For the briefest moment we’re body to body, the lengths of us pressed close. My face is against his chest, turned aside so my ear can hear the thud of his heart. His arms frame me, and as he pulls back, his chest brushes my breasts. I breathe in sharply as the sensation zings. My cheeks flush; I should have worn a bra under this shirt.

Our eyes lock as he pushes off the wall, and he pauses there, arms braced on either side of me. His irises are speckled with darker flecks, and there are sandy freckles just beneath his eyes, too pale to see from far away. I find myself thinking about the muscles standing out in his arms, the way his T-shirt pulls across his broad shoulders, how it would feel to—

Hank licks my bare foot. I squeal, and the stillness between me and Jackson becomes a frenzy of awkward motion: he pushes off the wall and shoots backwards as I duck to the side and busy myself fetching Grandma’s phone. Ant/Dec seems to have escaped unscathed; Hank is wagging his way around me, tongue out, as if I might produce another cat for him to chase if he hangs around a while.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask Jackson, twisting the phone between my hands. I’ve left it an awkwardly long time to meet his eyes again – I drag my gaze to his face and find him looking slightly ashen, fixed to the spot a few feet away.

‘Aye, yes,’ he says, in a strangled voice. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘No worries! No worries at all!’ Too much exclaiming. Stop exclaiming. ‘Shall we head out?’

‘Aye. Yes. Good idea.’

We make our way out of the house and down Middling Lane. We’re both walking extremely quickly. Too quickly to talk comfortably. Perfect. Silence is just what I’m after right now.

The walking seems to be working out some of the awkward tension between us. Hank’s loving it – he’s trotting right at Jackson’s side, tail wagging. I take a deep breath of crisp, spring air as the Dales open out ahead of us. I can smell the sweetness of something blossoming in the hedgerows, hear the chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff of the little birds darting between tree branches above us. The beauty of nature. Yes. Focus on the beauty of nature, Leena, not the sensation of Jackson’s broad, muscled body rubbing against your nipples.

‘You ready to take him?’ Jackson asks, nodding in Hank’s direction.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes! Sure!’

‘Here.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces a dog treat. Hank smells it right away – he lifts his nose and glances towards us.

‘Try saying “heel”,’ Jackson tells me.

‘Heel, Hank,’ I say.

Hank drops into step, looking up at me with the adoring expression I thought he reserved for Jackson. Turns out it’s all about the chicken treats. I am much cheered by this.

‘Hey, look at that!’ I say, looking over at Jackson.

He smiles back at me, dimples showing, then his gaze slides away, uncomfortable.

We walk on; our footsteps are the only sound I can hear now, aside from the warbling birds. Hank is doing brilliantly, though I’m gripping the lead very tightly, just in case. Jackson takes us back on a route I don’t know, passing through beautiful dense, cool woodland to the east of the village, until we’re within sight of Hamleigh again. From here you can see the little cul-de-sac where Betsy lives, five or six white, blockish houses with their faces turned our way, windows blinking in the light.

‘You’re doing that thinking thing again, aren’t you?’ Jackson says, looking at me sideways.

‘Do you honestly not think? As in, if you’re walking around, you’re just thinking of nothing?’

Jackson shrugs. ‘If nothing needs thinking about, yeah.’

Astonishing. ‘I was thinking about Betsy, actually,’ I say. ‘I wonder … I worry about her a bit.’

‘Mmm. We all do.’

‘Arnold said that too, but … why hasn’t anyone done anything then?’ I ask. ‘Do you think Cliff treats her badly? Should we be helping her leave him? Offering her a spare room? Doing something?’

Jackson’s shaking his head. ‘It’s about what Betsy wants,’ he says. ‘And she doesn’t want any of that.’

‘She’s lived with the man for decades – if he has been mistreating her, how can you know she knows what she wants?’

Jackson blinks at me, registering this. ‘What would you suggest?’ he asks.

‘I want to go around to see her.’

‘She’ll never invite you in. Even Eileen never gets to go in Betsy’s house.’

‘No way!’

Jackson nods. ‘Far as I’m aware. Cliff doesn’t like visitors.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Well. All right. How about we enlist a little help from Hank?’

*

‘Betsy, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ‘but I think Hank’s in your garden.’

Betsy blinks at me through the inch gap in the door. Her house isn’t at all what I’d expected. I thought it’d be all twee roses and perfectly polished doorsteps, but the house’s gutters are hanging loose and the windowsills are peeling. It looks sad and unloved.

‘Hank? Jackson’s dog? How on earth did he get into our garden?’

Well, by me picking him up, Jackson giving me a boost, and me dropping Hank from a possibly quite dangerous height into the relatively soft landing of a large shrub.

‘I really don’t know,’ I say, spreading my hands helplessly. ‘That dog can wriggle his way in and out of everywhere.’

Betsy looks behind her. God knows what Hank is currently doing to her garden.

‘I’ll go and get him,’ she says, and closes the door in my face.

Shit. I look behind me and whistle between my teeth; after a long moment Jackson appears at the end of the path to Betsy’s front door.

‘She’s gone to get him!’ I hiss.

Jackson waves a hand. ‘She won’t be able to catch him,’ he says comfortably. ‘Just stay put.’

I turn back to the door, tapping my foot. After about five minutes the door opens a crack and Betsy’s head appears. She looks a bit more dishevelled than she did last time.

‘You’ll have to come through and get him yourself,’ she says quietly. She glances behind her again. She seems older, more hunched, but maybe it’s the setting of the worn-out house. The hall carpet is threadbare and stained; the lampshade hangs wonkily, casting strange lopsided shadows on the beige walls.

‘Betsy!’ yells a gruff male voice from somewhere within the house.

Betsy jumps. It’s not a normal jump, the kind you do when you’re startled. It’s more like a flinch.

‘One moment, love!’ she calls. ‘A dog’s just got loose in the garden, but I’m getting it sorted! Come on through,’ she whispers to me, ushering me past the closed door to our left and into the small, dark kitchen.

There’s a door leading out into the garden; it swings open, and through it I can see Hank tearing through the flowerbeds. I feel a bit guilty. The garden is the one part of this place that actually looks cared for – the shrubs are carefully pruned and there are hanging pots on each fence post, overflowing with pansies and pale-green ivy.

‘How are you, Betsy?’ I say, turning to have another look at her. I’d never noticed how thin her hair is, how the whitish-pink of her scalp shows between the strands. There’s thick, peach-coloured foundation caked under her eyes and gathering in the lines around her mouth.