The year after I moved in with Reggie, I lied and told my aunt that I was unwell, so that I could spend Christmas with her and Luc. Reggie really went to town, decorating the flat with a huge real tree that she dragged back from town, flashing fairy lights and reams of tinsel, and a tasteless blow-up Santa that took up half the hallway. We laughed when she burned the dinner and had to resort to cooking frozen pizzas, then we ate too much chocolate and got a bit drunk on Baileys and played loud Christmas music and rowdy card games. It was the best celebration I can ever remember, although it made me feel a little guilty about leaving Auntie Jane on her own. Even more so now, when I think of how she ended her days.

I had loved every Christmas that Jack and I had spent together. Come what may, we would go for a walk in the morning to shake off the Christmas Eve hangover, and then share the cooking. Later in the afternoon, there would be a Skype call to his parents, who preferred to stay in Spain during the colder weather. But it was always fine, as we’d have had a fair bit to drink by this time and they had, too, so Sylvia was generally a bit more laid-back. Even if she hadn’t been, I was usually so happy that whatever she’d said would have washed over me anyway. In the evening we would curl up together in front of the fire with yet more wine and a Christmas movie. It was my idea of heaven.

I always relished having Jack to myself at Christmas, but now we had Elodie, and although I knew the routine would be different, it felt as if we were even more complete. I was determined that our first Christmas in Avoncote would be perfect, and while I had hoped for the day to be a family occasion, I knew that including Mrs Barley was the right thing to do. She had been so good to us and I wanted to make her feel welcome and give her something to look forward to.

Christmas Day soon arrived. It was a clear, crisp morning but annoyingly I was muzzy-headed after a particularly rough night with Elodie, who appeared to have colic and couldn’t be placated. We had tried giving her infant drops, and took turns walking her up and down and rubbing her back and tummy as she screamed and writhed, drawing up her little legs. Eventually she had fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, giving the occasional hiccuping sob.

We were still sitting up in bed when a loud knock carried through the hallway. Jack groaned. He pulled on a hoodie and went downstairs to find Mrs Barley on the step, carrying an open cardboard box.

‘Don’t worry, I haven’t come to impose on you yet,’ she announced. ‘I know you’re not expecting me until after midday – I just thought you might like these.’