‘Don’t you think it’s a bit weird having a photo of your ex stuck on the fridge?’

‘I was hoping it might kickstart my stagnant brain with some new plot ideas about how to kill someone off.’

August Saunders continued filling her red Smeg kettle. Catching sight of the tired and drawn reflection of herself in the window, she sighed. A huge ginger cat wound his way around her legs in noisy anticipation of his breakfast.

‘Oh, Prince Harry, give me a second,’ August huffed.

Ellie wasn’t letting up. ‘Well, something needs to happen. You haven’t written a word for weeks.’

‘And the winner of the most sensitive sister award goes to…’

‘It’s been nearly six months now.’ Ellie’s voice softened. ‘Surely you’re beginning to feel a bit better?’

‘You don’t understand.’ August retrieved two mugs from the cupboard above the sink, spooned a heaped teaspoon of instant coffee into each, then reached for a sachet of cat food to pacify her miaowing moggy.

‘No. I don’t. He cheated on you in spectacular style, then called off the wedding with weeks to spare. I think I’d be well over him by now.’

‘But you’re not me, are you, Ellie?’

‘No, and to be fair to you, I couldn’t imagine a day without my Grant. That heartbreak diet you went on was marvellous, though. Saying that, I’d probably turn to food, rather than go off it.

‘I’m putting a bit of the weight back on now, thankfully.’

‘You look great, Goose. Your skin is glowing – must be the country air, when you bother to stick your face in it. And those baby blues of yours are getting their sparkle back, even if you don’t see it yourself yet.’

‘I guess one advantage of moving out to the sticks is that I don’t have to breathe in London fumes every day.’

‘See – always a silver lining.’

August pushed her long, messy auburn waves back from her face. ‘Stupid bastard.’ She bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears. ‘There are times when I still feel so angry, but then the sadness and missing him take over.’

Ellie went over to the biscuit tin in search of her favourite chocolate digestives, grabbed the milk from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen counter next to her sister.

‘It could have been worse, I suppose. At least the wedding didn’t happen.’

‘You’re not helping, sis.’

‘Mum said it too. Never marry a man who looks in the mirror more than he looks at you.’

August raised her eyes at her sister. ‘Maybe moving in next door to you was a bad idea after all.’

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘Well,’ August tutted and took a tentative sip from her steaming mug of black coffee, sighing with pleasure as the taste flooded her mouth. ‘I didn’t realise there was a standard time for mending a broken heart.’ The author then assumed a BBC voice. ‘Dear heart and mind, please let me completely forget the age-old cliché of my insanely fit actor fiancé falling in lust with his younger and prettier co-star. If only it was that bloody easy.’

‘Sorry,’ Ellie said, and meant it. ‘I just worry, that’s all. Sitting here alone binge-watching Netflix romcoms isn’t good for you.’

‘Look, Ells, you’ve been my rock and I do appreciate that. But when I start writing again, I’ll be all right. It takes my mind of all the other stuff. And as it happens, I’m off romcoms. I’m now on to anything with Jamie Dornan in it.’

‘OK, I can allow that. How hot is that man! But seriously, writing or not, you being stuck in here all day, and rarely going out… It’s not healthy. There is so much life out there for the taking. Which may sound odd coming from the woman with two kids under two, whose last time out out was to see an Elvis impersonator down The White Horse, here in sleepy Upper Gamble. But you know what I mean.’

August sighed. ‘I know you’re right. I never ever thought I would say this, but I do sometimes miss working in an office.

‘You always did hate the nine to five, though,’ Ellie added. ‘And even when we were at school, all you ever wanted was to be a full-time author.’

August screwed up her face. ‘Be careful what you wish for and all that.’

‘You don’t mean that. You’re just in a bad place at the moment. And what are you saying? That you don’t want to write any more?’

‘Of course, I do! When I’m in the mood, I love it. It pays the bills and more, but it’s a lonely gig when there’s no one coming home to you.’ August got up to flick the kettle on again. ‘Anyway, dear sister, why are you around here mithering me this early?’

‘I’m on a health kick.’

August smiled. ‘Another one?’

Ellie raised her eyebrows. ‘Says the woman who used to run at least three miles a day before breakfast. And yes, another one. I’ve gotta do it. My arse has got its own postcode.’

‘So, what is it this time? The biscuit diet?’

‘Ha bloody ha. I can see why you write crime now, not comedy. As it happens, I was supposed to be taking Colin for a walk down to Bluebell Wood, but I dropped the boys off at nursery and, well, I thought of you and wondered if you fancied going shopping instead? That threadbare old thing you’re wearing could do with replacing, if nothing else.’

August dramatically grasped the familiar velour garment tightly to her neck. ‘I’ll have you know that this is this is the writing uniform of a bestselling crime writer and wearing it is all part of the arduous process of creating a literary masterpiece for the masses.’

‘You’d better go and write then,’ Ellie smirked.

‘Not funny.’ August rinsed her mug in the sink ready to refill it.

Ellie drained hers. ‘OK, I’d better get off. But come on, let’s at least get you another dressing gown for special occasions, then, shall we?’

August groaned. ‘You’re getting on my nerves now.’

‘I know.’ Ellie smirked. ‘Even if it’s just for while you’re watching your glorious Irishman in action. Or, you never know, you might find a real man you want to snuggle up with. And you can’t have them thinking you are a complete and utter tramp now, can you?’

‘Oh, Ellie. One step at a time. Maybe shopping, but I’m not ready to be shaving my armpits or legs yet. And can we go tomorrow instead?’

‘Oh, you’re busy, are you?’ The younger sibling raised her eyebrows.

August rinsed out a dishcloth and wiped down the draining board. ‘Joking aside, Ms. A.R. Saunders here really does need to try and work on a new Christmas plot for her super sleuths, or her formidable agent will be dumping her too.’

‘Good, that’s great news. Not about Madame Fleurot dumping you, but…yes, get writing, lady.’

‘Right! Breakfast, and then, yes, I must get that laptop open. See you tomorrow – with my best knickers on, in case I do decide to venture into a changing room.’

‘That, little sis, is the best date I could wish for.’ Ellie clumsily got down from the kitchen stool. ‘I’d better walk that Corgi of mine before he ransacks the kitchen. See you tomorrow, kiddo, around nine-thirty.’

Ellie grabbed herself another chocolate digestive from the vintage floral biscuit tin and wiggled her ample backside. ‘Oops. I’ve had a little snaccident.’

A smiling August shook her head and made her way upstairs. Then she caught a whiff of one of her armpits and realised that even though she intended to stay in and (attempt to) write all day, she really should take a shower and adhere to her own new-year promise of self-care, which had been decidedly remiss since her wayward ex’s sudden departure.

Scrabbling around in her bedside drawer for a hair bungee, her fingers brushed against a face-down photo frame. She pulled it out and turned it over. There they were, Mr and Mrs Scanlan-to-be. ‘The perfect couple’, posing at the top of the Eiffel Tower just minutes after he had gone down on one knee and proposed. She blew out a noisy breath. Sometimes she still missed him so much she felt a physical pain in her stomach.