On red-eyed, bruise-bagged, hollow-cheeked days like this, Pax was ever-grateful for her grandmother’s hair. People always loved the hair. It was on a par with a handbag dog.

Damn Luca O’Brien for being late.

‘My car’s about to die.’ She looked around distractedly. It would be midnight in three hours, her last drunken stand of the year – of all time – forfeited. Tonight it mattered. Shameful, desperate tears filled her eyes.

‘Boyfriend, is it?’ The worker looked at her sympathetically.

‘Husband.’ She realised too late that she’d misunderstood him, still thinking everyone could see her marriage break-up reflected back from her eyes like a disaster movie. Instead, he saw romance, lovers separated by fog as midnight chimed. It hardly mattered.

‘As it’s New Year…’ he said, reaching under his counter, voice hushed. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this, but you’re too beautiful to be sad and this might cheer you up.’ He smiled wider, sideburns stretching, and pulled out a voucher for the airport hotel.

‘Complimentary room. Show this to reception and say Dig okayed it.’ He signed the back. ‘My boyfriend’s the manager. He’ll make sure you get an upgrade and free drinks at the bar. Make the most of it. Happy New Year.’

Pax took it gratefully. She’d take all the compliments on offer right now.

On the way back to the car, she left a message on Luca O’Brien’s number to say where she’d be waiting. At least a hotel room would be a lot warmer and cleaner than the stud, she realised with relief, hoping they took dogs; they could both do with a bath.

*

Carly could hold her drink, but she couldn’t hope to keep up with Bridge, who was downing three glasses of wine for her every one, talking horse all over the movie.

‘You can put your foot in the stirrup any time, queen. I only started in my twenties.’ The self-mocking Belfast lilt hypnotised Carly, full of vim and vigour as she tried to convince her to have a go at riding. ‘And I was living in fecking London at the time, can you believe? Could never afford it before then. Used to catch a tube train out to Barnet in designer breeches every Saturday morning, fighting the pervs off – came back stinking of gee-gee a few hours later and they’d come nowhere near me. I’ve been addicted to it ever since. Vowed I’d buy my own ned as soon as I left the city. Best feeling.’

The first time Carly had encountered Bridge – galloping straight at her through a cornfield on an out-of-control pony, laughing and whooping and apologising all at the same time – she’d hoped they’d be mates. Carly liked rebels, those dangerous souls who dared to live a little bit faster than others. From her trendy silver hair with its pink tips through her geek glasses, paired this evening with a prison-arrow onesie and felt pheasant slippers, Bridge was standout unconventional and a breath of fresh air in the Comptons. Her face had a likeably sharp-nosed, almond-eyed shrewdness, and Carly liked her voice as well, that sardonic flat ‘Norn Irish’ drawl reminded her of clever comedians on panel shows, and made everything sound ironically amusing. She was clever and grumpy and kind.