Connie nodded. ‘These days, if you’re in four- or five-star luxury, yes.’

He gave a disbelieving snort. ‘Does it include starters and a main?’

‘Well, I’ve seen buckwheat pillows listed – filled with buckwheat hulls, apparently – and one with herbs and essential oils. So you’re not far off the mark.’

‘Preposterous.’ Devan chuckled.

They drove in silence for a while. ‘How have you been?’ Connie asked.

‘Oh, you know …’ Devan’s words were lost in the roar and rattle of a passing tractor.

‘Your back? Are the exercises helping at all?’

Her husband’s mouth clamped in a thin line of warning. He’d been plagued, on and off, by a degenerating disc in his lower back for the past couple of years, for which he’d been given a slew of exercises by the physio. But he never did them, as far as Connie could tell. ‘God, Connie, don’t start.’

His words were spoken softly, but she was taken aback by the veiled antagonism. She sympathized with someone in constant pain, obviously, but it was frustrating, watching him do nothing to alleviate the problem – Devan, a doctor who’d endlessly ranted about patients not being prepared to help themselves.

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, but she took a deep breath instead. ‘Hope it stays fine for the Hutchisons tomorrow,’ she said, changing the subject as the atmosphere in the car grew thick with the unsaid. ‘I got Carole a kitsch pair of clogs in Amsterdam and they painted her name on the side.’ Tim and Carole Hutchison owned an impressive Victorian villa at the top of the village, with spectacular views over the Somerset Levels. They always threw a spring party for Carole’s birthday, and although Connie wouldn’t call them close friends – in fact she thought Tim, a retired fund-manager, pompous in the extreme – an invitation to the yearly bash was much coveted and a matter of pride in the village.

Devan didn’t reply at once. ‘I suppose we have to go,’ he said eventually, as they pulled onto the paved parking space at the side of their house and he turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, a weak evening sun breaking through the clouds and bathing their still faces in light pouring through the windscreen.

Connie frowned as she turned to him. ‘You love their parties. You always say it’s the best champagne in the county.’

He gave a weary nod. ‘Yeah, well …’

Connie was about to remonstrate, but she heard Riley, their beloved Welsh terrier, barking excitedly, and jumped out of the car. Biting her lip with disappointment at her husband, she pushed open the front door, bending to enjoy his enthusiastic welcome, to bury her fingers in his soft black and caramel fur and watch the perfect arc of his tail wagging furiously at seeing her.