‘It’s okay not to be a martyr,’ he said gently. ‘Swear if you want.’

‘I don’t swear,’ she said with an attempt at dignity.

‘I chop things.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I have an axe,’ he said. ‘When life gets tough-when things go wrong or when Gloria Fisher comes in with her something’s-wrong-with-me-middle complaint for the fourth time in a week and she still refuses to stop wearing too-tight corsets-I go outside and chop anything that comes to hand. Luckily there’s lots of old tree stumps on this place. I keep the family in firewood year round.’

‘Venting spleen?’

‘That’s the one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you like I’ll let you borrow my axe. Only not tonight.’

And then, magically, he set aside his instruments. ‘All done. Now there’s nothing else you’re not telling me about? Pain-wise?’

‘I…No.’

‘You swear?’

‘My shoulders ache from carrying Marilyn. I suspect I’ll ache for a bit but I was well strapped in when the car rolled. I really will be okay.’

‘So who do we phone to come and get you?’

She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Charles. Her parents. Charles’s parents. Of course she should ring them. But it was, what, three in the morning, and they were angry with her already.

‘Family?’ he asked, and she nodded. Her parents were with Charles and Charles’s parents. The whole domestic catastrophe-except the one element that was supposed to complete the whole.

The pig in the middle. A small, rebellious pig.

‘You know, if you were heading to your parents’ for Easter and don’t want to wake them-if you’re sure they won’t be worrying-you’re welcome to sleep here,’ he said gently, watching her face. ‘I don’t want to move your dog until morning anyway. The settee’s as big as a bed and the fire’s comforting.’

She thought of the alternative. Ringing Charles. Waking Charles’s parents and her parents; scaring them with the news of another accident. They’d send Charles to fetch her. He’d be kind and supportive and not offer a word of reproach until she was over her shock. And…Taking Marilyn?