They chatted on, like the best of friends, the two of them side by side, glasses in hand, faces lit by the bonfire as they watched the extravagant display of fireworks. Connie edged away until she was standing on her own. She was both stunned and furious. What the hell were you doing at the launch? she asked Jared silently. And how dare you pretend to pal up with my husband?

In the car going home, Connie’s head was pounding from too much mulled wine. ‘You’ve always said stout was vile. Why on earth are you going for a tasting with that guy?’

He grinned. ‘I know. But he’s nice. I like him. And you always say we should be friendly to people settling in the village.’

She had no answer for that because she was assailed by a silent shriek of panic, of blind fury. This cannot be happening to me … The words smacked the sides of her brain like a hundred-mile-an-hour squash ball.

Late morning the following day, Connie phoned her sister. She’d been going crazy since the early hours, trying to work out what to do, without success. She knew she needed someone else’s advice. ‘Have you got a moment?’ she asked, after they’d exchanged greetings. It was a Friday morning and, remembering Lynne and Rhodri’s rigid schedule, she knew they wouldn’t be at the supermarket or at church or changing the sheets. Connie had waited till Devan went out to meet Jared. She had barely slept and now felt tearful. Swallowing hard, she tried to explain.

‘Crikey,’ Lynne said, which was as close as she usually got to swearing. ‘He’s living practically next door?’

‘Three minutes away.’

‘Why? Does he think you’ll leave Devan?’ There was a pause. ‘Might you leave Devan?’

‘No. No no no! Absolutely not. And I’ve told him that a hundred times.’

‘Hmm. Weird. He’s stalking you, Connie.’

Since his arrival in the village, she herself had reluctantly begun to use that word in relation to Jared. But it was scary: she didn’t want it to fit. ‘He doesn’t call me, text me, send letters, leave stuff on the doorstep, boil bunnies, slash tyres … He doesn’t do anything. He’s just there.’ She felt tears of frustration, which she’d kept under firm control for weeks now, finally breaking free.

‘Please, don’t cry.’ Lynne hated tears. ‘You say he’s promised not to breathe a word. Maybe he won’t.’