‘Of course. For, er…?’

‘Lunch with friends over Wiltshire way.’ His wise old eyes stared, casting light on one of Pax’s recent blackouts: a phone conversation she’d only partially pieced together afterwards, remembering trying not to sound drunk, offering to help. She’d worried afterwards she might have dreamed it.

‘That’s it. She’s staying overnight there.’

‘Hmm.’ He looked disapproving.

‘I’m all yours, Lester.’

‘Fetch a brush.’ The creased face shifted into a warmer welcome. ‘And put that puppy in a stable. Not safe wandering round loose. You named it yet?’

‘What would you call him, Lester?’

He watched as the deerhound rolled on its back beside Stubbs, gangly and compliant. ‘Not for me to say.’

‘Landseer maybe? Stubbs and Landseer make a good couple.’

He huffed. ‘He the one paints all the dead deer?’

‘And lots of dogs. Granny had a sketch of a lurcher in her dressing room.’

‘Nothing but trouble, sight hounds.’

‘Mummy suggested I stay tonight.’ She remembered that much at least. ‘Brought a bottle of Laphroaig for old time’s sake.’ It had been her grandfather’s favourite malt. She wondered how soon they could crack it open. Being a keen hunt follower, Lester was probably old-school enthusiastic about daytime drinking.

The creases ironed out more, blackcurrant eyes bright. ‘We’ll toast the Captain later; work to do first.’

She followed him through the arch as he led Cruisoe back to his stable. From the opposite corner of the quadrangle came a great bellow of protest and a crashing of teeth against grille.

Pax turned to look at the younger stallion her mother had brought to the stud, coal eyes burning in that luminescent pearl-pale face behind his stall bars, mythically fierce and far too terrifying to bribe with a carrot.

‘You leave that one!’ Lester barked, marching on. ‘The Irish lad’s welcome to him. Needs fetching from the airport this evening. Best you do it.’ He disappeared hurriedly into a foaling box.

At first, Pax didn’t understand. Her head was still full of the argument with Mack, the overwhelming need for a drink. She counted the minutes down as they worked their way around the familiar tasks with barrows, buckets, brushes and brawn, grateful for physical work to keep her earthed. Don’t think about Kes. It wasn’t until they’d swept the cobbles of both yards that Lester broke the news that the jet-set pro rider her mother had hired was arriving at Birmingham airport that night. ‘I have the flight number written down.’

‘Can’t he get a cab?’

‘Not easy to get a taxi, night like New Year. Pricy, too.’

There was only ten pounds in the petty cash, they discovered. ‘Where’s Mummy planning to put him?’

‘The attic flat, I believe.’

‘Has it been cleaned up and aired?’

‘To my knowledge, not since your father’s day.’

‘That was twenty years ago!’ Furious that Ronnie never thought anything through beyond the next few hours, she started to march towards the house, the smash of jaw against metal from the grey stallion’s stable as she passed it making her turn back to Lester. ‘Will you be okay on your own while I try to get the place ready?’