‘It is a beautiful house but it’s not mine,’ says Isobel. ‘It’s my father’s place. Though I’ve lived here all my life. My mother died when I was young and … well, Dad’s quite frail and he needs me.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I try to focus on what she’s saying but I can’t stop looking at her face. It’s so pale she’s almost translucent.

She goes to speak but is interrupted by a sharp voice calling her name.

‘Isobel. Is that you, Isobel?’

It’s the vicar. I jump from my seat.

‘I have to go,’ I say, unplugging my phone and throwing it into my bag.

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t dash off yet. Your phone’s not fully charged,’ she says, getting up slowly from the sofa. ‘I’ll just go and check on him.’

‘Honestly, Isobel, I should go,’ I say, feeling nervous now. ‘He told me he didn’t want me here.’

‘It’s fine,’ she says, her face serene. ‘Listen, how about we go for a proper drink at the Golden Lion?’

Every part of me knows I should say no, that going to the pub is a bad idea. But the thought of returning to the house with just Joe for company makes me feel ill. I need some adult company, some light-hearted conversation.

‘Okay,’ I say, smiling. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘I’ll just see if Dad’s okay. I won’t be a minute.’

She walks out and I stand up and head into the playroom where I’m met with a scene from every child’s dream. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with books of all shapes and sizes, teddy bears and wooden building blocks scattered around the floor, and in the corner, in pride of place, stands the most beautiful doll’s house I have ever seen. It has a pointed red roof and perfectly symmetrical windows; a shiny black door with ivy creeping round the top. And then I realize. It’s a recreation of this house, the vicarage. It must have been a present for Isobel when she was a child. What an amazing thing to be given. Your own house in miniature, your own life in doll form.

Then I hear chattering. I look round the back of the house and see Joe lying on his front. The back is opened up and there are a series of exquisitely decorated rooms. I recognize the living room, with its Chesterfield sofas and oak table. The bedrooms all have four-poster beds with embroidered silk curtains in blues and greens and pinks. I look down at Joe. He’s holding a dark-haired doll in his hands.

‘Now, dolly, find your friend,’ he says, taking the doll and leading her up a flight of wooden steps. ‘Dolly’s sad.’

He pushes the doll through an arched doorway and into a tiny bedroom where a blonde-haired doll in a long white dress is sitting on a wooden chair.

‘There,’ says Joe, grabbing both dolls. ‘Dollies have cuddles now.’

‘Ah, you’ve found it.’

I turn round and see Isobel standing at the door. She’s reapplied her make-up and is wearing a more casual outfit of jeans and a black woollen sweater.