She shows us to a double room, which is small and cosy with views of the woods from the back window. ‘Breakfast is between seven thirty and ten,’ she says, before leaving.

Tom is standing by the tea-making facilities, looking out of the window at the trees in the distance. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he says, his back to me.

I stretch out on the bed – it’s a beautiful four-poster with a quilted bedspread in inky tones. Normally this would be such a treat for us. We haven’t had a holiday for ages – all our money over the last five months has been put aside for the extension – but it’s tainted, overshadowed by the excavation back at the cottage. Every time I think of it I feel sick.

Snowy hops onto the bed next to me, laying his head on my lap and looking up at me with his soulful brown eyes. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been turfed out of our own house,’ I say, as I stroke Snowy’s head. Then I pull my cardigan around myself. It’s turned chilly, or perhaps it’s the shock.

Tom flicks the switch on the little plastic kettle, then comes to join us on the bed. The mattress is softer than ours at home. ‘I know. But it will all be okay,’ he says, with a return to his former optimism. ‘We’ll be able to resume our building work soon and everything will be back to normal.’

I snuggle into him, wishing I could believe him.

We resist the urge to walk past the cottage. Instead we spend the weekend either in the pub or on long walks through the village and woods.

‘At least it gives me the weekend off decorating,’ says Tom, on Saturday, taking my hand as we amble through the village square. He’s done so much to the cottage already since we moved in: taking up the threadbare carpet on the stairs, painting the living room and our bedroom a dove grey, sanding the floorboards. Next he wants to strip the wallpaper in the little bedroom ready to decorate before the baby arrives, although he put off doing this until my twelve-week scan so as not to tempt Fate.

When we eventually return on Sunday after lunch, with our bags at our feet, like visitors in our own home, my heart sinks. There are police cars and vans still parked on our driveway. Another uniformed officer – a middle-aged guy this time – informs us that they should be done excavating by the end of the day, and we’re allowed in the cottage but not the garden until they’ve finished. I wonder if they’ve searched inside. The thought makes me uneasy: I hate to think of the police rifling through our things. When I voice this to Tom he assures me that they would have said if they were going to do that.