Is there something about yearning that sets a beacon blinking across the human wilderness? Two mornings later, Fate delivered to Jules a belated Valentine’s gift. Disguised in the plain brown wrapping of a practical nuisance, it was nevertheless recognized and devoured. She was on her way to Fordingbridge to assess a family whose child had been missing a lot of school. Halfway across the common north of Lyndhurst, in an area entirely devoid of mobile signal, the car made an alarming noise and lost all power. Jules coasted to the side of the road, watched by a motley collection of ponies. Yanking on the handbrake, she began to cry.

Everything is wrong, she said to the sky that watched her from the other side of the closed sunroof. Nothing is working. Not knowing what else to do, she got out, opened the bonnet, and stood staring hopelessly at the engine.

But something was working. Some grand puppeteer was staging a mystery play. For she hadn’t been there five minutes when a swisher, more frequently serviced car slowed down and crunched to a halt in front of her, nose to nose. A man got out. A man in a long tan coat.

Now she is lying in bed thinking about him. Finlay is asleep beside her, snoring lightly, but Jules is wide awake. Her chest is buzzing like someone has passed electricity through it. Someone has. His name is Donal O’Connell, and he has just started working in the area as a locum. A few hours ago he got out of his car to offer assistance and now she is imagining running her hand over his jawline. He was friendly, not flirty. He had a lanky sixth-former-ness about him: a volunteer for any useful expedition, and too polite to make a pass. How practical he was, with his tow rope in the boot and his warning triangle: all the right safety equipment. How comfortable he was in himself, delivering his fairy-tale rhyming name without apology. When he said he would take her anywhere she wanted, she believed him. When he dropped her and the car at the garage, she knew everything would be fine: he made sure of it. He gave her his number, just in case you need a lift later, scrawled on the back of a leaflet for Hot Yoga. She would like to see him doing Hot Yoga. In the plough position, tipped onto broad shoulders, loose shorts and a black T-shirt sticking to his skin, sweat running down his thighs. Oh Jules, what are you doing? She scolds herself, and then, without meaning to, she is conjuring his lips. He has inviting lips. What has got into her? The devil, perhaps. Hunger, certainly. She imagines him kissing her. Imagines he, too, has hunger. Imagines his tongue filling her mouth. Guilt, guilt, yet she cannot stop herself. The thought is too delicious. Even the guilt seems delicious.