Catherine hurried into the hallway, a dirty porridge bowl in each hand, even though it was too late. ‘Have a good day, love,’ she said softly.

With husband and daughter gone, the house settled into morning quietude.

As soon as the breakfast dishes were cleared away, Catherine switched on her computer and logged on to her share-dealing platform, checking the performance of her stocks and shares.

She was later than usual, unlike those early-bird suits in the City, who exchanged family life for the pursuit of money. Although she had never been a trader in the salaried sense of the word, she had taught herself, dabbling in small sums of money at first, making a profit here and there.

Nothing had surprised her more than discovering she had a gift for it, an instinct for the markets that allowed her to support herself and contribute to the family finances. Getting a job which involved keeping her past a secret had always seemed like scaling an unconquered mountain. Thank God she didn’t have to.

She pecked at the keys, relishing the pockets of drama played out through the rise and fall in share prices, the buying and selling, the mistakes and triumphs. About half past ten, chilled from sitting still at the kitchen table, she stopped work to go outside and fill up the basket from the log store.

It was snowing, the first of the season. The flakes settled on her eyelashes and her hair, and on the cashmere wrap she had draped around her shoulders. She drew in lungfuls of cold air and its sharpness filled her up. From her garden, which overlooked Coggsbridge’s narrow main street, she could see the fluorescent lights of the butcher’s, a stick figure carrying a shopping bag, head bowed, and a bobble-hatted toddler, face raised in wonder to the sky.

When Honor was born, a sun rising over the dark valley of Catherine’s teenage years, moving to this village, which reminded her so much of her childhood home, had allowed her to start again.

Back inside, she set the basket next to the wood burner, logs damp with melting snow. A spider ran across the bark and she recoiled, dropping the hearth brush. Mostly, she did not mind the silence, but in that moment, the house felt lonely. On impulse, she reached for the remote control on the coffee table and switched on the television.

A magazine-style show was broadcasting, the presenters full of sunshine smiles. She wondered what it felt like to be on the inside, burnished with the gleam of success and belonging. A famous chef was talking about home-made mince pies and cooking for family. Bright studio lights. Puffs of icing sugar. Laughter. In contrast, the sitting room had darkened in the shadow of snow clouds, the faces in the photographs on the mantelpiece blurring into grey.