She found she liked driving his little Fiat Punto. It was light and nippy and she soon forgot to worry about handling it. Now it was only getting lost she had to concern herself with. Fenella’s map looked perfectly straightforward but as she got nearer, all her nervousness came back and she started muddling up left and right. But at last, after a brief unscheuduled detour around the village, it was before her, on a hill, as described in the directions.

Somerby was a truly lovely house. Surrounded by pasture, currently grazed by a few picturesque horses well rugged up against the winter cold, it looked like a calm, benign being surveying the countryside it presided over.

Although it was still early afternoon, the January day was thinking about closing. The leafless trees stood out clearly against the pale sky and a faint glow from the sun lent a soft glow to the scene, as in an old oil painting.

Laura, who had stopped to double-check she had the right place before going up the drive, took a few moments to enjoy the picture. Some days in January, she always felt, teetered between the melancholy of winter and the optimism of spring. This matched her own feelings: sadness about losing her beloved job, but a stirring of hope at the prospect of something that might be quite exciting. She just had to be brave enough to take the leap. She spent a few moments enjoying the view, wondering just how courageous she was.

Then she noted the several cars drawn up in front of the Georgian façade and glanced at her watch, worried that she was late. In fact she was exactly on time, her watch confirmed this, but she liked to be punctual – early, Grant called it – and turned the car into the drive.

She found somewhere to park it and then, when she could put off the moment no longer, got out. Up until this point a meeting to her meant an informal event held in the staffroom of the shop and consisted of Henry, Grant, the part-time staff and her discussing things. There was no agenda and everyone said what they wanted to say and no one wrote anything down. It worked fine. Laura knew this was going to be different. It was likely to be extremely nerve-racking – if she had any nerves left to rack, that is; she was nearly all racked out simply from the journey!

The doorbell jangled and the door opened swiftly on a tall young woman with blonde hair, wearing a Cavalier shirt, velvet trousers tucked into fabulous pale green suede boots that nearly reached her thighs and a worried expression. Spotting Laura, she smiled and looked slightly less concerned. ‘You must be Laura Horsley?’

‘Yes. Am I the last? I got a bit lost towards the end.’