The second half of the Mazurs’ domestic meltdown had been far closer to the bone, sparked by Aleš suggesting that they should start looking around for somewhere bigger to live now that she was earning too. A plot on which he could build his family a home with enough rooms for more babies – one more, maybe two. All they needed was a bit of land. No, not for Craic; he’d laughed when she suggested it. Chickens, maybe. She wouldn’t have time for horse riding. It was a full-time project planning and creating their dream home to grow old in together.

‘I will lay parquet in all the rooms for my darling wife!’ he’d announced with the theatricality of W. B. Yeats saying he would lay his dreams at her feet.

At this, Bridge had bridled. ‘I don’t like fecking parquet!’

‘But you ask me for engineered flooring, kochanie.’ Aleš had looked hurt. ‘I just got best rate on European Bordeaux oak in Midlands.’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I like the flagstones. I like this cottage. I don’t want parquet!’ she’d wailed, knowing that what she meant was I don’t want more babies and I don’t want to grow old.

With a bright chirrup, a calendar reminder appeared on her phone: PICK UP KIDS. Guilt cold-splashed her face.

Gratefully abandoning Aleš’s VAT return, she drove to Broadbourne where her sister-in-law pressed her with strong black coffee and showed off the latest high-tech gadgetry Aleš’s brother had installed throughout the house he’d built for his ever-expanding family. ‘I just say “Alexa, turn on light” and it turn on light!’

‘Queen, I just say “Aleš, turn on the light”. Same difference, and no spyware is sharing my private conversations with marketeers.’

Driving home, her indignation mounted as she wondered whether Aleš had told his sister-in-law about the row, and that was why she’d been so keen to showcase her house.

Flynn’s pickup was parked in her husband’s cherished spot outside the cottages, his dog barking from the open back canopy which housed shelves of different sized horseshoes and a gas forge to heat and shape them.

He came out of his front door, shrugging on a coat as she unlocked hers. They exchanged neighbourly hellos, Zac on her hip and Flavia toddling alongside. Reaching back for the folded buggy, Bridge discreetly admired his rock god looks as he closed the pickup’s tailgate, grateful to have her Safe Married Crush back in play.

‘See you at the wassail later, maybe?’ he called over the roof as he climbed in.

‘Yeah, maybe.’ She’d forgotten it was the village’s annual knees-up to wish for a good harvest, staged in the orchard just after dusk. Aleš loved it, throwing himself into the singing and cider-drinking because it reminded him of celebrations at home in Poland.

When she got inside she found he’d messaged her phone with a sticker of a bear throwing love hearts around. No aubergines in sight.

Bridge looked at the chaotic mess he’d left downstairs, had a brief vision of herself trapped in a newbuild with endless VAT returns, a slalom of highchairs and smart speakers that listened to her every ‘feck’, and decided not to reply just yet.