When she woke the first thing she did was ring Jo to tell her what had happened and let her know she probably wouldn’t make it to site until late afternoon. As soon as she’d established that Clare was OK, Jo had, as usual, taken the news in her stride, though Clare had had to dissuade her from insisting on ringing David so that he could pop round to check that she was alright.

When she’d stepped out of the bedroom, Clare noticed that someone, presumably the police, had picked up her post and deposited it on the table in the hallway. On the top of the pile of junk mail sat a bulky-looking A4 envelope – the contract for the house. She picked it up and made her way through to the living room.

Package in hand, she stood in the doorway surveying the scene. Today was meant to be the next step in starting her new life, but it looked as if the fates had decreed it wasn’t going to be that straightforward. She pushed aside the junk from the drawers that had been deposited on the coffee table and laid the package on it, then made her way into the kitchen.

There was glass everywhere. Most of the fragments seemed to have originated from a smashed jar of raspberry jam, half of the contents of which was now smeared in a sticky red streak that ran the front length of the under-sink cupboard. She retreated to the hallway, put on a pair of trainers, grabbed a bin bag and the dustpan and brush.

Within twenty minutes she’d managed to restore sufficient order in the kitchen to consider making herself breakfast. She hadn’t been expecting to be here during the week so there was no juice in the fridge. And it was a little early to start on the white wine, tempting though it was.

In the end she settled for coffee and, depositing four heaped spoonfuls into the cafetière, which by some miracle had escaped unscathed on the kitchen counter, she filled the kettle. No milk, so no muesli. She extracted a couple of slices of wholemeal bread from her emergency supply in the freezer and inserted them into the toaster.

Fifteen minutes later, having returned the cushions to their rightful place on the sofa, she was sitting on it, legs crossed to avoid unwittingly damaging anything on the floor, munching away on her breakfast and feeling considerably better. It was going to take more than some bloody junkie to ruin the rest of her life.