Alison took a tissue from her pocket and tenderly wiped some of the dust from the dashboard. She cupped her hand around the knob of the gearstick for a moment, ran a finger along the indicator and adjusted the rear-view mirror a fraction. Rationally, Alison was able to appreciate that her daughter had a point, but today she was grateful for the comfort of the Jensen; for the link it still held to happier times. Maybe at the weekend she’d give it a proper clean; sponge off the cobwebs that festooned the wheel arches, give the bonnet a good old waxing. Just in case Rich happened to glance her way from wherever he was now. Just so he’d know that she still thought about him.

‘We’ll be all right,’ she told herself after a moment, in the bravest voice she could muster up. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we? Of course we will.’

And then, feeling marginally better, the magic of the Jensen having done its work, she stepped out, gently closed the door and locked up the garage once more. Now then: dinner. Something really delicious, she decided. And maybe a good old box-set binge to take her mind off everything. Perfect.

‘Matt, is that you?’ called Paula, hearing the front door. ‘Come and have a look at this.’ She was perched at the kitchen table, laptop open, staring at the screen. Rewind, play. Rewind, play. ‘Matt, are you there?’

‘What is it?’ Matt walked into the kitchen, wet-haired, and chucked a pair of trunks and a damp towel down by the washing machine. He was a tree surgeon and had been working out near Castle Howard, taking the chance for a post-work dip in the lake there. Give her husband a stretch of water and he’d strip off and dive in like an enthusiastic spaniel, whatever the weather.

‘This,’ said Paula, her eyes still glued to the laptop screen. ‘Come and see.’

She hadn’t thought anything much of the email from the photographer when it arrived that day, with a zip file attached. It was her and Matt’s anniversary present to her parents, having a set of photos professionally taken of the party and compiled in a nice album. When she’d made the booking, though, the photographer had been running a special offer whereby, for only a small amount more, you could have photography and video footage of your special event, courtesy of his nephew, who was doing an apprenticeship with him and was very keen. Paula had always wished they’d shelled out for someone to compile a video of her own wedding day and was deeply envious of friends who could watch their happy celebrations again and again. ‘Go on then,’ she’d said to the photographer, giving him her debit-card details.