Her answering smile was faintly rueful. ‘I’m out of practice at living in Middledip. I went for a walk yesterday and people kept stopping to ask what I’m doing here and how Rea is. I’d forgotten how up in your business a village can be.’

He blew the surface of his latte, evaluating this slur on the village he loved. ‘I suppose you could look at it like that. Or you could think of it as a close, caring community.’

She snorted.

He put down his drink and looked into her face. ‘Is it so terrible if people are curious about you coming back? I am, myself.’

Her gaze dropped. ‘I got divorced. Rea and Daisy could use me around. It’s not that interesting.’

It was to him. ‘Then I suppose people are curious about the way you left. You were part of Middledip … and then you weren’t. Rea still lived here but it was almost as if you’d died. She hardly said your name.’

She looked taken aback, then flushed and fiddled with a sugar sachet from her saucer. A cartoon reindeer peeped from behind the word ‘sugar’ on the paper. ‘Was Rea … upset? I realise now how clumsy I was. When Mum died our aunt wanted to take us in and, also, some of the villagers took “it takes a village to raise a child” literally. Rea fought off all that well-meant but unasked for interference.’ She dropped her gaze. Above the chatter of the café the espresso machine hissed and a child cried for a cake. ‘A couple of years later I decided to do sixth form at an arts college in Peterborough and my aunt said I could stay with her. It had better facilities than Bettsbrough Community College. Teenagers are selfish.’

Grady debated. Laurel’s face was an unhappy pink and she folded the sugar sachet over and over so that all of the reindeer was hidden but the red nose. Grady could have let the subject drop but what had happened more than half their lifetimes ago still bugged him. ‘I don’t blame you for taking that opportunity. But I’ve always wondered why you stopped talking to me months before you went.’

His words hung between them.

‘It wasn’t you,’ she said in a strangled voice, the one she’d used so much after her mum had died. But then her shoulders squared and she tossed back her hair, almost visibly drawing on an adult mask. Her lips drew up at the corners in a polite smile. ‘Sorry if teenage me was clumsy with you. I hope we’re old enough to put it behind us.’