She laughed, and he reached around her to open the door, exclaiming, ‘Whew!’ at the icy blast that greeted them. ‘One way to cool my ardour,’ he complained, yanking up his collar. Hand in hand until they reached Zuzanna’s, they hurried down Port Road to pick Daisy up, calling greetings to Zuzanna, who watched from the door, wrapping her arms around herself in an exaggerated, shivering mime, before shooting indoors.

Daisy gave Grady a sidelong look as they turned the corner by Rotten Row. ‘Just been saying, like, the organiser of Art December really ought to get his window sorted.’

‘Your aunt’s already scolded me. I’ll do it soon.’ He gave her a friendly shoulder nudge, causing her to scrabble for her footing on the frost-polished pavement.

They joshed each other all the way home, Grady laughing when Daisy pointed out decorated windows and crowed, ‘See, everyone got their window display done on time except you.’

Laurel tramped beside them, her smile at their antics disguising the ball of anticipation she carried inside. It was so long since she’d gone home with a man that she’d almost forgotten how it went. Well, yes, she’d been in Grady’s house twice before this but she was pretty sure that this time when she went home with him it was going to be … well, going home with a man.

The ball of anticipation slithered into apprehension. She’d showered earlier and her leg-waxing was recent enough to pass muster but she’d have no armour of flattering clothes, perfume or mascara. She’d have hat-hair instead of glossy hair, her underclothes didn’t match and she wore a sports bra because when using herself as a figure model earlier she hadn’t wanted anything jiggling free as she’d stretched and jumped.

Was there a way she could discreetly shoot indoors for a ten-minute spruce up?

They turned into Great End and Grady felt for Laurel’s hand as he teased Daisy, ‘Let’s see this window you guys have put together then, so I know what I’m up against.’

Once up the drive, they clustered around Rea’s office window where twinkling white lights neatly outlined the rectangle and reflected from the baubles spangling one of Daisy’s wreaths. The more elegant, compostable wreath twisted slowly, suspended by black tinsel from the curtain pole above.

Laurel’s painting of two little boys caught the illumination from the fairy lights, giving it an ethereal glow in the darkness. The boys regarded each other, one tracing the other’s face with his plump, toddler hand. Childhood innocence intensified their bond and wonder tinged their dawning smiles.

‘OK,’ said Grady gruffly, dropping the teasing. ‘You guys have smashed it. Daisy, you’re amazing creating those wreaths and selling them. And Laurel, that canvas is damned beautiful.’