Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Fern Britton 2015

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

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

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, 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.

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008146412

Version: 2017-11-21

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

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Chapter 1

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Prologue

Channel 7 Studios, London, 2000

The floor manager of Skool’s Out, Channel 7’s hit children’s TV show, watched the action play out in front of him in a state of high anxiety, rather like a budgerigar left in charge of a cattery, never sure from which direction the danger was going to come from. The programme always went out live at 5.15 p.m. on a Friday and the whole operation was a test of nerves, patience, forbearance and arse-licking for the entire crew. Despite the old show-business adage about never working with animals or children, the set was always filled with dozens of hysterical pre-teens, plus that week’s line-up of novelty acts. This typically consisted of an assortment of pet dogs that could whine the National Anthem, a nine-year-old who could fart at the same decibel level as a car horn and some idiot intent on breaking a silly world record, like how many times you can kick your own butt in one minute. On top of this the crew had to contend with the fragile egos and sometimes ridiculous demands of the celebrity guests, combined with the inflated ones of the show’s presenters. Anything could go wrong, and it was a fine balance between giving the show’s trademark anarchy full flight while keeping things under control.

The set was designed to look like a school where the kids had taken over. Walls were daubed in graffiti, there were ‘detention’ cells that the guests could be placed in if they displeased the ‘kids’ and everything had a slightly sinister quality that was pitched somewhere between St Trinian’s and a Tim Burton movie.

The floor manager heard the director’s voice from the control room through his earpiece. ‘Dave and cameras move over to the cell area for Robbie’s detention skit.’

‘Yep.’ On the set, Robbie Williams had been placed in one of the cells and was being lambasted by the show’s irreverent star, a puppet called Brian the Cat – a mass of tatty black-and-white fur and Denis Healey eyebrows who spoke in the thick Mancunian tones of his puppeteer. Brian was lambasting Robbie from outside his cell accompanied by his sidekick, a young presenter called Kirsty.

‘Robbie Williams, the studio audience have unanimously decided to give you detention on account of not only crimes against music…’

The audience howled with laughter.

‘…but also, for eating all the pies!’

Cue more hysterical screaming.

Ed Appleby, the studio runner, watched tensely from his position behind the camera crew. He could see Robbie’s PA and his publicity manager watching stony-faced from the wings. If things went too far and Robbie got upset, there would be hell to pay. Ed took his Joe 90 glasses off, gave them a quick wipe before putting them back on and then ran his hand anxiously through his dark curly hair.

Brian the Cat was egging the audience on. ‘What do you reckon? Shall we let him go home now, kids? Has he done his detention?’

‘Splat him!’ the children screamed. Robbie grabbed the cell bars and shook his head vigorously, mouthing something Ed couldn’t hear over the roaring of the audience, but which looked suspiciously like, Bollocks to that.

‘Let him have it!’ declared Brian triumphantly, and a bucket that had been hovering above Robbie’s head tipped over and released a yellow goo over his head.

‘Camera one, zoom in,’ said the director over talkback.

The camera zoomed in to see Robbie’s expression as the yellow gunk slicked down his face and chest.

Robbie wiped the gunk away from his eyes with his fingers and licked his lips. There was an anxious pause in the room before Robbie said in his soft Northern accent, ‘Mmmn, lemon curd, nice. Can I have a jar to take back to me mam, sir?’

As the audience cheered their raucous approval, Ed saw the faces of Robbie’s people relax.

The camera moved away to Kirsty. ‘Ha-ha! Now let’s see the new video from 5ive – they’re going to be here next week and we’re going to give them a proper Skool’s Out welcome, aren’t we?’

Ed’s shoulders relaxed briefly, but they immediately tensed again as he felt someone sidle up to him and gently pinch his bottom. He turned sharply and was immensely relieved to see Charlotte Finney, the show’s design director, standing next to him. They were virtually the same age, but, while Ed was still working his way up the ranks as a lowly junior, Charlotte was responsible not only for the way the show looked, but also the tone and feel. All the senior managers took her seriously, though, judging from her expression, she was feeling anything but serious. She gave him a cheeky wink.

‘Thank God it’s you!’

‘Who else were you expecting to make contact with your sexy arse, Ed?’ she said huskily.

‘God knows in this madhouse,’ he whispered back. ‘I’d better go.’

There would now be a brief three-minute video interlude for everyone to get to their new place, make a quick costume change and prepare for the next segment.

Ed shot Charlotte a look that said sorry and raced over to release Robbie from his temporary cell. A posse of Robbie’s people and studio assistants followed hot on his heels, bringing hot towels and clean clothes for the star. Declining their offers of help, Robbie took off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the yellow slime while flaunting his taut and tanned six-pack.

‘Keith, you fucker, I’ll get you back for that!’ he said good-naturedly to Brian’s puppeteer, Keith Puckley, who had extricated himself from Brian’s undercarriage.

‘Didn’t they tell you at stage school that this would happen, Rob?’ Brian shot back.

‘Fuck off!’ Robbie grinned, and playfully poked Keith’s middle-aged paunch. ‘Who ate all the pies, eh? I think we know the answer to that one!’

‘Must mean I’m in with a chance as your replacement in Take That – give your mate Gary Barlow a call and tell him I’m free.’

Before they could trade further insults, Ed interjected: ‘Keith, you’re not free yet – Brian has to judge the burping competition in one minute. Robbie, we need to get you cleaned up for the finale. You’re singing us out with “Rock DJ”.’

‘Oh yeah, ace.’ With a final grin at Keith, Robbie headed off to make-up, entourage of flunkies in tow.

Ed and Keith looked at each other. Only another thirty agonising minutes to go, then they could all breathe out.

An hour and a half later, Robbie had been dispatched in his limo, the kids had all been loaded on the coaches that would take them home to Milton Keynes or wherever it was they had come from, and Ed was sitting on the steps at the rear entrance of Channel 7’s Soho studios, smoking a crafty cigarette. The doors behind him opened with a crash as Keith, still accompanied by Brian the Cat, emerged. The puppet was operated from below with a combination of levers and sticks, which allowed his limbs to function. Brian’s head and body lolled lifeless over Keith’s arm.

‘Thank fuck that’s over for another week,’ said Keith with feeling as he plonked himself down on the step next to Ed. ‘I’m getting too old for all this shit.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Ed. ‘The show wouldn’t work without Brian. You love it, you know you do.’

Keith grunted something unintelligible in reply, lighting up his cigarette and pulling heavily on it.

The back door opened again and Charlotte stepped out. He wasn’t aware of it, but Ed’s face lit up as if it had been illuminated by a thousand-watt light bulb. Charlotte was dressed in green army combat trousers and a fitted black T-shirt that showed just a hint of her soft creamy belly when she lifted her arms up. Her choppy, layered red hair, probably a shade of red that didn’t occur in nature, framed her oval face and made her green eyes greener. Charlotte had told Ed that she was actually a blonde, but he didn’t care. He thought she was utterly gorgeous.

‘Keith Puckley, put that cigarette out now!’ She pointed at Keith accusingly. ‘If Brian gets a fag burn it’ll be Muggins here that’ll have to sit up all night stitching him, or, God forbid, making another one from scratch – which I’ve already had to do once, thanks to the Christmas party shenanigans.’

‘Sorry, Charlotte,’ said Keith meekly. ‘I was gasping.’

‘Oh, all right, but be careful.’ Charlotte softened and ruffled Brian’s fur affectionately. ‘God knows why, but I’ve become attached to the horrible little bastard.’

‘You wouldn’t want to be as attached to him as I am. Feel like I can’t get away from the little bugger,’ he said gloomily.

Charlotte patted his arm sympathetically. ‘Maybe it’s time to put Brian back in his box, Keith. It’s been a long day.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Keith stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘Time to go home.’

As he departed he said, ‘And no getting up to any hanky-panky, you two. I might be an old duffer but I don’t miss much.’

Ed and Charlotte tried to look innocent. ‘I don’t what you mean, Keith,’ Charlotte said, trying to stop a grin from spreading over her face.

‘A likely story.’ He wished them goodnight and headed inside.

After a moment, once she was sure he’d gone, Charlotte inched closer to Ed so that their thighs were touching. Her hand crept under the back of his T-shirt and she leaned in to nibble his ear.

Ed’s senses felt under assault; she smelled of fresh meadow flowers and Ed could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. It took all his willpower not to reach under her T-shirt and slip his hand under her bra. Despite this, it was Ed who pulled away first.

‘We’d better be careful, someone might see us.’

Charlotte slipped her hand into his. ‘They all know already. Look at Keith – and he’s well out of the gossip loop.’

‘No.’ Ed shook his head. ‘They don’t know. Not officially, anyway, and I don’t think they should, not yet. We’ve talked about this.’

She pulled away and looked at him with a frown. ‘Yes, we might have talked about it, but I still don’t see we have anything to hide.’

Ed squeezed her hand and tried to make light of it. ‘I know you don’t, but you’re the design director and I’m the lowly runner. They’ll think I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.’ He tried to engage her with a smile.

Charlotte’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t care what they think. We’ve been seeing each other for nearly a year. Your toothbrush can’t remember what your bathroom looks like, I let your best friend sleep on my sofa for three weeks and I’ve played in a Scrabble contest with your mum. For heaven’s sake, Ed, we couldn’t be more together if we tried.’

‘But you know what the top brass are like. They hate relationships on set in case things go wrong.’

‘What’s going to go wrong?’ Charlotte looked alarmed.

‘Nothing! Nothing’s going to go wrong, Charlotte. But I’m building my career, and yours is going so well. We don’t want anything to spoil that, do we?’

Ed felt as though the conversation was running away from him but couldn’t work out where he’d gone wrong. This was the first time Charlotte had ever said anything about wanting their relationship to be more open. They’d both been happy for their work and personal lives to be separate – hadn’t they?

He pulled his cigarettes from his top pocket, took one for himself and offered one to Charlotte. She shook her head, her lips set in a thin line.

‘I’ve given up.’

‘Since when?’

‘This morning.’

‘Oh?’

Ed removed the cigarette from his mouth unlit. Charlotte was looking at him, an unreadable expression on her face. It wasn’t a look he recognised or that he felt particularly comfortable with, if he was honest.

‘What’s wrong, Charlotte?’

Charlotte tugged at her long fringe, something he’d noticed she did when she was nervous or anxious.

‘Something’s happened.’

When he thought about it later, Ed realised what she said next was literally the last thing he’d have thought she was going to say. He’d have been less surprised if she’d told him she’d been born with a penis and had undergone a sex change.

‘I’m pregnant.’

That she uttered these words and not some others was his justification for his response, though he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that it was completely the wrong thing to say in the circumstances.

‘Oh, shit!’

Charlotte immediately stiffened, eyed him with a look that seemed to communicate both disappointment and distress, and snatched her hand away from his.

‘Oh, shit!’ he said again, unable to absorb what those two words could mean for both of them. Registering the look in her eyes, he panicked. ‘I didn’t mean oh, shit, I meant oh, no. I mean, it’s the timing, isn’t it, for both of us.’ Unable to stop himself, he blathered on: ‘Your job, mine…I always thought we’d get together properly one day – you know, married, kids and all that – but just not now…’

This was all coming out wrong. He looked at Charlotte, his secret girlfriend…beautiful, clever Charlotte…the mother of his children…

At this thought, a little spark seemed to ignite somewhere inside him and for a moment he saw them, his future family, and words and feelings that he’d never recognised in himself flickered within him: father, husband, protector…

But Charlotte was getting up off the step, moving towards the door. She reached for the handle, then paused to look back at him. ‘The traditional response when someone announces they’re expecting a baby is “Congratulations!” Look, we’ll talk about it later, Ed. You’re right, my timing is shit.’

‘Wait, Charlotte!’ He leapt up and reached for her, but she brushed his hand away.

‘Look, Ed, it’s fine. We’ll talk later. Right now I need to go home.’

As Ed watched her retreating back and scrabbled to his feet to catch her, he knew he’d screwed it up big time. If this was a test, then he had failed miserably.

He only hoped it wasn’t too late and she’d give him a chance to make things right.

1

Pendruggan, Cornwall, 2015

Penny Leighton was sitting in the kitchen of the Old Vicarage with her feet up on the kitchen table – it was her table, after all – enjoying a freshly poured cup of tea. For once the house was quiet: her husband had gone over to the church hall, where he was hosting the Pendruggan Mother and Toddlers’ Group as part of his vicarly duties. Across the table, Ed Appleby hunched over a laptop, wrinkling his brow as he perused stately homes on his web browser.

‘That list Cassie sent over of possible locations for Lady Arundell’s family pile – I’ve worked my way through and eliminated the ones that wouldn’t be suitable. Lanhydrock would be ideal, but I also like the sound of Prideaux Place, smaller but gorgeous. It’s not far from here and apparently it has amazing grounds overlooking Padstow. As we’ve got a break in filming, maybe I should arrange a meeting with the owners, do a recce – what do you think, Pen?’

When his question went unanswered, Ed looked over the top of his laptop. The producer of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries seemed oblivious to his presence. She had just dunked a HobNob in her tea before popping it into her mouth and was currently savouring the soft, sugary crunch. A look of sheer bliss on her face, she let out a long ‘mmmm’.

Ed took off his thick-rimmed Michael Caine glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. ‘Did you hear any of that, Pen?’

‘You know, without your glasses on you look about seventeen.’ Penny dunked another corner of her biscuit into her tea.

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Why not? Why do we have to talk about work? We’ve four weeks’ enforced break while our leading lady goes off and does her one-woman thing at the Old Vic. What’s wrong with spending a morning eating HobNobs and taking it easy for once?’ She cast a longing gaze at the copy of Grazia lying unopened by her side.

Mr Tibbs, based on the novels of Mavis Carew and filmed on location in the picturesque Cornish seaside village where Penny had made her home, had proved to be such a runaway success that they were now halfway through filming the fourth series. The invasion of the cast and crew, and the transformation of Pendruggan into something straight out of the 1930s, had become an annual fixture in the village calendar. Some of the locals had been resistant, but most welcomed the film crew, especially now that the series had put Pendruggan on the tourist map. Queenie’s shop had become a must-see destination for the holidaymakers who flooded the village each summer.

Ed sighed and shut his laptop.

‘Besides,’ Penny added, ‘it’s not your job to sort out locations. Cassie’s already done half the work. Let her go and see them. She’s more than capable. You can make your decision once she’s written up her recommendations.’

‘I’m the location manager. It’s my job.’

‘Cassie’s the assistant location manager, and that makes it her job. It’s called delegating, Ed. Anyway, you look exhausted.’

‘I am exhausted.’

‘Then go home and try to put your feet up for a while. Spend some time with Charlotte and those gorgeous children of yours. You all look like something out of a Boden advert.’

Ed let out a humourless laugh. ‘Looks can be deceptive, Pen.’

Penny put down her cuppa and leaned closer.

‘What’s the matter, Ed? You and I have worked on umpteen productions together over the years. I’ve seen you go from junior runner on Blue Peter to location manager on a Woody Allen movie, and, no matter how demanding the job, you’ve shown up for work full of enthusiasm and energy. I’ve never seen you out of sorts – until now. You’re usually so cheerful – too bloody cheerful, in fact!’

‘But it hasn’t affected my work?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Has anyone said anything?’

‘No of course not. Don’t be silly.’ She batted away his anxiety with a wave of her hand. ‘No one’s noticed a thing. Except me, and that’s only because we’ve known each other such a long time.’

Ed wiped his glasses clean on the corner of his SuperDry T-shirt and let out a sigh.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ He hesitated, wondering how to articulate what he was feeling without making it sound melodramatic? ‘Alex has been a bit difficult lately. She’s not been herself and Charlotte’s worried something’s up at school.’

‘She’s fifteen,’ Penny reasoned. ‘They’re unknowable at that age. You and Charlotte are there for her, though. You’re solid, right?’

Solid, thought Ed. Before all this had happened he wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. They both adored the kids and put their needs first. For Ed that involved taking on work that meant they could leave London and buy a large house on the seafront in Worthing, and cover school fees so that both kids got the best education possible, plus a bit left over for long summer holidays in the South of France so they could spend time as a family. For Charlotte it had meant giving up work until the kids started school. Then she had become involved with a local theatre group, helping out with set design – always fitting it around the children’s needs, because Ed wasn’t around to help as much as he would like. In order to command the big salary he had to spend large chunks of time away on location. The last couple of years, he seemed to have spent most of his time at the opposite end of the country to Charlotte and the kids.

‘I think so,’ he replied, trying hard to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. ‘Charlotte says I’m away too much.’

‘Are you?’

‘Perhaps, but only the last year or so. You know how it is in this business, Pen. Projects are tied up years ahead, you sign your life away.’

‘You’re one of the best in the business, Ed. You can pick and choose your projects now.’

‘I’m not so sure. People have short memories.’

‘Only for people they want to forget.’

Ed laughed at this. ‘Point taken.’

But the thing that was really worrying him was the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to tell Penny. Over the past year the distance between him and Charlotte had been growing, and it was a distance that had nothing to do with being at opposite ends of the country. They always used to make the most of the weeks when he was at home, but now Charlotte seemed to spend every minute she could at the theatre. Worse still, she’d taken to sleeping in the spare room, citing his fidgeting in bed as the reason. ‘I’ve got used to sleeping without you, Ed,’ she’d told him bluntly.

Ed felt sure there was more to it. Whatever their ups and downs over the years, the two of them had always been physically close. It made this new distance between them all the more painful. Then four weeks ago, during his last stay at home, he’d waited until Charlotte had gone to take a bath before sneaking into the spare bedroom and picking up her phone. Though he hated himself for it, he clicked on her inbox and scrolled through the messages. Among them he found one that made his heart stop. It was a text message from Henry, the director at the theatre. He could hardly bear to think about the words he’d seen: I love you …can’t live without you …

The thought that his wife was in love with someone else tore at his insides. He pushed it away.

‘Look,’ said Penny, pulling him back to the present, ‘what you need is a break. Why don’t you bring them all down here for the weekend? One of the cottages in the village is for rent. It’s recently been bought by some second-homers who’re letting it out when they aren’t here. It would be perfect for you and the family, and the best thing about it is that it’s got this amazing beach cabin on Shellsand Bay that comes as part of the package.’

‘How do you know it’s available?’

‘Queenie told me. The owners have engaged her as their key holder. I can easily get their number off her.’ Penny picked up her phone and started to call Queenie.

‘Hang on, I’m not sure. I’d need to check with Charlotte – they might have plans.’

‘Ed, stop procrastinating. You need to spend some time with your family and that’s that.’

Ed did as he was told. Now that the idea was in his head he ached to see his kids. The last four weeks he’d avoided going home, citing complications with the production. Anything rather than confront the situation and risk Charlotte telling him that she no longer loved him, their marriage was over.

Maybe Penny was right. They hadn’t been seeing enough of each other, that was all. He’d been letting his imagination run riot. Yes, they could sort this all out – a little holiday was exactly what they needed.

‘Please can you get off my foot, Molly?’ Charlotte looked down into the soft adoring eyes of their bearded collie. Molly was a shaggy-coated four-year-old, absolutely enormous and intent on getting as close as she could to Charlotte, which meant that crushed toes were part and parcel of being a dog owner in the Appleby household.

Charlotte eyed the ingredients in front of her. Prawns in their shells. Coconut milk. Now what else was it that Nigel Slater had said should go in? The recipe had been in the Observer at the weekend, but she’d forgotten to tear it out before chucking the paper into the recycling box. She’d decided to give it a go anyway, hoping that she could rely on her memory. A green curry – would that be Indian? Or Sri Lankan? She rummaged in the cupboard and fished out some curry powder. What else? There’d been a green herb of some sort…And was it a lemon or a lime he used? She went to the fridge: there was no lime, so it would have to be lemon, and the only green herb she could see was a slightly withered stalk of parsley. That’d do. Maybe chuck in a carrot or two? And mangetout – she had plenty of mangetout and it was definitely one of Nigel’s ingredients.

Any other evening Charlotte would have abandoned all thought of making the dish as soon as she discovered the recipe was lost, but tonight she was glad of the challenge. She needed something to distract her from the worries racing through her mind. Alex should have been home an hour ago. They’d agreed that she could go to her best friend Poppy’s house for the afternoon, provided she was home by seven. When seven thirty rolled around with no sign of her daughter and no word of explanation, Charlotte had tried to ring her, but an automated announcement informed her that the person she was calling was not available. So she rang Poppy’s mum to ask her to send Alex on her way – only to discover that Alex hadn’t been there in days. Fighting the urge to panic and ring all three emergency services and run up and down the street in hysteria, she’d focused on remaining calm and waiting it out. It wasn’t the first time Alex had disappeared for a few hours with no explanation. It had been less obvious during term time, though Charlotte had managed to catch her out a few times, but now the holidays were here it was clear that Alex was going somewhere she didn’t want anyone else to know about.

There had been none of the usual telltale signs of a boyfriend. No dreamy looks over the breakfast table, or furtive late-night phone calls. Charlotte wasn’t much of a snoop, so she could be wrong, but in her experience boy trouble usually came with bells on, shouting its presence loud and clear. No, this felt like something else. Perhaps if she’d been around a bit more, then Alex would have opened up to her. But she’d been preoccupied with everything that was happening with Henry – she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit taking her eye off the ball.

Charlotte proceeded to chop up all the ingredients with more confidence than she felt. The resulting mix looked nowhere near as lovely as the photos of Nigel’s efforts…

She lit the flame under the deep sauté pan and threw in the vegetables. Behind her she heard the front door shut quietly in the hallway and turned with great relief to see her daughter Alex slipping past the kitchen door in the direction of the stairs.

‘Hi, darling,’ she called out.

Alex’s foot stopped on the stairs. ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Got a minute?’

Silence, but then, a moment later, the slow plod of reluctant footsteps back down the hall. Alex’s hair had been purple when she’d first dyed it, but it had now faded to a lilacy-blue and was scraped back in a ponytail. Charlotte missed her daughter’s natural copper-blonde hair but hoped it would stage a return one day. Chewing the toggle of her hoodie, Alex hovered by the door.

‘Been somewhere nice?’ Charlotte asked casually. Must avoid an argument, she told herself. Tread carefully.

‘I was at Poppy’s, I told you.’

Damn. Why do you have to lie, Alex? Why can’t you tell me where you’ve been?

‘I’m making dinner. Are you hungry?’ she asked, a touch too brightly.

‘No, thanks. We had KFC.’

We? Who’s ‘we’?

‘What is it?’

Good question. ‘It’s a prawn curry. Nigel Slater.’

Alex rolled her eyes. ‘Why don’t you just stick to ready meals, Mum?’

‘I like cooking.’ It was true.

‘But you’re not very good at it.’

‘I shall ignore your implied insult. I’ve been complimented on my cooking, I’ll have you know.’

‘Only by Granny Alice, who lost her taste buds when a bomb fell on her house during the war.’

‘Not only Granny Alice, actually: many people.’

‘Yeah, right, Mum,’ Alex replied sceptically, turning to leave.

Charlotte was on the verge of letting her go, but then decided it was time to bite the bullet and confront her daughter. ‘Alex, I called Poppy’s mum when you were late home. She said—’

Alex’s explosive response took Charlotte by surprise, even though she’d been exposed to enough teen anger that she ought to be used to it by now. ‘How dare you! You’re always snooping around and following me. Why can’t you let me live my own life?’

‘Alex, darling, I don’t want to interfere, but you’re only fifteen and we worry about your safety, that’s all.’

‘Rubbish! You just want to control me.’

Charlotte struggled to keep her voice even. ‘Alex, I understand how—’

‘No, you don’t! You can never know how it feels to be me!’ And, with this, Alex raced out of the room and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Charlotte looked at Molly, who was cowering under the pine kitchen table. ‘Well, that went as well as can be expected,’ she muttered, and Molly crept out and sat on her foot again, giving her hand a consoling lick. ‘Thanks, Molly. I can always rely on you to be here for me.’

If only she could say the same of her husband. Charlotte silently cursed Ed for never being home when he was needed. Instead, he was hundreds of miles away as usual while she held the fort at home, though it felt very much like a battle she was fast losing.

He was so much better with Alex than she was; he always knew how to bring her round. Part of the problem was that she and Alex were too much alike: spiky, emotional rather than rational, prone to keeping secrets…But the old Alex had hated confrontation. On the rare occasions when she did get in an argument, she was always the one who would try to make up. The familiar gnawing guilt fluttered in her belly, berating her. This is your fault. If you weren’t spending so much time at the theatre…All that time with Henry when you should be at home…

As if on cue, her phone rang. It was Ed. Hello, stranger, she thought.

‘Hi, Ed. How’s it going?’

‘Yeah, good. We’re finished now for four weeks – Dahlia’s gone off to do her one-woman show in London.’

‘Oh, God, that! What’s it about again?’

‘Um, not sure – something to do with older people having a lot of sex?’

‘Crikey.’

‘Kids OK?’

‘You probably know better than I do.’

Whenever he was away, Ed kept in daily contact with them by text and FaceTime.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. She could picture him floundering over what to say next without putting his foot in it.

‘I was wondering,’ he said eventually, ‘how would it be if you all came down to Pendruggan for a few days? There’s a great place we can stay – it’s right by the beach. We haven’t seen much of each other over the last few weeks—’

‘Months, more like. And whose fault is that?’ Charlotte couldn’t stop the words slipping out.

‘I know, I know.’ Ed’s voice sounded pained. ‘But I think it would be good for the kids – and for us.’

‘I’m not sure, Ed.’ Charlotte knew from experience what a holiday could be like when Ed was in work mode. ‘You couldn’t find time to join us in France last month. Apart from one long weekend when you deigned to make an appearance, I had to hold the fort with my mum and dad. And those few days you were there you spent on your laptop or iPad, working. And when you weren’t working you were sleeping – or drinking too much.’

There was silence from the other end of the line. Charlotte was already regretting her outburst and was on the verge of apologising and explaining why she’d felt the need to vent when Ed suddenly blurted, ‘Please, Charlotte, I promise I’ll be totally “there”. No phones, no laptop, no iPad. Just us. We need this.’

Charlotte breathed in deeply. ‘Let me think about it and call you back. Alex is being tricky at the moment, and, even at the best of times, getting the kids to do anything outside their comfort zone is practically impossible. Besides, Pendruggan is a good five-hour drive, and—’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ Ed pleaded. ‘I promise you – come on, let’s do it.’

Still Charlotte wouldn’t cave in. Promising that she’d call him back once she’d spoken to the kids, she hung up the phone and eyed the contents of the saucepan. It hadn’t looked like this in the Observer

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