Lily Holmes is ready for a fresh start. And there’s no better place to begin again than the idyllic seaside town of Marram Bay.

All Lily wants to do is focus on making her new deli a success and ensuring her son’s happiness. Not the postcard creeping out of her handbag, and definitely not finding a new man in her life!

ddared to join them and she’s fighting a battle at every turn.

Perhaps with a little help from the gorgeous cider farmer next door, she may be able to win them over, but her past secrets threaten to ruin everything…

The brand new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from bestseller Portia Macintosh. Perfect for fans of Jo Watson and Tilly Tennant.

Also by

Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place

How Not to Be Starstruck

Bad Bridesmaid

Drive Me Crazy

Truth or Dare

It’s Not You, It’s Them

The Accidental Honeymoon

How Not to be a Bride

Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

Portia MacIntosh

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2018

Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008297718

PORTIA MACINTOSH

has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales. After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh

For my amazing family

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgements

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Well, that’s what the dog-eared copy of The Guide to New Beginnings currently poking out of my handbag on the front seat has been trying to convince me.

The last month has been a bit of a blur. It feels like just yesterday I was sitting at my desk, mindlessly yet happily going through the motions when one of my bosses perched on the corner of my desk, offered me a new job in a different location and, before I knew what I was doing, I said yes. A more exciting role in the company and a pay increase appealed, of course, but more than anything it was the chance take my 8-year-old son out of life in inner-city London and raise him in a cute little coastal village up north. I’ve been worrying about a few things recently and getting out of the city seemed like the best solution – the only solution, really.

I was born and raised in Croydon, only moving closer to central London as I got older. My son Frankie has never known anything other than life in central London, living in a small flat, catching the tube to school every day. This isn’t the life I want for him though. I want him to grow up in a small town, in a close community. Somewhere with scenery and fields with real grass, away from the pollution and commuting to school on busy trains, overflowing with unfriendly people.

I love my city and I’m proud of my roots, but after living here for all of my thirty-one years on this planet so far, now just feels like the right time to leave and try somewhere new.

I’ve always liked the idea of a fresh start. When I was much younger I would look forward to New Year’s Eve because to me, starting a new year felt like starting a new chapter of my life. I used to start each year with a brand-new notebook, a diary of my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I did that though, what with taking on more and more work as the years have ticked away – and being a single mum doesn’t exactly allow for much free time. That’s all going to change now though.

As well as the self-help book I’ve been reading to help me prepare, I also have a new Moleskine notebook ready for me to document my journey in just like I used to. I might not have my usual backdrop of fireworks and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to thrust me into my new beginning, but as the journey up north progresses, the concrete jungle we’re so used to has slowly but surely transitioned to fields of green and wide open space, and it is exactly the breath of fresh air I’ve been gasping for.

I’m too busy taking in the scenery to remember to change gear at a junction so the car stalls, giving us a jolt strong enough to wake Frankie up.

‘Mum,’ he whines sleepily.

I glance at him in my rear-view mirror and watch him rub his tired eyes.

‘Sorry, kiddo,’ I say. ‘Your mum isn’t used to driving a manual.’

Frankie doesn’t need me to tell him that; this isn’t the first time I’ve messed up with the gears today. Well, living in the city centre, I’ve never needed a car, so I haven’t driven one in years. The only car I have driven occasionally – my mum’s – is an automatic. Still, it was so nice of my bosses to give me a company branded VW Beetle to drive up here in and use as a run-around, even if it is an offensive shade of lime green. They’ve also rented us a cottage that looked positively picturesque in the photos they showed me. It feels weird, moving here without having visited, but everything happened so quickly. I’m sure there was time to do things properly, to come and scope the place out and make sure it was everything I hoped it would be, but I just really wanted to get out of town so that Frankie could start the new school year with everyone else – well, that’s what I told them, at least.

‘Are we there yet?’ Frankie asks for the first time. I’m proud of him, for being so well behaved. Most kids would go bananas during a long car journey but my boy has only started to grow impatient in the last thirty minutes.

‘We are,’ I tell him excitedly, although I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t seem as pumped as I am. ‘You excited?’

‘I guess,’ he replies. ‘It’s gonna be weird.’

‘It’s gonna be amazing,’ I remind him. ‘I know you’ll miss your school and your friends, but you’re going to make new friends, you’re going to go to a much better school. We’re going to live in a big house and there will be fields where you can play, and we can walk to the beach – every day, if you’d like.’

‘There’s no McDonald’s,’ he tells me in a smart tone, as though he’s sure I already knew that. In truth, I did already know that there wasn’t going to be a McDonald’s nearby, and that we were going to have to travel thirty miles to get my son a fix of his favourite chicken nuggets. Apparently, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t make them as ‘good’ as McDonald’s can.

‘There is a McDonald’s just a short drive away,’ I tell him. It might not be the same as London, where there’s a Maccies on every corner, but it’s going to be fine. ‘You’re going to have everything you had in London, plus more.’

‘Sam said he’s been before to visit his nan and granddad, and he said it was boring,’ Frankie informs me.

‘Where?’ I ask curiously, although I’m pretty sure his fourth favourite friend from school isn’t the right person to be taking this kind of advice from.

‘The north,’ he replies.

I can’t help but laugh.

‘The north is pretty big, kiddo. And maybe it was boring because he was visiting his grandparents’ house – grandparents are boring.’

‘Viv isn’t boring,’ Frankie insists.

‘No, she certainly isn’t,’ I reply.

My mum, Vivien, isn’t at all grandma-ish – she won’t even let Frankie call her Gran, she says she looks too young, and, in her defence, she does. She’s always been conscious of showing her age, insisting I call her Viv instead of Mum. She puts her all into being a cool grandparent and, to be fair, she’s great at it. She was a cool mum too, much to my embarrassment. It’s going to be weird, not being just a short train ride away from her.

After driving through nothing but green fields and dry stone walls for a while, Marram Bay is suddenly visible in the distance.

There are two ways we can go; one of them seems the right way, but the satnav insists we go the other, so I stick to what the map tells me and head for the town centre.

‘We’re here, kiddo,’ I announce.

‘It looks boring,’ Frankie says with a sigh.

At the start of the trip he seemed excited. In fact, I think we spent the first hour of the journey singing along to the radio.

To try and distract my son, I flick the radio back on.

‘…and I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear that Rufus the Labrador is safely back at home now. And that completes today’s breaking news,’ a voice on the radio says. I make eye contact with Frankie in my rear-view mirror. He looks just as confused as I do.

‘We’ll be finishing the show earlier today, to join in with the festivities on the front. Tune in tomorrow to hear all about it. Ta-ra.’

‘So I’m guessing that’s the local radio station,’ I laugh. ‘Wanna go check out the festivities?’

Frankie sighs.

‘OK.’

Marram Bay is such a beautiful town. It’s small – even smaller than I expected. The town is cute, like something fresh out of a romantic movie – with ivy creeping up the walls and around the sweet little windows of the houses sitting at the top of perfectly tended gardens. Few houses look the same here, which I like. Everywhere has so much individuality and character.

It takes us no time to go from green, open space, to farmhouses, to cottages, and finally to the seafront with its cute, quirky little shops.

‘Erm…’ I can’t help but say, catching sight of the bizarre festivities on the seafront.

‘Where are we?’ Frankie asks.

‘When are we?’ I laugh to myself.

Upon closer inspection the town doesn’t just look old-fashioned – it looks like the setting for a Second World War book. The windows are covered with white tape, everyone is dressed in out-of-date clothing and the place is overrun with soldiers and army vehicles.

As we crawl along the road running alongside the seafront, we catch the attention of a woman in her late thirties. She’s wearing a blue and white polka dot tea dress teamed with navy gloves, complemented by her brown hair that is neatly pinned into victory rolls. I stop the car at the side of the road, just as our eyes meet.

‘Are we in the past?’ Frankie asks.

Of course, I know that we’re not – that we couldn’t possibly be, unless we’ve wandered into some sort of Goodnight Sweetheart portal – but I don’t really have an answer for him.

I smile at the pinup girl at the side of the road, only for her to cock her head in puzzlement. Why is she confused? I’m the one suddenly in the past. She calls over her friends – a land girl and an apparent member of the WRAF – who join her in staring over at us, chatting amongst themselves.

‘Maybe we should go,’ I say, but as I go to drive away, I – of course – stall my car again. Come to think of it, the lime-green, company-branded Beetle is probably the reason everyone is staring at us.

After another judder, it occurs to me that my loud (both in volume and colour), German car is probably ruining the war-era aesthetic of the festivities.

‘Ship, ship, ship,’ I say repeatedly, until I finally get the car moving and drive off.

‘Swears!’ Frankie chastises me.

‘I said “ship”,’ I point out. ‘Remind me who is the kid and who is the mum?’

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replies.

Frankie is smart for an 8-year-old, however, as a by-product of this intellect, he thinks he is much smarter than he is. I know that I should probably be the one keeping Frankie in check but he’s no bother at all…which is probably why he ends up keeping me in check instead.

‘Let’s go see the house,’ I say cheerily. ‘We’ll meet the locals some other time.’

Like, I don’t know, maybe this decade instead.

After spending the past few weeks – and a chunk of our journey here – trying to convince my son that we would be moving somewhere wonderful, I’ve driven him straight into some kind of weird place that seems to be literally stuck in the past. But in two minutes we’ll be at the beautifully titled Apple Blossom Cottage.

I glance quickly between my satnav and the road until we approach our destination. I spot the cottage of my dreams, hiding away behind a wall of leafy trees. Through the green leaves, the stone bungalow almost looks like part of the landscape. I’m so used to living in London, surrounded by either ugly old office blocks or new, ultra-modern, sky-grazing skyscrapers. Outside the garden walls, Apple Blossom Cottage is enclosed by nothing but fields – this change of scenery is exactly what I need.

It’s a small, but gorgeous little cottage, just perfect for the two of us. The stone walls are covered with all different kinds of climbing plants, from ivy to roses, giving it a uniquely colourful beauty that I haven’t seen before. The white-framed windows are small, peeping out from behind the plants. The frames look like perhaps they need replacing – not that I’m an expert, they just look a little tired. Then again, I imagine that’s what you’d think if you looked at me at the moment, courtesy of the bout of stress I’m suffering. I’m hoping that as soon as we get our things moved in, I can finally let go of my stress and relax into country life.

The place reminds me so much of a smaller version of Kate Winslet’s cottage from The Holiday (only with a far superior garden), and while I’d always thought of myself as more of a Cameron Diaz type, I feel like this is the place for me.

I step out of the car and take a photo on my phone. I want to remember my first glimpse of our new home for the rest of my life. I don’t just feel like I’ve arrived – I’ve arrived. I’m here, outside this perfect house, in a gorgeous small coastal town, about to start my dream job with my healthy, intelligent son by my side. Maybe it is possible to have it all…at least, that’s what How to Have It All, another of my hastily bought self-help books, has been trying to tell me. Packing up and starting your life again is a big deal, so I wanted to do some reading, make sure I was prepared for anything and everything. This job is so important to me, but Frankie is even more important. I just want to be a good mum – preferably one of those ones you see on Instagram with an adorable baby in one arm, and a wooden spoon in the other, standing in their immaculate kitchen (bigger than all the rooms in my London flat added together), posing in a way that makes them look like a Victoria’s Secret model.

My proportions are more Victoria sponge cake, than Victoria’s Secret model. Sure, we’re a society who celebrates the ‘dad bod’ (Leonardo DiCaprio is like a fine wine, only growing more devastatingly gorgeous by the moment) but they won’t be putting my ‘mum bod’ on any catwalks in barely there underwear anytime soon. But each stretchmark and varicose vein maps the journey I went on to come back with my son, and I’d take that over a Victoria’s Secret model body any day – even if it would significantly increase my chances with the aforementioned Mr DiCaprio.

I chase my son, who is currently part-boy, part-aeroplane, in the back garden.

‘Wow.’ My jaw drops.

It is suddenly apparent where Apple Blossom Cottage gets its name from: the army of apple trees surrounding the garden, and the apple blossom plants scattered amongst the greenery and brightly coloured flowers, that I’m not even going to pretend I can identify. I don’t know much about apple trees, but I’m guessing early September is when these beauties are at their best, because there are apples everywhere.

Frankie runs over to me with an apple in each hand.

‘Can we eat them?’ he asks.

‘We have to wash them first, but yes,’ I reply, delighted that my chicken nugget-craving son is suddenly thrilled at the thought of an endless supply of apples. ‘We could even bake an apple pie, would you like that?’

Frankie nods.

‘Better than the ones at McDonald’s,’ I tell him, instantly regretting mentioning the ‘M’ word, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Baking is not something that I’m good at, but I’m sure it still counts if we buy readymade pastry and simply assemble the pie, right?

I stroll over to the large pond at the end of the garden and lean over, looking at my reflection in the water. Maybe I can earn strong, single-woman, pie-baking, yummy-mummy status here – wouldn’t that be nice?

‘Can I unlock the door?’ Frankie asks excitedly.

‘Carefully,’ I tell him, handing him the keys from my bag. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

Inside my bag, in the hidden pocket usually reserved for ‘women’s things’ and the rape alarm I always felt an uneasy need to keep on me at all times in central London, the corner of a postcard pokes out. I quickly push it back inside and zip it up. I’ll worry about that later.

Frankie flies off towards the front door excitedly as I try to keep up with him in my heels. I’m just walking around the corner when I hear his voice.

‘Er…Mum,’ he shouts, and I don’t like the sound of it at all.

Chapter 2

When my bosses showed me photos of Apple Blossom Cottage, I was so in awe of its beautiful exterior and ready for my fresh start that it didn’t even occur to me to ask for photos of the inside. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine my bosses saw photos of the interior either, because I feel like I’ve just walked into a nightmare, and there’s no way my bosses would knowingly send me to this.

‘Where’s all the stuff?’ Frankie asks.

‘I was just wondering that,’ I reply, strolling around, taking in my surroundings.

An overly minimalist kitchen (what you’d call it if you were being kind) sits at the back of an open-plan living/dining area.

The kitchen boasts a worktop, a small fridge freezer and what I’d guess is a gas cooker and oven. There’s a dining table with exactly three chairs, all of which have seen better days, and a living area that consists of a truly Eighties-style plush, grey three-seater sofa with a wood-and-brass trim, sitting across from a retro looking wooden TV cabinet (TV not included).

To the left are three doors, which I’m guessing are the two bedrooms and the bathroom – please, God, let one of the rooms be a bathroom. I don’t think I noticed an outhouse in the garden, but I don’t think I’d be at all surprised to learn the place didn’t have any plumbing. Thankfully, there is one.

A quick scout of all rooms confirms they are as minimal as the rest of the place but, worst of all, everything is so dusty. If this were an Airbnb rental, they would surely be getting an overly generous one-star rating from me – probably from Frankie too, who is currently coming down from his garden high as he tries to wrap his head around the indoor TV aerial. He extends the silver rods one at a time before quickly and carefully putting it down, just in case it’s something scary.

I cast my mind back to what Eric, one of my bosses, told me about the cottage. He said it was an ex holiday home, and that it was furnished. I suppose it is furnished, technically, but I didn’t expect something so retro.

Wow, did I just get catfished by a house? Now that I think about it, despite the cute, rural look of the outside of the cottage, perhaps the ivy might be the only thing holding the place together. This is a new low for me. I can’t wait to write this in my new diary.

‘This place sucks,’ Frankie says frankly.

Any other day, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but my fresh-start enthusiasm is still surging through my veins. ‘It’s all easily fixable, kiddo. We’ll fill it with our own things, we’ll clean the place up, we’ll buy the things we don’t have. It’s going to be great. This way, we get to put even more of our own spin on the place and really make it our own.’

Our moving van won’t be here until tomorrow, so for now we only have the essentials with us. But once we have all our own things, I’m sure we can make this place feel just like home.

Frankie pulls a face. I don’t think he’s buying it. I believe what I’m saying though. I’ll bring our stuff in, we can go out for some food, I’ll buy some cleaning products and everything will be great. I just need to keep telling myself that. Everything will be great.

Chapter 3

I knew that Marram Bay was small, but it’s only now that I’m here, in it, that I can feel just how small it is.

I felt that, given my little scene earlier, it was best we stay away from, well, whatever it was that was going down on the seafront. But, it turns out the main street is on the seafront, so we’re not having much luck finding somewhere to get dinner further inland. As you travel into Marram Bay, first you pass the farms, then you enter the residential area. If you keep going you’ll wind up in the touristy bit, where the seafront is, but trying to find somewhere to eat that isn’t in the heart of the town is proving difficult.

It seemed like Clara’s, a little café sitting between a row of cottages and a small park in the residential area, might be our saviour, but despite their opening hours including Sunday afternoons, the door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside.

‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Frankie says, tugging on the bottom of my jacket as I peer through the glass door, my face pressed as close to the glass as I can get it.

‘Can I help you?’ a man’s voice asks from behind us.

I turn around quickly to see a couple, maybe in their sixties, standing at the gate, at the bottom of the café’s little front garden. We’re on the main road into town but I didn’t hear them coming, which means they must have walked here – something that becomes more apparent when I realise the man is struggling to catch his breath. The man is wearing some kind of soldier outfit, just like I saw many people at the seafront wearing, and the woman is wearing a red dress teamed with red pumps, a white cardigan and a fox fur scarf that I so hope isn’t real. As they walk up the path I get a better look at the fox, which still has its face, its tail – even its claws. It’s not just an eerie sight, seeing its little face upsets me and makes me uncomfortable. The smiling faces of the couple make me feel more at ease.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally finding the words. ‘We just moved here and we were looking for somewhere to eat.’

‘We’re closed today,’ the man informs us. ‘Been down at the Forties Weekend.’

‘Oh, the Forties Weekend,’ I echo. ‘We wondered what was going on, didn’t we, kiddo?’

Frankie clings to my leg, silently.

‘Yeah, once a year we all get dressed up in our Forties best and we have a big celebration. We remember the war, raise money for charity – and, well, everyone goes so no point opening up today.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you.’

I usher Frankie along the path a little, only for the lady to gently place her hand on my forearm. I turn to face her, making eye contact with her fox for a moment, before shifting my glance to her eyes.

‘Don’t worry, my love, it’s not real. I got it from a fancy dress shop,’ she explains with a warm smile. ‘Come in, we can open up for Marram Bay’s newest family.’

‘Oh, no, please,’ I insist.

‘Mum,’ Frankie whispers. ‘I’m hungry.’

The lady smiles at me and there’s this warmth in her eyes…before I have a chance to think too much about it, I accept their generous offer.

Inside, Clara’s is exactly as you’d expect a country café to be. It’s cosy and kitsch, with no two pieces of crockery, cutlery, furniture of soft furnishings the same – even the windows have different curtains around them.

As the man ushers us towards one of the wooden tables, the woman fetches some menus and places them down in front of us.

‘I’m Clara,’ she says. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’

Henry gives us a nod as he takes a seat at the table next to us. He extends one leg out straight, which reminds me that I noticed he had a limp.

‘I’m Lily,’ I say. ‘And this is my son, Frankie. It’s so nice to meet you both.’

I glance over the menu.

‘So what can I get you?’ Clara asks as she removes her fox and fastens her apron.

‘What’s your poison, lad?’ Henry asks Frankie, lightly bumping his shoulder with a fist.

Frankie stares at me.

‘He’s asking what you want to drink,’ I assure him with a smile. ‘Juice?’

He nods. I reach across the table and brush his wild, curly brown hair away from his eyes. I am quite pale, with natural golden blonde hair – not that you can tell, because I have peroxide highlights – and green eyes, but Frankie takes after his dad. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slight natural tan. He’s so cute, with his little button nose and his cheeky little dimples. I still can’t believe I made him.

‘And to eat?’ Clara asks.

‘I only like McNuggets,’ Frankie informs them.

‘Is that right?’ Henry replies. ‘What if I told you that Clara makes chicken nuggets even better than McDonald’s, would you try them?’

‘Oh, no, please, we’ll just have sandwiches, don’t start cooking,’ I insist, but Clara is having none of it.

‘Nonsense,’ she replies with a bat of her hand. ‘Chicken nuggets for the boy, what about for Mum?’

‘Scrambled eggs on toast would be great, please,’ I reply, ordering from their all-day brunch menu.

‘Coming right up,’ she replies as she trots off to the kitchen in her kitten heels. ‘Talk amongst yourself, I’ll be able to chat from the kitchen.’

Clara disappears through a multi-coloured strip curtain before remerging behind a serving hatch.

‘Londoners?’ Henry asks.

‘Guilty,’ I reply with an awkward smile.

‘And you say you’ve just moved here?’ Clara quizzes.

‘Yes,’ I say. I feel like I’m being grilled, but I have nothing to hide. ‘We’re renting Apple Blossom Cottage.’

‘Oh, lovely place,’ she replies. ‘Just stunning.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, but my little white lie prickles my throat. I cough to clear it.

‘You not like it?’ Henry asks.

‘It’s so beautiful from the outside – Frankie has never seen anything like it…the inside is just a little sparse and it needs a good spring clean,’ I explain. ‘And there’s not really too much in it.’

‘It was the Nicholsons’ holiday home – they had it for years, but since it’s just been sat empty. I suspect they took all their mod cons with them.’

‘It seems that way,’ I reply.

Henry picks up a newspaper and begins to flick through the pages. The East Coast Chronicle looks like an interesting read. The front cover is an appeal for help to find Rufus the chocolate Labrador, who never came home after taking himself for his usual walk to the seafront. I’m guessing this is the dog we heard all about on the radio and it warms my heart to know that he’s back home safe. It also amuses me to see that this is front-page news here, rather than yet another story about gangs or tube strikes – further proof, if it were needed, that moving here was a great decision.

‘Well, I’m sure we can survive without a TV tonight.’ I look at Frankie, who swallows hard. I don’t think he’s convinced, but I’m sure he can go a night without playing Nintendo. ‘We definitely need to clean though, it’s far too dusty to sleep in. Is there a Co-op or a Tesco Express or something nearby?’

Henry scoffs.

‘We have a local shop but they’ll be closed,’ he replies.

‘Oh,’ I say, wondering if I can get the job done with hand sanitiser and toilet roll.

‘I can give you some cleaning products,’ Clara says as she places my food down in front of me. ‘Just a few more minutes for yours, my love.’

Frankie smiles politely. I’m proud of him for being a sweet kid with such great manners, but he’s got that unfiltered honesty that all kids have, and I’m worried about how he’s going to react to the not-McChicken nuggets that Clara is making him. The last time I tried to make him some – promising him they would be just as good – he told me they tasted like poison.

‘You’ve been so kind to us already,’ I insist, taken aback by the kindness these complete strangers are showing us. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘We’re neighbours now, think nothing of this,’ Clara says as she places Frankie’s dinner in front of him. ‘There you go, my love. My famous chicken nuggets.’

Frankie glances down at the plate of chicken nuggets, proper, thick-cut chips, peas and a large dollop of ketchup. Frankie loves ketchup, but – like most kids – he hates peas.

I raise my eyebrows at him, silently communicating for him to say thank you.

‘Thank you,’ he chimes politely.

‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, ruffling his hair. ‘I’ll go get you some drinks.’

With Clara in the kitchen and Henry distracted by his paper, I lean over to my son and whisper into his ear: ‘If you try it – or at least pretend you’re eating it – I’ll buy you a TV for your room.’

I think every good mum has bribed her child at some point. I know that I probably shouldn’t, but Clara and Henry have been so good to us, I don’t want to offend them.

Frankie nods, sighs and picks up his cutlery.

I finally tuck into my own food which is not only much needed after a long day, but absolutely delicious.

Clara places two glasses of apple juice down in front of us.

‘They’re from local trees,’ she tells us. ‘But let me know if you want anything else, or a nice cup of tea.’

‘Again – thank you so much,’ I say, starting to sound like a broken record, but I really can’t thank them enough.

I watch Frankie theatrically pretend to eat his food – it’s kind of cute – until he accidentally drops his knife, which makes a loud noise on the floor.

‘Not to worry,’ Henry says, pulling himself to his feet. He grabs a clean knife from another table, hobbles over to Frankie and begins to cut his food (which up until now had only been pushed around his plate) for him.

‘Try this,’ he says, stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork, offering it to Frankie.

Frankie looks over at me. I purse my lips and plead at him with my eyes once more.

I watch as my son takes the chicken, chews it and swallows with a much more convincing enthusiasm than before.

‘Try it with the peas, it tastes much better,’ Henry insists, stabbing another piece, this time making sure to get some peas with it.

Frankie looks back over at me, but he knows what he needs to do. With Nintendo on his mind, he takes the food down in one bite.

‘Good lad,’ Henry says, handing Frankie the cutlery back. As he does so, I notice Frankie staring at Henry’s hand. Upon closer inspection, I realise that he’s quite badly scarred from something.

Henry notices Frankie staring.

‘I got blown up,’ he tells him, before turning to me. ‘Falklands.’

As Henry hobbles past me he places a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear: ‘I have kids who didn’t used to eat their greens either.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Just heading to the little boys’ room.’

Clara, still wearing her Forties outfit under her apron, places a bag of cleaning supplies down next to me before taking a seat at the table next to us. She cradles her cup of tea in her hand as she chats.

‘Just the two of you moved here?’ she asks. She sounds friendly enough, but you’d be amazed at the variety of easy-to-read physical reactions you get from people when they find out you’re a 31-year-old single mum.

First there’s the unabashed judgemental response. You can practically see the mental mathematics going on behind their eyes, as they try and work out if a 31-year-old has an 8-year-old, how old was she when she irresponsibly got knocked up? For some it’s done with the ease of Will Hunting whereas you can see others itching to use their fingers. Twenty-two – that’s not so bad, is it? I see them wonder. These people will almost always decide that, yes, it probably is bad. Some people just think that kids should be born into loving, conventional family units and there’s nothing you can say that will change their minds.

Next up are the people who feel sorry for me, who think about how awful it must have been for me to find myself pregnant and alone, just 22 years old with my entire life ahead of me. You see their pity in turn of their mouth and the weight of their eyelids, and while it comes from a good place, it never makes me feel good.

Worst of all though, of the varying reactions to my ‘situation’ I’ve endured over the years, it’s the ones I receive from single men that bother me the most, because they don’t judge me, nor do they feel sorry for me. Instead they look at things from an entirely selfish point of view, quickly writing me off as ‘damaged goods’ because while I’m sure there are men out there who have taken, or would take on another man’s child, none of them have been any of the (four) men I have been on dates with since Frankie was born.

‘Yep, just us,’ I reply. ‘Always has been.’

I look over at my son fondly, only to see him wolfing down his food.

‘Frankie,’ I squeak. ‘Are you enjoying that?’

‘Yes,’ he says almost reluctantly, looking at his plate as he responds. He’s always maintained that he would never find a chicken nugget to rival his beloved McDonald’s, but he has insisted even harder that he would never enjoy a vegetable of any description – obviously, excluding chips and the occasional roast potato. I’ve tried covering his broccoli in cheese, hiding carrots in his pasta sauce, and even roasting parsnips and trying to convince him they were chips, but my tricks have always failed me. And yet here he is, consciously and contently eating peas.

‘He doesn’t usually like vegetables,’ I tell Clara, unable to hide my happiness.

‘I cook them with bacon and a bit of honey,’ she explains. ‘I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love my peas.’

‘Well you’ve definitely got yourself some new, regular customers,’ I laugh.

‘You’re not customers today,’ she says. ‘Consider this our “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift to you.’

‘Clara, you’ve done so much for us!’

‘You’re our neighbour now,’ she points out. ‘Think nothing of it.’

I pick up my apple juice and take a sip – it’s delicious. I can’t wait to get to see what I can do with the ones in my garden…not that I’m an especially good cook. I’m just excited to try. Things maybe have got off to a bumpy start but I really do feel like we’re going to be happy here.

‘So, what brings you here then?’ Clara asks. ‘Just a fresh start?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, although that’s not strictly true.

Nervously, I take a long drink from my glass and, thankfully, by the time I come out of hiding from behind my apple juice, Clara has shifted her attention to Frankie, asking him questions about his hobbies.

Now isn’t the time to tell a woman I’ve just met about what I’m hiding from.

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