‘Byeeeee! Happy New Year!’ Petra waved over her shoulder, disappearing behind a high Cotswold wall, many-paned windows glinting beyond. She was always so upbeat, radiating naughty jollity and optimism, a state of mind Bridge envied far more than her big pretend farmhouse.

As the last two Bags headed home, the Jugged Hare’s hoarding ahead of them, she felt gloom descending.

Mo’s big, kind face turned to study her. ‘What is it, love? Not just the interview, I reckon.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Spit it out.’

‘It’s all good.’ Bridge was well-accustomed to glossing over her crabbier moments. ‘Only, don’t you sometimes just want the “old me” back, y’know?’

‘That never happens, love. We’re heading in opposite directions; the old me is always getting younger as we grow older. You’re closer to yours than the rest of us, mind you.’

Bridge thought of Bernie, whose old and new selves remained one and the same, and she felt another familiar, soul-deep pang of missing her twin. This Christmas, with one in the States and the other in Poland, the Walsh girls hadn’t got together in Belfast with their band of siblings. Both were comforted by the prospect of hosting a joint thirtieth birthday party here in the Cotswolds in March, but it still felt wrong.

‘You’re missing your Aleš and the kiddies, that’s what it is. No time to be alone, New Year.’

Bridge rolled her eyes at Craic’s ears. Whilst she did miss her babies terribly, they’d be asleep by six, after which the Mazur family traditionally endured indigestion from Bigos stew, wind from gassy beer, aching cheeks from showing good cheer, sore feet from dancing and ringing ears from enduring Aleš’s gregariously tuneless singing. Her eyelids prickled. Mo was right. She wished she was still there.

‘Come round to us if you like. Barry’s got a keg in and I’ve made cottage pie. We’ve always a fair few over, farming folk mostly.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got plans.’ She was looking forward to her Cowshed bath oil, bottle of wine and luxury ready meal for one.

‘When does Aleš get back?’ Mo always pronounced it ‘Alice’ no matter how often she heard the correct ‘Alesh’, making Bridge envisage her husband in shock-rock leather and eyeliner singing ‘School’s Out for Summer’.

‘Day after tomorrow.’ She was surprised again by how sharp the pinch from missing him felt.

Now in Compton Bagot village, the two riders spotted a small, comically curvy car parked outside the memorial hall ahead of them, a solitary figure inside waving her hands around, mouth moving.

Pax Forsyth, all copper curls, long limbs and fragile bone structure, like Satine in Moulin Rouge.

‘It’s a four-wheeled phone booth, that car.’ Bridge nodded in its direction.

‘Who d’you suppose she parks up to talk to?’

‘Her lover?’ Bridge suggested in a ‘duh?’ voice.

Mo’s kind, wide face unfolded into spherical shock. ‘Valerie Benson’s hubby used to stop his Jag here every night to call his bit on the side before old Mr Coles overheard him having phone sex on his air-traffic radio band. That was a way back, mind you.’