In-between organizing caterers, printing posters and finalizing the calendar of events, at the beginning of December I make a quick trip into town to try to find a dress for the dance. The high street is decorated for Christmas and there’s a steady stream of shoppers. I duck away from the crowds and into the quieter back streets and narrow Victorian alleyways, where there’s a string of vintage and charity shops, selling clothes and jewellery.

It’s there I run into Ajay. We smile and say our hellos. He read about the fire in the newspaper and asks how I am. Fine, I say, asking how he is. He’s good, finally having decided to take the plunge and do what he loves: I’m looking at a personal trainer now. We laugh about something that I can’t remember. I tell him I’m looking for a dress for the dance and invite him to come. He replies that he’s looking for a present for his girlfriend and I invite her too. Is that weird? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel weird.

We say our goodbyes and he gives me a hug. I hug him back and we go our separate ways – our lives like train tracks, crossing briefly and crossing over again. Which makes me think about Valentine. Is that how he felt about his affair? Just a brief encounter, someone with whom his life fleetingly crossed over, before crossing back again. Never knowing that it had produced a child.

With December come the plunging temperatures and wet weather that the forecasters have been promising. It rains for days, and I skip my morning walks as it’s too cold and wet for Harry’s arthritis. One morning, watching the rivulets run down the panes of my bedroom window, I notice a familiar flash of pink and white polka dots bobbing through the graveyard. It’s Valentine with his umbrella. I wonder how he’s feeling. It was all such a shock that day. I’d sent off the DNA test with such casual curiosity, as a fun way of helping with his hobby, but now his life had been rocked with an emotional fallout that neither of us could have imagined.

Since then we haven’t seen much of each other. He’s been busy too, in charge of an army of volunteers helping to finish painting and decorating the village hall. But in truth I think we’ve both been avoiding the consequences of our actions. He unknowingly fathered a child, and I unintentionally found that child. And, like a genie that’s been let out of the bottle, a secret has been discovered and Valentine needs to decide what to do about it.

‘You had an affair?’

I think back to our conversation that day several weeks ago in Valentine’s living room. I remember my disbelief. How he’d gone pale, almost grey, as he tried to explain.

‘It was after Helen was born. Gisele wasn’t herself. They’ve got a name for it now, but they didn’t in those days. She’d just sit on her bed and cry.’ He started speaking, his voice low. ‘She wasn’t interested in the baby, or me, or anything. I didn’t know what to do. I was out working all hours to try and pay the rent. At first I was sympathetic, but after a while I lost patience . . .’