KATE LAWSON

Keeping Mum

Copyright

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.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Kate Lawson 2009

Kate Lawson 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

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, down-loaded, 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-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560537

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007328956

Version: 2018-05-31

To my lovely man, Phil, my beautiful boys, Ben, James, Joe and Sam, and my dog Beau, and also the Fabulous Fish ladies on Downham Market’s market.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise for Kate Lawson

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Blonde wig, sunglasses…’ Cass tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looked herself up and down in the ornate mirror currently leaning up against the wall in the spare room. She turned left and right to gauge the full effect and then shook her head. ‘Fiona, I can’t go out dressed in this. I look like a hooker.’

‘No, you don’t. Of course you don’t,’ Fiona said briskly, tugging Cass’s wig down at the back. ‘You look…’ She hesitated. It was obvious that it was a struggle to find the right words.

‘Conspicuous and very dodgy?’ suggested Cass. ‘Let’s be honest, Fee, that’s the last thing you want from a spy.’

Fiona’s expression hardened. ‘Spy is a very emotive word,’ she snapped, handing Cass a trench coat and rolled black umbrella.

‘Oh, and these are meant to help me blend in, are they? I don’t think this is a good idea at all.’ Cass dropped the umbrella onto the bed. ‘And besides, I barely know Andy. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since you moved back.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘Well, if you knew him you could hardly spy on him, could you? He’d get suspicious, but this is fine. You know Andy well enough to recognise him in a crowd or pick him out in a bar, but not well enough for him to come rushing over or, worse still, go rushing off.’ As she spoke Fiona flicked Cass’s collar up and fluffed the wig so it looked a little more tousled.

‘There we are,’ she said. ‘That’s absolutely perfect.’

‘It’s not perfect. Remember the sixth leavers do? Vamps and tramps? You made me wear a corset and nearly got us both arrested?’

Fiona sniffed. ‘You always say that, but it was fine. I told the policeman we weren’t soliciting.’

Cass nodded. ‘Uh-huh—well all I need now are the fishnets.’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Fiona. ‘You look great.’

Cass wasn’t convinced.

From an overstuffed chair out on the landing, Mungo the resident ginger tom and Buster, Cass’s matching mongrel, watched proceedings with interest. They didn’t look convinced either.

‘It’s not like I’m asking you to bug him or anything,’ protested Fiona into what was proving quite a tricky silence. ‘All you have to do is watch, take a few photos and possibly notes, and let me know exactly what he is up to. And with who…’ Fiona paused. ‘I know he’s up to something.’ But if Fiona was hoping that Cass was going to leap into the breach, she was sadly mistaken.

‘I wouldn’t ask, Cass, but I can’t afford a private detective and I don’t know what else to do. Does your mobile phone have a camera with a zoom lens?’ Fiona asked, as she buttoned Cass into the trench coat.

This wasn’t exactly how Cass had imagined the evening going at all. She’d been thinking more in terms of a DVD, a bottle of wine and a takeaway, along with a bit of girlie chat, while the cat and dog mugged them for prawns.

Cass had known Fiona since they were eleven years old, and at school together—which in some ways felt like yesterday and in others a lifetime ago. After sixth form they had drifted apart, separated by college, boys, careers. And then a couple of years ago, Cass had had a phone call out of the blue:

‘Cass, this is Fee, just wanted to let you know we’re moving back to the area—isn’t that great? God, I’m so excited, maybe we could catch up sometime? I feel a bit like salmon coming home to spawn.’

Which was probably too much information. It obviously hadn’t occurred to Fiona that Cass wouldn’t remember who she was, not that Cass had forgotten—who could forget someone like Fiona?

Time smoothes away the raw edges of memory and Cass had forgotten a lot of things about Fee. What Cass had forgotten was that when she was on a mission, Fiona could be a grade A pain in the arse. These last two years of having Fee back in her life had brought all those annoying little qualities to light in glorious Technicolor. They hadn’t spoken very much in the years since leaving school but in that first conversation it all came flooding back.

‘When I saw this job in the paper I said to Andy it was fate. I can’t remember if you met Andy—he comes from Cambridge. You’ll have to come to dinner sometime once we’ve settled in. He can still commute; I know it’s a bit of a drag but we’ll get real quality of life in Norfolk. Or at least I will, he’ll be spending most of his life on the train,’ she giggled. ‘And I’ve found this great house. In Barwell Road? Those really lovely old Edwardian houses overlooking the park—four bedrooms, big bay windows…It’s going to be just perfect. I mean we want kids and London’s no place for a family, at least not for a country girl like me. So what are you up to these days?’ It had taken Fiona the best part of twenty minutes to get around to asking Cass anything about her life.

‘Working mostly, you know I bought a shop? And bringing the boys up.’

‘God, there’s you nearly done and me just starting,’ Fee had said. ‘Doesn’t that make you feel old?’

Cass hadn’t known how to answer that and so instead said, ‘Oh, and I sing in a choir.’ It had been a throwaway line.

‘Really?’ said Fiona. ‘You know I’ve always wanted to join a choir. Remember when we used to sing in the school choir? God—that was such a giggle.’

Which was why Fiona, the week after she moved in, had turned up to join Cass at Mrs Althorpe’s All Stars—Beckthorn’s community choir, which was a lot sexier and loads more fun than it sounded. When she saw Fiona waving and hurrying over to her, Cass groaned and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Two years on and she hadn’t changed her mind.

‘God,’ Fiona had said, as she slipped in alongside Cass. ‘Isn’t this great? Just like the good old days.’

Cass hadn’t said anything.

As a lady bass and occasional tenor, Cass did a lot of well-synchronised do-be-do-be-doooos, dms, and finger snapping that made up the heartbeat of the doo-wop and blues numbers the band was famous for.

Originally Cass had joined the choir because she couldn’t get a place on the garden design course, hated aerobics, and had always wanted to sing. She’d also thought it might be a good place to meet men, which it was—although as it turned out almost all of them were well over 50 and mad as haddock. It was fun though, because there was no need to be anything other than yourself with them.

For the choir’s performances, which took place everywhere from church halls to street corners, the All Stars wore full evening dress, men in black tie and occasionally tails, the women shimmying and swaying in gowns of every colour under the sun, all glitzy and glamorous and very over the top with lots of diamante, feathers, sequins, tiaras and an ocean of bugle beads. It certainly beat workout Lycra into a cocked hat.

After Tuesday evening rehearsal, the choir traditionally went on to the pub. Which was how Cass and Fiona came to find themselves squeezed into the end of a pew behind a long table in the snug bar of the Old Grey Whippet, alongside Ray, Phil and Welsh Alf, whose voice came straight from the heart of the Rhondda—which didn’t quite compensate for the fact that he often forgot the tune and occasionally the words—and Norman, who only came because his wife had an evening class across the road on Tuesday nights and didn’t drive.

Cass hadn’t intended to sing bass when she joined. But when she signed up there’d only been one man, Welsh Alf, and so, Alan—their musical director—had suggested that some of the female altos sing the bass parts an octave higher. (Which at that point meant nothing to Cass, who hadn’t sung a note anywhere other than in the bath since leaving Beckthorn County High.)

Four and a half years on, there were half a dozen men and around the same number of women in the bass section, with a sprinkling of men in the tenors and of course Gordon in the sopranos, who sang falsetto, plucked his eyebrows and occasionally wore blue eyeliner, although he was the exception rather than the rule.

Her only real gripe was that while the sopranos got the tune and the altos had the harmony, the tenors grabbed the twiddly bits, and so nine times out of ten all the basses got were the notes left over and they didn’t always make much sense musically. There certainly wasn’t much in the way of a catchy little tune to hum while making toast.

So, after choir on Tuesday evening, everyone was just finishing a blow-by-blow dissection of how the evening’s rehearsal had gone, and Gordon was perched on a stool at the bar, halfway down his second Babycham, when Fiona, who was sipping a bitter lemon said, ‘I was wondering—could you do me a favour?’

Cass looked round. Fiona said it casually, in a way that suggested she wanted Cass to pick up a few bits from Tesco on her way home from work or maybe pop round to let the gasman in, and so, halfway down a glass of house red, Cass nodded. ‘Sure. What would you like me to do?’

But before she could answer, Bert, the big chunky tenor, an ex-rugby player who sang like an angel, drank like a fish and was tight as new elastic, bellowed, ‘Anyone fancy a top-up, only it’s m’birthday t’day, so I’m in the chair.’ Fiona’s reply was lost in the furore.

‘Maybe it would be easier if I popped round some time?’ Fiona shouted above the general hullabaloo as people fought their way to the bar to put their orders in. ‘Make an evening of it?’

‘Okay,’ said Cass, easing her way to the front. ‘Why don’t you come round for supper one night next week?’

Which was why they were now standing in Cass’s spare room with a suitcase full of props and the remains of a bottle of Archers which Fiona had brought round—probably, Cass now realised, as a liquid inducement. It had slipped down a treat. Unlike Fiona’s little favour.

It had taken Fiona a couple of glasses, a lot of idle chitchat and much admiring of Cass’s home before she managed to get around to what she had in mind. What Fiona wanted was a little light surveillance. More specifically, she wanted Cass to follow Andy, and find out what he was up to, where, when and with whom—although so far the reasons behind it all were a little hazy.

‘So tell me again what exactly has brought this on?’ asked Cass. ‘If I’m going to go the full Mata Hari, at least I should really know what I’m getting myself into.’

‘Andy’s seeing someone,’ said Fiona, gazing past her into the mirror, presumably trying to gauge the effectiveness of Cass’s disguise.

‘How can you be so certain?’

The questions seemed to take Fiona by surprise. ‘Because he’s been acting very strangely over the last few weeks. He’s changed the password on his email account.’

‘And you know this because?’

‘Well, when I was on his computer I couldn’t get into his email,’ said Fiona, casually.

‘You read his email?’

At least Fiona had the decency to look a bit sheepish. ‘Of course I do, I mean, doesn’t everyone? We’re practically married—’

‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ Cass couldn’t imagine anything worse than having someone nosing through her private life.

‘What on earth has right got to do with anything?’ said Fiona indignantly. ‘He shouldn’t need to hide things from me.’

‘So presumably Andy’s got your password too?’ asked Cass.

Fiona looked outraged. ‘No, of course he hasn’t, but that’s different—I mean, I’m not up to anything.’

‘Changing your password is hardly proof of being up to something though, is it?’

‘He keeps getting texts…’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Fee, we all get texts.’

‘Which he erases,’ Fiona countered. ‘I know because I’ve looked while he’s in the shower. His inbox is always empty—you’ve got to admit that that is suspicious?’

Cass wasn’t sure there was any sane answer. Experience told her that if you think someone is up to something, then your mind is only too happy to fill in the gaps, and everything the other person does only conspires to make them look even more guilty. And while Fiona’s plan all sounded pretty crazy from this side of the fence, no doubt inside Fiona’s head it sounded just fine. When it struck, jealously, insecurity and uncertainty could be a destructive and all-engulfing madness.

‘How long have you two been together?’ asked Cass, adjusting the wig and adding a bit more lipstick. She’d always wondered how she’d look as a blonde. Cass turned to catch a look at her profile; realistically she probably needed something a little less Barbie.

‘Nearly four years. I read somewhere that four years is the new seven-year itch. And besides, if Andy’s got nothing to hide, then why does he keep wiping the inbox on his phone, why does he have a new password on his email account and why does he sneak about? Did I tell you he’s been sneaking about—’

‘Have you thought it might be because you’re trying to break into his email account, read his phone messages and are currently setting someone up to stalk him?’ asked Cass.

Fiona considered the possibility for a few seconds then shook her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Andy’s got no idea he’s going to be stalked. And besides, he is up to something, I know it—and I want you to find out exactly what it is.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, because we’re friends, and I’d do the same for you.’

Cass stared at her. ‘Really?’

‘Oh God yes,’ said Fiona. Which wasn’t exactly how Cass remembered it. She did remember lots of things about being Fiona’s friend, like being left at the bus stop in the pouring rain, in her gym kit, because Fee had persuaded her mum to give the school hunk, Alan Hall, a lift home instead of Cass, the same friend who had refused point-blank to lend Cass a tenner when they were at a gig and Cass found she’d left her handbag backstage.

None of which suggested to Cass that Fiona would be running to her rescue if she ever needed a bit of on-the-side spying.

‘I don’t think blonde’s really my colour, do you?’ asked Cass, narrowing her eyes, trying to gauge the effect of the wig and hoping to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe something with a bit more caramel?’

‘Can we please concentrate? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ snapped Fiona. ‘Andy’s going to be at Sam’s Place, Saturday night, at eight. I’ve brought my camera with me just in case yours doesn’t have a zoom.’

Cass looked at her. ‘Sam’s Place?’

‘Uh-huh you know, the trendy new bar, opposite the Corn Exchange.’

Cass shook her head.

‘Oh, come on, Cass, you must have seen it. It’s been all over the local papers. They did a double-page spread in the Argos and Echo, and a thing on local TV. Some guy off the telly is one of the partners in it. He used to be in The Bill—not that I watch that kind of thing, obviously. Anyway, there’s a cocktail bar and restaurant, and a coffee shop, all retro and very Casablanca, with a nightclub upstairs. I’ve been trying to persuade Andy to take me there for weeks.’ Fiona paused for effect. ‘Do you know what he said?’

Cass decided it would probably be wiser not to offer any suggestions, so pulled an I have no idea face instead.

‘He said, “Fee, what in god’s name do you want to go there for? Clubbing—at our age? It’s ridiculous.” That’s what he said, Cass, “Ridiculous”. It was horrible. It made me sound like some sort of desperate pensioner…’

Fiona was wearing a skirt that was bang on trend—if you happened to be eighteen—a pair of Christian Louboutin knock-offs and a haircut that probably cost more than Cass’s sofa, and Fiona had made Cass swear that she’d never mention the Botox or the fillers in front of anyone. Maybe ‘pensioner’ was a bit cruel, but ‘desperate’ wasn’t far short of the mark.

‘So you haven’t been there?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t been there, although now it looks as if he’s going to be going without me. There was a message on the pad in his office —“Sam’s Place, 8 o’clock”, and what looked like next Saturday’s date. I was going to bring it with me to prove that I wasn’t imagining it…’

‘Did you ask Andy about it? I mean, surely if he left the note on his desk he meant you to see it,’ asked Cass cautiously.

‘He would think I was mad…’

Cass decided not to comment. ‘Maybe he’s planning to surprise you? You said you wanted to go—maybe he’s going to take you as a treat.’

Fiona didn’t look convinced.

‘Why don’t you just ask him, Fee? He left you a note—in plain sight…’

‘It wasn’t actually the note I saw,’ Fiona said, after a few seconds. ‘And Andy didn’t leave it out on the desk for me to see. It was more of an impression on the pad underneath. I could see that it had something written on it, but I couldn’t really make out what it said…’

‘Right,’ murmured Cass in an undertone. This was getting weirder by the second.

‘Anyway, I saw this thing on a film once, where you get a soft pencil and then very lightly shade over the indentations.’ Fiona mimed the action.

Cass had heard enough. ‘Uh-huh, okay, look, I think we should stop right there, Fiona—this is nuts. You need to talk to Andy, not me. And as for the stalking? I think it’s crazy and I’m not doing it.’ As she spoke, Cass pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the bed. ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you want to stay with Andy?’

Fiona stared at Cass as if the question hadn’t crossed her mind. ‘Well of course I want to stay with Andy,’ she snapped. ‘Why on earth would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t want to be with him? For god’s sake Cass—have you got any idea how hard it is to get your hands on a decent blonde wig? It’s taken me ages to get all this stuff together…’

‘Well in that case you need to talk to him, not go creeping around spying on him.’ Cass slipped off the trench coat. ‘I’m really sorry, Fee. I’d be glad to help but not like this.’

Fiona looked as if she was about to speak, and then she bit her lip, her eyes filling up with tears. She started stuffing the wig and the brolly into her holdall.

Cass sighed, feeling guilty. ‘Oh for goodness sake Fee—’ she began.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she sniffed. ‘I thought you’d understand.’ Between sobs, Fiona rolled the trench coat into a ball and crammed it into the bag. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am your friend, and I do understand,’ said Cass. ‘Really, I do—but this isn’t going to help anything.’

‘How do you know unless we try?’ cried Fiona. ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she wailed, still gathering things up as she made for the door.

‘Fee, wait, let’s talk about this,’ said Cass, but it was too late. The last thing Cass saw was Fiona heading down the stairs with the holdall clutched tight to her chest.

‘Oh bugger,’ said Cass in frustration. The Chinese takeaway they had ordered arrived half an hour later. Mungo and Buster waited by the kitchen door, trying hard not to look too eager, although realistically there was no way Cass was going to manage all those chicken balls on her own.

Chapter Two

‘Excuse me, Miss, Miss?’

Cass glanced up from her book and looked at the man framed in the shop doorway.

‘I was wondering if you could help me? Is that record player in the window Chippendale?’

The guy was six two, maybe six three, tanned, with great teeth and an Armani jacket worn dressed down over good jeans and a black tee shirt. He had just the hint of a transatlantic twang somewhere in his voice. He had shoulders broad enough to make a grown woman weep and the biggest brownest eyes. If he were a spaniel, women would arm-wrestle each other to take him home.

Cass closed her book and nodded, ‘Uh-huh, it most certainly is, and you see that cocktail cabinet in the back there? The cream one with the stainless-steel knobs?’ She pointed off into the shadows, between a bentwood hat stand and the little painted pine chiffonier that she’d sold earlier in the day.

The man looked around. ‘Which? Oh right—oh yes, that’s very nice.’

‘Hepplewhite. Genuine George III,’ she said.

‘No?’ said the man, extending the oooo sound to express his incredulity. ‘My god, really? I’d imagine they are just so hard to find.’

‘In that kind of condition,’ Cass said, ‘rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘Oh my god this is just too wonderful. Do you take credit cards? Do you think we can maybe do a deal on the two pieces?’

‘There’s been a lot of interest in them.’

‘I’d imagine there has been. What’s your best price?’

Cass considered for a few moments. ‘Give me your best shot…’

‘You’re a hard woman, Cass.’

Cass broke into a broad grin. ‘So Rocco, how’s life treating you?’

He didn’t answer, instead making a lunge for the biscuit tin, which initially Cass mistook for an attempt at hugging.

‘Are those Fox’s Cream Crunch?’ he asked.

Cass whisked the tin away an instant before he could grab it. ‘Still not quite fast enough, eh? Never mind, maybe another time. What are you doing out here in the boondocks anyway?’

‘Come on, you’re a legend. Cass’s place—great gear, reasonable prices, you’ve always got such lovely things.’ He paused. ‘Actually I’m on the lookout for Christmas presents for your mother.’ He started patting himself down. ‘You want me to tell you how many shopping days we got left? The PalmPilot your mum bought me last year has got this feature—’

Cass shook her head. ‘No, it would so only depress me,’ she said. ‘I’m never organised.’

‘Maybe I could get your mum to buy you one—’ Rocco began.

‘No,’ snapped Cass more forcefully as Rocco continued, ‘I adore those repro radios and turntables you’ve got in the window. Nice chaise by the way,’ he tipped a nod towards the dark green brocade number she had recently finished re-upholstering, which was also currently sitting in the shop’s bay window. ‘That won’t be there very long.’

Cass smiled. ‘I’ve already had a couple of decent offers.’

Rocco grinned mischievously. ‘Really? And you’re still here selling tut—I’d have been long gone by now, if I were you.’

‘What and leave all this behind?’ she said, heavy on irony. ‘Besides one man’s old tut is another man’s design classic. Talking of which, how is my mother?’

He grinned. ‘Gorgeous as ever. Did you get the postcard from Madeira?’

Cass nodded. ‘Uh-huh, and Rome—and where else was it you went?’

‘I could email you the full itinerary if you like.’

Cass laughed, ‘What, when I’ve already had the postcards. Anyway, what is it you’re looking for?’

‘Peace on earth and goodwill to all men?’ Rocco suggested, as he thumbed through the pile of antique greetings cards she had arranged in a basket on the desk.

‘And besides that?’

‘I’m on the hunt for a couple of bedside cabinets, art deco, 1930s. Walnut veneer would be good. Your mother is such a slave driver…’

Not rising to the bait, Cass said, ‘I might be able to help.’

‘You’ve got bedside cabinets?’

‘Might have.’

Rocco’s eyes lit up.

Cass grinned. ‘You’d never make a poker player.’

‘What are they like?’

‘Nice actually, cylindrical, still got both shelves. You mind the shop, I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Jacko not in today?’

‘No,’ said Cass. ‘He hates the cold. He keeps telling me he’s not getting any younger. He’s hanging on till I find someone else, but he can only do the odd hour here and there…. So if you know anyone wants a part-time job…’

Rocco held up his hands in surrender.

Cass laughed. ‘Not you—that wasn’t an offer.’

‘Thank god. Working for your mother is hard enough. Have you got the cabinets here?’

‘No, but there are some pictures on the computer. Take a look. They should be in the file marked “stock, warehouse”. Under bedside cabinets?’

‘Bit obvious—I think I’d rather look in the one marked this year’s diary,’ Rocco called after her as Cass made her way into the back of the shop.

Cass laughed. ‘Knock yourself out, Rocco. My social highlights at the moment are dental appointments, haircuts and choir stuff.’

‘I was hoping there’d be a few stars in the margin. How are the boys?’

‘Last time I heard from them they were fine. Joe was hungover and Daniel was in debt, but that’s university for you.’

‘So okay then? Will they be home for Christmas?’

Cass laughed. ‘It’s obvious you’ve never had kids Rocco. I’m their mother, I’ll be the last one to find out.’

Cass went back to making the tea, wondering how it was that her mother had ended up with a guy like Rocco and she was all on her own. Life was strange at times. She could hear him fiddling about, tapping on the keyboard and then he said, ‘Oh they’re nice. Are those the original handles?’

‘Yup, and they’re not bad, few nicks and dents and there’s been a repair to the veneer, just general wear and tear really. Overall they’re not bad for their age.’

‘We are still talking about bedside cabinets here, are we?’ he asked. Cass could hear the humour in his voice.

Rocco and Cass went back a long, long way, to the dim distant days when Rocco had been her boss, and Cass had been married to Neil, and Rocco hadn’t been married to her mother, Nita.

Cass had introduced them at a cheese and wine party at the local college where she’d been teaching interior design part-time. Rocco had been her head of department, Nita had been happy but lonely, and Cass had got Rocco down as gay.

Cass had assumed they would get on, but she hadn’t assumed they would get on quite so well as they did. Twelve years on, and Rocco and Nita were still getting on well. The fact he was around fifteen years younger and fit as a butcher’s whippet seemed to present no problems at all to either of them.

Cass brought in a tray of tea and the biscuits. ‘So, what are you up to?’

‘At the moment? Work-wise we’ve got some corporate stuff and we’ve just taken on a complete makeover for some media type, art deco mad, hence the cabinets. She’s bought one of the apartments in Vancouver House.’

‘Down on the old wharf?’

‘S’right. Cold Harbour. You’d have thought the marketing guys would have come up with something a little cheerier—Cold Harbour. I mean, what does that sound like?’

Cass grinned. ‘Nice conversion, though. I remember the days when it was full of junkies and rats down there.’

‘Cynics might say it still is, they’re just driving Porsches and Beamers these days. How about you? You busy?’

‘Ish—why, have you got something for me?’

Rocco grinned. ‘Might have, there’s a nice little job in Cambridge coming up in the New Year that I thought might be right up your street.’ He glanced at the computer screen. ‘And the cabinets are cute.’

‘They certainly are. As I said, very nice.’

‘Presumably that means you’ll be doubling the price if I say I’m really interested?’

Cass grinned. ‘What else are family for? I’m sure we can do a deal…So, how’s Mum?’

Rocco took the mug of tea she handed him. ‘Fine form, although she’s still trying to persuade me that we should sell up and buy a fucking barge. I’ve told her I get seasick in the bath but she won’t have it. Anyway, we’re going over to Amsterdam to look at a Tjalk some time soon. And before you ask, it’s some kind of huge bloody canal boat. She’s arranged for us to go sailing with these two gay guys who own it. She’s thinking “party”. I’m thinking Kwells. How about you?’

‘Nothing so exciting. Choir trip in few weeks, which should be fun—we’re going to Cyprus. Oh and we’ve got a concert-cum-dress rehearsal before we leave. Can I put you and Mum down for a couple of tickets?’

‘Don’t see why not. And how’s what’s-his-name?’

‘Gone but not forgotten.’

‘What was his name, help me out here?’

Cass shrugged. ‘No idea, he came, he went—you know what men are like.’

‘You’re making it up,’ said Rocco, helping himself out of the biscuit tin. ‘Oh—oh, wait—it’s on the tip of my tongue. Jack, Sam—’

‘Gareth.’

‘That’s it,’ he said, with a mouth full of crumbs. ‘I thought you were quite keen?’

Cass dunked a custard cream. ‘Which just confirms what kind of judge of character I am. Bottom line? Once the initial lust had cooled down, it took me about two days to work out that we had nothing in common. Worse, he was picky and undermining. He was always making little jokes about my weight or my hair and stuff, and then when we were out spent most of his time ogling other women…And then he got blind drunk at Lucy’s wedding—you know Lucy, from across the road? Makes silver jewellery? Anyway, he tried to pick a fight with the best man and he kept calling his ex-wife a brainless muppet, and I just knew that one day that brainless muppet would be me.’

‘So you jumped ship?’

Cass nodded. ‘I most certainly did.’

‘And how did he take it?’

‘Well, he was hurt and then he was weepy and then he was angry. And then a couple of weeks later I was talking to a mutual acquaintance and sure enough, I’m the muppet now.’

Rocco pulled a sympathetic face, no mean feat with a mouthful of custard cream. ‘Not in my book. Anyone else on the horizon?’

Cass laughed. ‘What is this, Mastermind? No, there is no one on the horizon at this particular moment. But to be honest, at the moment I’m that not fussed.’

Rocco looked horrified. ‘What do you mean not that fussed? You’re fit, you’re gorgeous, talented, great company…’ He grinned. ‘Your mother worries about you. How am I doing?’

‘So far, so good. Maybe I should get you to write my lonely hearts ad. The problem is, Neil’s a hard act to follow. I keep picking idiots.’

‘Is that all?’ said Rocco. ‘Realistically, if you kiss enough frogs one of them is bound to turn into a prince. It’s purely a numbers thing.’

Cass sighed. ‘To be honest, Rocco, I’m all frogged out.’

He looked pained. ‘How about coming to Amsterdam with us?’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room. You’d be doing me a favour. Your mother can play at pirates with the beautifully buffed Hans and Bruno while we go shopping or do the markets and the museums. It’d be fun.’

Cass laughed. ‘With two poofs, my mum and her toy boy? I don’t think my ego could take it.’

‘In that case, how about coming round to supper instead? We could talk about this job in Cambridge—your mum’ll cook you something yummy. Nita would love to see you, and we’ll go through our list, see if we can’t fit you up with someone.’

Cass fixed him with a stare.

‘What?’ he protested. ‘I owe you one.’

Cass laughed. ‘My mother doesn’t count—and besides, I’ve been on some of your blind dates before. I don’t want anyone over sixty, and no one without teeth need apply.’

‘Harry was a good bloke.’

‘He was sixty-eight.’

‘He was kind.’

‘He had dentures that clicked.’

‘You can be so picky. He was loaded. What about Fabian?’

‘Anyone who left their wife the previous evening is right out. Okay?’

‘Be fair—we didn’t know about that.’

‘He cried all the way through dinner.’

Rocco shrugged. ‘Maybe it was your mother’s cooking—who knows? I promise you that this new man is gorgeous.’

‘You’ve already picked me one out?’

‘Your mother always says it’s good to have something tucked away for a rainy day—and besides, she’s worried about you.’

‘So what’s new?’

‘Well, the one she’s got in mind is bright, the right size, right age, requisite number of teeth. Say yes, you know your mum’s dying to take you on a guided tour of the new kitchen—did I tell you we’ve got to have the roof off the bloody house now? Anyway, she’ll cook and while she’s in there griddling and steaming away I’ll show off, get horribly drunk and make a complete fool of myself. Remember last Christmas? It’ll be just like that, only with less advocaat.’

Cass laughed. ‘How could anyone possibly resist an invitation like that?’

Rocco grinned. ‘How’s Saturday night sound? Nita’s threatening to drag me off to see some peculiar foreign film with subtitles and bicycle baskets full of sardines.’

Cass hesitated. Rocco pulled his puppy face.

‘You’d be doing me a favour—honestly. And we could go with the fish theme for supper. There’s this great stall on the Saturday market we’ve just discovered, I could pick something up first thing—your mother does this amazing thing with halibut and Gruyère?’

Cass pulled a face. ‘Do I want to hear about this?’

‘And you could dig something or pull something up out of your allotment, something trendy and seasonal and Gordon Ramsay for the resident chef. Now how about you go and fish these cabinets out of storage, and while you’re gone I’ll mind the shop and ring your mum to let her know about Saturday. Oh, and I’ll get her to email you the brief over for the job in Cambridge.’

Cass sighed; it sounded like a done deal.

Wanting to pour oil on troubled waters, Cass tried ringing Fiona when she’d finished work, but got the answer machine. She had a feeling that Fiona was probably there listening, screening the calls. Whether Fiona was right or wrong about Andy playing away, Cass decided to be careful what she said in case he picked up the message. The last thing she wanted to do was add fuel to the fire, real or imaginary.

Cass sighed. She felt guilty about Fiona walking out. Although it had to be said that Fee had a talent for making her feel bad. When they were thirteen it had been because Mr Elliot—their art teacher, six feet tall and gorgeous—had told Cass that she was very talented, at fifteen because Cass had thrashed Fee in the mocks, and at sixteen because she had been the first one to get her hands on Justin Green, if Cass remembered rightly. Cass getting married, having two sons and being happy—even if it hadn’t lasted that long—had been the ultimate insult, and Cass had an odd sense that Fee had never quite forgiven her for any of it. When Fiona had walked back into her life, Cass had hoped they could start over; after all, they were grown-ups. Unfortunately two years on it was increasingly obvious that actually only one of them had made it through to adulthood.

So, after the beep Cass said, ‘Hi Fiona, hope you’re well. Be great to hear from you if you’ve got a minute. See you at choir on Tuesday if not,’ making a real effort to sound warm and cheery.

A few mornings later, Cass heard a phone ringing somewhere in the darkness. Dragged from sleep and a complicated dream about Amsterdam, rats and a blonde wig, she felt around by the bed, found the handset, pressed a button and mumbled, ‘Hello, who is it?’

‘Oh hi Cass, it’s me.’ The voice belonged to someone wide awake and unnaturally cheerful. ‘I’d got you down as an early bird, I thought you’d be up and about by now.’

‘Rocco, it’s the middle of the night.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he said defensively.

Cass peered at the bedside clock. ‘No, you’re right. It’s worse than the middle of the night, it’s six o’clock in the morning. What on earth are you doing ringing me at six in the bloody morning? I don’t open the shop until ten—I lie in. Like heads of state.’ She paused. Rocco said nothing, at which point Cass’s imagination fired up and filled in the gaps. ‘Oh god, is everything all right. What’s happened? Is Mum okay? Are you all right?’

‘It’s about the fish.’

‘Fish? What fish? Oh for god’s sake, Rocco, you’re doing too many drugs. Go back to bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later.’

‘No, no listen, I’m serious. We’ve got to drive down to pick up the people from next door from Heathrow this morning, I’d totally forgotten about it. You are still on for tonight, aren’t you?’

‘As far as I’m concerned it still is the night.’

‘Just listen to me and stop whining, will you? Could you nip down to the market and pick up the halibut for tonight? Four nice steaks and some prawns? Problem is, if you’re not there early it all goes.’

Cass, totally awake now, groaned and rolled out of bed. ‘Halibut?’

‘Uh-huh, halibut and a pint of prawns. Only you really need to be there first thing when they open or it will all be gone. I’m not joking.’

‘What constitutes first thing?’

‘Half seven, eight—if you leave it any later—’ he began.

‘It’s all gone. I got that the first time round, Rocco,’ growled Cass. As she pulled on her dressing gown, phone tucked up between ear and shoulder, Cass couldn’t help wondering who these people were who got out of bed at the crack of dawn to rush out and buy bloody halibut. ‘Can’t I nip in and get a bag of frozen fish from the supermarket? You know, if I don’t make it to the market in time?’

There was a little pause and then Rocco said, ‘Cass, you are such a philistine. And no, you can’t, we need fresh. I’ve already got the Gruyère.’

‘Well, good for you. What if the fish has all gone by the time I get there?’

There was another longer weighty pause. ‘Then you didn’t hear me right…’

‘Okay, okay, I’m getting up now. You’re such a bully.’

‘Wait till you taste it, Nita does this—’

‘Rocco, shut up, go and pick up your neighbours and leave me in peace.’

‘Before eight.’

‘Bugger off.’

Which was why at around seven forty-five, two mugs of tea and a short, sharp shower later, Cass found herself walking up the High Lane into town, wrapped up against the rain, with Buster tugging at the lead, amazed that he was out that early and desperate to wee up every lamppost by way of celebration. Early or not, it was a very grim morning.

Cass could think of innumerable other places she would rather be, although she did remind herself all this was for a purpose. Her mother’s cooking was truly sublime, the apartment she shared with Rocco was breathtaking and, when they were on form, Rocco and Nita were the best company you could wish for. Rocco also found her work. The clients for their interior design business always paid top dollar, Cambridge was almost local and Cass needed the money.

So maybe it was worth it, Cass decided, sticking her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and hunkering down against horizontal drizzle. Buster didn’t seem to mind. He wagged and sniffed and panted cheerfully, rooting out discarded kebab innards, greasy pencil sharp-enings of cold meat, curled up in the gutter. Whoever said it was a dog’s life?

Cass turned the corner into Market Street and down past the Corn Exchange.

Rocco was right; it might be early but the market was already teeming with life. Most of the stalls were open and trading hard, with just a few latecomers still putting their stock out. Ready or not, everyone was open for business, including the parade of cafes and bars around the edge of the square. Every stall was lit, fighting off the gloom, and there was the smell of fried onions, fresh coffee and bacon hanging in the damp morning air.

‘Nice dog, missus,’ said a man laden down with bags as he hurried past clutching a bacon roll. It was a sad state of affairs when your dog got more compliments than you did, thought Cass grimly. Buster, meanwhile, tracked the man’s progress with an accuracy worthy of NASA, while the man headed between the stalls, all shopped out.

‘Maybe we’ll get one of those on the way home,’ said Cass conversationally. The dog wagged his tail.

The punters were four deep at the fish stall in the next aisle. Behind the spotless white counter, two middle-aged ladies were working the queue with a deft touch and a nifty line in helpful hints and off-the-cuff recipes. In front of the counter the broad chiller cabinet was full of the most amazing things—scallops, smoked haddock and rock, Nile perch, red mullet, unnamed things with fins and dark glassy eyes, mussels and lobsters glittering like bizarre jewels—all snuggled down amongst great drifts of diamond-like crushed ice, their hard edges a contrast to the soft flesh of the peeled pink prawns and cockles and shrimps, moist and shiny under the bright overhead lights.

Cass took her place in line and settled down to the slow shuffle towards the front, letting her mind idle over what wine to pick up from the offie at the bottom of the road, and whether she should just take along a big pan of homemade carrot and coriander soup to Nita’s instead of taking vegetables. All this and half a dozen other thoughts were percolating randomly through her head as Cass looked around, just passing the time. As she idly gazed across the faces of the people at the stalls, she caught sight of Fiona’s live-in boyfriend, Andy.

She’d seen him once or twice at concerts, although barely ever spoken to him despite Fiona’s sporadic insistence that they should all get together for a meal sometime. He was loping across the road towards the market, dressed in a battered leather jacket, and he was smiling. Instinctively Cass looked in the direction he was looking, scanning the little groups of people, trying to pick out who he might be smiling at, wondering if it might be Fiona—and then Cass saw that it wasn’t Fiona.

Picking out the recipient of the smile gave her an odd feeling, a little shiver that made Cass feel uneasy. Andy was smiling at a girl, a girl who smiled right back in a way that said she was more than pleased to see him. She waved and hurried towards him, all smiles.

‘Hi,’ the girl mouthed. ‘How are you?’

As Andy and the young girl embraced and then held each other at arms’ length, looking each other up and down, a million and one thoughts tumbled through Cass’s head. First of all, she tried to tell herself it could be anyone, that it was silly to jump to conclusions. She could be a friend, a work colleague, god it could even be his sister—but there was another, stronger voice that was busy telling her that Fiona was right. Andy was seeing someone else. Someone significant, someone he was keeping away from Fiona, someone who he cared enough about to come out to meet first thing in the morning—in the rain.

As Cass watched, the girl tipped her head up towards him and Andy kissed her on the cheek. Tenderly. And then he smiled. As he pulled away, Andy scanned the faces of the people around them, left and right. Everything about the way he moved suggested that he didn’t want to be seen, not here, not now, not with this girl. Cass and Andy’s gaze met for a split second and Cass felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as they made a connection. A nanosecond later and it was over, as Andy guided the girl between the stalls, away from the early morning shoppers.

The girl was small and blonde and slim, and very, very beautiful. She was in her early twenties, wearing a ginger wool jacket and a mustard coloured scarf. The outfit looked bold and stylish and youthful and for an instant Cass’s heart ached, as if the breath was being pressed out of her chest.

Cass and Fiona were beautiful in the way that women over thirty are beautiful; they were women who had learned what suited them and how to wear clothes well, and what lipstick works with what and how to make the best of what nature gave you—but this girl, this girl had that other thing, the thing that only happens when you are young, the thing that means throwing on whatever you find on the floor from the night before, the thing that lets you scrape you hair up into a topknot with tendrils tumbling out and that still lets you end up looking gorgeous and stylish and desirable. Whatever it was, that youthful thing, the girl with whom Andy was currently walking across the market square, had it in spades.

Cass couldn’t take her eyes off them. The pair of them drew her like a magnet. Their body language was a peculiar mixture of familiarity and reticence—maybe they were afraid of being seen, maybe Andy was afraid of looking silly with someone so young, maybe the girl wasn’t sure of him or quite what to do. Whatever it was, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that they were together. Cass kept on staring. There was an instant when the girl tried to slip her arm through his. Andy artfully avoided it. Cass was mesmerised.

‘S’cuse me, can I help you?’ said a voice from somewhere behind her.

It took Cass a few seconds to realise the question was being directed at her, and even longer for her to get her thoughts back on track. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. I’d like some—some…’ Her mouth worked up and down. The word was somewhere there in the back of her head; it was just a case of finding it.

The woman smiled her encouragement.

‘I’d like some fish,’ said Cass, trying to buy herself some time.

The woman nodded. ‘Righty-oh. Well, you’ve come to the right place, love. What do you fancy? We’ve got some smashing cod or then there’s Nile perch, nice bit of tuna, or red snapper if you fancy something a little bit more exotic…’ She managed to make it sound like a night in a lap-dancing club, but Cass couldn’t quite tear her mind away from Andy and the girl, which must have shown on her face.

‘Would you like me to give you a bit more time?’ the woman said. ‘Maybe you’d just like to take a little look and I’ll come back to you?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Cass. ‘I’d like…’ What the hell was it she wanted? Cass’s brain rolled over and played dead. She looked up in desperation. Behind her the queue was getting restless.

‘It begins with H…’ she said miserably. ‘And it goes early, which is why I’m here. I was sent by my mother’s husband, my stepfather, although he’s a lot younger so I don’t call him that…’ Cass cringed: her brain might be dead but her mouth was alive and kicking and just kept on going.

‘And he sent you to buy a fish that begins with H?’ The woman said helpfully, as if playing I-Spy was something she did on a regular basis.

Cass nodded.

‘Haddock?’ suggested the woman. She managed to make it sound like an insult.

Cass shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t haddock.’

‘You sure? Only it’s not dyed, and we do sell a lot of it—and we’ve got some lovely thick fillets. That’s very popular. Smoked. That always goes real quick on a Saturday.’

‘Or there’s hake? Or what about herring?’ suggested the other woman who was working behind the counter, as she plopped a couple of nice plaice fillets onto the scale. ‘Have you got any idea what he was going to do with it?’

Someone in the queue behind Cass made a fairly graphic suggestion. Cass began to sweat, Buster began to whimper. Just exactly how many fish were there that began with H?

‘Huss?’

Cass shook her head again.

‘How about halibut?’

‘Halibut,’ Cass said, with a genuine sense of relief. ‘That’s it. I’d like some halibut. Please.’

‘Righty-oh, we’ve got a bit left; it always goes early, you know.’

Cass nodded. ‘So I’ve been told. Have you got four nice pieces, please?’

‘Certainly have,’ said the woman, holding out a snow-white piece of fish towards her. ‘Four like that?’

Cass nodded. ‘That will be great. And a pint of prawns please,’ she said, although try as she might to concentrate on the fish, Cass’s mind kept being pulled back towards Andy and the young woman. She couldn’t see them now, but she guessed where they would be heading. They would be in Sam’s Place.

Above the market square, the town clock was just chiming the hour. It was eight o’clock. Wasn’t that what the note Fiona found had said, ‘Saturday eight o’clock?’ The only difference was that Fiona had assumed it was eight o’clock in the evening, not eight o’clock on a cold wet windy early autumn morning.

Walking home, Cass mulled over what she should do. Should she ring Fiona and tell her? Fiona had asked for her help. Or was it one of those things best left alone? Cass hunched against the wind, Buster tucking in behind, slipstreaming out of the weather.

Fiona didn’t take bad news well. Cass could remember the time when she’d seen Peter Bailey—the boy whose children Fiona planned to bear when they were both about fifteen—in town with Alison Wickham. They had been holding hands. When Cass had told her, Fiona had accused Cass of lying and then of being jealous and, finally, when the two of them had caught Mr Bailey and Ms Wickham in a sweaty clinch behind the groundsman’s hut after double games, of gloating—immediately before she sent Cass to Coventry.

The bottom line was that what went on between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. Even though they were friends, asked her conscience? Especially because they were friends, countered Cass. And even if Cass had known about the girl before Fiona came round, her advice would have been that Fiona and Andy needed to talk about what was going on between themselves first, before they involved anyone else, particularly if that anyone else was likely to get mashed in the middle.

Cass sighed. The halibut weighed heavy as an albatross, the drizzle finally broke loose into a full-scale downpour, and even Buster was keen to beat a retreat as they hurried home.

As she slid the key into the shop doorway, Cass decided that the best course of action really was to say nothing. Maybe seeing Andy and the girl together was just a coincidence, or completely innocent. Maybe Fiona coming round had planted a seed in her imagination; maybe she had imagined the little buzz between Andy and the girl. Maybe Fiona and Andy had already sorted it out, talked it through, made everything right. Maybe today was the day that Andy was going to tell the little blonde that it was over for good. If she said anything, Cass might put her foot right in it and break something that wasn’t broken or cracked, something that was nine parts mended.

Who was she kidding? Cass sighed, wondering who’d died and made her Claire Rayner.

Meanwhile in an alcove in the back of Sam’s Place, at one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the large plate-glass windows, Andy watched as Amelia’s fingers knitted tightly around a tall thin mug of hot chocolate. She was hunched over it, apparently frozen, blowing away the steam as well as warming her hands, occasionally glancing up at him from under those long, perfectly mascara-ed lashes. She was wearing pink fingerless gloves.

The bar at Sam’s Place had an old colonial feel to it, with an overhead fan, lots of dark wood, ochre-coloured rag-rolled plaster and rattan furniture arranged around a central bar, and at this time of the morning it was practically empty. The guys from the market were over in the Nag’s Head if they wanted a beer and at Bennie’s on the corner or one of the stalls if they wanted coffee, tea or bacon butties. Behind the servery, a couple of staff were busy fiddling with the coffee machine; other than Andy and Amelia, their only other customer was an elderly man reading his newspaper and drinking coffee. He hadn’t looked up since the two of them had walked in.

‘You look rough,’ Amelia said, blowing over the top of the mug.

Andy, who hadn’t been sure exactly which way this conversation was going to go, smiled. ‘Well, thanks for that. I’d like to return the compliment but you look great.’

She had the good grace to blush. Last time they’d met Amelia had cried and shouted and stormed off, because he couldn’t think of anything to say that could help her with the pain, so he’d said nothing and been left standing in the middle of the beach at Holkham on his own, with people staring at him.

When he had got back to the car, Andy had had to make sure there was no sand in his shoes in case Fiona found it. He’d showered as soon as he got home, rinsing the fine grit from his hair, feeling it rasp under his fingertips as he rubbed in shampoo, although in the pocket of his leather jacket he still had a little white shell Amelia had given him.

‘You know, Andy, I could learn to really love you,’ Amelia had said, as she pressed it into his hand, before all the crying and the shouting and the running away had started.

Andy looked across the table at her now; she was watching his face intently. ‘So, how are things going?’

Amelia shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘So…?’ He waited for a second.

Amelia looked up at him from under long, mascara-covered lashes. ‘I know that you said not to ring you at home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve missed you,’ she said, pausing as if trying to gauge his mood. ‘I was worried that you might not come.’ And as she spoke, Amelia began to spoon whipped cream, dusted with chocolate, into her mouth. ‘I wanted us to talk.’

Andy had ordered an espresso; the coffee was as hot as it was bitter and left an unpleasant residue over his tongue and teeth.

‘I can’t stay very long,’ he said, glancing round, tipping his wrist to indicate his watch and time passing, hoping to create some sense of urgency that would persuade her to come to the point.

Over the last few months he’d discovered that Amelia wasn’t very good at getting to the point. She preferred to meander through unrelated backwaters, telling Andy silly things or exciting things or secret things, sometimes things that he would rather not know, sometimes things that took his breath away. When they first met he’d thought it was charming and amusing, but now he found it frustrating, and he felt bad for feeling that about her. She was beautiful and young and every time they met he promised himself that he wouldn’t be bewitched or sidetracked by those things.

‘I can’t be long,’ he pressed.

Amelia nodded, scooping up more whipped cream. There was a tiny blob of it on her chin and he fought the temptation to lean across and wipe it away.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, still watching his face. ‘I know, you have to get back to Fiona. Who are you trying to fool here, Andy? We both know you’re not happy with her. You don’t have to be a genius to work it out. It’s not like you have got any kids or anything. Why don’t you just say something—or just leave? For god’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Start over…’ She stared at him, waiting for a reply. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’

Andy opened his mouth to say something but there were no words there. What could he say?

‘Why don’t you just tell her straight about me, about us?’ she asked. ‘Get it over and done with.’

Andy wasn’t sure what the answer was, and so said nothing. He felt at a loss for not having the right answer, or any kind of answer, come to that. This wasn’t the kind of man he was. The trouble was that, since meeting Amelia, it seemed to be the man he had become—meeting her had changed him forever.

Amelia took his silence for some kind of tacit agreement. ‘Why don’t you leave her, Andy? You know you want to.’

He winced, wishing that he’d never told Amelia that he was unhappy. My girlfriend doesn’t understand me was hardly the most original line he’d ever come up with, and completely stupid really, particularly as Amelia would never have noticed how unhappy he was if he hadn’t told her. She was far too self-obsessed to notice what was going on in anyone’s life but her own.

Across the table, Amelia licked her lips and then rootled through her handbag so that she could check them in a little mirror, adding more gloss from a clear glittery tube, smoothing away the fleck of cream. She ran a finger over her eyebrows, first one and then the other, and Andy noticed as he always did what beautiful hands she had; those long fingers with French-manicured nails. Her component parts constantly caught his attention and enchanted him. She caught him looking at her and smiled slyly. ‘So why don’t you just leave her?’ she asked.

Andy pushed his hands back through his hair; he had no idea now why he had even mentioned it to her. Confession and complaining had never really been his style. But then again he had never lied to Fiona before, nor gone behind her back. This was such a mess.

‘Look Amelia, it’s good to see you, but if there is something you want to say—I mean—I really have got to get back.’

Amelia’s mouth tightened into a little moue of displeasure. ‘I thought that we could talk. I haven’t seen you all week…’

‘Well, we can talk,’ said Andy, hoping that she wasn’t planning to make a scene like the one on the beach. ‘Just not for long. I did say I couldn’t be long today.’ And then he made himself be quiet, because he didn’t want to promise her that they would meet again soon and talk then, because she would want to know where and when and for how long, and her demands made him increasingly uncomfortable. He’d only met her this morning because he was afraid that if he held her off for too long she might turn up at their house, or ring when he wasn’t home. She was unpredictable and she made him uneasy.

Meeting her had shaken his life to the core. Fiona wasn’t the only person that he really should deal with.

And, even as he was thinking it, Amelia looked up at him, her chin resting on her knuckles, and Andy could see how vulnerable she was, how lost, and hated himself for trying to hold her at arms’ length and for being afraid of her. Of course she was right, he really should tell Fiona. About her. About them. About how much he loved her.

‘I’m listening, just tell me what you want to say,’ Andy said, leaning forwards across the table, craning closer so that he could catch every word, his voice soft with compassion.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Amelia said.

Chapter Three

‘Right, so has everyone got their starting notes? And is everyone happy with the arrangement for this?’ asked Alan, before rapidly running through the flight plan for a little gospel number the choir were polishing for the All Stars On Tour show. It was also the opening number for the ‘Bon Voyage’ concert they were staging in the Corn Exchange before they left and it really needed to go with a zing.

Alan tapped his baton on the music stand. ‘Mellow—nice and bluesy. Basses in first, twice through the intro and then altos you come in, along with the tenors and finally sopranos. We do the whole thing through a couple of times and then head on home for a big finish? Okay, just watch where I’m going with this—now relax, breathe—and let’s really go for it. Lots of life, plenty of swing,’ said Alan enthusiastically. Standing out in front of the choir, who were currently arranged in concert formation, he looked around the faces to ensure he had everyone’s attention.

‘Right. Here we go. One, two, one two three four…’ and brought the bass section in with a crisp flick of his hands. At least, that was the idea—except that that wasn’t quite what happened. For some reason, things weren’t going well tonight, and the whole number rapidly dissolved into total chaos. The normally crisp dm, dm dm-dm, dm dm—a percussive, plucky snap without a vowel sound, created by the bass section and meant to resemble the sharp rhythmic slap of a well-tuned bass, and a staple part of a lot of ‘a cappella’ choral numbers, which anchored everyone else—sounded like a bag of spanners being dropped down a flight of concrete stairs.

Welsh Alf’s attempts to recover the timing made the whole thing far worse—a lot worse. Within a few bars, the song sounded like a broken engine, mistimed, misfiring and gradually tearing itself apart, while behind it the dm, dm dm-dm, dm dms slowed, stalled and finally faded.

‘Whoa, whoa, there cowboy,’ said Alan, face contorted into a grin as he pulled an imaginary horse to a standstill. ‘Let’s try that again then, shall we folks? Just relax, feel the beat. Let’s be honest, if you don’t know it by now, really there isn’t a lot of hope. Basses, would you like me to run through your part one more time with feeling?’

There was a faint murmuring, which Alan took for a yes, at which point he began to go over their part line by line. Given that most of it was dms, it wasn’t so much a case of checking the words as the pattern. Cass looked around the rest of her section, wondering what the problem was. Fiona had barely said a word all evening, although everyone looked a bit down in the mouth tonight; surely they weren’t all keeping mum?

Cass closed her eyes and reminded herself that she wasn’t planning on saying anything about Andy, not one word, and that what happened between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. In fact, she had arrived a few minutes later than normal, and had to squeeze herself into place amongst the rest of the section, just so she couldn’t do any pre-match bonding with Fiona, and she planned to leave before the last note had stopped vibrating round the hall, so she wouldn’t slip up and nothing would slip out.

‘Righty-oh,’ said Alan, clapping his hands after they’d dm-ed the song through a few times. ‘I really don’t know what the problem was there, guys, but my advice is, you know it, you just need to relax and go with it. Right, let’s go from the top. And don’t worry, it’s pre-match nerves. Not long now and we’ll be on the road in Cyprus, on stage, on the terrace drinking pina coladas, groupies and sugar daddies hanging around wherever we go, clamouring for our bodies.’

‘For god’s sake don’t tell my missus that,’ said Welsh Alf, looking all flummoxed and anxious. ‘I’ve had a hard enough job getting her to let me go as it is.’

There was a lot of laughter.

‘You all set?’ asked Fiona, as everyone settled down.

Cass nodded. ‘For the trip? Oh yes, really looking forward to it,’ she answered brightly, making sure there was no room for any other questions.

‘Me too,’ said Fiona.

Across the hall, one of the sopranos stuck her hand up and waved it about like a schoolgirl keen to answer a question. ‘Alan? Alan?’ she called in a tinkling voice, trying hard to grab his attention.

Taking advantage of the hiatus, Fiona said, ‘Actually, Cass, I was hoping to have a word with you. Are you going to the pub afterwards? I wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

Cass felt her heart sink. After all, she could so easily be wrong about Andy and the girl, which was exactly what Rocco and her mum had said on Saturday evening, while eating a superb supper of halibut and prawns baked under a crust of Gruyère crumble, served with Cass’s homegrown spinach, pan-fried courgettes and sauté potatoes—along with a spare man called Mike who they had invited along to make up the numbers.

‘My advice? Snout out,’ Rocco had said, tapping the side of his nose by way of a visual aid. ‘You’re damned if you do and you’ll be buggered if you don’t in a situation like that. God only knows the bucket of worms you’ll be wading through.’ He pulled a face. ‘Blast, I just mixed my metaphors, didn’t I?’

‘Well and truly mixed, diced, and deep fried,’ said Nita, tucking a strand of bleached blonde hair back behind her ear. ‘Best to leave that one alone, Cass my darling. I remember what she was like when you were at school. She was always difficult. You did the right thing, told her to talk to him, and now it’s up to them to sort it out for themselves. Do you want some more fish—there’s plenty?’

‘So what’s your connection to the woman with the wayward husband?’ asked Mike conversationally, offering up his plate for seconds. ‘Nita said that you were in antiques—do you do counselling on the side?’

Cass glanced across at him. Mike was around five ten with grey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes with enough wrinkles around them to suggest he probably smiled a lot more than he frowned. Sadly, that was not enough to make him her type or fanciable. And, truth be told, he was probably nice, except that tonight romance wasn’t what was on her mind. So far he’d done little but listen and fiddle with things in his jacket pocket and she was torn between feeling sorry for him and being annoyed. Her mum and Rocco always did this, invite along some poor sucker, hoping to play matchmaker, when really all she wanted was to gossip with the pair of them.

‘We sing together,’ she began. ‘And we used to go to school together. She moved back to the area a couple of years ago.’

‘Oh right—yes—in the choir, Rocco was telling me about that. Sounds like fun.’

‘They sing like angels,’ said Nita.

‘You ought to hear them,’ said Rocco. Cass shot him a look. He beamed back at her.

Mike was an architect, and apparently yes, he was an angel too, because her mother had said so. He’d drawn up the plans for their kitchen and now he’d come up with some sort of fancy notion for the roof, which included taking most of it off and turning part of it into a sun terrace.

‘You’re having a terrace?’ asked Cass, as she shovelled more of the baked fish onto her plate.

Rocco nodded. ‘Uh-huh—your mother reckons if they’re right about global warming that our flat roof is going to be like St Tropez, so while we’ve got the whole thing stripped back to bare bones, why not? Who wants this last bit of fish?’

Mouth full, Mike waved it onto his plate. ‘Yes please, god, that’s really fabulous…’

‘Worth getting up at seven for?’ asked Rocco in passing. Mike, quite reasonably, looked mystified.

‘It’s a close call,’ said Cass. ‘Did you get to the airport on time?’

Rocco pushed the bowl of vegetables in her direction. ‘Certainly did. Your mum was going to pick them up, but you know what her driving is like.’ He tipped his hand sharply left and right.

Nita made as if to hit him with the spoon.

‘Oh, come on, Nita. Last time we went to Stansted you reversed over some poor bugger’s hand luggage and then drove off with both back doors open,’ said Rocco, topping up Cass’s wine glass.

At which point Nita hit him with the spoon. ‘You are such a liar. Here baby, take the last of the potatoes…’

Supper at their house contained more nurturing in one evening than most women got in a lifetime.

‘And be fair,’ continued Nita. ‘Rocco’s enough to drive Francis of Assisi to drink. Nag, nag, nag, look out for this, did you see that, mind that cyclist. Don’t drive in the middle of the road…He would drive anyone loco. Talking of which, Rocco tells me that you and the All Stars are off on tour?’

‘Um,’ said Cass, through a mouthful of sauce, ‘A fortnight today. You are coming to the concert, aren’t you? Rocco—you did tell her, didn’t you?’

The pair of them nodded. ‘As if we’d miss it,’ said Rocco. Cass couldn’t work out quite just how much of that was sarcasm. ‘We can get you a ticket if you want to come along too, Mike, can’t we Cass?’ continued Rocco.

Cass glared at him—not that Rocco noticed.

‘That sounds great. Where are you going on tour?’ Mike asked.

‘Cyprus. Seven days of singing with our lot and about twenty-five other choirs. It’s their first a cappella festival. I know it sounds nuts but it’ll be great. We’ve got some workshops and rehearsals together, a few performances and lot of sun, sea, singing and…’

All three of them looked expectantly in her direction, waiting for the pay-off line. Cass reddened and held up her hands. ‘It’s a competition—the winning choir gets a trip to the States. We’re going to be singing in a Roman amphitheatre.’

‘Really—well, sounds like fun,’ said Mike, politely.

‘Sounds way, way too Butlins to me. So what’s happening to the pooch, the puss and the old hacienda while you’re away?’ Rocco asked casually.

‘Kennels, cattery and most probably closing down for a few days. The boys are both at Uni at the moment—not that I’d ask them to come home and house-sit. They’d eat me out of house and home and leave the place wrecked. And Jacko’s busy—that’s a local guy who helps me out in the shop,’ she added for Mike’s benefit. ‘Besides, I need a break, and business is usually slow at this time of the year anyway. People will ring if they want anything special.’

She and Mike had already had the, So you’re an architect, how very interesting conversation, followed by the Rocco tells me you’re an interior designer section, to which Cass had added the actually these days I mostly restore and sell old furniture speech, so at least he was up to speed with her professional life.

‘And people will come back. I’ll put a sign in the window.’

‘How very twenty-first century…’ said Rocco, steepling his fingers. ‘We’ve been discussing this, haven’t we Nita? How about if we stepped into the breach for you?’

‘What do you mean? I wasn’t aware there was any breach?’ Cass said suspiciously.

‘Y’know, pick up the pinny, mind the fort,’ said Rocco.

‘Do you mean run the shop?’

Her mother and Rocco did some very slick synchronised nodding.

Cass stared at the pair of them. ‘Because?’

‘Actually, it would just be me during the day,’ said her mother apologetically. ‘Well, most days, and I couldn’t promise it would be every day, but we can look after the animals, can’t we Rocco? I’ve always wanted a cat. And Buster loves us.’

‘And while we’re at it, we wondered if we could maybe borrow your house as well.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, because first of all we can keep an eye on the place,’ said Nita. ‘I mean, you always have nice things there. Very nice things, according to Rocco.’

Cass held tight to Rocco’s shifting gaze. He reddened.

Mike meanwhile looked backwards and forwards, as if he’d got good seats at centre court.

‘And this whole thing about having the roof off. I mean, we all know it’s going to be great when it’s done, French windows coming off the sitting room onto a roof terrace—great views. Mike’s done an amazing job with the plans, haven’t you Mike? I did tell you that we’ve got to have the roof off, didn’t I?’ Rocco said after a few seconds.

‘I think you may have mentioned it.’

‘Well, they’re going to take the old chimney stack down at the same time, and our builder has got a gap in his schedule and he said if we can stand the noise and the chaos he’ll come and do the roof before the bad weather sets in. I said to your mother that we should have had it done before we had the kitchen, really…’

‘I didn’t know how bad it was, did I? I mean I had no idea—really. I’m not a builder…’

Before they started a full-scale spat, Cass said, ‘Which would be in a couple of weeks’ time, would it? The roof coming off?’

Rocco, cornered, nodded. Mike was about to say something but Cass cut across him. ‘Which would make me being away convenient,’ she suggested.

‘The thing is Cass, we’re prepared to work round you, aren’t we, Rocco?’ said Nita, shovelling the last of the sautéed potatoes onto her plate.

‘They’re taking the roof off, not taking the house down,’ said Cass.

‘You know how much I hate noise,’ said her mother.

‘And dust,’ said Rocco. ‘I mean, can you imagine what it’s going to be like? Kango drills, brick rubble, hairy-arsed builders lolling on around sacks of cement reading the Sun. And you know your mum works from home. The studio is going to be knee deep in rubble.’

‘We were planning to just sheet everything down and move into a hotel or something.’

Rocco nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right, and we’ve booked industrial cleaners for when they’ve finished.’

Mike had the good sense to say nothing.

Cass shook her head. ‘You’ll need to get industrial cleaners in before you move into my place.’

‘That’s not true, sweetie,’ said her mum. ‘Your place is really lovely—so cosy. Rocco was telling me about the choir trip and said you were going to be away for the week. And we just thought—’

‘We wouldn’t be any trouble,’ said Rocco.

‘We thought we’d be doing you a favour.’

Cass looked from one to the other. ‘I should have known that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. This is a done deal, isn’t it? The pair of you have set me up.’

‘No, no of course not,’ Rocco said. ‘As if—think of it more as a happy coincidence, providence smiling on us all. Your mother has always fancied running a shop. What do you reckon then, sound like a good idea?’

‘I mean tell us honestly, what do you think?’ said Nita.

‘That my place is small and full of animals. And my shop is smaller and full of tut?’

‘Uh-huh, well we already know that. We’ve been round to your place before.’ Nita turned her attention to Mike. ‘It’s the most amazing place. A real Aladdin’s cave. You should go some time.’

‘Yes, but not to stay in,’ said Cass. ‘And not to have to deal with the vagaries of the plumbing or root through the fridge or see what I’ve got hidden at the back of the airing cupboard.’

‘Oh come on. You’re just being paranoid,’ said her mother.

‘And, besides, you could probably fit the whole of my house in your kitchen,’ protested Cass.

‘You can, we’ve already measured,’ said Nita. ‘But the good news is it’s not going to come as a surprise. And we love Buster and Mungo.’

‘And this way your shop stays open, and we get to stay sane, pootle through your warehouse and cherry-pick your stock,’ said Rocco.

Her mother got to her feet. ‘Take no notice of him, Cass. I promise you it’ll be fine. You can have a great, stress-free break and we get a dust-and jackhammer-free week. Now I’ve made the most fabulous pudding —strawberry shortcake. Would you like some pudding, Mike?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

Cass laughed. ‘Be very careful with these two, they lull you into a false sense of security with food and then bam—they’ll be moving in.’

Rocco handed her a clean side plate. ‘We’ll take that as a yes then, shall we?’

Did they really think she was going to be thrown off track by dessert? ‘What about if your roof’s not done by the time I get back from Cyprus?’

‘They’ve promised it will be, but if it isn’t then we’ll just move into a hotel for a day or two,’ said her mother.

Cass stared at the two of them, busy planning and plotting, and smiled. ‘And you’ll keep the shop open?’

‘Oh god, yes,’ said Rocco, waving the words away. ‘You know that your mum has always wanted to dabble in dealing and rag rolling. And I’ll be in and out, keeping the home fires burning, you’ll hardly know that we’ve been there—and besides places get damp when you don’t keep them aired. Especially this time of the year…’

‘And burgled,’ said her mother, sliding a huge plate of strawberry shortcake cut into thick wedges on the table between them. ‘Let’s not forget burgled.’

Mike picked up a cake slice. ‘Shall I be mother?’

Which was one amongst the many thoughts in Cass’s head as they waited for Ms Soprano to check the lyrics of a song they’d sung for the best part of three years and to pitch a note that she had hit every week since.

Since having supper at her mother’s, Mike had rung and left a message on Cass’s machine and she was weighing up whether or not to ring him back, even if he wasn’t her type. Which threw up the question: what was her type, and was it a type she wanted to hang on to?

Fiona meanwhile, moved in a little closer and said in a whisper, ‘So, can I buy you a drink—just a quickie? On the way home? Just to say thank you?’

Cass stared at her. ‘Thank me? There’s really nothing to thank me for, Fee. And besides, I’ve got way too much to organise, you know, what with going away and the animals and the shop and…’ Which was the excuse she planned to use on Mike, too, if he rang again. Cass looked away, deliberately leaving the sentence hanging in the air between them.

Undeterred, Fiona moved closer still. ‘Me too, but this won’t take long, really. I just wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

Which was exactly what Cass was afraid of. Somewhere in the back of her head she thought she could hear a cage door creaking open on rusty hinges, making Hammer House of Horror sound effects. This wasn’t going to end well unless she made a concerted effort to keep her mouth shut. So, instead of words, Cass settled for a grunt.

‘The thing is,’ Fiona said. ‘This is hard for me to say really, but you know what I’m like—a bit of a control freak.’ She pulled a comedy face and then paused, apparently expecting Cass to correct her, but when nothing came, continued, ‘What I wanted to say was that I’m sorry about the other night, and that you were right. Totally. So thank you for that.’ She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Pax.

Cass stared at her. ‘Sorry?’ she said, struggling to keep her expression neutral.

‘The other night. Thank you. You were right about Andy and me, and the whole stalking thing. He’s been really stressed at work and things haven’t been right for—well, months really—and then I read in the paper that they’d been making staff cuts at his place and you know what men can be like—bottling things up, not talking about what’s really bugging them. And the move’s been stressful. I mean, he grew up near Cambridge, so we both know the area but it was still a big change. Anyway, I’m certain that’s what has been making him twitchy and a bit preoccupied, the not-knowing if he’s going to be one of the ones for the chop. He says his job’s safe, but you never really know, do you?—and I can’t have helped, being off with him, putting two and two together and coming up with…’ She laughed nervously. ‘Well, you know what I came up with. Andy and I talked about it on Sunday, when we’d got some quality time together.

I said, “Andy, I know there’s something wrong, I want us to talk about it, and I know what it is.” Cass, he went all pale—and I said, “It’s all right, Andy—it’s been all over the papers—it’s all the job cuts, isn’t it? Why didn’t you say something?” And although he didn’t really say very much about it, I could tell he was relieved.’

‘I bet he was,’ Cass said, before she could stop herself.

‘And the upshot of it is that everything is fine,’ said Fiona, ignoring her.

Cass stared at her. ‘Fine?’

‘Uh-huh. Absolutely. I told him about what we’d talked about. You and me. Not all of it, obviously, I didn’t want him thinking he was living with a maniac,’ she laughed. ‘So I just explained that I’d needed someone to talk to and that you told me straight out that I should be talking to him, not to you. Anyway—we talked for a bit; well, I talked and he listened. Andy’s always been a good listener and—’ Fiona smiled—‘and I’ve persuaded him to come to Cyprus with us, with the choir. Isn’t that great? I thought it would be a bit of a second honeymoon.’ Fiona reddened. ‘Not that we had a first one, I mean we’re not married, but you know what I mean. I’ve already asked Alan and he said it will be okay. We’ll just get a room to ourselves. I mean it’s two to a room, I had been thinking that maybe you and I could share—but anyway, Andy’s coming and he’s going to roadie for us.’

‘We’re an a cappella choir, Fee, all we’ve got is us and our voices and a crate of brown ale for Alf.’

Fiona giggled. ‘I know, but I thought it was just what we needed. We could do with a change of pace. We’ve been talking about a baby—well, at least I have. I mean, if I don’t do it soon—tick-tick-tick.’ She tipped her head from one side to the other, miming a biological clock.

If only Fiona’s timing had been that accurate during the introduction to the last number, they’d have it done and dusted by now, and they wouldn’t be having this conversation, thought Cass ruefully, trying very hard not to meet Fiona’s eye.

‘It’s all right for you, you’ve already done the whole parenthood thing,’ Fiona said, managing to make having children sound like a package holiday to Greece. ‘How old is Joe now?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘And Danny?’

‘Twenty.’

Cass could almost see Fiona’s brain doing the maths. ‘I was nineteen when I had Joe.’

Fiona smiled. ‘See, I wish I’d started young, got it all out of the way, but better late than never—how’re they doing?’

‘Fine,’ Cass began, relieved that across the room Alan was busy tapping the music stand to attract their attention. ‘Busy doing all the things kids do at Uni.’

‘Studying hard?’

Cass smiled; she was thinking more along the lines of getting drunk, running up a huge debt and staying out late, but didn’t say so.

‘It must be lovely for you,’ said Fiona. ‘Seeing them grow up—I was saying to Andy I’d like two, although I’d really like one of each.’

‘Anyone here want to sing or shall we just carry on chatting?’ Alan said, his voice cutting through the din like a band saw. ‘I’d like to remind you all that I get paid whether you sing or not and that the meter is running.’

‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said Fiona brightly to Cass, turning her attention back to Alan.

‘Sorry?’ said Cass.

‘Me and Andy. All’s well that ends well. You stopped me from making a total fool of myself.’

‘After four then,’ said Alan, raising his hands to bring them in again.

Cass stared at Fiona; she couldn’t help thinking that maybe she should say something after all. Although Cass had a feeling that, whichever way she played it, this wasn’t going to end well. Which led Cass on to thinking about what it was she did know for certain, which wasn’t much, and from there to Fiona having a baby and from there on to how very complicated life could become without you trying.

‘Are you with us?’

‘What?’ Cass looked up and realised to her horror that the whole choir had stopping singing and turned to look at her. She reddened furiously. ‘Sorry, is there a problem?’ she blustered.

Alan smiled. ‘That rather depends on how you feel about modern jazz,’ he said.

Cass sensed this wasn’t going to end at all well either. ‘I was singing, wasn’t I?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. You most certainly were,’ said Alan. There was a pantomime pause. ‘Unfortunately you weren’t singing the same song as the rest of us.’

Cass stared at him. ‘Really?’ She said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’

Beside her, Welsh Alf and the rest of the lads nodded earnestly. Embarrassed didn’t anywhere near cover what she felt.

Cass’s feelings of preoccupation stayed with her all the way home. And her thoughts were certainly not just about Fiona and Andy. The to-do list in her head was steadily growing longer and longer. Usually they went to the pub after rehearsals, so it would be after closing time when she wandered back home and there would be other people around coming back after a night out, but heading straight back after choir the streets seemed almost deserted. It was cold, the wind busily scouring rubbish up out of the gutters for dramatic effect, and under every streetlight lay a pool of film-noir lamplight, not that Cass noticed. The dog and cat were upset she had arrived back early having planned a night of chase, chew and snore, but she didn’t notice that either and headed up to bed for an early night.

Trouble was that the night seemed never-ending and full of dreaming and waking and thinking and dreaming some more. Cass’s dreams were long and complex, full of Fiona and Andy and the girl in the market, and some kind of giant fish—possibly beginning with H—flapping about on a roof terrace, along with angels and singing and unseen tensions and hurrying, and hiding and a sense of impending doom; by the time the morning came, Cass was completely exhausted and relieved to get up.

Chapter Four

Rolling out of bed, Cass pulled on jeans and a sweater, deciding what she needed was a walk with Buster to clear her head before opening the shop.

Outside, the new day was grey and heavy as an army blanket, but unseasonably warm, so that as Cass walked down High Lane to the river it felt almost clammy.

It was ten by the time Cass opened the shop up, the new day still so overcast that she needed to put all the lights on to shake off the gloom. It didn’t help her mood at all. In the workshop she pulled the dustsheet off the armchair she’d been working on the day before, and took stock of what still needed doing. Cass bought most of her furniture and bric-a-brac in from car boots and at auction, giving things a new lease of life. Sometimes she painted them, other pieces were re-upholstered or just plain old-fashioned restored, giving chairs and tables, beds and bookcases, sofas and sideboards a quirky, idiosyncratic, more contemporary twist, so that everyone from designers through to arty first-time furniture buyers came along to the shop to see what she currently had in stock.

The armchair Cass was working was stripped back to the frame and looked like something you’d find in a skip, although with a bit of TLC it would be just the kind of thing people would want in their home, a handsome feature in heavy corn-coloured linen that just screamed style and luxury.

While she sorted out her tools, Buster settled himself into his basket under the bench and turned his concentration to sleeping, while Mungo the cat curled up on the discarded dustsheet. Hanging on the wall behind the bench in the workshop was a calendar on which Cass had been marking off the days to the All Stars’ concert and tour with big red crosses.

Cass was really looking forward to a little late season sun. There would be dinner and dancing and warm nights sipping cocktails out on the terrace, and the thought of a week of beach life and sunshine lifted her spirits no end. She picked up a little tacking hammer and surveyed the frame of the chair, mentally busy thumbing her way through her wardrobe while her hands worked.

It didn’t look as if she was going to be rushed off her feet, and so Cass pinned up the set list for the concert and started to work her way down through the songs. Buster and the cat studiously ignored her.

Cass liked to practise a little every day even when they didn’t have a concert. When she was alone she’d put a CD of the choir’s current repertoire into her player—Alan recorded all the parts—so Cass sang along as she tapped away at the chair, sang while she replaced the beading, stained and bees-waxed a little mahogany sideboard in the main shop, and sang while she put the undercoat on a little chiffonier that she planned to distress, although Cass had stopped herself humming the tunes under her breath in the street and when there were punters in the shop, because she was conscious that it disturbed people—and there was that whole mad-old-biddy, slippery-slope thing that she sometimes felt herself sitting at the top of.

Cass was halfway through the first set and well into the second verse of Moondance when the shop bell rang.

Buster opened an eye but didn’t bother barking or moving.

‘Some guard dog you turned out to be,’ Cass murmured as she got to her feet. Putting down her hammer, Cass went into the shop, dropping a handful of brass tacks into the pocket of the big canvas apron she was wearing.

‘Hello?’ called a male voice rather tentatively from the front of the shop.

Cass looked at the man for a second, struggling to place his face.

‘Mike,’ he said warmly, heading towards her extending his hand. ‘We met the other night at your mother’s house? Mike? I’m the architect?’

Cass reddened, embarrassed. ‘God of course, I’m so sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I was miles away—working…’ She didn’t mention the singing, as she indicated the back of the shop with a nod of her head and the last of the tacks cupped in the palm of her hand in case he might need some sort of visual aid. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ she said although, even as she said it, Cass realised it sounded more like, I wasn’t expecting to see you again.

‘Right,’ said Mike. ‘I did ring. I was going to ring again but I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.’ He tried out a laugh.

And then there was a silence while Cass tried to work out if Mike had dropped by to see her, which was flattering, or whether he was curious about the shop, or had been prompted by Rocco and her mother. It felt awkward, and Cass was just wondering what she should say next when Mike said, ‘Actually, I’m looking for a dresser and your mum said this was a good place to start. You’ve got some lovely stuff in here—apparently.’ His gaze roamed around the shop’s interior. ‘She’s right, it is an Aladdin’s cave.’

‘You could say that. Sorry I didn’t return your call.’ Cass rummaged through various excuses that would be mutually painless. ‘I’ve been up to my eyes with the concert and the trip.’

Mike nodded.

‘I’ve got a couple of dressers in at the moment, one’s out the back in the store, that’s quite nice, small, pine, probably turn of the last century, classic two-drawer two-cupboard. Or I’ve got a really lovely early Victorian one if you’ve got the room. It’s Irish, very rustic and huge.’ She guided him back into the shop, where one wall was dominated by a dresser that was nearly eight feet long and almost as tall, currently decked out with various bits of blue and white china.

‘Wow, that is amazing,’ said Mike appreciatively, running his hands over the deep wooden dresser top that was cut from one great plank of timber. The front edge was uneven where it followed the profile of the tree, and the wood itself had aged down to a rich, dark ginger; it showed signs of a combination of long use and great care.

‘It’s one of a kind.’

Mike nodded and stood back to take it in. ‘Nice…’

‘But a little too big for what you had in mind?’ suggested Cass.

‘No, actually not at all,’ he said, still looking it over. ‘I’ve just finished converting an old chapel in Steepleton and it would look great in there. I’ve got a really nice kitchen—I’m like your mother, I love to cook.’ As he bent down to open the row of doors he revealed a neatly combed-over bald patch, confirming her suspicions that he was nothing like her mother. ‘Actually, it would be perfect. Assuming we could come to an agreement about price.’

Cass watched him thoughtfully as he worked his hand and eye over the old wood. The dresser was one of those things she loved but hadn’t been able to shift. Handmade by an unknown craftsman, it was beautiful if somewhat quirky, with oversized half-moon metal handles and shelves with fronts that followed the shape of the tree the plank was cut from rather than being squared off. Mike picked up the price tag, a little white parcel label tucked discreetly through one of the handles.

‘Will you take an offer?’

Cass considered it for a moment.

‘What I mean is, is this your best price?’

‘It is if you want me to arrange to have it delivered, it is. It weighs a ton,’ Cass said.

Mike hesitated, but if he was expecting Cass to waiver he’d picked the wrong bunny. ‘Fair enough. Would you mind if I measured it up?’ he asked, pulling a tape and pad out of the pocket of his Barbour.

‘Be my guest,’ said Cass. ‘Is there anything else I can interest you in?’

Mike set the tape out along the top of the dresser and Cass instinctively caught hold of the dumb end. ‘How about lunch?’ he said, as he jotted the numbers down.

‘Oh very smooth,’ she said.

Mike’s eyes were alight with mischief. ‘I like to think so—I really enjoyed supper with Rocco and your mother the other night, but it would be nice to talk to you without the dynamic duo filling in the blanks.’

‘And hogging the limelight?’

‘Exactly,’ said Mike.

‘So, looking at my dresser was just a cunning ploy to ask me out?’

‘No, I really do want one and Rocco was right, this would be perfect in the new kitchen. It’s one of the nicest ones I’ve seen in a while. Presumably it comes to pieces?’

‘Uh-huh—the shelves slide out and the top lifts off the base, which divides into two, the bun feet unscrew and finally the fretwork trim and finial top lifts off—mind you, it’s still not exactly a flat-pack.’

‘Will you hold it for me while I just double check that it will fit?’

Cass nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

‘When could you arrange to have it delivered?’

‘Probably by the end of this week—as long as we’re talking cash.’

Mike nodded. ‘Okay. And how about to lunch?’

Cass smiled; the bottom line was that Mike still wasn’t her type. ‘It’s a nice offer, but I don’t close at lunchtime. And I’m hardly dressed for eating out…’ She glanced down at the work shirt and jeans she was wearing under her apron.

‘It is short notice,’ said Mike shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Cass suspected he was about to add, Maybe another time then or, Ah well, never mind, worth a shot, or maybe even suggest they made it dinner instead in which case she had better come up with a good excuse quickly, when he said, ‘Actually, I don’t mind what you’re wearing. I was thinking maybe just grabbing soup and a sandwich. Local greasy spoon.’

‘You really know how to impress a girl,’ said Cass wryly.

Mike laughed. ‘I thought I’d aim low and see what kind of reception I got, bearing in mind you didn’t ring me back.’

Cass winced. Although Mike hadn’t been the only customer she’d had in during the morning, there weren’t that many people about and lunchtime rushes were rare as hen’s teeth except in midsummer. She glanced back at the workshop; there was nothing in there that wouldn’t keep. Right on cue her stomach rumbled. He grinned.

‘Okay, but I can’t be too long.’

His expression brightened. ‘Great, where do you suggest? I don’t know the area very well.’

‘How do you feel about wholefood?’

Cass could see Mike trying hard but he couldn’t quite hold back the grimace. ‘Fine,’ he managed. ‘Are we talking lentils here?’

‘Not necessarily. My friend runs a really good cafe just across the road. They do some fantastic food and all of it is sickeningly healthy.’

‘Okay, sounds like a plan,’ said Mike. ‘Although I should warn you I don’t do tofu.’

‘Me neither. I’ll need to lock up,’ said Cass, heading back towards the workshop. Buster looked up at her as she picked up her handbag from under the bench and brushed the dust off. ‘I’m expecting you to keep an eye on the place,’ she murmured, bending down and scratching him behind the ears.

A few seconds later Cass followed Mike out into the street and pulled the shop door to behind her.

‘So,’ he said, as they fell into step. ‘How’s the singing going?’

‘Are you sure you want to know?’ She looked him up and down; it was no good. Something about Mike irritated her, which was never a good sign. How was it her mum had ended up with Rocco while she attracted men like Mike?

He smiled. ‘Uh-huh—your mother and Rocco tell me that you’re brilliant.’

Maybe it was because he was acting as if they already knew each other, maybe it was the way he appeared to be fiddling with something in his jacket pocket, maybe it was the sniffing.

‘My feeling is that they’re probably biased,’ said Cass, as they headed across the green towards the cafe on the corner.

‘Great shop. I’d really like to take a good look round sometime.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Feel free.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘About twelve years.’

He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Good spot.’

And he was too cheery.

‘I think so.’

‘Cool,’ said Mike, which didn’t deserve comment.

Cass’s shop was long and narrow, a sitting-room’s width with a big bow window at the front, overlooking High Lane and a triangle of grass across the lane, which was set with mature limes, some remnant from a more rural age that had got trapped between the river and the rest of the town.

‘There are some really interesting little shops around here.’

‘It’s kind of grown over the last few years. It used to be quite rundown when we first moved here, but quaint, and so the property was a reasonable price. Being close to the river is quite a draw—gradually lots of old hippies and craftsmen have moved in. Summer it’s really busy. People come down at the weekends to walk along the river, walk with their kids, paddle. That’s how we first found it—on Sunday the place is full of visitors trying to force-feed a dozen of the fattest ducks you’ve ever seen; they waddle up from the river en masse, and there’s a swan who is way too fat to break a sweat, let alone anyone’s arm.’

Mike laughed.

‘Oh, and then we have this guy who shows up on a tricycle, wearing a boater. He parks up under the trees over there and sells old-fashioned ice cream from a cold box on the front.’

‘Great place for weekend mooching.’

‘Fortunately for me. I get a lot of passing trade.’

‘So how did you end up selling furniture?’

‘Long story. I’ve always had an eye for a bargain and been a bit arty. I used to have a market stall when the boys were little, buying things in, restoring them, painting them up…’

They fell into step. High Lane had quickly become a little community in its own right. On the corner closest to town was Lucy, who designed and made silver jewellery, while in the shop alongside her a guy called Shaun made shoes and could mend anything made of leather known to man, and then further along Nick and Susie ran the wholefood cafe and shop, that by some fluke of geography had a river view and a wide front garden that they had transformed with climbers and geraniums and bright umbrellas into a little oasis of calm. There was a gallery at the far end of the green in the old granary that fronted the river, and next door to that was a clothes shop and a flower shop. Tucked in between them all were little cottages that had been snapped up by people looking for homes that had more to them than housing estate chic. Cass loved it all.

The cafe was half full when they arrived and Cass, having said her hellos, was shown to a table overlooking the garden.

‘What made you move here?’ Mike asked as he glanced down the menu.

‘It’s a lovely place to live and I really wanted a business I could run from home—when the boys were little it was important.’ She paused. ‘Did Rocco tell you about Neil?’

He nodded, then said, ‘They didn’t say much.’

‘Well, after we lost Neil I felt we needed to have a home and job that held us all together and this place seemed like it. The kids were almost nine and ten when we moved in. Lost always strikes me as such an odd euphemism for someone dying. It makes me sound as if I was careless and a bit feckless—anyway, it was a difficult time for everyone. He was only thirty-eight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Cass smiled. ‘Thank you. It’s a long time ago now but I still miss him and it’s odd because it’s one of those things a lot of people can’t handle. They can manage divorce, single parents, being abandoned, leaving—all sorts of things—but they can’t handle dying…’ Cass laughed and took a handful of roasted seeds from the little pot in the middle of the table, waving the words away.

‘If you could give us another minute or two,’ said Mike as the waitress made her way to their table, notepad in hand.

Cass glanced down at the menu. What she didn’t tell Mike was that even now she loved Neil more than she knew how to say and missed him every day, and that—without meaning to—she compared every man she had met since against him; and there had been no one who even came close. She understood that memory played tricks with your mind and that, by dying, Neil often appeared as she wanted him to be rather than how he was—but she still missed his voice and the smell of him and the way he made her feel better, and his laugh and…

And although Cass hadn’t planned it that way, and despite several boyfriends, it was hard for someone to walk in the shadow of the dead, someone who never grew old, who never got fat, never farted, whose life was sealed in the vaults of memory and as a result could never go on to shag her best friend or leave her stranded in the rain or ring up to argue about child support or who should have the house.

‘See anything you fancy?’ Cass asked. When she looked up to see how Mike was doing with the menu, she caught him staring at her, which made her redden at the unintentional play on words.

‘I’d like the cauliflower, mushroom and aubergine satay with wild rice,’ said Mike to the waitress.

‘And I’ll have the roast autumn vegetables with cashew couscous. And a glass of apple juice,’ Cass said.

The girl scribbled the order down and Mike handed the menus back. ‘And just a glass of tap water,’ he said. ‘So,’ he continued as the waitress retreated. ‘Maybe I should tell you all about me and my life.’ He made it sound like a treat.

Maybe lunch hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

‘Didn’t we do this at Rocco’s?’ asked Cass, lightly.

‘Not without your mum and Rocco filling in the blanks, remember?’

Cass decided not to say anything, but it was all right because Mike was way ahead of her. Where she’d taken two minutes to give him a précis of her life, from his body language he had obviously got lunch booked for a full-scale rundown of life on planet Mike. Although at least it meant she didn’t have to say anything, Cass thought as she shook out her napkin.

‘Okay well, I’m divorced, I’ve got a son and daughter, Robert and Charlotte, they’re eighteen and sixteen and they live with their mother in Carlisle. I moved down here about three years ago to set up in business with Charles, a friend of mine.’

The way Mike emphasised the names as he talked made Cass wonder if there was going to be a test afterwards.

‘I do some private work—Rocco’s roof, for example, and bigger corporate things with Charles.’

‘Your partner,’ Cass chipped in.

‘Yes, although that’s purely in the business sense, you understand,’ Mike said. And then he smiled to make sure he still had her full attention.

Obviously this was a speech Mike had prepared earlier. Cass settled down to listen. While they ate, Mike talked about his divorce and doing up the derelict chapel and plans he had for the garden, where he’d been on holiday and where he’d like to go, how he liked to work out and play golf and play squash and then, while Cass ordered coffee, Mike talked about good food and girlfriends and by that time it was almost two o’clock and Cass had barely said a word and Mike was still in full flow. Another ten minutes and she suspected her ears would start to bleed.

Cass glanced up at the clock. ‘Much as I’m enjoying your company Mike,’ Cass said, wondering if he did irony, ‘I really need to be getting back to work.’

‘Me too.’ Mike nodded. ‘Oh, is that the time, gosh it’s gone so quickly. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself. Well, it’s been lovely.’ And then he added, ‘I was wondering if maybe I could see you again some time? I mean, we seem to be getting along nicely.’

Cass smiled noncommittally. How did you say to someone politely that you would rather push needles in your eyes?

‘Maybe we could have dinner after the concert?’

Maybe Mike was just nervous—maybe he would be all right once she got to know him. Cass picked up her bag. And maybe Elvis would bring the bill. Who was she trying to kid? Mike was good looking and nicely dressed but he was also boring and totally self-obsessed.

Meanwhile the girl, who bore no resemblance to the King, set the bill down on the table between them.

Mike picked it up and before Cass could speak, cast his eye over it, saying, ‘Not bad. What shall we do, shall we just pay half each? You don’t get neighbourly discount by any chance, do you?’ As he spoke, he took a purse from his jacket pocket and started sorting through it for what she had a horrible suspicion would probably be the exact money. If Cass had been harbouring any doubts at all about Mike, the purse and the half-each shot was enough to make her mind up.

‘No,’ she said before picking up her bag. Cass glanced at the bill and dropped her half plus a generous tip onto the side plate. ‘I really have got to be getting back. Thanks…’

As she made her way to the door, Cass was conscious of Mike following close behind, hurrying to catch up like an anxious terrier.

While they had been in the cafe, the day had started to soften into a misty gold autumn afternoon. Despite being barely two o’clock, the daylight was already beginning to fade and the lamps lit in the shop window, protection against the gold grey gloom, welcomed her home—as comforting as any lighthouse.

High Lane had always been one of those good memory places where she and Neil had brought the kids when they were little, walking down the hill first with buggies and later holding their small sticky hands in summer and winter, in shorts and in duffel coats, down to the river and the cafe and the ducks, and then later to lunch on a friend’s narrow boat or walk along the tow path. It had seemed some sort of omen when the shop had come up for sale in the weeks after Neil died.

It had been one of those places that they’d said if they had the money, the chance, the freedom to buy there, then they might just do it. And then there it was and Cass discovered, thanks to Neil’s insurance money, that she did have the chance.

She’d found it so hard being in their old house without Neil, and although friends and family said the feelings would pass and that she should wait before making any big decisions, she’d known they were wrong. All she could see were the kitchen units Neil had put in, the bathroom with the wonky tiles that they’d re-tiled one Christmas when pissed and the garden they’d built and it didn’t bring her comfort, just a constant aching nagging reminder that she had lost her best friend and the person who loved her most in the world.

And so one sunny autumnal afternoon, not unlike this one, she walked down to the shop, looked in through the windows, hands cupped around her face so she could see inside, and knew without a shadow of a doubt Neil would want her to have it. It felt like his final gift to her.

Mike didn’t stand a cat’s chance in hell against memories that powerful. ‘Thanks,’ Cass said as they got to the shop door, realising that she had barely said a word to him on the way home, lost in her own memories. Thanks for what was less clear.

‘My pleasure,’ Mike said. ‘You know that Nita and Rocco have saved me a ticket for the concert tonight? I just wanted to check that you don’t mind? When you didn’t call back…’

Cass tacked on a polite smile. ‘I’m very busy,’ she said. ‘Now I’ve really got to go.’ She turned the keys over in her closed fingers.

‘Okay, well in that case I’ll see you later then,’ Mike said brightly, and with that he leaned in a little closer and, catching hold of her shoulders, kissed her on the cheek before she had a chance to pull away. ‘I’ll ring and let you know about the dresser…’

‘Right,’ she said between gritted teeth, and then he turned and headed off down the lane towards town. Cass watched his progress for a second or two and then wiped her cheek. She really needed to have a word with Nita and Rocco about their choice of men. A purse, for god’s sake…

Humming along to ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, Cass unlocked the shop door and went inside. Buster padded out of the workshop to check up on her, sniffing to see if lunch had stretched to a doggie bag.

Inside the shop was pleasantly warm after the nip of autumn outside. Cass stood in the doorway, slipped off her coat and took a look around. The soft lighting made the shop look inviting and slightly mysterious, the deep patina on the old wood and heavy lamps adding a glow, a promise of treasures hidden inside.

The whole place smelt of lavender and beeswax polish and she hoped was tempting enough to encourage would be buyers to linger, to savour, to buy. There were lamps and bowls and objets d’art on the side tables, shelves and floor, but not so much that people felt overwhelmed, or so cluttered that special things got lost in the melee.

Beyond the window display there were armchairs and a sofa, two Windsor chairs and a deep-buttoned brown leather chaise. Folded into a big basket on one of the dining tables was a pile of household linen, another basket on a little cabinet had paperweights in it and another held old keys.

There was a linen press of snow-white sheets and pillow cases, a period tailor’s dummy dressed in a black felt coat and cloche, and behind that a cabinet from a milliner’s shop, filled with dress jewellery, watches and tie pins. In a bowl by the door to the workshop were antique buttons, some still on their original cards, along with hair slides and combs, brass doorknobs and more keys, and beside that a letter rack in which were a collection of Victorian cards.

Cass spent a lot of time making sure things were shown off to their best advantage. It was almost as big a labour of love as re-upholstering, restoring or re-finishing the furniture in the first place. She trailed her fingers through the basket of buttons. Once customers had found the shop they tended to come back again and again.

Pleased with the way things looked, Cass picked up her apron and headed into the workshop, letting Buster out into the yard en route.

The shop and cottage spread untidily over three floors, with a little workshop and storeroom at the back of the shop and beyond that a small courtyard garden. On the first floor were the kitchen, sitting room and two bedrooms, with a bathroom tucked between them, French windows opening from the kitchen out onto a tiny roof garden that extended out over the workshop. Up under the eaves on the floor above were two long attic bedrooms with dormer windows and a shared bathroom, overlooking the pan-tiled roofs of the hippies across the way. Cass rented the attic rooms out to foreign-language students during the summer to help make ends meet.

Over the years, Cass had built a reputation for dealing in interesting things at good prices and was happy to customise, re-cover, re-stain or even rebuild to order, so that there were several interior designers who used her regularly. Which meant, between selling furniture, collectables, rugs and curtains, some nice dress jewellery, and re-upholstering for herself and customers, as well as renting rooms to students, and doing odd design jobs for Rocco, life was usually very full and just about paid for itself. Although some days she thought it would be brilliant to have a man in her life to share things with, Cass didn’t feel she needed a relationship to make her whole.

She settled down to work and by half-past five had almost finished the work on the armchair, sold a nice gilt mirror and an occasional table, one of the Windsor chairs, a set of cuff links and silver picture frame. Not great, but not bad at all for a slow day. And, as the afternoon crept past, Cass started to think more and more about the evening’s concert. As the clock crept closer to five, Cass was beginning to get twitchy, feeling as if time was ticking by faster—she needed to shower, iron her frock, walk the dog, feed him and the cat…the jobs started to stack up in her head, all clamouring for attention.

Just as she was locking up, humming through the opening bars of a medley of Gershwin numbers, someone rang the shop doorbell. When Cass ignored that, they banged on the shop window. Hard.

She considered her options; the window display was good but not that good. Who was so desperate for a bent-wood rocker and three table lamps that they couldn’t wait until tomorrow? The workshop and most of the shop, where the back stairs led up into the cottage, were in almost complete darkness now the lights were off. Cass edged forward round a particularly pretty rosewood screen and peered out from the shadows into the lane.

Outside, her mother and Rocco were standing back to back under the streetlight. Her mother was wearing a black full-length fun fur coat and a leopard-print hat. They had their mobiles out and were busy tapping in numbers, like busy bookends. An instant later the shop phone rang, followed a nanosecond later by the house phone; three rings later and her mobile rang. They were obviously desperate. Cass watched as they waited and then peered up at the first-floor window of her sitting room, which looked out over the green.

‘Cass, Cass are you in there?’ shouted Rocco.

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t do that, it’s really common shouting in the street,’ growled her mother. Behind her, Cass could hear Buster shuffling around trying to make up his mind whether it was worth his while breaking out his famous big bad bark.

‘Oh right,’ said Rocco. ‘So have you got a better idea; I mean, where is she? It’s barely knocking-off time. What are we going to do if she’s not in?’

‘Cass!’ yelled Nita. ‘Where are you, darling?’

Under cover of darkness, Cass crept up through the shop and opened the front door, surprising the pair of them. ‘What do you want?’ she said.

They looked a little sheepish. ‘Oh there you are, we were worried about you,’ said her mother. ‘You’re okay?’

‘Cock-a-hoop. What are you doing out here?’

‘Bit snappy today, aren’t we? I thought we’d just drop by.’

‘Did you ring Mike? He was really keen, you know,’ said Nita.

Cass lifted an eyebrow; if their Discovery was parked any closer to the shop doorway it would be a ram-raid.

‘No, I didn’t ring him. I’ve told you before that I can make my own terrible mistakes without any help from you two.’

‘He said he thought you were really interesting,’ said Rocco.

Cass stared him down. ‘So is the mould on whatever it is in the back of my fridge, but I wouldn’t want to wake up next to it. Now—what are you both doing here?’

‘Oh come on, he seems nice,’ said her mother. ‘And very nicely turned out.’

‘Okay, I went out to lunch with him today and before you ask I have no plans to do it again—now what do you want?’

‘Really,’ continued Nita. ‘Why not? We thought you two had hit it off.’

‘He has a purse…’

‘Ah,’ said her mother.

‘He asked me out to lunch and assumed that going halves was okay.’

‘Ah.’

‘Not that I mind going Dutch. Not that I’m against sharing, but he counted out the exact money—to the last penny. You have to admit that is tight.’

Her mother looked suitably shocked. ‘My god, I’d got no idea. Mind you, that explains why he is so good at bringing things in on budget.’ She paused. ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’

Cass looked at the pile of boxes in the back of their 4x4. ‘Probably not.’

Rocco’s mind was still elsewhere. ‘Did we ever introduce you to Dirk?’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s got to be someone.’

Nita elbowed him. ‘Not now, sweetie—look, Cass, darling, we thought we’d just bring a few things round now so’s there’s not a last-minute panic. Just sort out where stuff’s going. Get the grand tour before you leave. Get the feel of the place…’ As she spoke Nita’s eyes were moving round the interior of the shop, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind what to do or say next. ‘You can show us what’s what, explain how the cooker works and the animals—walks and that kind of stuff. And the shop lights.’

‘Mum, we’ve got ages yet.’ Cass stared at them, saw the expression of panic in Rocco’s eyes, and then the penny dropped. ‘No—this is outrageous. The builders are coming in early, aren’t they?’ asked Cass.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, Cass’s mum held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘They said they had a cancellation—they’re starting first thing,’ she said.

‘And you want to move in early?’

Living above the shop had always made commuting easy and getting away tough. People—friends, family, customers—in the know would often linger, hoping to be asked round to supper, or would pop by on a weekend to borrow an emergency bed or a dining table and a few spare chairs. Several times over the years, as she’d struggled out the door on the heavy end of something, Cass wondered whether it would have been more lucrative just to set up a furniture lending library. And of course when it came to getting away from the shop she couldn’t swing the excuse that she was just leaving for her journey home.

At least tonight her mother had the decency to look sheepish.

‘No,’ Cass said. ‘This isn’t on. You’re not due to move in till the end of the week. I’ve got stuff to do—things to bleach. And I’m knackered—this is the last thing I need. I’ve got loads to do and I’ve got the concert tonight.’

Cass had been planning on giving them the attic rooms, which she had intended to do over with her best white cotton bed linen, a brass bed and a set of ruby red full-length velvet curtains she’d given a customer first refusal on once the holiday was over, along with a nice original 1920s throw and matching bolster—keeping the door firmly shut until they arrived, so that no one furry or smelly would be tempted to sleep in their bed before the weekend.

She thought they could use the other room in the attic as a makeshift office and studio, but she needed to take up a table and various bits and bobs to aid the transformation. And before they arrived Cass had got Buster booked in for a bath, planned to groom the cat, de-flea the pair of them and then spray the whole house with industrial-strength air freshener. She’d already been through the storeroom and earmarked a couple of things to bring in to beautify their ad-hoc flatlet. What Cass did not have were contingency plans for them showing up early.

Meanwhile Rocco was back outside the shop, busy shuffling boxes out of the Discovery and onto the pavement.

‘I haven’t got the attic ready yet. It’s still set up for students.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Nita. ‘We can have the room next to yours—it’ll be easier and there are less stairs.’

‘And what exactly is all this?’ asked Cass, staring in horror at the growing pile.

‘You don’t mind, do you? They’re valuables, sweetie, books and tapes and precious, precious treasures that wouldn’t stand the dust or the rubble or the clearing up afterwards.’

‘How much more is there?’ Cass asked, as Rocco dragged a tea chest out of the back of the Discovery.

‘Not that much more.’

Cass held her ground until her mother weakened. ‘About another two loads,’ she said after a moment or two’s pause.

‘No!’ said Cass, standing firm in the doorway as Rocco headed towards her with an armload of things from the über pile. ‘Look, it’s one thing borrowing my house, but quite another to take it over entirely. If you want to store this stuff we’ll take it down to the warehouse and put it in there.’

Nita didn’t look convinced. ‘But it’s very precious. I thought we could stack it in our room.’

‘I’ve got to get ready for the concert tonight.’

‘Well, we won’t stop you. Besides, surely it’s more like a dress rehearsal tonight?’ said Nita. ‘Isn’t it? You know, for Cyprus?’

‘Seven for seven thirty,’ snipped Rocco accusingly, tapping his watch. ‘That’s what it says on the tickets.’

‘Not if you’re in the bloody choir, it doesn’t. I’ve got to be there by six fifteen and it’s nearly twenty to now. I need to shower and—and what the hell is that?’ she said incredulously as Rocco struggled in with what looked like a badly wrapped corpse.

‘The bust and lower torso of Lady Hamilton. Your mum bought her for me for my fiftieth. Very rare and we love her, don’t we Nita? We usually keep her in our bedroom.’

Cass sighed. It was pointless to argue. ‘Knock yourself out,’ she said, handing them the shop keys and turning back towards the stairs. ‘I have to get ready. Just make sure you set the alarm and don’t let the dog out…’

‘Off you go then, we’ll be fine,’ Rocco called after her. ‘We can take this stuff upstairs by ourselves. And then we can go back for another load later.’

‘You know where the spare room is,’ said Cass. ‘But it’s your own fault that it’s not all spruced and fluffed and full of crisp white linen.’

‘Oh it’s alright,’ said her mother over one shoulder as she lifted a tiny vanity case out of the back of the Land Rover. ‘We’ve brought our own.’

What could she say to that? With a sigh, Cass headed upstairs to get ready. The dog followed her.

Chapter Five

When, a little while later, Cass padded into the kitchen fresh out of the shower, wrapped up in a robe and towelling her hair dry, Rocco—apparently on standby—handed her a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

‘We promise we won’t get in the way,’ he said in a conciliatory voice. ‘And I’m really grateful to you for letting us stay. You know your mum’s not good with chaos.’

Cass lifted an eyebrow. ‘Then you might be in for a surprise. Chaos follows me around like a stray cat.’

He pulled a face.

‘Rocco, all joking aside…you’re very welcome to stay, I’ve already said that, but I’m going to need some space over the next few days. I’ve got loads to do before I go out tonight, let alone go to Cyprus. I need to track down the iron, grab something to eat, glam up, lock up, walk the dog. I haven’t got time at the moment to be all polite and hostess-y…’

But Rocco was a step ahead. ‘Don’t worry about us. Your mum brought some home-made butternut squash soup and rolls, enough for all of us if you’re hungry—oh, and the boys rang while you were in the shower. Danny wanted to wish you good luck, and Joe said is there any possibility you could see your way clear to lending him fifty pounds? Nita said she would send him a cheque.’

‘For goodness’ sake. Where is she?’

‘She’s taken the dog out for a wee and I’m just giving the cat a tin of tuna.’

Cass peered out from under the towel. The kitchen was tidy, there was a bowl of roses on the windowsill and someone presumably had packed the dishwasher—unless the dirty dishes had been spirited away by magic.

‘This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I said space,’ said Cass.

There was an elegant, unfamiliar cafetière on the kitchen table, alongside three white bone-china mugs, a tin of posh biscuits and a can of John West’s finest that Cass had planned to stir into a pasta salad on a day when she couldn’t be bothered to cook. Mungo, the cat, was on the floor, sitting by a large empty pie dish, licking the last remnants of fish off his lips.

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