Now Bonnie was trapped between the arm of Tracey’s sofa and the pale, limp form of Mr Gregory from three doors down, who had breath potent enough to puncture a parachute and was wearing sandals with his battered corduroy slacks, despite the below-freezing temperatures outside. For the past twenty minutes, he had been talking earnestly about the properties of volcanic soil – a fact that was making Bonnie wish she had never told him where she was from. New Zealand had acres of the stuff.

‘It’s all about the nutrients and minerals, you see,’ he enthused, scooping up a handful of salmon blinis from a nearby dish. When he then started extolling the virtues of phosphates, Bonnie found herself sprayed with damp, fishy crumbs and, deciding that enough was bloody well enough, mumbled something about needing a top-up before politely, but firmly, shouldering her way past him.

Once in the relative safety of the kitchen, she filled a glass with water from the tap and leant against the work surface to down the whole lot in three satisfying gulps. She was wearing the only dress she had brought with her, which was black, shapeless and had a hole in the right armpit – but Bonnie could not have cared less. Glancing at the clock on the opposite wall, which was shaped like a cat and had a swinging black tail in place of a pendulum, she reflected that at least now she had put in an appearance she could surely spirit herself back upstairs to the spare room and hide. The story was not going to write itself.

‘You all right, love?’

Tracey had just bustled in for another bottle of fizz, and Bonnie jumped forwards guiltily.

‘I came for more snacks,’ she muttered, picking up a half-empty bag of tortilla chips.

‘Poppycock.’ Tracey pulled her chin down against her chest. ‘You forget how well I know you, love – you never were that comfortable around lots of people. Remember how your hair used to practically stand on end whenever the caff had more than four customers?’

Bonnie went to protest, but she knew Tracey was right. She did hate parties, and concerts, and airport terminals – basically anywhere that you would expect to find a large number of people. How she had ever dealt with so many months in London, she didn’t know. Nowadays, Bonnie managed her crowd phobia by barely leaving the stables. Aside from the busloads of horse-riding tourists ferried in daily by Kit, not many people tended to pass by the yard. One of the things she loved most about her place of work was its remote location. Bonnie knew the names of everyone booked in to ride, so in theory, surprise arrivals were a rare-to-non-existent occurrence.