‘Wet.’ I wipe away a strand of hair that’s dripping down my forehead.

He laughs. ‘How’s your sister – what was her name?’

‘Josie.’

Ben was forever flirting with her and now he doesn’t even remember her name? I feel oddly offended on her behalf.

‘Josie, yeah, that’s right,’ he nods, smiling.

‘She’s good,’ I say tightly. ‘What about you? I see you got married.’ In an attempt to change the subject, I say the first thing off the top of my head.

‘Oh . . . yeah.’ His eyes flick to his wedding band. Flexing his fingers, he grips the steering wheel tighter. ‘I’m a dad now, too.’

‘That’s great.’

‘What about you?’

‘No, no kids.’ I quickly sidestep the issue of marriage. Not that I care what he thinks, but my teenage self in braces and a trainer bra still does, and somehow admitting that I’m single and divorced feels like a failure.

‘Though I used to have thirty-one thirteen-year-olds,’ I add and then, seeing his confused expression, I explain, ‘I’m a teacher. Well, was. I’m taking a bit of a break.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me – you were always the brainy one. Not like me. I hated school. “He’ll either end up in prison or a millionaire,” it said on a school report once.’

‘So you’re a millionaire?’

‘Not yet,’ he laughs, and I decide not to ask him about the other option.

Luckily his phone rings, interrupting our conversation. He apologizes: sorry, he has to get this. I hear him talking about work. I zone out, turning to look out of the window as the countryside flashes past. As we slow down to cross the bridge that leads into the village, he hangs up.

‘So how long are you visiting for? We should catch up properly. I only live behind the Crooked Billet pub.’

‘To be honest, I’m really busy,’ I fib, cutting him off before having a drink together for old times’ sake is suggested. As we enter the main square, I gesture for him to pull over. ‘Actually I can walk from here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, it’s only two minutes.’

He stops the van and I clamber out.

‘Well, thanks again for the lift.’

‘Bye.’

Relieved to be out of the van, I slam the door behind me and walk briskly across the cobbles. I want to put as much distance as I can between us. It’s still raining and I keep my head down as his van rumbles past me. Ben Armstrong. Of all the people to run into. Still, I suppose it had to happen sometime. Nettlewick’s a small place.

Lugging my heavy shopping bags, I turn up the small lane that runs alongside the graveyard. Almost home, I dig out my house keys, and I’m just thinking about warm, dry clothes and a hot cup of tea when I notice there’s a van already parked outside my cottage. I get closer. Wait a minute, that looks like—

‘Ben?’

He’s standing on my doorstep ringing my doorbell, which doesn’t work, while inside I can hear Harry barking like crazy.