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chair and stretched his arms over his head. He stared at the clock on the desk. It must be wrong. It couldn’t be six-thirty already. He reached for his mobile to double-check. The same time beamed back at him. Which meant, with a brief interlude to sleep last night, he’d been writing solidly all day, for the second day in a row. Great for the book. Not so great for the body. He’d scarcely moved for hours and he hadn’t eaten a thing. He could murder a decent meal and a pint. The memory of the fish and chips he’d enjoyed at the village pub a few days ago floated into his head, causing his stomach to rumble. Right, that was decided. He’d have a quick wash, change his T-shirt, and wander down to the village. The walk and fresh air would do him good. Come to think of it, he really should build more exercise into his day, get his heart pumping, burn some fat. It was a wonder he hadn’t developed DVT sitting still for so long. And then there was the unavoidable fact that middle age would soon be upon him. A milestone he had no intention of welcoming with flaccid open arms and an expanding paunch. Maybe he should take up running again. He’d always enjoyed it in the past and he could easily fit it around his writing. He could even use it as thinking time, to work through sticking points in his plot. An image of another runner suddenly leaped into his head - a runner with long, tanned legs and a pink baseball cap. How Annie found time to fit running around the other million things she seemed to do, amazed him.
    As much as he willed it not to, Jake’s gaze meandered over the lawn to the gatehouse. Annie was in the garden, wearing denim shorts and unpegging washing from the line. She bent down to put something in the laundry basket. Jake gulped and dragged his attention back to the computer screen.
    Monday night was quiz night at the village pub. It was also Annie’s one – much looked forward to – night out of the week. Of course, she was aware that a few drinks and a natter with cake-making friends wasn’t exactly a riot, but then Annie no longer did ‘riot’. It was yet another word that belonged in her ever diminishing past. Thankfully. Even thinking about how much she used to drink made her queasy. And the notion of staying out after eleven brought on a mild panic attack. No, the weekly quiz served her well enough and was always good for a giggle.
    Fresh from the shower, she rummaged through – what she acknowledged to be – the pitiful contents of her wardrobe. She pulled out a pretty floral shift dress she’d bought pre-motherhood. She hadn’t worn it for ages but it was a lovely sunny evening and somehow she didn’t feel like pulling on her usual jeans and T-shirt. She held her breath as she slipped the dress over her head, praying it would fit. It did. And, what was more, she actually felt nice in it. She brushed a little mascara onto her lashes, swiped a coat of gloss over her lips, then clipped up her hair in a loose knot, before slipping on a pair of ballet pumps and heading downstairs.
    â€˜You look nice, dear,’ remarked Mrs Mackenzie, sitting at the garden table on which lay a piece of paper and a snoozing Pip.
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Annie. ‘Now, are you three going to be okay without me?’
    In her crab position on the lawn, a leotard-clad Sophie piped up, ‘Of course we are. I’m practising for the Olympics and when I’ve finished, Mrs Mackenzie is going to hold up a mark.’
    â€˜I see.’ Annie turned over the paper on the table. ‘But there’s only one mark here and it’s a ten.’
    â€˜Of course,’ replied Sophie matter-of-factly.
    Still smiling at her daughter’s unabashed confidence, Annie drank in every detail of her surroundings during her walk to the pub. Every season highlighted something wonderful about Buttersley, but none more so than spring with its sweep of