‘There’s no need to be angry.’

‘It’s not me who’s angry,’ she told him, but she was lying. She’d done with the placating. ‘Basket weaving,’ she muttered. ‘I wish it had been purple paint I threw at you and I wish it had hit your head. Now, are you going to sue me for painting your feet? If so, there’s no lawyer in town but I can’t commend you strongly enough to leave town and find one. Preferably one in another state. I need to get on with my work.’

‘You’ve spilled your paint.’

‘Of course I have,’ she snapped. ‘And it was well worth it. Your brogues are drying, Dr Rochester. You need to go find some turpentine.’

‘You’ll never make a living.’

‘We’ll see.’ She stooped to lift her now empty paintpot from the pavement and was suddenly aware that someone was watching them. An elderly lady, a basket on one arm and a poodle dangling from the other, was gazing at the pair of them as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

‘It’s Ally,’ she whispered. ‘Ally Lindford. You’ve come home!’

Crimplene was very hard to escape, especially when Crimplene was intent on smothering you. Ally was enfolded in a bosom so ample she’d never felt anything like it, and it took her a few valiant tries before she could finally find enough space to breathe.

Doris Kerr. How could she have forgotten Doris?

She hadn’t. She hadn’t forgotten a single person in this town.

So who was this Dr Rochester? she wondered from her cocoon of Crimplene. Definitely a newcomer. But maybe not so new. Ally had been away for twenty years.

‘I saw the Dr A starting on the wall when I walked my Chloe last night.’ Doris had decided to take pity on her and hold her at arm’s length.