Laurel was due around eleven and Grady had dressed in black jeans and a soft cream-coloured jumper. He’d planned a light lunch to leave room for scoffing Christmas chocolates while they watched TV, snuggled up on the sofa. For the evening meal he’d gone totally traditional with turkey, cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, a colourful host of veg, Yorkshire puddings, pigs-in-blankets, bread sauce and every other trimming he could throw in his supermarket trolley, including two bottles of champagne.

He had something to ask her.

She arrived promptly, wearing a soft blue-grey dress that skimmed her body and made her eyes bluer than the brightest winter sky. He slid his arms around her, positioned her carefully beneath the mistletoe in the hall and kissed her. ‘Merry Christmas, gorgeous.’

She smiled, vanquishing the tiny lines of strain around her eyes that told him she was as aware as he that the festivities were highlighting the problem in their relationship: Mac. ‘Merry Christmas, handsome.’

He took her overnight bag. ‘Blimey, this is heavy.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t be a wimp.’

Wanting nothing more than to get as close to her as possible, he suggested they stow the bag upstairs.

Once in his room, she took in the bunch of mistletoe hanging over the bed and laughed. ‘Now that I like.’

‘One of my better ideas,’ he breathed. Their pleasure in each other’s bodies took over and he undressed her slowly, making jokes about her being his Christmas present, making her gasp with his hands and mouth and watching her eyes roll back with pleasure. Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms and watched as fresh snow began to fall, whispering against the window.

‘Fancy a walk?’ she suggested. ‘I love tromping about in snow and it’s a genuine white Christmas.’

‘Sure,’ he said, happy to agree to just about anything.

They ate soup and rolls first then set off hand in hand, crossing to Church Close where Laurel pointed out the red-brick house where her grandparents had brought up her mum and aunt Terri, then they took the path to the bridleways that encircled Middledip, crossing the Carlysle Estate and its home farm. Laurel looked amazing in boots, a long black coat and blue hat and gloves. He ached with longing for their relationship to work out.

The fields looked as if they were made of cotton wool, while trees held out their leafless arms to embrace the snow. They met no one. The world around was hushed but for the squeak of snow crystals beneath their boots and their discussion of weighty matters such as whether you could hear snow land and whether ‘burn’ was the right word for the way your ears stung in the cold.

Then Laurel told him that Daisy had performed the feat of befriending her erstwhile bully.