Shingled and stoned, it gave a solid, satisfying crunch at every step, a sound both aristocratic and forbidden; as though she’d stolen over a wrought-iron fence into the gardens of a stately home. She dropped her cigarette, crushed it under the heel of her boot, and looked at her watch. She was far later than expected, but she didn’t think it mattered. The driveway dog-legged to the right, revealing the white stucco front of The Gables. It was an impressive building. In front of the porch, three snub-nosed cars gleamed as though freshly minted. As she passed them, she wrestled with the urge to kick stones at their fancy paintwork, or smash the wing mirrors with her small rucksack. There was a flash in one of the windows and then Linda saw the heavy front door open. Suddenly, there was Poppy – Daniel and Christina’s six-year-old – barrelling towards her, dressed from throat to foot in pale pink fabric. Linda put down her small bag, held open her arms and took the child’s running jump full in the midriff.
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