Never Alone by Elizabeth Haynes

saves the vicar having to spend church funds on employing someone to cut the grass.
    Genuine rectory or not, Sarah has always liked Sophie’s house. Outside it looks like a typical early Victorian functional building, grey stone walls and a porch, a gravel driveway; inside, it has been designed and decorated up to its rafters. It has even featured in a magazine, one of those ones Sarah thinks exist to make you feel inadequate.
    ‘It’s not me, darling,’ Sophie has said more than once. ‘If it were up to me, I’d be happy in a messy old place with muddy kitchen floors and piles of dust everywhere.’
    Sarah doubts this is true, but appreciates the sentiment nevertheless. She parks the car at the top end of the drive where she can be sure not to block in any of George’s vehicles. It’s been raining most of the weekend, and rather than easing up it seems to be getting heavier again now that she has to get out of the car.
    Sophie opens the door of the conservatory, or orangery as George insists on calling it, to save Sarah walking round to the front of the house.
    ‘Do you need a hand?’ she calls.
    ‘I can manage,’ Sarah answers. ‘No point both of us getting wet.’
    She is holding two cake carriers stacked on top of each other; the top one holds a chocolate cake; the bottom one is full of cupcakes. She has spent most of the morning baking on Sophie’s behalf, for the Women’s Institute sale which is taking place tomorrow. Sophie is a member of the WI; Sarah has always managed to avoid it.
    ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ Sophie says, taking the two plastic containers out of her hands while Sarah wipes her feet and then, to be on the safe side, takes off her trainers.
    The kitchen, which is twice the size of Sarah’s and a vision of chrome and black granite, smells of fresh coffee. Sophie lifts the lid on the cake box and takes an appreciative sniff. ‘Lucky buggers,’ she says. ‘Can’t we just eat it now?’
    ‘Have a cupcake,’ Sarah says. ‘I did an extra one.’
    In the end they share it, half each, cut down the middle with a dinner knife. They take their coffees into the snug at the front of the house where Sophie has lit a fire. Even in here, everything co-ordinates, from the silver-grey sofa to the glass coffee table with art books and unlit candles arranged on the centre of it. But at least it’s warm.
    ‘Where’s George?’ Sarah says.
    ‘Away this week,’ Sophie answers, ‘thank God.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘He’s being grumpy as anything. No idea why. How’s the tenant?’
    Sarah swallows the bite of cake she’s just taken. It’s too sugary, she thinks, wishing she’d gone easy on the icing. This is the WI, not a city bakery – they don’t do excess. So much for helping Sophie out: comments will be made.
    ‘I keep missing him,’ she says, truthfully. ‘He seems to go out a lot.’
    ‘Has he shed any light on the mystery meeting with Jim?’ Sophie adds, when Sarah doesn’t immediately reply.
    There is a little pause. Even right before she opens her mouth, Sarah thinks she isn’t going to tell; but this is Sophie, her best friend, and who else can she confide in?
    ‘He says Jim loaned him some money. He says he’s paid it back.’
    There. She’s said it. It feels as though the words are hanging in the air like bubbles; she wishes she could scoop them back in.
    Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘And that’s why they were meeting?’
    ‘Apparently.’
    ‘And you believe him?’
    Sarah thinks for a second. ‘I’ve no reason not to.’
    ‘What did he say the money was for?’
    ‘Funding some projects, when he started up.’
    ‘Hm.’ Sophie pulls a face, drinks some of her coffee.
    Sarah thinks it would be good to change the subject. ‘What’s up with George? Do you think he’s worried about something?’
    Immediately she regrets phrasing her question like that. Last year, when George was confronted by Sophie about his infidelity, the only excuse he could come up with on the spur