Greg doesn’t do surprises. Not in twenty years of marriage have I ever been swept off my feet by him or whisked away to an exotic destination. He’s never even turned up with a bunch of flowers from the local petrol station – and most men manage that at least once in a lifetime.

‘A surprise?’

He nods. ‘Yeah.’

That is a surprise.

So that’s why I’m up early and in the car before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. I was going to go running with Blake this morning and that gives me a flutter of guilt. Maybe I should call him or text him. I have his number for work purposes. It was only a loose arrangement, but I don’t like letting people down. What should I do?

‘Ready?’ my husband asks.

‘Yes.’ And I let my mobile phone fall into my handbag and try not to think of Blake Chadwick waiting for me.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

By lunchtime we’re in the Lake District. The sky is an unbroken blue. The sun is working overtime to reach Mediterranean proportions. There is no sign of the low-slung, penetrating rain for which this area is so famous.

Greg and I wind our way through narrow roads of ever-decreasing size, squeezing through the drystone walls that line either side until we eventually reach the gravel car park at Wasdale Head, a deep valley nestling at the foot of Scafell Pike. We climb out and gaze up at the peak’s dark, immense contours.

Scafell Pike is the highest mountain in England. It’s still so remote and difficult to access that it has managed to escape the worst excesses of the Lakes tourism. You’ll not find coachloads of Japanese tourists here with the very latest in digital-camera technology clicking away. Today, there is just a scattering of cars parked up and it feels like we have the place pretty much to ourselves.

‘Walking boots are in the back,’ Greg says.

Our rucksacks are in there too and both have sandwiches in them. Looks like my husband has thought of everything.

It’s years since we did anything like this. Once upon a time we used to enjoy going out hiking together – short four- or five-mile circuits in the soft, rolling countryside of Buckinghamshire – but we’ve never done any serious hillwalking. In front of me, Scafell Pike looms mountainous and challenging. This is a relatively small lump of rock compared to the towering slopes of the Andes and already I’m looking at it and thinking, I’ll never get up there. The guidebook tells me that the ascent is nearly 1,000 metres and, to me, that sounds like no mean feat.