He nodded. Now they were really laughing.

‘I probably had been drinking,’ she admitted.

‘You probably had,’ Devan agreed. Suddenly serious, he added, ‘You’ve always been someone who grabs life by the balls, Connie. I love that about you.’ He reached over and took her hand ‘You’re so not old. I think you’re gorgeous.’ His words made her want to cry, especially given the dilapidated state she was in. She felt like an animal who’d just crawled out of her cave after a long winter in hibernation. Her hair was faded and wild – badly in need of Janine’s ministrations – her nails were flaking, her skin felt like the surface of a prawn cracker and was pretty much the same colour. She was still too thin. ‘Gorgeous’ did not really cut it.

September plodded by. It was now six weeks since Connie had become ill. Six weeks during which she’d cried with despair that she would ever be well again. Six weeks of being home, being cosseted … being loved. And six weeks since she’d seen or heard of Jared. She was a lucky woman, she knew, and tried not to think of how much she didn’t deserve Devan’s love. Not when the occasional dream of Jared still made her body vibrate and quiver, like a leaf in the breeze. But she thought about Jared less and less. Her brain was quietly beginning to wrap her memories in the convenient mists of time.

Today, Saturday, Jill picked Connie up after breakfast. ‘Are we bonkers, driving all the way to the Forest of Dean?’ her friend asked, as they headed west towards the M5.

Connie laughed. She loved food festivals: cookery theatre and sampling cubes of local produce, hot lunch in pots with little wooden spoons, mini plastic beakers of cider, beer and wine to test, and the general good humour and friendliness foodies inspire. But that morning she had almost cancelled.

She just couldn’t seem to get her spirits up – or her enthusiasm for anything. Her life seemed just a grey trudge from hour to hour, day to day. Although physically she was no longer ill, the cough only plaguing her occasionally, it felt like a monumental effort to respond to Devan, let alone the few friends she’d been in touch with recently. A whole day with Jill – who liked to talk about things on which Connie might have to concentrate – rendered her a bit panicky.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ she assured her friend.

‘Should be. Although, according to the app, rain’s forecast. Shame for all those stallholders.’

Connie sat in the warm womb of the car and couldn’t think of a thing to say. She wanted to close her eyes, but knew she must not: it was barely ten o’clock.

‘You know old Mr Solomon’s cottage, down by the post office?’ Jill said.

‘The one with the wooden dolphin outside?’