‘Two hunters I’ve got spare. They need the exercise, frankly.’

I stared at a damp patch on the wall opposite.

‘Where do you live?’

I couldn’t help it. It just popped out.

‘Mulverton Hall,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘It’s near Leighton Park; not that far from your village, actually.’

I knew it. Of course I knew it. And I knew the story too. Old, pretty, not exactly derelict, but crumbling. And tenanted, because the owner, who no one had ever met, lived in America. Except recently he’d returned, minus his beautiful American wife, who some years ago had left him. Even more recently he’d given up the London house and returned to the one he’d grown up in, in the country. Ditched his City career to work locally, have a different sort of life. He was a lawyer, Angie thought. But no one really knew, as I say, much about him. Besides the fact that he kept horses. I took a deep breath; let it out shakily. The reality that was Sam Hetherington’s life paraded before me in glorious technicolor, like an Easter Parade, with decorated floats, marching girls twirling batons, whistles and drums: an American tradition, of course, but how appropriate. A glorious spectacle. This wasn’t a faintly shambolic solicitor in a chaotic office at the top of some creaky stairs, one that, in a secret corner of my heart, I’d looked at, liked instantly, recognized almost, and thought: I could have a tiny chance with that. This was a very different screenplay to the one I’d dreamily created in my head. The one where he returned to his lonely rented bedsit every night, above a shop maybe, and thought wistfully of the young widow he’d advised that day. This one spelled out in bright, sparkling, neon lights: Out of your league!

This was a man who got on famously with Chad and Hope, the new pin-up couple in our village. Who knew Simon Devereux – no doubt they were family friends in that local, big-house sort of way – and who would soon, no doubt, be introduced to Emma, Simon’s wife. Within a twinkling they’d be having dinner parties. Chad and Hope, Simon and Emma, Sam and – ooh, let’s see … Emma’s best friend, um, Lucinda. Worthington-Squiggle. Squiggs, for short. A leggy, horse-mad beauty, who would take one look at Sam across the dinner table, his easy smile, his relaxed manner, would glimpse his beautiful house which everyone said was heavenly but unloved and surely needed a woman’s touch, and before you knew it I’d be singing the Gloria at yet another wedding. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, me and Molly – no doubt with a carer apiece – before toddling back to my cottage to cook liver and bacon.

‘Right. Well, sorry to have bothered you, Sam,’ I said, breathing very shallowly. Very unevenly. ‘I’ll, um, wait to hear. Should you decide there’s anything in it for the wronged wife,’ I couldn’t resist adding.

‘I’ll let you know,’ he assured me, no doubt steadying his impatient steed, keen to catch up with the others, and not, therefore, catching my tone; which was just as well, for what was it, Poppy? Sarcastic? Bitter? But he needed to get on. The Armitages were doubtless even now galloping across his immaculate parkland, down by the lake, the grand house perched on the hill: Hope, riding side-saddle, in a full-length black habit; Chad, bareheaded in breeches; Sam, in a dripping-wet white shirt, clinging and faintly ruffled.

We said goodbye. I sat in my coat, on my goose-poo sofa, knees and hands pressed tightly together, cold and knowing. I should light the fire now, get some lunch. Go rally the troops in the kitchen. Not leave my under fives at the table, albeit safely strapped in Archie’s case, but be in there making biscuits, ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on the CD, being effortlessly cheerful. But my life didn’t feel cheerful. I gazed at the damp wall. I thought I’d spotted in Sam someone a bit like me, who needed a stitch or two on his shirt sleeve, a few patches on his life where it had come unravelled. I’d been attracted by that; had perhaps looked forward to some cosy comparisons, some mutual sharing of sob stories. But his life wasn’t like mine. It was in much more shape. Of course, he didn’t appear to have children, which helped, but men were generally more baggage-free anyway, weren’t they? Look at Angie’s Tom. He had two children but was carefree – although according to Peggy that relationship wasn’t without its problems. A liking for extreme sports, which Tom didn’t share, had raised its head, bungee jumping, in particular. Well, Tom didn’t have to bungee jump all day, did he? I hope the fucking rope breaks, Angie had hissed. And even if it did hit the rocks – the relationship, not Tom – men were still, by definition, able to pick themselves up, dust themselves off, slap on a smile and say: hi, Lucinda! Oh, Squiggs, is it? Lovely to meet you. Glass of champagne?

The doorbell went, making me jump. From the kitchen came the sound of the children’s voices: less happy now, more shrill and fretful. Something I should pounce on before it went critical. Archie screamed very loudly in sudden outrage, as Clemmie no doubt pinched his last biscuit. I shut my eyes tight. One read terrible stories in the papers, ghastly ones. But who hasn’t, on occasion, sympathized with the young girl in the high-rise flat, alone with three small children, driven to distraction, driven to shaking her baby? Who hasn’t wanted to jump up, storm into that kitchen, pull Clemmie roughly from the table, shake her arm and shout in her face about being mean to her brother, about being a little cow, then slap her leg hard? Archie was roaring fit to bust now, giving it both barrels. There’d been one in the Mail just the other day, about a girl who’d simply gone away. Shut the door to her flat, two small children inside, and got on a train to Edinburgh. One was only six months old.

The doorbell rang again. A longer, more persistent summons, and this time I got stiffly to my feet. I walked slowly down the hall to the kitchen where Archie, brick-red in the face, was bawling. I calmly unclipped him from his high chair and set him on my hip, then, reaching into the biscuit tin, gave him one, wordlessly. He took it and the shrieking stopped instantly, to be replaced by silent sobs and hiccuping, his face drenched, nose snotty, boiling hot in my arms. I took another biscuit and passed it to my pale-faced daughter, sitting silent and guarded, with her back to me in front of the television. She took it in surprise, guilty eyes catching mine. No words were exchanged. Then, as my doorbell went for a third time, I went back down the passage with Archie in my arms, to answer it. Only the more astute observer might notice I still hadn’t taken my coat off, and that most mothers would have wiped their baby’s sopping face with their hand before answering the door. Other than that, it was business as usual. Oh, and I usually flicked the light on before I opened the door, the hall being so dark, but I couldn’t be fagged. Couldn’t be fagged to turn on a light? An alarm bell sounded somewhere dim and distant and I reached quickly for the switch. Lifted my chin too, as I opened the front door.

‘Oh. Luke. Hi.’

Looking a bit temporary and as if he might well be on his way, Luke Chambers turned, halfway down my front path. He was wearing a pair of old Levis, a white T-shirt and a bright blue V-necked jumper. It wasn’t a bad look. He flashed me a smile, raked his hand through his blond hair and bounced back up the path.

‘Poppy, hi! What kept you? Were you enthroned or something? Compromised in the smallest room? I was about to give up on you and go and do some solitary drinking.’

‘Sorry. Archie was crying. Couldn’t hear the bell.’ Couldn’t raise a smile, either.

‘Oh, right.’ He hesitated, unnerved perhaps by my deadpan expression. And I hadn’t asked him in.

‘Yeah, well, I might not have pressed it hard enough, one never quite knows if it rings louder inside than out.’ He licked his lips as I didn’t reply. ‘Um, Poppy,’ he ploughed on, perhaps a mite nervously for him, ‘I wondered if you and the kids would like to have some lunch? Only I was going to go across to the Rose and Crown to grab a ploughman’s, and they don’t mind children, apparently, I’ve checked. As long as it’s in the saloon bar and not the public one. Oh, and they do a kids’ menu too, if a ploughman’s doesn’t appeal, nuggets and chips.’ It was said eagerly, nicely. Albeit in something of a rush. Rather as my words had tumbled out on the phone just now: the voice of someone who gives a damn.

I considered his offer. Another reason I’d sped out of the church via the side door with Jennie was to avoid Luke, who I knew would be looking for me after the service. It was a plan I’d hatched well before I knew the identity of the bride and groom. You see, I wasn’t sure I was ready for him. For the determined campaign I sensed he was about to wage on me, the steady romantic advance. I knew I was capable of falling for his ardour should he turn up the flame, which he appeared to be doing: this nice young man with his megawatt smile, his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes, it seemed, only for me. But why was I looking so closely? So minutely? Being so forensic about this? Naturally I’d been badly bitten, but still.

All at once my cold little house, my bickering children, my aged eggs in the fridge for lunch didn’t appeal. And the warmth of the cosy pub opposite, with its open fire and yes, OK, all manner of interested locals, all sorts of gossiping tongues – did. Suddenly it was no contest.