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‘Do what’s right for you, and for Will. That’s all that matters,’ Horse says. ‘It’s all any of us really want.’

I look at Luke.

‘But Luke? What about you . . . and Scarlett?’

‘Like Horse says, do what’s right for you,’ he says firmly and seriously.

Horse looks at me, and I’m at a loss for all the things I want to say to him – but I need to get to the solicitor’s. I need to stop the sale going through.

He seems to read exactly what I’m thinking.

‘I’ll get the bike,’ he says. ‘Hurry!’

Horse grabs his helmet and a spare from inside Ty Coed and strides out to the yard.

‘I’ll look after Will,’ says Lara. ‘Go!’

‘Go, Gwen, go!’ shouts Will. I lift up the hem of my skirt and hurry back across the well-trodden pathways through the lit forest, my hair falling from the knot on the top of my head, tumbling round my face as I run towards the bike where Horse is already waiting.

‘Will we make it in time?’ I ask Horse.

‘Try and ring them first,’ he says. I pat the pockets in my coat, finding my phone there – where it always is these days, just in case Will ever needs me.

My hands are shaking as I press the solicitor’s number.

‘Anything?’ Horse asks as I try again.

‘No, just keeps going to voicemail saying they’re closing early for their office party.’

‘Climb on and let’s go, then!’

I barely notice the journey, clinging on for dear life as Horse navigates the lanes and roars down the main road into town. I have my eyes tightly shut. I feel the bike coming to a standstill and finally open my eyes as we pull up outside the solicitor’s, jump off and both bang on the door. It’s nearly half past five.

‘We’re too late,’ I say desperately. ‘The papers will be sent over in the morning for exchange and completion by midday tomorrow.’

Inside there is music and laughter, and the clinking of bottles.

‘They can’t hear us.’

‘Pass me your phone,’ he says, and I do.

‘I’ve tried ringing, lots of times.’

Suddenly ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ starts playing out from it. And then Horse starts to sing, loudly, deeply and with purpose.

I look at him, amazed at the big, deep voice that emerges. For someone who doesn’t like to be in the limelight . . . I smile widely.

‘Who doesn’t love carol singers? At a Christmas party?’ he says in a pause between verses, and smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. Then he carries on – and I join in with him, loudly and with purpose too. And as I look up, small snowflakes start to fall.

Just as we’re reaching the chorus again, an older man in a paper crown finally opens the door.

‘Oh, carol singers!’ he says. ‘Lovely!’

‘Is Ms . . .’ I look down at the name on my phone, ‘Ms Harding here?’ I ask frantically and quickly.

‘I’m sorry – we’re closed. It’s our staff party.’

‘Oh, but I really need to come in. I need to see . . .’