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“Best Kept Village” awards—pounded up and over the wooden footbridge by the ford, alongside the vegetable patches by the river, and as she raced on through the main street, past the antiques shop, museum, post office, and out on to the country roads, Maggie surprised herself.
    Maybe I’m not that unfit, she thought, and it’s so rejuvenating being among growing things! There’s something about going to a gym that’s so phony—all that rowing and running and stepping on equipment made specially, surrounded by MTV and metallic décor and people puffing and panting. Why would anyone want to use those silly machines, when they can have contact with the outdoors, the feeling of being part of the bigger scheme of things? Surely exercise should be enjoyed in its natural setting: on rivers, in lanes, up hills, come rain or shine.
    Spurred on by this appreciation of her surroundings, Maggie ran up the hill, with fields of ripening corn on either side of her. Then through the woods and past the farm, with its comforting whiff of cow dung and hay. This was where she bought her free-range eggs direct from the farmer’s wife every week.
    I must get a commission for that piece I want to do on supermarkets’ continued selling of factory-farmed products, she berated herself. Instead she was writing an uninspiring feature on Christmas cakes aimed at women who planned menus months ahead of the festive season. Yet Jamie’s always on about how we need the money, she thought. If I have to compromise, it’s partly his fault. Perhaps we should never have taken on such a big mortgage.
    Energized by frustration, she headed back into Shere at an impressive speed. She had plenty of stamina, and before she knew it, she’d done two circuits. As she rounded the corner into the village for a second time, a car passed her, and the woman driving gave her a friendly toot of encouragement. Maggie waved appreciatively.
    Panting, she ran up the drive, and slowed to a walk. Well, she concluded, pushing damp hair off her forehead, maybe it wouldn’t take ages to get back to the level of fitness she’d previously enjoyed. Before Nathan was born, she’d even run the London Marathon once.
    Later that afternoon Maggie had to go in to Guildford to pick up a book she’d ordered to help with the cake article.
    “I think I saw you earlier,” said the woman in Waterstones as she checked the computer screen.
    “Oh?”
    “Running, in Shere. I honked at you.”
    “Oh, yes. That was me.”
    “You were running very fast.” Maggie was flattered. “Made me feel quite guilty—but I’m such a lazy cow, I drive everywhere.”
    Maggie smiled. The woman was about her own age, with an open face and messy chestnut hair. She exuded warmth and friendliness.
    “Do you live in Shere?” asked the woman. “I’ve just moved there myself.”
    “I do,” said Maggie, thinking perhaps at last there might be a kindred spirit in the village. “In the big white house, on the corner.”
    “That gorgeous Georgian one?”
    Maggie was even more pleased. “You must come over.”
    “I’d love to. I don’t know a soul nearby.” She put out her hand. “My name’s Georgie.”
    Maggie introduced herself, shaking Georgie’s hand. “In fact, what are you doing on Saturday night?”
    *   *   *
    That evening, Thursday, was traditionally Jamie’s squash night. Maggie was more than happy for him to meet up in town with his old friend Pete once a week.
    Letting him vent his work frustrations on a tiny ball within the confines of a squash court saves me a lot of aggro, she thought.
    Tonight she decided to use the opportunity to visit her sister in Leatherhead.
    Maggie and Fran were close, but their relationship was marked by a healthy sibling rivalry. Maggie was older by a year, and in a pale-skinned English way they looked alike, although Maggie was prettier. Both had married successful men within a couple of years of each other; it was partly when Fran saw Maggie