His eyes smiled. In the harsh overhead lighting his hair was as dark as the night outside the uncurtained windows, where tiny snow particles were whirling against the glass. ‘No, I don’t have to rush sales.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘But I do sell my stuff pretty quickly so I suppose I could charge more.’

She found herself noticing the darkness of his pupils and the golden flecks in his brown irises. ‘You sound short of confidence.’ She thought about the Middledip Christmas Fair meeting and how, when Carola overlooked him, he’d made a joke about being ‘an unprofessional artist’, as if used to not being taken seriously. ‘Don’t give your work away,’ she urged him.

Pleasure sparkled in his dark eyes. ‘You’ve given me something to think about because I certainly don’t underprice for spray work.’

Then he turned the discussion to the beige expanse of board that was destined to become the Christmas scene. They drank their coffee and gazed at it.

‘Needs the dust washing off and a coat of household acrylic primer,’ she said. ‘I can do the background work in household paint and then we’ll get acrylic from one of those budget shops. I think they deliver.’

He shook his head. ‘We’ve had paint donated. The guy from the art supplies shop has given me a load of scratched tubes from old stock.’

She drained her coffee. ‘Great. OK with you if I start on Saturday?’ She rose and refastened her coat.

He fastened his, too, and turned off the heaters. As they passed through the kitchen, he picked up a beanie hat and pulled it on over his smooth hair, making the ends stick out at the bottom. ‘Old-fashioned or not, I’d like to see you home safely. You going to fight me on that?’

She laughed at his mock-challenging tone. ‘No. That would be good, thanks.’ It was nearly midnight. She didn’t expect masked attackers or bogeymen but, ever since the night that still gave her nightmares, her policy had been: ‘be sensible’.

She tugged up her hood and they braved the freezing temperatures together, squinting at the snow flying into their faces. Laurel, wearing medium-heeled ankle boots, slipped on the slippery pavement.

Grady crooked his elbow without taking his hand from his pocket. ‘Want to hang on?’

‘Thanks,’ she gasped, the wind stealing her words as she hooked her gloved hand through his arm. He provided an anchor, steady and sure-footed; a calm, comforting presence in a cold world.

Chapter Eleven