I’m acutely aware of Hollie’s discomfort. ‘No. Hollie wasn’t feeling so well this morning.’ The lie just slips out. I’ve no idea where the need to justify Hollie missing school comes from.

‘Oh dear …’ Ida scrutinises Hollie’s face. ‘You do look pale, dear.’

‘You’re better for a walk, aren’t you, Hollie?’ I change the subject. ‘How’s your little granddaughter, Ida? Is she over her chickenpox now?’

‘She’s all better. I’ve missed her though.’ A wistful smile spreads across her face. ‘But I’ll be seeing them all this weekend.’ As her phone buzzes from inside one of her pockets, she fumbles to find it, then looks at the screen. ‘I’m so sorry, but it’s my daughter. Would you excuse me?’

She turns and walks a little away from us. When she’s out of earshot I ask Hollie directly. ‘What are you hiding, Hollie?’

She starts. ‘Nothing.’

From the flush of colour on her pale cheeks, I know she’s lying.

*

Hollie fills my head for the rest of my run, then back at home while I shower and change. I try to imagine why she’s upset, what she could be hiding, feeling an obligation to tell her father about our conversation. It gives me a dual reason to go to the florist this morning as Stephanie’s salon is next door.

It’s a ten-minute drive along quiet roads through open countryside to the outskirts of the next village, where a range of stylishly converted farm buildings are premises to a few small businesses.

After turning into the yard, I park in one of the cobbled spaces in front of the salon. Sitting there for a moment, I look through the window. Inside, Stephanie’s talking on her phone. She’s attractive in a deliberate sort of way, with angular features and a hardness that even heavy makeup doesn’t soften. She’s clearly agitated today, her face flustered as she speaks on her phone. As she ends the call, she stands in the window, not moving. When she notices my car, she makes an obvious attempt to compose herself.

As I go into the empty salon, Stephanie’s behind her desk, going through what looks like her diary.

She looks up briefly. ‘Elise … I won’t be a moment. How are you?’ There’s no trace of the agitation I witnessed when I pulled up just now. As always, she’s perfectly groomed, in control, her every movement measured.

‘I’m good.’ I wait for her to put her pen down. ‘But I wish the weather wasn’t so grey.’

Closing her diary, her eyes meet mine. ‘At least you occasionally get to see the sun.’