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London for a fresh start. Think of what Will would think if he saw you, sitting all miserably by yourself here, moping around?’
    That was it.
    ‘You’re bloody right,’ Tess said aloud, as she stood up. ‘Honestly, Tessa Tennant. What’s wrong with you? Get a grip! You’re out of London, you’re back here in this lovely town. No more tube strikes, no more congestion charge.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No more waiting ten sodding minutes to be served at the pub, no more strange men staring at you on horrible bendy buses, no more skinny teenagers staring at you in TopShop, and definitely no more horrible boyfriends going off with girls with stupid names!’ She thumped her fist on the wall; it echoed, disconcertingly. ‘You’re back! It’s good! You’ve got a bloody good job and you’re lucky!’
    Somewhere in the eaves of the old building, a bird trilled, an early evening call. ‘There you go,’ Tess told herself firmly. She stared at the picture again, and it stared impassively back. ‘Now, go to the pub, get a drink, and cheer up.’ She shut the window and dumped her now-cold cup of tea on the kitchen draining board.
    ‘Thanks, Jane!’ she yelled, as she headed towards the door. ‘I’m off to the pub! See you later!’
    She collected herself. ‘I’m going mad,’ she said softly, shaking her head at the print, which hung by the front door. ‘Sorry.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Feathers had been in Langford for four hundred years. In its day, it had been one of the great coaching inns, the resting place for the beau monde on their way down towards the great estates of the South-West. Charles I had hidden in a cellar there for a couple of weeks, and Beau Brummell had stayed the night before visiting the Roman Villa and signed the visitors’ book. ‘ Passing comfortable ,’ he had written. ‘ A charming little town, Langford. I pay you my compliments. Brummell .’ Langford, which had always thought of itself as a deeply correct place, and regarded with suspicion the new claims of towns like Bath (vulgar nouveau Regency), Stratford-upon-Avon (American tourists everywhere) and Rye (smugglers’ money!) had col lectively swooned at this, back in the day. In fact, nearly two hundred years later, it still continued to swoon; the visitors’ book was in the great hallway that led through to the dining room; in a glass case, open at the page on which Mr Brummell had flirted with the town. The Feathers was, geographically and symbolically, at Langford’s very heart for this reason.
    The dining room had huge wooden settles, carving it up into different sections, so that coachman and nobleman could eat in the same room, but not be troubled by the other. Ahuge, leaded oriel window, giving out onto the high street, let in the light, and at the back there was another window, with a perfect view of the countryside as the town sloped down the hill, stopping before the valley, with the Vale of Langford opening up before them.
    Tess, coming into the dining room on that March evening, armed only with a copy of Persepolis , which she was re-reading, and the paper, was struck once again with the sensation that hit her: the clear, seductive light, the musty, clean smell, the quiet reassuring sounds of a working pub on a slow Wednesday spring night. The bar, a long L-shaped affair, was low and welcoming. Tess pulled up a stool, waiting for Mick to appear, her eyes scanning the blackboard for the day’s specials: she was suddenly very hungry.
    And then, from the corner of the bar behind her, someone spoke.
    ‘Scuse me,’ said a husky, female voice. ‘Can I take this stool?’
    Wheeling round, Tess looked up suspiciously to find a girl about her own age looking at her. Of course. It was That Girl. That Girl, as she had wittily christened her in her own mind, was staying at the Feathers, and was the sort of person, based solely on outward appearances, that Tess had always secretly yearned to be. Sophisticated, mysterious,