‘Well, that’s good.’ He waited, then said, ‘It’s really nice to see you again. I was starting to wonder what I’d do if you didn’t turn up.’

He was even better looking than she’d imagined on Saturday night; he had the best eyelashes Maddy had ever seen. And as for those eyes ... God, even George Clooney would be jealous. Worst of all, he was being so lovely, so concerned about her being ill and possibly about to throw up all over his shoes.

‘By the way, they love the food,’ Kerr went on. ‘So it looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.’ He paused. ‘You could look a bit happier if you like.’

This was truly awful. It was no, good, she had to tell him.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.’ Maddy really was starting to feel sick now; why did he have to be so nice?

‘I’m not with you.’ Even as he spoke, he was encouraging her to drink more of the ice-cold water.

‘You don’t even know my name,’ Maddy said helplessly.

‘And that’s a major problem? How about if I – this is just off the top of my head – how about if I just ask you?’ He thought it was funny, that she was making a ridiculous fuss about nothing.

‘It’s Maddy. Maddy Harvey.’

She saw it register, saw it click into place. Finally Kerr McKinnon’s expression changed.

‘Shit. Are you serious?’ For a split second, doubt flickered in his eyes.

Maddy couldn’t blame him. She nodded, shivering violently despite the heat.

‘Maddy Harvey? But ... but you’ve ...’

For a traitorous second Maddy wished she hadn’t said it. Everything was spoiled now.

‘I know.’ Almost unbelievably she found herself feeling sorry for him. ‘I don’t look like I used to.

I’ve changed.’

JFK airport. Millions of people, and no one there to see her off. Kate was wearing her beige floppy-brimmed hat in the forlorn hope that it would divert attention from her face. When she’d stopped for a cappuccino at Heathrow three years ago, she’d been chatted up by a six-foot Australian archaeologist.

He’d even bought her another cup of coffee.

This time nobody chatted her up, not even the ancient lavatory attendant. Kate wasn’t surprised. She paid for her own coffee and thought of her mother, who was driving up to meet her off the plane at Heathrow.

At least someone would be pleased to see her again.

All my own fault, thought Kate, flicking distractedly through the New York Times. Nobody to blame but myself.

She paused at a photo of Brad Pitt, arriving at the premiere of his latest film. Once upon a time she had fantasised about meeting a famous movie star, someone the whole world drooled over.

They would bump into each other quite by chance, in a supermarket checkout queue or something, and fall effortlessly into conversation. Naturally, besotted by her ravishing looks and winning personality, the famous movie star would fall in love with her – oh yes, it would have been Notting Hill all over again, complete with dazzling Richard Curtis script.

Crossing her legs, Kate flipped over the page with the Brad Pitt photo on it. She didn’t bother having that fantasy any more.

Chapter 3

Jake Harvey had an audience, but he didn’t let on that he was aware of it. This was the way potential customers liked it to be. He carried on working, they stood and watched, and after a few minutes he would turn and smile at them, maybe exchange a friendly greeting, then return his attention to the task in hand. It was a low-key, low-pressure sales technique and it worked for Jake. He enjoyed his job and it showed. Sooner or later, curiosity always got the better of his visitors. He allowed them to open the conversation. His easy manner, indicating that he really couldn’t care less whether they stayed or not, more often than not did the trick. And when it didn’t, well, he genuinely wasn’t that bothered anyway.

These were tourists, impulse buyers, quite as likely to leave Ashcombe with a couple of postcards or a pot of homemade jam from the Peach Tree. You couldn’t win them all.

Then again, in his line of work, you never knew when they – or their relatives – might, at some time in the future, be back in touch.

Putting down his glue gun, Jake straightened up and stretched his arms. Stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of drastically faded jeans, he knew he looked good. Working outside had tanned him to the colour of strong tea, and when he stretched, the muscles in his back rippled beneath his skin. Turning finally, he saw that the girl waiting was the type least likely to buy anything: the Scandinavian backpacker. He knew she was Scandinavian because she was blonde, and wearing khaki shorts, sturdy hiking boots and white socks.

Actually, she wasn’t even that pretty, but Jake flashed her a smile anyway. He didn’t mind.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi. This is fascinating. I have never seen this kind of thing done before.’ The girl’s English was excellent. ‘Is the coffin for someone in particular?’

Nodding, Jake ran his hand lightly over the lid of the casket, lacquered in lapis-lazuli blue and studded with the glass jewels he had been applying with the aid of the hot-glue gun. The coloured jewels glittered like fairy lights in the sun. ‘Oh yes, this one’s going to a seventy-six-year-old Englishwoman living in Cyprus.’

The girl pulled an appropriately sympathetic face. ‘And she is dead?’

‘Not at all. Fighting fit.’ Jake grinned and took a swig of Coke from the can at his side. ‘She’s planning on using it as a coffee table in the meantime. She told me that when she goes, her body might be all wrinkled and ancient but at least her coffin will be gorgeous.’

‘That is such a beautiful idea.’ Entranced, the girl peered past him into the shadowy workshop. ‘I think it’s wonderful. But if your clients die first, how do you—’

‘Just work faster,’ said Jake good-naturedly. ‘It’s fifty-fifty. Some like to choose their own Coffins and design them themselves. Other times, the relatives contact me after the death and we choose something together. As long as they don’t want anything too complicated, I can finish it in a day and send it to them by Parcel Force. The caskets are made of cardboard, so they aren’t that heavy.

And they’re cheaper too. Commissioning a hand-decorated coffin ends up costing about the same as a plain old wooden one. Feel free to look around,’ he went on, waving towards the workshop where photographs were pinned up along the back wall. ‘Those are some of my past works. And I have a portfolio of standard designs on the table in the corner.’

Having stopped for a break, Jake followed the girl into the workshop and switched on the kettle to make tea. She was studying the photos of a particularly extravagant coffin covered in vibrant purple velvet, trimmed with gold and painted with white regale lilies.

‘Lill. DeLisle, the rock singer. That was hers,’ said Jake. ‘Her husband asked me to do it after she died in that plane crash. You can’t see from the photo, but the lyr ics of her song "Take Me" are etched all the way round the gold border. Gave my business no end of a boost,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Everyone who saw it wanted to know where it came from. The stamens on those lilies were real diamonds.’

‘And letters from satisfied customers,’ exclaimed the girl, moving on.

‘Well, maybe not the customers themselves. But after the funeral the relatives quite often write to tell me what a difference it made.’

‘I like this one.’ The girl touched the edge of a photo displaying a casket simply decorated with white clouds in a cerulean blue sky, with a silver bird soaring above them.

‘One of my bestsellers. Fancy a cup of tea?’

‘I’d love one. But I’m not about to die, so I won’t be needing a coffin, if that’s what you’re hoping.’

‘Don’t speak too soon,’ said Jake. ‘You don’t know what I could be putting into your cup.’

They sat outside together, companionably drinking their tea and chatting about the famous bits of Bath which Trude had spent the morning exploring.

‘Very nice,’ she said, nodding seriously, ‘but so terribly crowded. It would be far better if there weren’t so many tourists.’

Jake managed to keep a straight face. ‘Sometimes it can get a bit much.’

‘You know, my grandmother is very old. I’m thinking she might enjoy one of your coffins. Do you have a leaflet, perhaps, so I could show her your work?’

‘I do. Better still,’ said Jake, loping into the workshop and returning with a brochure and a packet of biscuits, ‘it has my website address on it. That’s how I get most of my business.’

Trude tucked the brochure carefully away in one of the pockets on her backpack.

‘I like your business, very much. But how did you start? What gave you the idea to do this thing?

Oh, thanks.’ Blushing slightly, she took a digestive from the packet, showering crumbs down the front of her khaki shorts.

‘Well, my sister died when I was fourteen,’ said Jake, and Trude shot him a look of anguish, unable to speak through her mouthful of biscuit.

‘It’s OK,’ said Jake, ‘I get asked this question all the time. Anyway, April was sixteen, and my dad thought she wouldn’t want to be buried in a plain coffin: He made one himself, a proper wooden one, and painted it pale pink, because that was April’s favourite colour. Then the rest of us put our handprints on it, and Dad painted wildflowers and butterflies over the rest. April would have loved it.’

He smiled briefly. ‘So there you go, that’s how it all started. I knew at once it was what I wanted to do. I left school at sixteen and set up the business. And here I am, almost ten years later, still here.’

‘In a tiny place like this,’ Trude marvelled.

‘Ah, but it’s my tiny place.’ Spotting Marcella and Sophie heading towards them along Gypsy Lane, Jake waved and broke into a grin. ‘I’ve lived in Ashcombe all my life.’

Moments later Sophie hurtled the rest of the way down Gypsy Lane and flung herself into his arms.

It was like catching an exuberant wriggling puppy. Swinging her round, Jake kissed the top of her neatly braided head and said, ‘I’m getting too old for this. What have you two been up to then?’

‘Making daisy chains.’ Proudly, Sophie showed him the bedraggled chain in her left hand, before placing it round his neck. ‘This one’s for you, Daddy.’

‘Now everyone will think I’m a girl,’ said Jake.

‘They won’t, because you’ve got stubble on your chin.’ Lovingly, she ran a grubby finger over his jawline. ‘Anyway, there’s a surprise for later. At six o’clock in the back garden, and you have to put a shirt on.’

‘What kind of a surprise?’

‘Me and Tiff are getting married.’

‘Really?’ Jake raised his eyebrows at Marcella, who was leaning against the wall lighting a cigarette. ‘Mum, did you know about this?’

Marcella gave a what-can-you-do shrug. ‘Darling, I tried to talk them out of it, tried to persuade them to wait a couple of years, but would they listen? You know how it is with young people today.’

‘Fine.’ Jake lowered his daughter to the ground. ‘Just so long as you aren’t expecting a wedding present, because I haven’t had time to get to the shops.’

Beaming, Sophie said, ‘That’s OK. You can give me a cheque.’

Behind Sophie, Trude was looking puzzled, clearly struggling to work out the dynamics of the family before her. Jake smiled to himself, because confusion was a fairly common occurrence and always a source of entertainment. He knew exactly what was going through Trude’s mind.

‘Come along, pet, we’d better start getting you ready.’ Marcella held out a hand. ‘Every bride has to have a bath before her wedding.’

‘Oh Gran, why?’ Sophie pulled a disgusted face. ‘I just had a bath on Saturday.’

‘No one wants to marry a girl with muddy knees.’

‘Tiff wouldn’t mind. He hates baths too.’ Rolling her dark eyes, Sophie gave up and made her way over to Marcella. ‘OK. And Daddy, don’t forget. Six o’clock.’

Jake shook his head in mock despair as Marcella and Sophie headed back up the road to Snow Cottage.

‘How old is she?’ said Trude.

‘Seven.’

‘You were very young when you became a father.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘She’s beautiful. You must be very proud.’ Trude hesitated, as he had known she would. ‘And the lady with her? You called her Mum. But she is your mother-in-law, right?’