Now would be the time, she thought sadly, when I’d ring Mum and fill her in about my trip. Her mother, Sheila, had died in January, in her sleep, at eighty-six, after barely a day’s illness in her life. She’d been quietly independent to the last, living alone in her small South London flat with no fuss, miles from both of her daughters. But Connie would ring most days and they would chat away. Sheila was wise, someone who really listened. But she also loved a good rant, a good gossip, a good laugh. I miss you so much, Mum, Connie whispered silently, her eyes filling with tears, which she quickly blinked away in the crowded carriage. And I really need your advice. I’m worried. I don’t know what to do about Devan.

Her train arrived fifteen minutes late. But there was no sign of her husband or the red Honda in the semicircle of cars waiting on the station forecourt. She got out her mobile.

‘Hi,’ her husband said, sounding disoriented. ‘Where are you?’

‘At the station.’ She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she was dying to get home and take off her ‘cruise wear’, as she called the outfits deemed suitable for her job, and have a long, hot soak in her own bath. She knew Devan had probably fallen asleep in front of some rugby match or other. It was all he seemed to do, these days, since his retirement last summer as the village GP – a post he’d held for the past thirty years.

There was a moment’s silence and she heard scuffling in the background. ‘God! Sorry – didn’t realize the time. On my way,’ Devan said, and clicked off.

‘Good trip?’ her husband asked, smiling briefly at her as she climbed into the car, but not removing his hand from the gear stick or leaning over to kiss her. His handsome face looked crumpled, his grey jumper had a large stain just below the crew neck and his chin sported a day’s growth, the stubble sprouting silvery, although it was only the very edges of his dark hair that showed signs of grey. But Connie wasn’t in the mood to comment or criticize.

‘Yes, great. Weather was a bit rubbish the day we were in Amsterdam, but otherwise it went pretty smoothly, apart from the usual PPs.’ Which stood for Perfect Passengers and was their ironic acronym for any awkward customers on her tours. ‘The wife kicked off because there wasn’t a “pillow menu” at any of the hotels.’

Devan glanced at her, his thoughtful blue eyes, deep set beneath heavy brows – people likened him to the footballer George Best in his prime – coming suddenly to life. He had such a charming smile, which she’d instantly fallen in love with, that long-ago night in the festival medical tent. ‘Is that even a thing?’