From Venice with Love

by Rosanna Ley

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

'COMPLETELY BEGUILING AND BEAUTIFULLY TOLD' Kate Furnival 'A PERFECT SUMMER READ' Rachel Hore 'A GORGEOUS, MOUTH-WATERING DREAM OF A HOLIDAY READ' Red 'PERFECT HOLIDAY READING, WHEREVER YOU GO' The Lady The bestselling author of The Lemon Tree Hotel returns with an enchanting new summer read about family bonds and following your heart, wherever it might take you... With her marriage in danger of falling apart, Joanna returns home to the beautiful but dilapidated Mulberry Farm Cottage in rural Dorset, where her sister Harriet is struggling to keep the Farm afloat and cope with their eccentric mother. When Joanna discovers a bundle of love letters in the attic, written by a watercolourist named Emmy, she is intrigued and sets out to discover Emmy's true story. Emmy's letters take Joanna to the picturesque alleyways and bridges of Lisbon, Prague, and the most romantic place of all: Venice - where a whole new magical world seems to unfold in front of her. Meanwhile, back at Mulberry Farm Cottage, a mysterious prowler adds to Harriet's problems and interrupts her search for a perfect partner. Will she ever find true love? Where will Emmy's mesmerising pathway lead? And more importantly, will Joanna and Harriet be able to rescue the cottage and finally be able to re-discover their sisterly bond? WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT FROM VENICE WITH LOVE 'Romantic and magical' ***** 'The escapism we all need' ***** 'A love story with a difference' *****

Release date: March 5, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 396

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Joanna

London

Joanna was hardly aware of the train leaving Waterloo station. She supposed she was in shock – if shock was the right word for what she was feeling. She’d known as soon as she walked in the door of their Victorian terrace in Crouch End that something was wrong. It was in the atmosphere, lying in wait, and although it was only four in the afternoon, Martin was home.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he’d asked her from the kitchen. His voice had sounded different from usual too – and not in a good way.

Joanna had felt the first shiver of foreboding.

Now, sitting in the train carriage, she let out a small noise that sounded a bit like a choked sob and the man at the table seat opposite her inched slightly away. Joanna couldn’t blame him. No one needed to be landed with a hysterical woman at their table when all they wanted to do was read the evening paper on the train.

‘Or maybe a drink?’ Martin had called through to her. Which was even more worrying.

Joanna had put her bag down in the hall. ‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’ she’d said. And then he’d come to stand in the kitchen doorway and she’d caught his expression; noted the evasiveness in his pale blue eyes, a hint of guilt or regret, and . . .

She stared out of the train window at the tall office blocks and cranes as they passed by. More building, always more building. Where she was going, there would be no tall office blocks or tenement buildings. Where she was going, there would be green fields with grazing sheep and the acid yellow of rapeseed lined with dark blackthorn bushes.

‘I’ve got something I need to tell you, Jo,’ Martin had said.

She took a deep and steadying breath. ‘Go on then.’

They had been married for ten years. They hadn’t had children because of Joanna’s career as a freelance journalist, because Martin had kept saying they should wait a bit longer, and because . . . it had never happened. They lived together in this skinny terraced house bought before house prices in the city rocketed and they had always been happy enough. Well, hadn’t they? And what did it mean, ‘happy enough’? she pondered. It definitely seemed to suggest something lacking.

There were more houses now that they were pulling into Clapham Junction and also more trees, already touched with the reds and yellows of early autumn. Joanna sniffed loudly and the man opposite glanced at her briefly over the top of his newspaper. Checking she was still keeping it together, probably. And she was – just.

‘The thing is . . . I’ve been seeing someone else,’ Martin told her.

Joanna stared at him, waiting for more information, waiting for this, the only piece of information that really mattered, to sink in.

‘I feel terrible,’ he said. He tore his fingers through his fair hair in a familiar gesture. ‘So guilty. So angry with myself. I can’t sleep, you’ve got no idea.’

Was she supposed to feel sorry for him? The anger flooded through her, a release. ‘Why?’ she managed to say. Wasn’t she enough for him, was that it? Didn’t he love her anymore? But the word emerged strangely devoid of emotion. He was right – she’d had no idea.

‘I couldn’t help myself,’ Martin muttered. ‘She was just there, throwing herself at me and you . . .’

Ah, she thought. Here we go then. The double-pronged defence. She (whoever she might be) had thrown herself at Martin, poor defenceless lamb that he was, while Joanna . . . Joanna was always too busy, too tired, too distant to give him what he wanted. He was a man, wasn’t he? Who could blame him for succumbing?

Joanna could. ‘Who?’ Perhaps from now on, she would only be capable of one-syllable questions.

He took a step towards her and she took a step back. A dance of betrayal, she found herself thinking.

‘It’s come to a head.’ Martin was answering a different question. ‘Oh, God, now that Brian—’

‘Hilary,’ said Joanna. Her thoughts flitted back to that awful dinner party with Martin’s colleague Brian and Hilary, his wife, whose breathy voice set Joanna’s nerves jangling with irritation. And now she knew why. ‘Jesus, Martin.’

He looked offended. Only Martin could look offended at a time like this, she thought. ‘Brian knows,’ he said.

Which explained why Martin was now telling Joanna. She turned away, unable to look at him anymore. ‘You absolute bastard,’ she said.

‘Jo . . .’

The train didn’t stop at Wimbledon. Opposite Joanna, the man took slurps of his coffee and when his mobile rang loudly, she didn’t point out that they were sitting in the quiet zone. She felt unshed tears blocking her throat and she pushed them back down. She wouldn’t cry. At least, not yet.

‘How long?’ Joanna asked Martin. She kept her voice strong although she was shaking inside.

‘Hardly any time.’ He looked away when he said this and then straight back at her so that she knew he was lying. ‘I told you, it just happened, and now . . .’

‘Now?’ What was he saying? Was he leaving her? Did she want him to leave?

He grabbed her arm. ‘Admit it, Jo. It’s been a while since you and I . . . We have to face it. Maybe we’ve just grown apart.’

She shook him off. That stung. He was right, it had been a while. But had they grown that far apart?

It was leafier when the train passed through Weybridge and then stopped at Woking, although some of the leaves were already falling, horse chestnuts on the ground wrapped in green spiky jackets. Joanna glanced at her watch. They had been travelling for less than half an hour. There were more people milling on the platform here and the coffee shop was full. The man opposite had finished his phone conversation and when the refreshment trolley passed by, he ordered a packet of crisps in an authoritative voice that made Joanna wish she’d sat somewhere else. She’d never been good with authority – or so Martin had always told her.

But Martin had a point when it came to growing apart. Hadn’t she been thinking the same thing – in the rare moments when she wasn’t researching a story, talking to people about a story or writing up a story? She was fortunate to have work – and Toby, her editor, who had become a good friend over the years, sometimes reminded her about this, but with a wink so that she didn’t have to take it too seriously. But had her work taken her away from Martin? Was Joanna guilty too – of not giving her husband the attention he needed?

She snorted loudly – as if this justified his behaviour, for goodness’ sake! – and the man opposite offered her a steady look from dark brown eyes and opened his crisp packet. Crunch. Rustle. Crunch. She looked away.

But Martin was right, even though neither of them had openly acknowledged it before now. There was distance between them, more distance than there should be between a married couple. She had even been thinking that she should stay at home more – she’d said as much to Toby. She’d half decided to cut down on the travelling blogs, maybe even find a permanent position in-house on some magazine or newspaper that would also offer her more financial security. After all, if she could earn a bit more, then maybe she could give some to Mother and ­Harriet to help with the farm. It would give her more time for her marriage, it would give Joanna and Martin more time to reconnect.

Oh, she had noticed the distance all right. She and Martin were hardly still in the first heady throes of romance. But when had they stopped talking about everything? When had they stopped sharing their dreams? She couldn’t even remember.

So yes, maybe she was partly to blame. Only it still stung. Because while she’d been thinking of ways to save her marriage, Martin had been breaking it into little pieces.

‘What do you want to do, Martin?’ she’d asked him.

‘It’s up to you,’ he said.

Was it? They stared at one another. Impasse, she thought. His hands on Hilary’s body. Her hands on his. She felt sick. ‘Have you stopped seeing her?’

He looked away and then back at her once more. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you and me to break up. I’m sorry, Jo.’

‘Perhaps you should have thought about that before.’ If Brian knew, then half the company where Martin worked as an accounts manager also knew. Martin had told Joanna simply because he didn’t want to risk her finding out from someone else.

The knowledge filled her head. This was what was happening to her marriage. This cliché. This was how it was. The distance between Joanna and Martin had grown because someone had slipped between them. And Joanna had never even guessed.

She glanced up at the case she’d heaved onto the luggage rack of the train. She’d packed swiftly and carelessly, just wanting to get out. It was all she could think of to do. And doing might stop her from thinking, from feeling. She could have just walked straight out of the door again, but something practical and instinctive had kicked in. It was autumn. She might be away for a while. She needed different clothes, something warm to wear.

‘Jo . . .’ He’d followed her up to their bedroom, spread his hands. ‘You won’t leave me?’

‘I need time to think,’ she said. She looked at the bed, looked at Martin.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course not. Not here.’ Once again, he came closer, reaching out, wanting some sort of instant forgiveness, she supposed. Well, instant forgiveness didn’t grow on trees.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she warned.

‘But where are you going?’ He was wearing the yellow shirt that she’d always thought too young for him. He wasn’t quite manly enough, either, to pull off that particular shade.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘But you’ll come back?’

She shot him a look. Did he really want her to? ‘I need to think about things,’ she repeated. Like, where did they go from here? She felt brittle enough to crack neatly into small squares. And Martin . . . Martin suddenly looked so helpless.

They were travelling through open countryside now. The sky was a cool grey with that pinkish shade of autumn. There were fields, a solar panel farm, dappled brown cows. Bracken cloaked the high banks above the railway line and behind this came the odd farm building and yet more fields, a tractor, some sheep.

The familiar strains of ‘Daydream Believer’ by The Monkees cut into her thoughts. She groped in her bag for her mobile, saw the man opposite flinch with disapproval, so allowed it to play a few more bars. She glanced at the name on the screen. ‘­Harriet,’ she said.

‘Jo?’ ­Harriet’s voice was blurred, as if she’d been crying.

‘What is it, ­Harriet? Are you OK?’ What now? Determinedly, she pushed the thought of Martin aside. Her sister had never been the emotional one. Was it something serious then?

‘Oh, I’m busy, that’s all.’

Clearly that wasn’t all. But despite everything, Joanna felt a dip of nostalgia. Busy . . . She ignored the man sitting opposite her as he rustled his newspaper meaningfully and turned the page. She thought of her father in the old days at Mulberry Farm Cottage – feeding the pigs, organising the sheep-shearing, flat cap, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow; waltzing their mother over the flagstones of the kitchen floor. ­Harriet and Father shaking the branches of the spreading mulberry tree. You’re too young, Joanna. ­Harriet can do it. Mother gathering mulberries from the nets with stained fingers, making sweet-sharp jam so dark red it was almost black. Joanna remembered one, two, three, alive, the hide-and-seek game she’d played with ­Harriet. And all the times she could never find her. Joanna’s first kiss in Big Barn with Pete Painton from the year above her in school, ­Harriet’s face when she told her . . .

She blinked away a tear. Was she thinking about the old childhood days or was she thinking about her marriage falling apart? ‘­Harriet . . .’ Terrible timing, ­Harriet.

Of course, autumn was a busy time at Mulberry Farm Cottage with all the fruit to pick from the orchard, bottling, jam-making and all. But ­Harriet wasn’t talking about that – didn’t her sister always cope with all the work that needed to be done on the farm? So much of their land had now been sold to the neighbours. She must then be talking about their mother. ­Harriet sounded as if she’d just about had enough and Joanna knew exactly how she felt.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m on a train.’

‘Oh, I see. Sorry.’ Her sister’s voice changed.

‘And . . .’ But she couldn’t tell ­Harriet what had happened – not here on the train with this awful man sitting opposite and besides . . . She sighed. She and ­Harriet had never been close.

‘Anyway, it’s a long story,’ ­Harriet was saying. ‘But we do need to talk, Jo. We need to discuss it properly – what to do about Mother. So, whenever you get to wherever you’re going, perhaps you can—’

‘Yes, of course.’ Joanna hadn’t known where to go. She could have gone to Lucy’s or maybe Steph’s. She could have stayed at the house and told Martin to leave – after all, he was the one who’d done the deed. But . . .

Mulberry Farm Cottage had always nestled in a corner of her mind, never forgotten, her haven, just as the cottage itself nestled deep in the protective folds of the hills and valleys of Warren Down in West Dorset – as tatty and ramshackle now as it had once been pristine. It was a long time since it had been home in reality, but now, she felt catapulted back. She didn’t want to be in London, she wanted to be sitting under the mulberry tree.

‘We can talk about it when I get there,’ she told ­Harriet.

‘Get there?’ Joanna could almost hear ­Harriet’s frown.

‘Can you pick me up from the station?’ Joanna asked her. ‘I’m on my way home.’

CHAPTER 2

­Harriet

Dorset

So, Joanna was coming home. It was a bit sudden – why on earth hadn’t she said? And why was she coming by train? Joanna almost always came to Dorset by car. Living in London, it was probably the only time they used the thing. ­Harriet sighed. Her younger sister was so selfish. It didn’t occur to her that a visitor descending out of the blue meant food to prepare, a bed to make, a room to dust. ­Harriet peeled another potato and dropped it in the saucepan. Fortunately, beef casserole could always be stretched with more vegetables from the kitchen garden and some extra mash. But if she hadn’t phoned Joanna when she did – when had her sister intended to tell her she was on her way?

­Harriet heaved the saucepan onto the hob and turned her attention to the onions. Joanna would be at Axminster station in an hour, so she just had time to get the casserole into the oven and have a quick whisk round upstairs. She’d only phoned because it had all got too much for her today. She’d intended to tell her sister – at length – what had been going on with Mother. She’d meant to insist – forcibly – that something had to change. She’d wanted to knock on the door of Joanna’s perfectly ordered life, she supposed, even perhaps break into it, and demand that her younger sister took some of the responsibility that weighed so heavily on her own shoulders. Instead, though, Joanna had sounded so . . . ­Harriet frowned as she tried to locate the word . . . vulnerable, that she stopped before she began. Plus, of course, Joanna was on the train.

­Harriet peeled and sliced the onions in seconds – no crying for her – took the broom from the cupboard and gave the kitchen a quick sweep. She didn’t have the time or energy to be house-proud and Joanna was family, but she owed it to her father’s memory not to let things slide – things that, she supposed, included Mother. She grimaced. As for Joanna, she had always been unpredictable, but she’d never been quite this spontaneous when it came to visits home. No matter. It would be a chance for ­Harriet to tell her how bad things really were.

She put away the broom and shoved the ironing pile – dark, misshapen T-shirts, jeans and sweaters (­Harriet’s) and a paler more slippery pile of silk blouses, chiffony dresses and angora cardigans (Mother’s) – into a cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind, she hoped, at least for a day or two. Mother had never been exactly a jeans and wellies sort of person, but when Father was alive, she had at least been practical – ­Harriet could recall her in thick winter tights and a wrap-around pinny, in cotton summer dresses and sandals, a scarf tied around her hair. Laughing.

Armed with a cloth and cleaning spray for Joanna’s room, ­­Harriet glanced into the living room as she passed by. Her mother, dressed today in a voluminous white skirt and ruffled blouse of pale pink, was draped across the threadbare green sofa, eyes closed. When she woke up, ­Harriet would tell her that Joanna was on her way home. That should bring a smile to her face, at least.

­Harriet went upstairs. Looking back over the past seven years, she couldn’t pick a defining moment when their mother had changed. After Father’s death she had seemed bereft, as she gradually relinquished all the household chores. At the same time, she became more eccentric, more needy, more desperate for attention. And she seemed to be getting worse, not better, as yesterday’s events had proved . . .

At the top of the stairs, ­Harriet stuck her head round the door of Father’s study. The two of them had sat here together so often: reading, talking, putting the world outside Mulberry Farm Cottage to rights. The room continued to hold his presence – ­Harriet would swear she could still smell his pipe tobacco, feel the rough wool of his favourite brown crew-neck sweater. She swallowed hard. How she missed him . . . The study was now ­Harriet’s sanctuary, filled no longer by her father but by her computer. Thank God she’d bought that when there had been a bit of money spare, taught herself how to use it, arranged to get the Internet.

‘What do you do on that computer?’ Mother sometimes asked her. ‘I really can’t imagine.’

Which was a good thing. What she did was for ­Harriet to know and her mother never to find out. It was her secret. She’d die of embarrassment if Mother ever discovered the truth – or Joanna come to that. Or anyone.

It had become her lifeline now. She allowed herself a small smile of pleasure. Later, ­Harriet promised herself. When everyone else was safely tucked up in bed . . .

Next to the study were a small guest room and Joanna’s bedroom; they still called it this though it was fourteen years since her sister had lived with them. ­Harriet went in and gave it a quick going over. The room, with its small double bed, wardrobe and old-fashioned dressing table, seemed poised, as if waiting for Joanna’s return. ‘She’s on her way,’ she told it. On the far wall, the painting of a wooden bridge in a gilt frame was in shadow. Venice. Joanna and Martin had gone there when they were first together. ­Harriet had never had the chance – when did she get to go away anywhere? There was always far too much to do at home.

­Harriet put clean sheets on the bed and a towel on top of the covers. Of course, it would be good to see her sister, and if Joanna spent some time with their mother, it would certainly give ­Harriet a break, but . . . Oh, well, it was complicated. It was just that Joanna seemed to have it so easy. While ­Harriet . . .

On the other side of the cottage, overlooking the farmyard, were the bathroom, ­Harriet’s bedroom and her mother’s room. ­Harriet went in here, wrinkling her nose at the familiar smell of musty lavender cologne. She avoided looking into her ­mother’s dressing table mirror as she passed. She knew already that she looked angry and tired, that her hair was frizzing and had premature strands of grey. She should take more care with her appearance, she supposed. But somehow everything else took over and she never quite found the time.

She crossed to the window, pulled on the sash, desperate to let some fresh air into the room. It creaked and gave under her fingers, the paintwork cracked and splintering. Below, the farmyard rested, damp and silent, but for the rooting of the pigs, the rustle of the hens bobbing in and out of Little Barn, scratching at the dusty ground. There had only been five eggs in the nesting boxes when she looked before breakfast. What was wrong with the Rhode Island Reds? OK, so the light was getting low – it was September after all – but they should go on laying well for longer. Maybe they were stressed? Why not? Everyone else was. Maybe that damn fox was hanging around again. Whatever, five eggs a day wouldn’t keep them going – even with ‘organic, free range’ stamped on the box.

She leant out. The mulberry tree was a shroud of jagged green below, the bank of grass wet, sparse, muddy; the pond water dimmed by plant life. ­Harriet breathed in deeply. Fresh farmyard air. Lovely. She turned back to the room. The wardrobe door had been left open to reveal Mother’s collection of dresses, a rack of elegant, old-fashioned shoes and a pair of pink fluffy mules. ­Harriet felt an unexpected lump in her throat. Mother never got rid of anything. She sighed as she closed the door. But if it made her happy . . .

There were some stockings on the bed. She touched them. Filmy and full of static, the nylons clung and snagged on her rough skin. Working hands. But it had been her choice – hadn’t it?

Next to the nylons was her mother’s cavernous black bag, which she seemed to have owned forever. ­Harriet remembered Mother taking it to Torquay when she and Joanna were children. Inside, it held everything they could ever need on a day out: hankies, eau de cologne, Germolene, even a flask of tea. She remembered Mother opening it with a snap, producing a precious bar of chocolate for them to share as they sat in deckchairs on the beach. Father, his newspaper on his lap; Mother’s contented smile; ­Harriet and Joanna with their skinny legs dangling, eager to run off to the sand, the sea.

Poking out of the bag was a slip of paper, tucked between two glossy catalogues. ­Harriet plucked it out. It was an invoice for servicing the boiler. She clicked her tongue. But it wasn’t too bad, and after all, that old thing hadn’t been serviced for years – she always just vacuumed inside and crossed her fingers. She glanced at the brochures. One was advertising neat, wall-mounted boilers and the other, luxury bathroom suites. Inside this was an estimate for central heating that took her breath away. Ye Gods. In your dreams, Mother . . . ­Harriet had missed the plumber’s visit completely – she’d have to be more on the ball.

In her bid for attention, Mother had taken to phoning tradesmen, asking them to come round to give her a quote for work that needed to be done. And yes, work did need to be done, but as ­Harriet kept reminding her, they couldn’t afford for work to be done. Mother liked to dress the part, make them tea, give them cake, have a little chat, as if she were the lady of the manor. She drew them into her web with promises, leaving ­Harriet to disentangle them with apologies. It might sound amusing to some. But it was becoming more of a problem with every day that went by.

­Harriet shoved everything back in the bag. She’d told her mother before, You shouldn’t waste people’s time. I don’t like tradesmen coming to the house when I’m not around. We don’t have the money . . . But—

‘What are you doing, ­Harriet?’

­Harriet spun round. Her mother was standing in the doorway. Her fine grey hair was swept into a chignon and with her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones, she had an almost aristocratic air as if she were of some exotic heritage and had been dropped here on the farm accidentally. She looked as if she’d never done a day’s work in her life. But she had. ­Harriet remembered.

‘Nothing.’ May as well try her mother’s tactics – they worked for her. ­Harriet felt about twelve.

‘Are you going through my things?’ Sometimes, just sometimes, Audrey Shepherd at seventy-six could become the mother she had been before. The mother ­Harriet had respected, had tried to understand and longed to love. Now was one of those times.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I was only clearing up.’

‘I would like to think,’ her mother said, ‘that I still have some privacy in this house.’

Even though I’m old and useless, ­Harriet thought.

‘Even though I’m old and useless,’ her mother said. ‘At least in your eyes.’

Where had ­Harriet gone wrong with Mother? How could she tell? ­Harriet hadn’t gone to university – unlike Joanna. She had stayed here on the farm looking after things – not only Mother, but also the hens, the pigs, the small orchard, the organic veg she sold to Bloomers restaurant and the pub, making jam and chutney for the local post office and general store, running the café she’d set up in Big Barn doing cream teas and cakes in the summer.

Why had she ever, in those far-off days, assumed it was temporary? Had she really imagined that Joanna – lucky Joanna – was going to come back to Warren Down and take over the responsibility of the place? Of course not. Her sister had always been shielded from responsibility. She had a different life to live – a working life in the city. Although it was the place in which she had grown up, Joanna knew very little about what needed to be done on a farm. Her sister hadn’t made any promises, as ­Harriet had. She was free to do as she liked.

‘Come on now, Mother,’ she said. She must stay calm. What was the point in bitterness?

‘Look after your mother,’ he had said. ‘Promise me you’ll do that.’

‘Yes, Father,’ she had told him. ‘I will.’

And she had tried. She worked hard to keep everything going, she hardly stopped.

‘If you wanted to see anything in my room,’ her mother said sadly, ‘you only had to ask.’

­Harriet crossed again to the window. Outside, the sky was pale grey, layered with silver. Were they in for more rain? She pulled the window shut and the room wrapped itself around her once more. How had it got to be this way?

Her mother was sitting on the bed looking at one of the plumber’s brochures.

‘Don’t get upset, Mother.’ ­Harriet sat down beside her. After Father died, so many things had changed – not just Mother. That’s when ­Harriet had started having the dream too – the dream that haunted so many of her nights. But she wouldn’t think about that now. ‘I’ve got a nice surprise for you. Joanna’s on her way.’

Her mother’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? Joanna’s coming home?’

­Harriet pushed away the demons. ‘Yes, she is. Now, let’s go downstairs and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea before I go and pick her up from the station.’

And then ­Harriet would try to work out where the money for the boiler service was going to come from, she thought. How she could stop herself from feeling so trapped. How she could go on. And how much, exactly, she was going to tell Joanna.

CHAPTER 3

­Harriet

Dorset

When ­Harriet pulled up outside Axminster station, she spotted her sister immediately – a lonely-looking figure with a small suitcase at her feet. And as she watched, Joanna put her hand to her hair in that gesture ­Harriet remembered from childhood. Nervy. So, she’d been right – something had happened.

­Harriet waved at her but she seemed lost in thought. Why didn’t she come over? She blasted the hooter. Joanna started.

­Harriet swung open the door of the pick-up and jumped out.

‘­Harriet.’ Joanna was smiling by the time she got near, but it didn’t touch her dark eyes. She reached for ­Harriet’s shoulders but didn’t pull her in close; her kiss was merely a brush on ­Harriet’s cheek. ‘Thanks for coming to pick me up.’

‘No problem.’ ­Harriet walked round and cleared a space in the passenger side of the cab. A damp, hairy blanket, an empty bucket, a pair of black fingerless woollen gloves . . . ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’ She chucked the blanket and the bucket into the back.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Joanna put her case in the back to join them.

‘So, what made you decide to come down so suddenly?’ ­Harriet leant on the driver’s side of the truck.

Joanna threw her a bleak look. ‘I needed a break,’ she said. She opened the passenger door.

‘From work?’ Didn’t they all need a break? ­Harriet certainly did.

‘I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet,’ Joanna elaborated, without answering the question, ­Harriet noted. She climbed into the cab.

Her sister was wearing pristine chocolate-coloured cords, suede ankle boots and a classy jacket ­Harriet hadn’t seen before. London chic, she thought, didn’t really go with the pick-up truck. She saw Joanna wrinkle her nose as she fastened her seat belt.

‘It’s a bit smelly too,’ ­Harriet added as she got in beside her. ‘Farms . . . you know.’ City girls, she thought.

‘I know.’

­Harriet slammed the door to and Joanna shrank back in alarm. Well. You had to be forceful with pick-up trucks.

She started up the engine, aware of her own muddy jeans and wellies. It was difficult to imagine sometimes that she’d grown up with Joanna, that her sister had ever lived on the farm. Sometimes Joanna seemed so distant that it was hard to accept she was her sister at all. They had played together, yes, sat around the kitchen table together, even compared notes on the rel