After removing a broken crayon and a naked baby doll, Gemma sank into her usual chair at the kitchen table. It seemed impossible not to relax in this room-Gemma had often told Hazel that its essence should be bottled and sold as a sedative. She looked about her, noting the details, deliberately letting their familiarity calm her. Colorful cookery books vied with Hazel’s knitting wool for space on the worktops, a basket filled with toys and picture books stood next to the Aga, and the braided rug on the floor invited games of make-believe beneath the table. Even the sponged peach walls and dusty-green cabinets added comforting warmth.

“I was going to offer you coffee and fresh strudel,” Hazel said to Gemma when she’d dispatched Tim into the sitting room with a tray, children in tow. “But let’s open that bottle of Riesling I’ve been saving for you instead. You look as though you could do with a medicinal drink.”

“No, coffee’s fine. It would be a shame to waste the wine on me tonight. I don’t feel very festive.” Then, afraid she’d sounded ungrateful, Gemma made an effort to smile and added, “And I’d hate to miss your strudel.”

Hazel gave her a considering look, her round face grave, but said only, “The carbohydrate will make you feel better.” In a few moments she’d settled opposite Gemma with the filter pot and a warm pan of apple strudel. She poured coffee and served generous portions of pastry onto two plates, pushing Gemma’s across the well-scrubbed pine table. “Thank God for frozen puff pastry,” she said as she took a test nibble, then, satisfied, she fixed all her attention on Gemma. “All right, tell.”

Gemma shrugged, shook her head, picked at her strudel, then put her fork down. “He went to see his ex-wife today. Dr. Victoria Kincaid McClellan, he said her name is now. After twelve years of absolutely F-all, she rings him up and he shot off to her like a bloody homing pigeon, can you believe it?