‘I’m sorry, Detective Tyson, but, you see, it’s been a rather stressful Christmas. Our mother entirely failed to grasp the concept of maternal love during her lifetime, which is why she chose Christmas Day to reveal that my husband Harry had a fling with my sister Amber, because he likes her cooking, apparently. Amber’s husband is the sexual equivalent of a binge-eater, while Emerald’s husband is a lapsed vagetarian – he now totally avoids vag,’ I elaborated. ‘Basically, we’re three menopausal women whose dreams have collapsed, just like our pelvic floors, which we seem to be trying to cure with some HRT – husband replacement therapy.’

The detective collapsed in a wheezing phlegm-fest. ‘Don’t worry. One of these days I’ll be out of therapy,’ he said, lighting up another cigarette from the butt of the last. ‘So, let’s unpack this more slowly, shall we, girls?’

But we were saved further humiliating interrogation by the shrill of the doorbell. Relieved at the reprieve, Emerald bounced off to open it. A few moments later, she called down the hall. ‘Ruby? Your HRT just arrived.’

I crossed to the kitchen doorway and looked towards the front door. A figure ambled out of the blinding sunshine into the darkness of the hall. I blinked against the brightness as my eyes adjusted. And there, backlit by the dazzling morning sun, stood Doctor Brody Quinn.

32

‘Ruby.’

As soon as I heard his voice a pang of longing corkscrewed through my body, which responded instantly, like Pavlov’s salivating dog. A lobotomised grin was the best I could manage.

‘Brody.’ I stumbled to a halt before him. Wide-eyed and wild haired, clothes dishevelled, I imagined I looked like a hair-care-magazine reject, or the ‘Before’ photo in a makeover feature.