‘He . . .’ Alison felt herself closing up as she always did whenever the subject of Rich was raised. In all these years she’d hardly spoken about him, let alone confided in anyone what, exactly, had happened in his last moments. Not a single other person in Yorkshire knew the facts surrounding his death, because she’d been so paranoid about Robyn ever finding out. ‘Um,’ she said, resuming snipping, ‘it was sudden. Very sudden. He—’

She broke off in anguish and Molly reached a hand round and patted her arm soothingly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Forget I asked.’

Normally, of course, this was where Alison would accept the escape route with gratitude, where she would lapse into silence with perhaps a mumbled ‘I don’t really like talking about it’ as her defence card. Nobody ever questioned that statement, they withdrew immediately and the subject would be tactfully changed. But today for some reason – perhaps due to Molly’s calm, kind presence, or perhaps Robyn’s words still smarting beneath the surface – Alison felt a shift inside her, an unlocking sensation. And then she was stunned to hear her own voice saying, ‘Actually, it was suicide. Completely out of the blue. I’ve never really got over it.’

‘Oh, Alison,’ said Molly, a hand flying up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.’

‘It was, it really was. I found him one morning and—’ She broke off because she had remembered, belatedly, that it was Alison’s rather gossipy client, Tina, who’d given Molly Alison’s number in the first place; they were friends, and if Tina got to hear about Alison’s misfortunes, it would be all over town within seconds. ‘Listen, please don’t tell anyone,’ she begged fearfully. ‘My own daughter doesn’t even know how her dad died. I would hate for word to get around.’

‘Goodness, of course I won’t tell anyone,’ Molly said. ‘You can trust me, I promise.’

‘Nobody here knows – I’ve never talked about it before. I don’t know why I’ve started pouring my heart out to you, when we’ve only just met.’ Alison’s hands shook on the scissors and she had to take a deep breath and a mouthful of coffee to compose herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. What must this woman think of her?

‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Molly assured her again. ‘These things can take a while to work themselves to the surface. I didn’t cry for two weeks after my Scott died; I was completely numb. Then this woman knocked on the door, delivering some flowers, and I found myself breaking down on her. Poor thing, she looked terrified, having this random lunatic sobbing on the front doorstep. Made me feel a lot better, but I doubt it was mutual.’