Flynn made a flirtatious beeline for Bridge. ‘Glad you came, hotlips. Mr Mazurati letting you play outside on your own again this evening?’

‘I’ve got the kids with me,’ she muttered, still looking irked, ‘and Mrs Bullock.’

‘Greetings!’ Behind her, Auriol raised a cup of cider. ‘Isn’t this jolly?’

‘All right, Bridge?’ Ash handed her a cup.

‘Good, yeah. Beezer,’ she muttered, not looking at him, and Carly felt sad, knowing that Bridge wouldn’t be her over-the-top party-girl self with him again. Ash needed lightness. Listening to the final strains of Last of the Mohicans, she wished she’d told Luca she liked a score for a more upbeat movie in which nobody stepped off a cliff – like The Muppets.

When it came to an end to whoops and cheers, again Luca wasn’t allowed to put down his bow, plied with more drinks as the Turners shouted out requests for favourites: old jigs and reels from the Turners, ‘Come on Eileen’ and ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ from others, and from the lads’ corner Sex Pistols and Prodigy tracks.

‘Friggin’ in the Riggin’!’

‘Stop it, Hardcase,’ Carly hissed, watching Luca settling the fiddle beneath his chin. He was very pale; his eyes seemed miles away.

He fixed the crowd with his killer smile. ‘This really is my last song. I hope you enjoy it. It’s called “Dick Gossip’s”.’ He launched into a lively tune.

Flynn spluttered his drink everywhere. ‘Legend! He must have been listening in to your conversation, ladies. Dick Gossip’s. Love it.’

Carly hoped it would at least cheer up Bridge.

But she was still glum-faced. ‘It’s a well-known Irish reel.’

‘Remind me, is “Friggin’ in the Riggin” from HMS Pinafore?’ Auriol asked Hardcase, the two soon nose to nose talking music.

‘Word is Paddy there’s jumping both the mother and daughter,’ Flynn told Carly as they watched Luca’s bow moving ever faster.

‘Whose word?’ Carly scoffed.

‘I was shoeing horses up the hunt kennels last week and the head girl there swears there’s a threesome going on in a yard in this village…’

‘Better watch yourself, Carly,’ muttered Bridge.

‘It’s all happening, she says: fast riding and boozing, a cougar, a marriage on the rocks.’

‘Now who’s the dick gossip?’ Bridge ribbed him.

‘It’s not like those two at the stud don’t have form,’ Flynn pointed out. ‘Everyone in the hunt knows Bay Austen’s already been there.’

‘You don’t want to listen to banter,’ Carly dismissed.

‘Actually, rumours in established hierarchies like work places and rural communities are ninety-five per cent accurate according to research,’ Bridge offered helpfully. ‘I learned it on an HR course.’

‘That’s it.’ Ash drained his cup. ‘You’re not working there, Carly.’

‘Bridge didn’t mean it, did you? Take it back, Bridge.’

‘Will not.’ Her stubborn face reminded Carly of Sienna refusing to eat vegetables.

‘You’re only saying it because I hurt your feelings.’

‘Am not.’

The violin was getting faster and faster.

‘Bridge,’ she implored.

‘What if it’s true?’ Her eyes gleamed, mood lifted by the wind-up. ‘Before you know it, you’ll find yourself stripped naked and strapped to the saddle rack by a pair of stirrup leathers.’