“Rumours,” she repeated flatly. “From where?”

“School. He’s the peripatetic music teacher for the primary school, as well as a couple of others in the area. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, we hadn’t got that far. I know he plays the cello,” Olivia answered a bit defensively, because Harriet had sort of made it sound as if she should have known. As if she shouldn’t go out with a man for a drink without knowing his occupation.

“He only started in September. He’s living with his sister, who has kids at the school. A boy in year two, I think, and another in nursery.”

“Yes, I know that.” Sort of. She knew he had a sister and a nephew. “That hardly seems objectionable, though.”

“Nooo...” Harriet sounded so uncharacteristically hesitant that Olivia felt a sudden, very real clutch of fear.

“Don’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to know. Not like this. It’s not fair to Simon. He’s not a serial killer or something, is he?”

“Not a serial killer,” Harriet allowed, in a tone that suggested he was somewhere a little bit beneath that. Good grief. Olivia turned away, not trusting the expression on her face, and busied herself with wiping the counter of crumbs that had scattered there after she’d cut into the Victoria sponge cake.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pour cold water all over your excitement.”

Except, of course, she already had. “It’s fine,” Olivia said, even though it wasn’t. It probably wasn’t reasonable, but she felt a little miffed with Harriet for reacting the way she had, even as she battled a deepening unease over whatever it was Harriet—and Simon—weren’t saying.

Harriet bit her lip, looking both guilty and miserable. “I shouldn’t have said anything...”

No, she really shouldn’t have. “It’s fine,” Olivia said firmly. “Now let me show you how the cupcake promotion works.”

Ten minutes later Olivia was driving towards Witney, the rolling fields on either side of the road sparkling with frost on a crisp and sunny winter’s morning, the Lea River glittering alongside. The sight of the Cotswolds in all of their natural glory made Olivia’s spirits lift a little, even as she dreaded what lay ahead.

Last night, after Simon had left, she’d done an Internet search on these types of tests and cringed inwardly at how patronising they seemed, even though she knew they weren’t intended to be. But drawing a clock? Recalling the date, or an address you’d be told moments before? Of course her mother could do those things, and it was an insult to her to think otherwise.

And yet...why did Olivia feel dread rather than relief? What was she so afraid of?

Her mother was waiting outside the building as Olivia pulled up. She sat on a stone bench, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her coat zipped up to her chin. She looked remarkably composed, more so than Olivia had seen her in a while, and she felt a flicker of hope, even though she couldn’t articulate what it was exactly that she was hoping for.