‘You need a bit of fun in your life, Amelia,’ he says. ‘You’ve been through hell. Get on the sledge.’

‘Fine,’ I say, sitting down and grabbing the rough rope with my gloved hands. Suddenly I’m whizzing down the slope, snow bombarding my face. Halfway down, tears spill from my eyes, but they are not happy tears, they are desperate tears, and I wonder, as the sled hits the bottom and I fall out into deep snow, whether I’ll ever be truly happy again.

Chapter 11

A Year Ago

Ruth

Ruth liked this bit. The bit when her guests gathered for the first time in her conservatory to eat her delicious home-cooked meals. It was now she found out more about them – their history, their likes and dislikes, what made them tick.

She peered through the thick net curtain at her bedroom window to see the party of three – Jackson dressed in narrow black trousers and a white shirt, Caroline holding on to his arm, and the girl in black – leave Bluebell Cottage. They made their way through the darkness, Jackson brandishing a torch, leading the way like he was the Pied Piper of Hamelin. They would soon sit around Ruth’s rustic pine table. She would play Mum.

The aroma of roast pork cooking floated up the stairs from the kitchen. She sniffed, satisfied. Her guests loved her cooking – her creamy mash, her buttered carrots, her tender green beans. She was old-fashioned in some ways, she supposed. Women didn’t always cook from scratch anymore, but Ruth’s mother had taught her from an early age, and she loved being in the kitchen – it helped give her life meaning.

She dashed down the stairs, kicked off her fur-rimmed slippers, and pushed her feet into flat black shoes, before entering the conservatory, where she moulded her face into her usual welcoming smile ready for her first arrivals.

The side door opened, and Ruth tucked a straying tendril of hair, which had escaped from her ponytail, behind her ear.

Jackson entered first, followed by Caroline.

‘It’s still quite warm out there,’ Caroline said to Ruth. ‘Can’t believe it’s November.’

Ruth was sick of talking about the weather, but knew it went with the territory. ‘Yes, so strange for the time of year.’

‘I blame global warming,’ Jackson said, as Ruth gestured to the table laid out for her seven visitors. Finn had put out two jugs of water, the blue-and-white-checked napkins, and a beautiful vase of fresh flowers in the centre.

‘Please take a seat, anywhere you like.’

‘Where’s Lark?’ Caroline said, her forehead furrowing as she looked back towards the door. ‘I thought she was right behind us.’

‘She’ll be along in a minute, darling.’ Jackson took hold of her hand and led her to the table. ‘Try not to stress.’