I couldn’t undo what I’d done, but here at Damson Farm, I had the tiny twinkle of hope that I could at least, from this point forth do better. Time for my fresh start to commence.

I spent the day planning, plotting, poking my nose in the other bedrooms and making a list of what would need to be dumped, upcycled or stay as it was, and researching similar venues on the internet.

Then Lucy messaged:

I forgive you for firing me via a voicemail because I know something must be really up for you to walk away from Nora without even talking to me about it 1st, but honestly, WTF!?!?! I thought we were a team, not to mention friends! I can’t believe that after everything you care so little about Nora, or me. I can’t do that. I won’t put Nora ‘ON PAUSE’ and I won’t give up on her. I’ve spoken to Miles, and he isn’t going to, either. I wish you all the best with whatever the hell it is you’re doing, but, like I said: WTF!!!

I tapped out a quick reply, begging her to take the threats seriously and contact me, and then, with no small sense of trepidation, I looked at Nora’s media accounts. Wow. Lucy had not been slow in adopting her new role. There were various images of her here, there and everywhere, entwined with random semi-celebrities and according to her captions having the time of her life:

#NewNora and #LetsGetThisPartySharp-ed and other gibberish about how from now on she was taking no crap and loving herself as she deserved, and not going to waste her shot.

I also quickly discovered that she’d changed all the passwords so I could no longer access any of the accounts. ‘Well, Lucy,’ I muttered while simultaneously deleting all the accounts from my phone and laptop. ‘She’s all yours from now on.’ I didn’t bother reminding her that at some point Nora Sharp probably ought to mention something about food.

I whipped up a tray of caramel brownies and raised a mug of peppermint tea in a toast of farewell to a friendship, a career and an imaginary woman who had been both the making and the breaking of me.

As usual, once Hope was in bed gently snoozing down the baby monitor, Daniel and I convened for dinner at the kitchen table.

‘So, are you still set on turning my family home into a rescue home for stray city-slickers?’ he asked, after we’d loaded our plates with butternut squash lasagne and squares of crispy focaccia.

‘Only if you want me to,’ I replied. ‘It’s totally up to you if I save your family home from crumbling into ruins while simultaneously creating Charlie’s legacy, and securing a future for Hope. I’m easy either way.’

He let out a bark of laughter. ‘I get the feeling you’ve never been easy about anything. I was half expecting to emerge from my study and find our first guests settling into minty cocktails and sourdough canapés.’