‘Nick Drake,’ James Caine read, as though the name was new to him. ‘He’s a sensitive-looking fellow.’

‘Nick Drake was a brilliant singer-songwriter,’ I said. ‘Back in the Seventies. Died very young.’ I hesitated. ‘My wife’s first love,’ I said.

James Caine laughed.

‘Really? Her first love?’ He smiled at the cover. ‘He looks like some sort of hippy. She was keen on this Nick Drake character?’

‘Crazy about him. Although he died long before she was born. Lucky for me.’

‘The romantic kind!’ he said.

‘That’s my wife!’ I agreed.

‘Tara,’ he said, almost smiling, and then there was just the long silence of the room as we stared at each other and I felt my stomach fill with a feeling that I could not name.

I had not told him her name.

‘Who the hell are you?’ I asked him.

I caught up with him on the street.

Now he wanted to go. Now he wanted to get away from me. Now he could see that he had pushed me too far with whatever sick game he was playing.

‘Thanks for showing us the house,’ he said quickly, not quite so cool any more, opening the car door, his daughter already in the passenger seat, the girl looking up at me for the first time as though I might actually exist.

‘Wait,’ I said, stepping into the street. ‘I’m not done with you.’

The front door was wide open and Buddy sniffed the welcome mat, unsure if he should step out into the world.

I grabbed James Caine by his arm.

‘I want to know what you’re doing here,’ I said.

He shook my hand off.

‘I’m thinking about making you an offer. For your house, I mean. Not your wife.’

I could not work it out. I could not put together the pieces.

But I could feel the threat that this man posed to everything I loved.

‘Just stay away from my family,’ I said. ‘And stay away from my home.’

And he nodded, as though he would comply, but his mouth tightened and he looked at me with one last surge of defiance.

‘Or what?’ he said.

‘I’ll kill you,’ I said.

TARA

When I got back to Bushey, my parents and Marlon were out in Half Acre Field with the horse and Uncle Jack. I could not believe what I was seeing. Marlon was dressed head-to-toe in riding gear. Marlon, who had never shown the faintest interest in riding, and who had always regarded Maple with a kind of quiet terror, was suddenly the pony club poster boy in shiny new riding boots, breeches, a padded body protector and a riding hat that was slightly too big and kept slipping over his eyes. From the French windows at the back of the living room, I watched with mounting disbelief as my parents attempted to get him onto Maple’s back.

My dad crouched before Marlon, giving my five-year-old son what was no doubt a manly pep talk and then an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Then Uncle Jack steadied Maple, soothing her snow-white muzzle and holding her on short, tight reins while my mum patted her blond helmet of hair into place and then, with great effort, hoisted Marlon up, swinging him through the air in the vague direction of the saddle. As he came in for landing in the saddle, Marlon’s breeches-clad legs went ramrod straight and he began to cry.