‘I was not sucking up to your mother. I love your mother.’

‘Everyone loves my mother.’

‘You know what I mean.’ She tossed her glorious mane of hair over her shoulders with classic put-out disdain.

‘Hannah this is Polly, Polly Daventree. You might have seen her on the TV.’ His next words held a distinct touch of scorn. ‘Polly’s Pantry – Everyday Food for Everyday Folk.’

Hannah wanted to melt into her seat and slide out of sight. In black leather trousers that showed off giraffe legs, a miniscule waist, and a white silk shirt tastefully undone to reveal an attractive swell of creamy skin, Polly was drop-dead gorgeous and as rare and exotic as Hannah was down-to-earth and dull. Even her hair behaved itself, the curls beautifully coiled like glossy snakes instead of spiralling out of control.

It brought Hannah up short, like the reins tightening on a runaway horse. Conor belonged with someone like this glamorous woman. Something plummeted in her stomach, as sharp and brutal as a rock falling from a cliff edge, as she realised that she’d started to get too used to living together with him the cottage.

‘Hannah?’ Conor’s voice came from a long way. Her ears buzzed and she came to, with both of them staring at her.

‘Sorry,’ she said, blinking, hoping Polly didn’t think she was rude or weird. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello there.’ Polly’s wide, bright smile seemed genuine. She held out a slim, artistic hand with short and neatly polished nails. ‘Nice to meet you. How are you going?’

‘Good, thanks,’ said Hannah.

‘You’re English. I love your accent.’ Hannah did a double-take. This woman’s voice was beautifully lyrical. ‘What part are ye from?’

‘Er… Manchester.’

‘Oh, I’ve some cousins there.’ She laughed. ‘But then, I’ve cousins everywhere. How are you finding Ireland? Are you here for long?’

‘I’m just here for a few weeks. On the cookery course at Killorgally.’

Polly plonked herself down on the arm of Hannah’s chair. ‘Aw, now that’s lovely. Isn’t the farm just divine. And how’s all the family?’ She tossed her head, casting a resigned look at Conor. ‘Cos he’s not about to tell us. Is Adrienne fine?’

‘Yes, she’s great.’

‘And how about Bridget? She’ll not be forgiving me for breaking her boy’s heart anytime soon.’

‘They’re all good,’ said Hannah, now curious. This woman, for all her scary beauty, seemed friendly and very personable.

‘That’s good then. And how about you, Captain Grumpy, still mad as a wet hen at me? You can’t blame a girl for trying to get ahead. Like you’d ever had to struggle to get known, born into the Byrne cooking dynasty. You’ve no idea how hard it is for the rest of us. If someone can give us a leg up, why not?’