‘I’ve been asking what you want to do, love.’ Her sister spoke softly, kindly, her eyes mournful and her touch light as she reached for Merrin’s arm. ‘Do you want to go and lie down, or go for a walk, or just sit and have a cup of tea? What do you want to do, babby?’

Merrin shook her head; she hadn’t heard a thing, tuned out as she was to the awful reality of her situation. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know. I think I’d, erm . . . I think I’d like to talk to Digby.’

‘You are joking right now?’ Bella suddenly stood tall and folded her arms as if she were a human shield.

‘I just want to check he’s okay—’

‘Check he’s okay?’ Ruby riled, interrupting her. ‘Why isn’t he calling you to see if you’re okay? It’s his fault, all of it! The bloke has got some bloody nerve, and when I get hold of him—’ She balled a fist and smacked the flat of her other hand.

Merrin shook her head, hating the rising tension and noise. ‘He . . . he wouldn’t have done this on purpose. There has to be a reason.’ Of this she was certain.

‘The reason is he’s a coward and a knob!’ Bella added.

Merrin chose to say nothing rather than invite more of their commentary. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate their concern, expressed in so many variants, but they didn’t know what she and Digby shared; how could they? What connected them was a deep and unshakeable love. He had said so only yesterday, and her instinct told her that nothing could have changed in such a short time. Maybe he had got cold feet over such a fancy affair? Maybe his nerves had proved too much and he, like her, would be happy to go to Vegas and let Elvis do the job? She wanted to talk to him, needed to talk to him, knowing that until she had heard the words from his mouth she would not believe that he had simply had a ‘change of heart’ and was popping off to the South of France. It didn’t make any sense. Not to her.

Her mum and gran walked in.

‘I just seen him,’ her gran blurted when she was barely over the threshold, the words desperate to escape.

‘Seen who?’ Ben called from the stove.

‘The Mortimer boy! Guthrie’s son, Digby!’ She spat his name like she was ridding her mouth of something nasty.

Merrin sat forward in the seat with difficulty; the frothy reams of material made free movement a little tricky as energy surged in her veins.