Romy knew exactly who they were: she’d seen a wedding photo in Finch’s kitchen. The woman was unmistakably Grace, the man beside her Sam. She stood stock still, shadowed by the shrub, not knowing what to do. Where’s Finch? The couple hadn’t called goodbye as they left, in fact had seemed totally absorbed in each other and their mission, whatever that was. And the man had turned to double-lock the door.

She continued to gaze at the house. There was no movement, no sign of life at any of the windows – the house did not seem occupied now. After another couple of minutes’ silent observation, Romy turned and walked slowly back the way she had come.

Grace – so real, so present, so huge in the insurmountable barrier she represented – had only brought home to her the hopelessness of any dreams she still harboured.

She quickened her pace in an attempt to get the blood flowing round her body and dispel the adrenalin that was making her buzz. The drizzle had stopped and the sun was out, but she barely noticed, she was so lost in regret. Tears for what might have been began to swim behind her eyes, mercifully hidden by her dark glasses.

Her eighty-something neighbour was snipping at the long tendrils of ivy spiking out of the privet hedge that sat along the low wall between her small front garden and Romy’s. She was wearing her floppy flowered hat and round, very dark glasses, her body encased in a shapeless blue nylon housecoat – like the one Romy’s mother had always worn. She peered at Romy and waved her gloved hand.

‘Hello, Vera,’ Romy said, moving quickly past to her front door. She was not in the mood for one of Vera’s long conversations about either of her favourite topics: the proposed development along the top road out of the village, or the bins.

But her key wouldn’t turn in the lock. She pulled on the brass doorknocker – which needed polishing, she noticed – to get purchase, but the bloody thing wouldn’t budge. She could feel Vera’s eyes boring into her back.

‘It’ll be the heat,’ Vera commented, as Romy continued to sweat and struggle with the Yale key, swearing under her breath.

She was on the point of giving up and going round the back to the garden doors, when she heard Vera say, ‘This is when you need that nice young soldier of yours.’ Romy, still with her face to the door, froze. ‘Shame he’s so far away,’ Vera added.

Romy swung round. What does she mean? She said, ‘He’s not my soldier, Vera.’