Lauren and Zak exited London at warp speed. At least, it felt like it. In truth, it was probably more like sixty miles an hour in Zak’s old car. They headed up the M40, skirted round Oxford and then wound their way slowly into the heart of the Cotswolds.

Coldplay serenaded them on the journey and Lauren relaxed back into her seat, watching as the narrow streets of mellow stone houses replaced the motorways. She was sure they’d been to this part of the world as children with Annie and Chelsea, maybe for a family holiday. She’d have to ask Annie, as her sister was always better at hanging on to memories of that kind of stuff. If they had been here before, Lauren didn’t remember it being quite so pretty or so soothing to the soul. Perhaps she just hadn’t been stressed enough to appreciate it way back then.

A while later, they arrived at the small village of Mickleton, just beyond the clutches of the main thrust of tourism in Broadway and Chipping Camden.

Zak steered his car into a quiet lane by the old church and they trundled along the pot-holed lane, trying to miss the worst of the dips. At the end was a row of three tiny terraced cottages built in traditional golden Cotswold stone.

‘Left-hand one.’ Zak pointed at it. ‘Home Sweet Home.’

‘It’s beautiful. You can’t get rid of this!’

He shrugged good-naturedly.

In front of the houses was a shallow stream, and each of the houses was reached by an individual stone bridge just wide enough for one person. The front door was painted white, and a rambling pink clematis wound its way round the frame.

‘It’s more homely than glamorous,’ Zak warned. ‘But it has all mod cons.’

He hoisted the bags out of the car and set off across the bridge to open up the cottage. Lauren followed, gazing wistfully at the scenery. Behind the houses it looked as if there was nothing but open fields, nothing to spoil the view.

Inside, the ceilings were low, beamed. In the living room was a comfortable-looking sofa and a plump armchair by the fireside. The fireplace and chimney were of plain brick and housed a wood-burning stove that looked much-used. The stripped floorboards were partially covered by a colourful rug that co-ordinated with the soft blue upholstery of the chairs.

Through to the kitchen, which was small but had clearly been recently refitted with Shaker-style units. A bright conservatory had been grafted on to the back of the house, and in there was a small pine table that would seat four and another squishy sofa. Lauren wandered out in the garden, which was long and narrow and remarkably well maintained.