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make her laugh, her husband. Spent all day every day right here on the farm, but whenever he came back into the kitchen—which was only about ten times a day—he was as a Spartan back from Thermopylae, a hero home from the war.
    â€œTwo of the most gorgeous beings on the planet, both in my kitchen at once. How lucky am I?” He pulled off his boots, spun them across the floor and picked up Hamish out of the playpen—“Phwoar. Pongeroo, my darling”—and dropped him again.
    â€œSorry, babe. Just having a bit of a tidy up…”
    Will took in the scene of devastation around him and guffawed. “Going well then, I see.” For Georgie, it was one of the beauteous miracles of their marriage that her husband took such delight in domestic chaos. It just cracked him up every time.
    He walked up behind her, slapped her quickly on the bottom and pulled her up and into his arms. “Why bother? I came in search of lunch, but now it occurs to me, perhaps we could use our time more wisely…” He nuzzled into her neck, and she leaned back into him.
    â€œMmmmmmm…” And then that kick of grief again. “I can’t!” she wailed. “It’s ‘The Wreck of the Deutschland’ in here, Hamish’s nappy is a health hazard, and I’ve got all these sodding women turning up in half an hour for a lunch that I haven’t even begun to think about and for which I appear to be charging fifteen quid apiece…”
    â€œDoh. Is that all? Then surely a quick shag shouldn’t be out of the quest—”
    What was that? They swung round together in alarm. It sounded—could it be?—something like a sharp little kitten heel on the flagstones in the yard…
    â€œGolly. Gosh. Um. Hi. Are you OK?”
    Â Â 
    Bubba’s first thought on entering the Martins’ home was that she was actually walking into an as-it-happened crime scene. All the signs were there. She recognized them immediately. She did watch a lot of detective programs on the telly—anything from Midsomer Murders to CSI. Loved them; couldn’t get enough. As she said to Mark the other night, she was, to all intents and purposes, practically a policeman, she knew all the procedures so well.
    So there she was, on the threshold of a kitchen that had clearly been ransacked in the most unbelievably brutal manner—God, she would hate to have her home violated like that; they’d never been burgled, so lucky, touch wood. And there was poor Georgie, gripped in a stranglehold by some huge brute, literally the Gruffalo, all unshaven and wild and woolly, bushy eyebrows, exploding nasal hair, with—she was trying to take in as much as possible for the police report later—filthy, almost crusty hands. And there was the baby, being forced to watch—oh God!—from a cage …
    She was about to go in there, all guns blazing, but something stopped her. Something in the atmosphere…It was sort of…what was it? She wasn’t quite sure. Happy. Cheerful. Or something. So she coughed politely—she could still, she reckoned, attack if attack were needed—and made her presence felt.
    â€œAh,” said Georgie. “Good. You’re early”—though without sounding all that pleased. “This is…” she began, to her husband, but her voice trailed away.
    â€œCall me Bubba.” Bubba held her hand out in peace to the huge woolly mammoth person, which guffawed an enormous guffaw.
    â€œNothing could delight me more.” He roared again. “I’m Will. I gather you’re actually paying to come here for lunch. That’s a family first. I hope you’re not the litigious sort.”
    You know what? thought Bubba. He’s oddly attractive, this Will—in a noble-savage kind of way. But, golly. Poor, poor guy. Do they really have to live like this? Should we be fund-raising for them?
    Georgie had moved away to