“Awful man,” she muttered, kicking the encroaching brambles. “Beautiful woman,” he mused, as sunlight haloed her fair hair.

Every evening he’d toil, moving snails from her delicate beans and dahlias to his indestructible thicket.

She never wondered why her allotment flourished. Or who left the gifts of glorious blackberry jam.

Tamsin doesn’t have an allotment, and she has to be her own snail shepherd. Despite best efforts, her runner beans are still being severely chewed.