It was challenging work getting back into the swing of hosting paying guests. Five was hardly a demanding number, but it can only take one or two requests to turn a straightforward dinner into a stress-soaked slog.

No, we weren’t aware that one of the guests was a vegan (apparently the cream tea earlier was an exception, because they’d had a hard week and deserved a treat). Yes, we could probably rustle up some second helpings (especially when that gave us more time to get dessert sorted). No, none of us ‘gorgeous gals’ were going to squeeze a chair in beside Stephe and tell him all about ourselves.

What we did have was Becky’s party games.

‘How’s it going?’ Daniel asked, wandering into the kitchen once he’d finally managed to settle Hope down, despite the ruckus.

‘The food went down well. Mostly. One of them only ate green beans, but I get the impression that’s all she ever eats.’

‘What’s next?’ He picked up a slice of leftover tart and took a bite, eyes widening with appreciation. I resisted the urge to fan my face with the tea-towel. The adrenaline buzz made everything seem heightened, including Daniel’s manly presence, loitering about taking up half the kitchen. I was feeling flushed with success, all dishevelled and triumphant, and it was teeteringly close to reckless.

‘They’ve been asking what the after-dinner activity is.’

‘So, what have you come up with?’

I nodded my head towards the living room. ‘Becky is about to start, if you want to see for yourself.’

‘I’d love to, but due to unforeseen circumstances I’ve not got my report done for the morning. Looks like it’ll be a long night for both of us.’

He disappeared back into the study, and I slipped into the living room. The guests were all seated around Becky, posed dramatically to one side of the crackling fireplace. Her atrocious fleece was unzipped to reveal an even worse flowery jumper, but no one seemed to notice the unprofessional attire.

‘Damson Farm is a place to dehustle and dehassle, to get away from all those crappy responsibilities and never-ending pressures. This, my friends, is a place where deadlines are dead, to-do is taboo. The only responsibility you have is to be you. The you you always wanted to be. Wild and free. Bold and beautiful. Here, you are an artist, a creator, an original. Your best you.’ Becky paused.

The only sound was Saskia sobbing gently into a tissue while Simon muttered, ‘Give me a break! Or at the very least a decent whisky.’

‘But before you reclaim the real you, we need to lose the boring, money-bags, image-conscious you. So, who’s ready?’

Alice, Becky and I were washing down the last of the tart with a pot of tea when Daniel strode into the kitchen. ‘People are galloping up and down the stairs. Something that sounded distinctly like screaming came from the direction of the conservatory. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were playing hide and seek.’