Bonnie took a breath. She had been writing so fast that sweat had beaded on her upper lip and under her arms. Tracey must have switched the heating up to tropical again. Her friend could not bear to be cold, and there were soft pink blankets draped over the back of every chair in the house.

It felt good to have reached this place in the story – it was a poignant memory that Bonnie had been dreading delving back into, so she was glad to find that it hadn’t upset her as much as she’d feared. And it was all true, anyway – that day had turned out to be one of the most pivotal of her life.

Putting the lid back on her pen, Bonnie collected up her empty coffee cup and went down to the kitchen, where she found Tracey weeping over a copy of the local paper.

‘Shit.’ Bonnie was beside her in seconds. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Tracey dabbed her eyes with a corner of her Pink Panther apron. ‘Just this horrible story, that’s all. I’m just being silly as usual, duckie.’

Bonnie scanned the headline. A young child had been left orphaned after a traffic accident.

‘That is awful,’ she agreed. ‘So sad.’

Tracey’s voice cracked. ‘I just feel so sorry for the little darling,’ she sobbed. ‘No child should have to lose their mum and dad.’ Then, glancing sideways at Bonnie, ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, love – I didn’t mean that as a dig at you.’

‘It’s fine.’ Bonnie gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘That’s why I’m here, you know? To make up for the past.’

Tracey shuddered as she closed the newspaper and folded it in half.

‘It reminded me of this terrible story from last Christmas,’ she told Bonnie. ‘That one really upset me. Tea?’

Bonnie nodded as Tracey made her way towards the kettle.

‘This woman was killed while she was out riding her daughter’s horse on Christmas Eve, and the pony had to be destroyed, too. Imagine that, right before all the festivities, all the presents under the tree that would never be opened. My heart broke for that girl and her dad.’

‘That is tragic,’ agreed Bonnie, the thought of anything happening to her horses dropping like a stone through her insides. ‘Where did it happen? Around here?’

Tracey paused as she separated two tea bags.

‘No, I think it was over in Cambridgeshire or somewhere. The woman’s husband was some sort of famous author, if I remember rightly, so it made all the papers.’