Katelin was in one of her habitual pre-Christmas funks, when the imminent arrival of his family – or, on alternate years, her own – would periodically colour her thoughts in shades of grey. She always emerged, perfectly pleasant and sociable, in time for the visit, but there was something about the build-up, the expectations, the length of the shopping list, the fridge bulging with the turkey, the veg, the beer, the wine … and the relentlessness of it all, and the inevitability, and the way it crept up by stealth, one minute October, the very next, Christmas. So annoying. Then there were the beds to make, extra mattresses for the cousins, and meanwhile the bathroom and downstairs loo – was this a universal rule? – had to be cleaner than they ever were at any other time of year, and, oh, the whole terrible festive jamboree, like a well-intentioned invasion, a three-day marathon of fairy-lit madness.

‘Hey,’ Dan said, putting an arm loosely round her shoulders. ‘Let’s turn back? Go home and pour a drink?’

She turned her face to his and managed a smile. ‘I need Alex off that sofa,’ she said. ‘It’s an awful tip in that room,’ and Dan said, ‘Agreed, Wednesday’s glorious rise to eminence must wait until after Christmas.’

‘And there’s veg to prep.’

‘Alex can do it. He’ll need something to do with his hands when he puts that controller down.’

Now, finally, she laughed, and they turned around to retrace their steps, the air around them feeling a few degrees warmer, the atmosphere palpably more relaxed. Even McCulloch looked jollier, but that might just have been the welcome change of direction, the unmistakable scent of home.