Laurel let herself be steered on jelly legs. Inside his spray shop several old, ripped and pitted car seats were arranged against the back wall and soon she was seated on a dark red one. Grady retrieved the takeaway cups from near the door and held them up with a questioning expression.

Laurel collected her scattered thoughts, angry at herself for her overreaction. It wasn’t as if her infertility was a new thing. ‘I was snitty yesterday. I brought you an olive-branch latte.’

‘And the cappuccino’s for you? You look as if you could use it.’ He perched himself on the next car seat over, a black one with white paint smears. In silence he added sugar to both cups and stirred, then passed her hers. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, taking a sip. As strength began to return, she forced herself to meet his damson-dark eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘For?’ He raised his eyebrows.

Realising she was curled up like a monkey, she forced herself to relax her posture. ‘I sounded up myself about the village and about other people’s occupations yesterday. And today I came clodhopping in—’

A single headshake stopped her, but he dropped his gaze. She fiddled with her cup. ‘I feel your pain,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m infertile.’

His gaze flicked back to her.

She ploughed on, finding herself hunching over again, as if holding her heart in to prevent it from shattering into pieces. ‘I understand it doesn’t help to know there are so many of us. One in four, isn’t it? Or is that one in four couples? But if you were embarrassed by me overhearing what Pippa said, I just want you to know you shouldn’t be and you’re not alone.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I share that particular grief.’ Her words echoed around the cold stone walls, up to the underside of the tiled roof.

It took him several gulps from his cup before he answered hoarsely. ‘I’m sorry you’re affected too. It’s pretty shit.’

She nodded. ‘It’s what finished Alex and me. We’d been happy.’ Her mind flicked through a mental photo album of wedding day, beach holidays, Christmas, snuggling on the sofa, loving one another in bed. The past. ‘We’re still friends but the constant processes, the repeated disappointment, it took the love away. Or the lust, anyway, which changed the love.’

He was watching her steadily now, eyes thoughtful. ‘We didn’t get that far.’ His voice was gruff, as if the words hurt his throat as they emerged. ‘Once she knew I was “defective” – her word,’ he added, when Laurel flinched, ‘she wanted out. Said it’s the woman who has to have all the invasive assistance to conceive and it wasn’t fair because she “wasn’t to blame”.’