Bron's calm gave up on her when she was halfway to pick up the keys from Mrs Lennox-Featherstone. She pulled into a lay-by and did some deep-breathing exercises, but they didn't stop the shaking that was convulsing her body. She burrowed in her bag and found some Rescue Remedy and after a few moments she calmed down.

‘Is it the Rescue Remedy, or is it the time you take to take it that calms you?' she wondered out loud, partly to test her voice for tremors. She blew her nose, then she checked her make-up, removed the accumulation of it that had landed under her eyes, and drove on. Vanessa had said she could pick the key up anytime, but if she wanted a guided tour first, she'd have to wait until after eight. Bron had fully intended to wait until someone could show her over the cottage, but then she hadn't intended to find Roger in bed with her boss. Shit happens: plans have to change.

The door of the big house was opened by the housekeeper – she presumed. Elsa had mentioned there was one.

‘Oh, hi!' Bron said breezily. 'I'm a bit earlier than expected, but could I have the key to the cottage?’

The housekeeper said, 'Come in. Mrs Vanessa is out, but she left a message about the key.’

Bron followed her anxiously into the hallway. A 'message about the key' did not sound like the actual key, which was what she needed. Supposing she couldn't move into the cottage directly, what could she do? She didn't want to land on Elsa's or Sarah's floor, although she could as a last resort. She didn't really want to talk about what had happened, not yet. It was too raw. She wanted to establish herself in her new home first. Although not having to meet Mrs Lennox-Featherstone just then was a bit of a relief.

The housekeeper came back with a bulging plastic bag. 'Here you are. You'll need the duvet and the sheets and things. Mrs Vanessa always lets the house with bedding.' She smiled.

Bron smiled back with relief. Her new landlady hadn't mentioned bedding on the inventory but in her haste to get away, she'd forgotten all about it anyway. She had a feeling there were a lot of things she'd forgotten.

‘You have to get the key from James, next door,' the housekeeper went on. 'The man came to read the meter. He let him in.' She frowned a little. 'You want tea or something? You not looking well.’

Bron forced a smile. 'Oh, I'm fine! I'll just take these and find my new home. Please tell Mrs – er, Mrs Vanessa how grateful I am to have somewhere to live.’

As she drove away, with bedding but without a key, she thought this must have sounded rather odd.

There were the two cottages, side by side. She could tell which one was hers because there was a fairly muddy old Volvo outside the other. James, who had the key, must be in, which was a huge relief. She didn't really want to sit in her car for hours waiting for him. It would have looked so pathetic.

She got out and went up the short path to the front door and knocked. She could hear music playing and tried to identify it as a distraction while she waited. What on earth was she going to say? 'Hi, I'm Bron, your new neighbour. Can I have the key?’

She didn't have a chance to say anything much. As James opened the door, a large dog streamed out into the garden, circled her and went back into the cottage. By the time James had finished telling it off and then congratulating it for returning a lot of the preliminary stuff was redundant. Then she realised she recognised him and cursed herself for not making the connection before. He was the gardener, and the man she had met on the riverbank.

‘It's you,' he said. 'How nice.' And he smiled.

She looked into his friendly face and all her fortitude threatened to desert her. She'd been so strong and brave during and after the ghastly scene with Roger, and now she felt like bursting into tears. She'd probably have felt stronger if he'd been hostile and a stranger.

She couldn't speak. She just stood there, smiling weakly. 'Come in,' he said. 'You look as if you could do with a cup of tea or something.’

She must look awful, she thought as he stepped aside, pinning the dog against the door so that she could pass him into the cottage. He was the second person within about ten minutes who had said that.

She found herself in a sitting room. It was tiny, with windows on two walls. There was a sofa pushed under one window and a table under the other. There was a fireplace on the other wall and in one corner a staircase was half concealed behind an open door. Through another door she could see a kitchen built on to the back.

The dog circled her again, banging into her body from time to time.

‘Sit!' said James. 'This is Brodie. She's a rescue dog and I haven't had her long. She's still a bit over-excited when visitors come. It's Bron, isn't it?’

Bron nodded. She was still feeling shocked. She knew it was delayed reaction but she couldn't shake herself out of it.

‘Come and sit down. I'll get the kettle on. Unless you think you need something stronger?' He frowned at her. 'I think I've got some brandy somewhere. I needed it for a recipe.’

Bron perched on the edge of a sofa that you'd disappear into if you weren't careful. She couldn't make the decision for herself. Brandy might indeed be a good idea.

Brodie – possibly sensing Bron's need for comfort – came and sat on her feet, raising her head so Bron could rub her chest. Bron obligingly did this, finding it soothing to rub something soft and furry. It was a way of communicating that didn't involve actually speaking.

Bron allowed herself to inch further on to the sofa until she could lean back. The dog instantly jumped up beside her and put her head on Bron's lap. She didn't know if she should make Brodie get down. She thought she probably ought to but the warm weight of the dog's head was comforting, so she carried on stroking her.

‘Oh, Brodie!' said James reproachfully as he came in with a tray. 'Get down! Bron doesn't want your hairs all over her.’

Bron shook her head, trying to convey that she liked the dog and didn't mind at all about hairs. He seemed to understand.

‘I'm training her not to jump up on people who don't appreciate it – or rather to wait until she's invited. I'll presume you invited her.’

She tried to return his smile.

He put the tray down on the table and then handed her a glass with an inch of brown fluid in it. 'Here, take this, then I'll find something for you to put your tea on. Do you take sugar?' he asked, as an afterthought.

Bron shook her head again.

‘Oh good. I haven't got any.' He produced a small three-legged stool from under the table and put it near Bron. 'There.' He set the mug of tea down. 'Have you got everything you need?’

Bron nodded, trusting the power of speech would come back eventually. She sipped the brandy. It warmed her instantly and she began to feel calmer.

‘Are you feeling any better now?' James stood looking down at her kindly.

She nodded, but realised she should give some explanation as to why she needed brandy at four o'clock in the afternoon. 'You must be wondering why-'

‘I know you're going to be my new neighbour, and everyone knows that moving is one of the major stresses of life.' He smiled. 'So you don't need to say anything about why you're a bit upset.'

‘That's very tactful of you, but it's probably only fair to tell you that I've just left my boyfriend.'

‘Good choice,' said James. 'You didn't seem that happy with him when we met the other evening. I mean, I shouldn't presume but..

‘No, well, it was soon after then that I decided to leave him. I heard about the cottage – next door – being available, and arranged to move in.' This all sounded very sane and controlled. She probably didn't need to say anything else.