‘Um…’ Becky turned a startling shade of damson.

‘Oh, okay!’ Tammers gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze. ‘Say no more, I totally get it!’ She lent a little closer, electric blue eyelashes fluttering. ‘Though I must say, you have outstanding taste!’

Seeing all the preparations going on, the foursome insisted on helping out on Sunday afternoon once the retreat was officially over, stringing up bunting and fairy lights between the trees, arranging tables and artfully stacking wood on the bonfire. They spent another hour in the kitchen cutting out apple scones and decanting jams into individual portions. Tammers would probably have stayed a week if we’d let her.

‘I’m on a total mission to find myself a yummy farmer!’ she trilled, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘I feel like I was born to wear wellies!’

‘We’re so glad you’ve enjoyed it,’ I said, trying to politely usher them in the direction of the door. ‘If you could write a review, it’d be greatly appreciated.’

‘Oh, we already have!’ Dinky smiled. ‘We’ve been posting non-stop since we got here. See?’

She flicked through a stream of images of them smiling, posing and looking genuinely relaxed and happy. I wasn’t aware so many different emojis existed, but she’d made good use of them.

The number of likes made my head spin. I’d had a lot of followers, but this was a whole other level.

‘Are you an influencer?’ I asked, feeling awkward for not realising it earlier.

‘Totally!’ Dinky beamed. ‘Tammers is, too. Felicia and Bo are along for the ride.’

Our website crashed. Damson Farm Retreats was in business.

It was another back-achingly late night. We left the retreat clear-up for another day, moving straight on to Damson Day prep. I felt like I must be sweating apple juice by now, and my hair would probably smell of honey for days.

Daniel came to find us once it was too dark to carry on outside. We feasted on the broken scones and leftover cheese and fruit from the retreat. We chinked the one small glass of cider we allowed ourselves the night before a day that would be taught about in Ferrington schools for generations and toasted great food, even better friends – including those no longer with us, of course – and crazy ideas that somehow seemed to have turned into something fantastic.

I scurried up to bed before Becky and Alice had left, avoiding any risk of the conversation drifting over to our unlikely special guest, and my reaction to her earlier in the week.

I woke up just after seven on Monday morning to a soft beam of sunlight peeping through the crack in my curtains. It had been a muggy night, and it was only thanks to my extreme sleep deprivation over the weekend that I managed to doze as much as I did. Throwing on some denim shorts and a stripy T-shirt, I went downstairs to find an empty coffee mug on the side and smears of toast crumbs on Hope’s highchair. Following the clues, I slipped on my flip-flops and found them in the orchard, surrounded by a hive of activity (not one of Ziva’s hives, which were safely cordoned off for the day). Stallholders were already unpacking their goods – cakes and cookies, pickles and preserves, arts and crafts including all things knitted, carved and framed. Traditional games were being set up – hoopla, hook-a-duck and a coconut shy – alongside more modern touches like an electronic penalty shoot-out and a rodeo sheep.