It rained. The sober grey stone of Inverness, the cloud-darkened water of the Ness flowing past their spa hotel, and the fact that she had left her favourite Ilse Jacobsen raincoat on the sleeper, was not improving Connie’s mood. She had not wanted to go away at all this time, even though she still felt a constant nerviness around Devan as they both continued to try to make everything seem like it was before. But mostly she dreaded the almost certain knowledge that she would see Jared. Not giving in when he was standing right in front of her – when she could see the desire in his eyes and know that her own mirrored his – seemed beyond the bounds of possibility, the bounds of her so far shabby willpower.

This was the evening of day four, however, and there had been no sign of Jared. Each night she’d gone to her hotel room and paced the patterned carpet in sickening anticipation. But he did not come.

It’s good he’s not coming. It saves me having to end it, Connie told herself firmly. She knew she should feel relieved. But instead she felt desperate, finally admitting to herself as she lay on the wide expanse of pristine hotel sheet, pillow clutched to her body for comfort, just how much she’d been looking forward to seeing him. I would have told him it’s over – that wasn’t in question. But her resolution didn’t stop her guiltily wanting to be with him. One last time.

The day had been long and wearisome. They’d done the Strathspey Steam Railway in the morning, taking in what should have been spectacular views of the Cairngorms and the River Spey – if anyone could see through the steamed-up carriage windows and the driving rain, the mist obscuring anything more than three feet from the tracks.

Her party had been stalwart and philosophical at first, but the site of the battle of Culloden – where hundreds of rebelling Jacobites had been mown down in an hour by ‘Butcher’ Cumberland and his English forces in 1746 – reduced them to dull silence. It was a spooky, haunted place, even on a sunny day, but in the sodden murk of late afternoon it was almost as if you could smell the blood and cordite, still hear the dying screams of the slaughtered Scots. They had all returned to the hotel – and a nice hot bath, a stiff drink and a good slab of Scottish venison – with patent relief.