Another note to Monica, apologising for her ‘copping out’, and Laura climbed the stairs to the mezzanine level and fell into bed. She was genuinely exhausted but it took her a little time to relax enough to sleep. She knew that everyone else involved in the festival was just as exhausted and she was dipping out, leaving them to carry on. It wasn’t fair, really. But although she felt guilty, she didn’t feel guilty enough to get up again and go over to the main house and help. She had to think how she was going to get through the next twenty-four hours.

Laura awoke full of determination. She would go to breakfast at nine o’clock and face Dermot like a grown woman, not a lovesick teenager. She’d had her night of heartbreak, now she’d face ‘Real Life’ head on. She would not let anyone, most of all Dermot, see how hurt she was.

She would have liked to have had Monica with her, but as she’d suspected she might, she had a text instead, saying that Monica was staying with Seamus and would be back sometime the following day and that Grant had headed off to his aunt’s for the day.

Oh well, thought Laura, trying to find something to be positive about, it means I can spend as long as I like in the shower. She was determined to turn up to breakfast looking fabulous. No one would know she was heartbroken and felt betrayed, least of all Dermot. She would sweep in on the tide of the success of the festival and eat sausages, eggs and bacon with pride! She was seriously tempted to put a fabric rose Monica had left lying about behind her ear.

‘Good morning,’ she cooed as she opened the kitchen door, sounding worryingly like a primary-school teacher addressing her flock.

She looked quickly round the room and realised Dermot wasn’t there. Relief and disappointment raged for a moment and disappointment won. She chided herself. Even now her heart was in danger of ruling her head. She pulled out a chair next to Veronica, who was reading the paper. Veronica lowered the Daily Telegraph a little and gave Laura a warm smile over the top of it. Fenella was yawning into a cup of coffee; Reg, the driver, had a piece of fried bread and was cleaning up every scrap of egg yolk with it; and Sarah was writing things down in a notebook. Hugo, next to her, appeared to be composing a sonnet to the piece of sausage on his fork. Eleanora was sipping mint tea with her eyes half closed. Although there were several people in it, the big kitchen felt rather empty.

‘Laura!’ said Rupert from the Aga, wearing a striped apron and wielding a fish slice. ‘What will you have? A bit of everything? A kipper?’