‘Oh yeah, no long-term damage. She’s lost a bit of weight if anything, so it’s probably done her a favour. You know how she is, always on some bloody diet or other.’ He laughed, looking over his shoulder jokingly and saying behind his hand, ‘You’ll have to ask the old dear to make it again next time we visit – I really enjoyed it!’

I wouldn’t mention it to Mrs Barley. It had been very good of her to help us out, and it wouldn’t do for her to think that someone was questioning her food hygiene. And I’d seen her kitchen – it was always immaculate. As usual, Sylvia was being theatrical and ridiculous. It made me even more glad that they lived so far away.

Later that afternoon, I felt completely wrung out. While Elodie was, all things considered, a remarkably good baby, the constant round of breastfeeding, nappy changing and not getting a solid night’s sleep was beginning to take its toll. I was frequently weepy and the least little thing would set me off. I tried to tell myself how lucky I was to have such a beautiful baby and a supportive partner, but sometimes it was hard to stay positive.

I had fed Elodie and thankfully she was now dozing. I had laid her carefully in her basket, switching on the baby monitor, and crept back downstairs. Jack was in the spare room catching up on some paperwork. I was about to curl up on the settee when I saw Mrs Barley coming up our garden path, carrying a basket with a tea towel draped over the top. My heart sank. I knew she was only trying to help but I had hoped to have some time to myself, and it seemed my plans were scuppered. I waved half-heartedly as she slowly made her way up towards the house, and went to open the French doors for her.

A flicker of movement suddenly drew my eyes towards the summer house. My stomach turned over as the door opened and a dark-haired figure slipped through the gap and headed for the gate. I shrieked hysterically to Jack, who came running from upstairs to see what was wrong.

Mrs Barley heard me yell and almost dropped the basket. She looked about her anxiously just in time to see the figure disappearing through the gate and out into the entry.

‘There! Did you see him?’ I turned to Jack triumphantly.

‘Whatever is it, love?’ Mrs Barley had arrived breathlessly at the back door.

‘That … man – he was in the summer house …’ I looked from Jack to Mrs Barley, who in turn were looking at each other in bewilderment.

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Jack eventually. ‘Did you, Mrs Barley?’