hand and largely made up of old pound coins, Bridge suspected was not entirely LEA approved).

This week, riding felt like an indulgence while her work/home and bank balance found new levels. She relished her new pet challenge, even if organising Auriol felt like herding cats and her marriage was in the doghouse.