The woman was still ingrained vividly in his mind.

Who was she?

Why had he imagined her?

Jan Dixon, his clinical psychologist, warned him that moving home could be a very stressful experience for people, and he might find his emotions seesawing for some while. Perhaps that included hallucinations?

Parking it, now he had a possible explanation, but still unsettled by the woman, he sipped his coffee then focused on his work in progress, and within moments had put her completely out of his mind.

22

Sunday 16 December

The Crown was an attractive Georgian building, let down by a rather shabby modern extension with a corrugated iron roof. The pub was set well back from the road, with a scrubby, uneven lawn in front of it, on which were randomly arranged wooden tables and benches. Two of them were occupied by smokers, nursing pints and well wrapped up.

Although it was still sunny, a biting wind was rising as Jason and Emily walked up the path to the entrance. They both wore woolly hats, and the brand-new waxed Barbours that Emily had excitedly bought, as early Christmas presents to each other, for their new country life. Jason also had on a pair of new hiking boots, which were starting to rub painfully. He was ruing not having worn them in around the house for a few days, first. Although at least, he compensated himself, they did look the part.

In small gold letters above the saloon bar door were the words: LICENSED PROPRIETOR, LESTER BEESON.

As they entered the noisy interior, into the ingrained smell of beer, ancient carpet and wood smoke, Jason peered around, taking it all in with excitement. The wooden tables and chairs looked as if they had been there forever, as did some of the characters. In addition to festive decorations, the nicotine-ochre walls were hung with ancient agricultural artefacts and there was a row of horseshoes nailed to an oak beam above the bar. Below were rows of spirit optics, a photograph of a cricket team and several pewter tankards. A warren of doorways led off to other rooms. He need look no further for the archetypal English country pub for inspiration for his paintings of drinkers, he thought, happily. And there were plenty of candidates here this Sunday lunchtime, hunched on bar stools, standing around or seated in the recessed booths.

Presiding over the L-shaped bar, from behind the counter, was a massively tall and large-framed man in his late fifties; he had a mane of hair, a cream shirt with the top two buttons undone and a large gut bulging his midriff buttons. A younger man and two women worked busily alongside him, pulling pints, pouring wine, jabbing shorts glasses up against the optics.

Instinctively, Jason patted the right pocket of his jeans, checking his phone was there, deciding he would try to take some surreptitious photos.

Then, suddenly, it felt to him as if someone had hit the pause button on a video he was in.