‘Right,’ she said, grinning. ‘I just thought, maybe you wouldn’t mind checking for me? It’s awfully rude to ask, but I’m a bit desperate. I was going to ask John or Vera to ask you, but it seemed easier to go straight to the source.’

Quickly, I shook myself out of my trance. ‘Of course,’ I said. I walked over to the mailbox and opened it. Sure enough, there was loads of junk mail addressed to her, and a slim white envelope that looked decidedly like a check. I handed it over.

Her eyes lit up, sparkling, as we walked back to our cars. ‘Oh god, I’m so relieved. I was about to ask my ex-husband for a loan, which is just as horrible as it sounds.’

‘No worries,’ I said.

‘I’m a photographer,’ Rachel went on. ‘So it’s not like the money is coming from some endlessly running faucet. More like a drip drip drip, you know what I mean?’

I nodded as it dawned on me – that explained the photos.

‘Glad you got your check,’ I said as I popped open the trunk. ‘I should probably get my stuff inside. Groceries.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You have lots of bags. Let me help you.’

I paused. I wasn’t sure if I should be inviting strangers into my home …

‘Least I can do after you helped me,’ she added.

‘Sure,’ I said, my curiosity quickly getting the better of me. It’s not like she was some sort of criminal or anything. ‘I mean, if you really want.’

We grabbed the bags, and she followed me inside.

Dusty ran to greet us, pawing at Rachel’s legs. ‘Down, Dusty!’ I said as I walked in. ‘He loves people.’

‘And I love dogs.’ She set the bags down and swiftly scooped him up, holding him to her chest.

‘Wow,’ I said as he nuzzled her neck. ‘He doesn’t usually let people do that – not besides me.’

‘I grew up with dogs. No less than three at a time. On a farm up in Rochester. I swear to god they all think I’m one of them. That’s what my ex used to say, anyway.’ As if on cue, Dusty licked furiously at her chin. She allowed it for a moment, then set him down and grabbed the bags again as her head swiveled back and forth. ‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ she said.

I smirked. ‘Did you try to make it your own?’

Rachel laughed. ‘Not really. Just embraced the woodland hippie chic,’ she said. ‘Right down to the Buddhist tomes. I lived here while I was knee-deep in a divorce, so it felt easier than arguing with my husband about who was going to get the Eames chair that we never should have spent so much on anyway.’