The skin at the top of Laurel’s cheeks tingled. ‘It’s a lovely place with fields instead of the endless buildings of West London. I’m with my family. And there’s Grady, Mac’s brother.’ Hastily, she clarified, ‘I mean we used to be friends so it’s been good to chat with him.’

‘This is the guy you spent one Christmas kissing under the mistletoe, right?’ Fliss sounded interested.

‘That was a long time ago and we didn’t get as far as Christmas,’ Laurel answered. ‘But Middledip’s developed its own festive arts and crafts movement. He’s the events organiser and Daisy’s roped me in.’

Fliss laughed. ‘Daisy roped you in, right? It wasn’t that you wanted to be roped in because of Grady?’

Unwillingly, Laurel laughed, too. ‘Grady’s a good guy. It’s just his brother …’ She didn’t take that thought any further. ‘How are you getting on without me?’

Fliss accepted the change of subject. ‘OK. The artist who stepped into your shoes at the community centre is working out and … I’m seeing someone new. A lady who I think is a definite maybe.’

‘Whoo!’ Laurel teased. ‘I need pictures of her. How did you meet?’

‘She’s over here from the States on a jewellery design course. Her mother’s Thai, her dad’s from Philadelphia. Her name’s Chantana.’ Excitement bubbled in Fliss’s voice.

Within seconds, Laurel’s phone chirped as the photos arrived. ‘Wow,’ she said, studying the images, one of ‘definite maybe’ Chantana alone, and one with Fliss. ‘She’s pretty. Love her silky dark hair. She’s so petite she makes you look like a giant.’

Fliss giggled. ‘She sure brings out my protective side.’

They talked on until Laurel realised it was past ten o’clock. ‘I’d better go,’ she said regretfully. ‘I promised Daisy I’d help pick up what she describes as “craft stuff” from a smallholding on the edge of the village. I remember the property. A bloke bought it and spent his retirement reversing years of neglect. He used to grow veg and drive a pony and trap. His name’s Gabe.’

‘Sounds very rural,’ commented Fliss. ‘I’m thinking now of that TV show, Midsomer Murders.’

Laurel laughed. ‘Middledip is like Midsomer without the murders … so far.’ She turned to reach for the seatbelt. The rain had stopped and a weak sun was sprinkling the hedgerow with diamonds. ‘It’s been great talking to you, Fliss. You’ve cheered me up.’

‘Sure,’ said Fliss equably. ‘Here’s a last thought for you. Only you can decide to let go the past and forgive this Mac guy.’

‘You can’t decide to forgive someone,’ Laurel protested. ‘It’s a feeling. A reaction. It is what it is.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ ended Fliss enigmatically. ‘See you, hon.’