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‘It doesn’t matter.’ Angela shrugged. ‘And it wasn’t exactly your doing. To use your own words — do you need a hug? Because you look like you do.’

‘You know, I think I actually might.’ He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that she’d offered, or that he really wanted to take up her offer.

She held her arms out to him, and he had the odd experience of being wrapped in a fuzzy rainbow that smelled warmly of hay and something sweet — a bit like the summer picnics he remembered from childhood. Only without the ants. She squeezed him tightly — warm, firm and yet oddly soft in his arms. She was all curves and warmth against him, compared to the bony angles, gym-honed and surgically perfected firmness of Yvette.

He felt instantly bad for having thought it, but it was one of the best hugs he’d had in ages. Angela didn’t flinch or pull away, or get distracted by someone else walking by who just “had to be greeted”, or stop to flick her hair and worry about her angles in case there was a photographer nearby. She just hugged him — worried about nothing more than making him feel better.

The lump that had started when he’d realised how much he might have upset Ernie returned, doubling in size and threatening to choke him.

When she pulled away, she didn’t immediately smooth her clothes or pull out her phone. Instead she just looked at him, one hand still resting on his forearm. ‘You OK, or at least as OK as you can be?’

‘All things considered, I think so.’

‘Right. Then I think it’s time for a brew. You in?’

‘Yeah, please.’ He hesitated, remembering an obligation. ‘But I need to go and apologise to Ernie first.’

The smile she gave him filled him with warm approval. Obviously he’d done something right. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You know where the carrots are.’

* * *

Ernie had lived up to the phrase about how stubborn mules could be — and it had taken Rick a lot longer than he’d expected to get the little donkey to begrudgingly accept the carrots from him, and even longer before his ear scratches were permitted again.

When he’d finally made up with Ernie, and apologised to Angela again — who’d just waved it away — it was getting late and he had to wait longer than usual for his ride home. But not so late that he couldn’t call one of his favourite people in the world.

She answered on the fourth ring. ‘Hey, bro, how’s it going? You behaving yourself and not bothering the local cops?’

‘You do remember that you’re the younger sibling, right, Moggy?’

‘Ugh, don’t call me that. And don’t ignore my question. Are you staying out of trouble?’

‘Yes, I promise I’m behaving. I’m not even drinking all that much.’

‘Seriously?’ His sister sounded impressed.

‘Yeah,’ he promised.

‘And how are you getting on with all the animals? Been chased by any crazy kittens yet?’

‘Hey, that thing had sharp claws — and I was only ten. And I was wearing new jeans.’

‘It was a kitten, Ry-no.’ Imogen cackled. ‘A sweet, fluffy little kitten — the type that people put in teacups and take pictures of.’

‘Shut up, Moggy.’

‘You called me.’ Her laughter echoed through the phone. ‘Seriously though, how’s it going?’

He thought about it for a few seconds before answering, picturing Ernie’s grin, and the way Ruby bounded over so cheerfully to greet him.

‘It’s going good. I’ve not been chased by any kittens, but I did help to rescue a cat.’

‘Really?’’

‘Yeah. It got stuck under some raised decking.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘It’s all right. We got her out and reunited with her family. Cute little girl was very, very pleased to get her back. And I helped release a moorhen who needed antibiotics and rest after she got hurt.’