As she approached, she breathed a sigh of relief. The lights were on, and she could see Jared through the window, stirring something at the stove. Heart in her mouth, but still determined, she opened the catch on the low picket gate and walked up the path to the door. It was cold tonight, colder than it had been so far this autumn, but she didn’t feel a thing.

‘Connie!’ he greeted her, wooden spoon still in his hand. ‘Come in, come in. You’re just in time to sample my pumpkin soup.’ His smile and easy greeting implied this was the most natural event in the world, her popping round with the dog for a spot of soup.

With trepidation, she followed him into the warm kitchen. Everything looked new, a bit too clean and organized. A bottle of red wine was open on the table, and without asking, he fetched a glass from the cupboard and poured some for her.

‘This is a nice surprise,’ he said, lifting his own drink and holding it out to chink with hers. ‘Salud!’

Connie found herself complying as she touched her glass with his, but she did not echo his good wishes, taking only a tiny sip of wine, as if it might poison her. He was looking at her, waiting for her to speak. But now she was here, the words she’d rehearsed so often dried on her lips. It felt oddly normal in the kitchen, Jared relaxed, looking younger, she thought, in his jeans and a white T-shirt, his arms still tanned from his mysterious wanderings, brown hair streaked gold by the sun. She quickly looked away.

‘Take a seat,’ Jared said, lifting a couple of soup bowls from the open shelf at the end of the row of kitchen units, and placing them on the table. ‘Spoons,’ he muttered, finally plumping for the drawer to the right of the cooker. A row of foil and clingfilm rolls greeted him, and he shut the drawer and tried the one on the other side. ‘Geronimo!’ He brandished two spoons at Connie, then put them both on the table beside the bowls. ‘Still getting used to the place,’ he added.

Connie experienced a strange snapshot, as if she were in an alternative version of her life, where Devan didn’t exist, and she lived in this cottage with Jared and Riley. She watched Jared pour the thick orange soup. ‘Sorry, no parsley. Have to make do with a little drizzle of olive oil and a grind of pepper,’ he said, pushing her bowl across the table and turning to find the oil and pepper.