They were only a few miles from Tilsham, passing along lanes with verdant hedgerows and towering cow parsley, when Tom asked the question she knew he would. ‘Have you decided when exactly this weekend we’ll tell your mother and Willow our news?’

‘This evening is still my preferred option,’ she replied, ‘when the fête is over and we’re having supper. But who knows,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘I might just blurt it out.’

‘I don’t have a problem with that,’ he said, ‘and the sooner we do share our good news, the sooner Willow can admit that she’s also pregnant, and then we can all relax. Do you think it’s possible she might have already told your mother?’

‘More than possible. Or maybe Rick has let the cat out of the bag again. He did seem excessively pleased with himself when he told me.’

‘You can’t blame him for that,’ said Tom, ‘I expect I shall sound just as smug when I tell people.’

‘But remember what we decided,’ she warned, ‘no telling anyone at work, not for a good while yet.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I know the drill.’

As they entered the village and saw the pretty flint-stone cottages either side of them decorated with colourful hanging baskets and bunting – a long-standing fête tradition – Martha unexpectedly experienced a shot of adrenaline course through her. She was accustomed to feeling this at work – a fight or flight response – but this was a new phenomenon for her when arriving home at Anchor House.

She reasoned that it was because she didn’t really know what awaited her when they parked on the drive, and walked round to the back of the house to let themselves in. Before Dad died, she knew exactly what to expect; he’d greet her with one of his all-enveloping hugs and demand to know every scrap of her latest news. Meanwhile Mum would be chatting to Tom in a much quieter and more measured manner.

But now that didn’t happen. Now it was as if Anchor House no longer really felt like home. And Mum wasn’t Mum anymore. She was a stranger acting in a strange and totally unlike-Mum kind of way.

Martha had been grateful that Mum had never been one of those awful helicopter mothers who felt the need to control every aspect of her child’s life. She had been much more inclined to stand back and let Martha and Willow get on with things, and without feeling they had to be constantly in touch. ‘You must have your freedom,’ she had frequently encouraged them. ‘That’s how you learn to cope in life.’

But as unfair as it might sound, Martha couldn’t accept that Mum might feel the same way herself, that she now needed her own freedom to make her own mistakes and learn from them. Martha couldn’t bear the thought of her mother making a fool of herself over some man she thought she loved.

The sight of Rick’s BMW on the driveway – parked at an angle that made it awkward for Tom to park as neatly as he would have liked – caused Martha at once to feel less than positively towards him. And despite all her good intention, she was suddenly filled with the same sense of indignant outrage she’d experienced when Rick had taken her to task on the telephone.