Laurel accepted Rea’s hug and managed a weak joke. ‘Only because we can take turns cooking.’ With Daisy’s agonised confession going round and round in her head she found it hard to concentrate on Rea’s chatter. What was the best way to contact Daisy’s form tutor, Mr Williams? Better check the school website.

Daisy came down when the casserole was ready, quiet but no longer sporting red eyes.

They all sat down together, Rea exhibiting a feature on greenhouses of various shapes and sizes. ‘I’m thinking about having a greenhouse built behind the garage. I could have a nice wooden frame, rather than one of those aluminium ones. This casserole’s lovely, Laurel. I can get a power cable put through the wall from the garage for heating.’

‘Sounds great.’ Laurel would call the school on Monday morning, from the studio. Rea would be safely ensconced in her office. She suppressed a wriggle of regret because she’d intended to start playing with ideas for a new painting on Monday. It had taken her three weeks to pack up in Chiswick, move to Middledip and sort out the studio. Maybe it was having a brush in her hand again at the Craft Stuff session, but her creative mind had begun to show her an image of a woman dancing in falling snow, face upturned, hair writhing around her head and shoulders. She wanted to start thinking about the angle of her neck, the inward arch of her spine and curves of her arms.

But Daisy’s problem came first.

Daisy’s phone buzzed. She picked it up from beside her plate then put down her fork while her thumbs flew over the screen. ‘Laurel, just given your number to Grady, OK?’ she said as she returned to her meal.

Surprise shimmered through Laurel. ‘It’s usual to ask first and send after, but OK.’

‘Oh. Soz. But you know Grady,’ Daisy answered unrepentantly.

‘Do we need to take messages at mealtimes?’ Rea asked Daisy reprovingly.

Then Laurel’s phone buzzed. Daisy giggled. ‘Auntie Laurel, do we need to take messages at mealtimes?’

‘Nope,’ said Laurel, in sisterly solidarity, and left her phone in her pocket until after the meal was over and the dishwasher was stacked. Then she found a text from a number not in her contacts: This is Grady. Any chance you could come to Mistletoe Cottage? My head’s going to explode if I don’t talk to someone and I think you’ll understand. Apols for massive imposition.

Laurel, caught by surprise, returned, Now? before realising how brusque and unfriendly that sounded. She sent a follow-up. Yes. I can come.

Her phoned pinged immediately. Thanks! Yes, as soon as convenient. Apols again.