This is the gift her mother had talked about, Pax realised. The same gift Carly possessed, untamed and untrained, the reason her touch had felt so odd. But Luca was assured and controlled, the energy focussed into a single movement.

‘There…’ He wiped the tears away with a light stroke of his little finger and stepped back. ‘See if that feels better.’

She opened them in astonishment. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Hey, Paddy!’ the voice shouted again, a long shadow falling towards them. ‘Horsemaker! You’re on.’

‘Let’s make a run for it,’ he whispered.

‘You have to go,’ she urged. ‘If the Turners fetch you a fiddle, you play.’

‘Then stay and listen.’ He lifted the violin to his chest and plucked a few blues slides like a guitarist. It was a neat trick. The smile told her she was safe, she was adored, she would have the time of her life.

‘I’m not ready for the old Luca.’ Remembering his warning, she wished she didn’t fancy his alter ego so much.

‘You coming, bro?’ The shadow was closing in.

‘You sure you’re all right?’ The Luca she knew was back all too briefly.

‘Maybe a touch of amnesia.’ She pulled some twigs from her hair. ‘D’you know, I can’t remember anything you said this evening at all. Not a word.’

‘That a fact?’ The O’Brien smile lit up the shadows, a mask she couldn’t lift.

‘All gone.’

‘Bet you forget this too.’ The kiss was the sweetest, briefest taste of adventure.

He was irresistible drunk.

Pax vaulted over the stile and bolted for home.

18

It had been an underwhelming wassail in Bridge’s eyes, the bacon butties a particular let-down. ‘Since when did two wet rashers laid to rest in unbuttered medium-white sliced call itself anything other than an obscene profit margin conjured from Lidl basics?’ she’d complained to the chef, adding ‘with no fecking ketchup.’ The spiced cider was admittedly spectacular this year, but she’d only allowed herself two thimblefuls with the children to look after. Carly was in a strange mood, currently sulking because Luca kept vanishing with a sacred Turner fiddle.

‘I championed him,’ she moaned, sounding like Cheryl let down by an X Factor boy band. ‘It’s my neck on the line.’

‘In fairness, you’ve never heard him play, queen. He could be shite.’

‘I’m going to look for him. You’re okay keeping an eye on Jackson and Sienna, yeah?’

Watching her go, Bridge’s lip curled. She’d spent most of the past hour as glorified babysitter, trending the two-buggies-and-an-empty-cider-beaker look. While the braziers blazed and the Morris men pranced, her eyes had stayed trained on the opposite end of the orchard, where for a long time a couple had been silhouetted under one of the oldest apple trees in excitingly close proximity. Now they’d gone.

Bridge felt very let down by Pax. Whilst there was no denying she and Luca had a smokingly sexy vibe going on, Bridge had nobody to talk to, unless you counted Auriol Bullock, immaculate in M&S camel hair, trilby hat and high spirits, trying to hide the fact she was smashed on cider punch. Bridge supposed she would have to get used to work encroaching on her social life now.