Summer Under the Stars
CATHERINE FERGUSON

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2019

Cover design © Diane Meacham

Cover illustration © Shutterstock

Catherine Ferguson 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008302504

Version: 2019-04-11

For Matthew. You make me so proud.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

It’s the third Saturday in May and I’ve booked to take Mum to the theatre for her birthday.

Her all-time favourite musical is running for two weeks.

Oklahoma!

I remember being over the moon when I realised it coincided with Mum’s special day. It seemed significant somehow. I booked the tickets straight away – the best seats available.

I’m imagining her swaying in time to ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’, a delighted smile dimpling her face and lighting up her brown eyes. She’s going to have the best birthday ever.

There’s only one problem … I can’t for the life of me remember where I put the tickets.

Recent events have muddled my brain like never before, so I suppose it’s not surprising my mind has gone temporarily blank. But I’m certain I put them on the hall table along with all the other post, and they’re clearly not there.

‘Rachel?’ I yell for my flatmate. ‘Rachel!’

She appears in the hall, a look of alarm on her face, holding her hands aloft as if about to conduct an orchestra. ‘Daisy? What’s happened? Are you okay?’

I carry on scrabbling through the pile of mail, even though I’ve been through it three times already.

‘I can’t find the tickets,’ I wail, trying to ignore the horrible panicky feeling rising inside.

‘Oh.’ Absently blowing on her newly varnished nails, she contemplates me with the slightly worried frown I’ve grown used to lately. ‘I put them in the kitchen drawer when I was clearing up. I … um … wasn’t sure you’d be going. What with … everything that’s happened.’

My eyes flash with impatience. ‘Of course I’m going. It’s Mum’s special day and this is her birthday treat. You know she loves musicals. Especially this one.’

Rachel nods, murmuring, ‘Oklahoma!’

‘Precisely, and I need to get a move on,’ I call, haring through to the kitchen and pulling open the messy drawer where all the miscellaneous items live. ‘Or else I’m going to be late. The performance starts at two.’ Finding the tickets, I sigh with relief.

‘Are you getting the bus in?’ Rachel is hovering in the doorway. ‘Shall I come with you?’

I turn away from her to close the drawer, suppressing a sigh and flicking my eyes to the ceiling. ‘There’s really no need, Rachel. But thanks for offering.’

I love Rachel to bits. But I wish she wouldn’t fuss so much. I’m absolutely fine, and I’ve told her that over and over again, but she obviously thinks I’m lying.

Rachel and I have been friends ever since we worked as reporters on the same local newspaper when I was fresh out of journalism school.

Our career paths have diverged a little since then. We’re both thirty-two. But while Rachel has worked her way up to be chief sub-editor at a well-known glossy magazine, saving enough to own this house, I spend my days writing about flappers and float valves. This sounds more boring than it is. Actually, scratch that. It’s exactly as tedious as it sounds. But it pays the rent.

Writing for a plumbing trade publication called Plunge Happy Monthly is not my dream job if I’m honest. But on the plus side, anything I don’t know about spigots and galvanised steel piping really isn’t worth knowing about.

Another advantage is that I don’t have the unsociable early mornings and late nights that Rachel has in her senior position, so therefore I’ve got more free time to focus on writing my book. That’s the theory, anyway.

I’ve been working on my book – a quirky romance, with an accident-prone heroine called Hattie – for the last five years, on and off. Mum keeps saying I’m too talented a writer not to finish it and I keep promising I’ll get it done but it never seems to happen. I suppose I’m worried that when I’ve finally finished it, everyone will laugh and think it’s terrible, and say things like, Who on earth does Daisy Cooper think she is? Imagining she can write a book people would actually want to read?

I’ve made a decision, though, that now is the right time.

I will stop critiquing the chapters I’ve already written and making little changes to the opening, and instead, I will push on till the end. Mum will be so proud of me.

Riding the bus into town, I sway from side to side, my thoughts drifting to the last time I went to see one of the old-style musicals with Mum. It was her birthday that time, too, and the musical in question was West Side Story.

Even I was excited about that one. I’d grown up singing the songs from West Side Story because the soundtrack was on in the house all the time. We used to do the housework on a Saturday morning, singing along to ‘America’ because it has such energy. And I clearly remember whirling around the living room, clutching cushions like dance partners and trilling ‘I Feel Pretty’ at the tops of our voices. We collapsed, hot and laughing hysterically, on the sofa and Mum drew me in for a hug and declared that when I wrote my best-selling book one day, it would be even more fabulous than her favourite musical. I wanted to be a writer even then, when I was about ten. It’s funny the things you remember.

It was just Mum and me at home because my dad died when I was four, soon after we moved up north from Surrey, and our only relatives – Dad’s sister and her family – live in Canada. Mum’s oldest friend, Joan, lives down in Surrey – they met at primary school down there – and she goes down to visit Joan, but not very often. It’s not surprising, I suppose, that Mum and I have always been really close. I’d say that, as well as being the most brilliant mum I could ever have, she’s also my best friend. We talk about absolutely everything and she’s always so supportive, even when she doesn’t entirely agree with my decisions.

As well as owning the soundtrack to West Side Story, we also had the film version on video when I was a kid – it’s probably still there in a box somewhere – and we watched it together so many times that, even now, I’d probably be word-perfect if you asked me to write down the lyrics. Beautiful actress Natalie Wood played the lead role. She died in a mysterious boating accident several years before I was even born and I remember being haunted by the sad tale of her losing her life at such a relatively young age. She was just forty-three.

My eyes mist over, taking me by surprise. Life is so horribly fragile. It can be over in a split second.

But I swallow on the silly lump in my throat, telling myself this is going to be a happy day.

When I reach the theatre, it appears I was wrong about the happy bit.

A huge sign hangs above the doors.

Performance cancelled due to illness.

My heart plummets into my shoes. This can’t be true, surely. Not today of all days. Maybe the sign is still up there from yesterday and they’ve forgotten to take it down …

In the theatre, I walk up to the desk and stand in a queue with other disappointed musical lovers to find out what’s going on. When finally it’s my turn, I can’t help the snippiness in my tone, even though the very nice woman on duty explains that, sadly, the cast have been struck down with laryngitis.

I give a bitter laugh. ‘What, all of them?’

‘Well, no, the lead and her understudy.’

‘Well, that seems a bit odd. I mean, laryngitis isn’t infectious, is it? Not the kind you get from straining your voice.’

Confrontation is not my style as a rule, but agitation makes the words burst out.

The woman blanches slightly. Maybe I’m speaking too loudly. Or looking too desperate.

Lowering my voice, I lean a little closer. ‘Look, I know it’s not your fault it’s been cancelled. But this was meant to be a treat for my mum’s birthday. She’s sixty-one today and she’s been looking forward to it for ages.’ I’m starting to shake slightly and I can feel the tears welling up. ‘She circled the date on her calendar with a red marker pen, like she always does when she’s excited about something. It can’t possibly be cancelled.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ The woman’s face softens with sadness. ‘I know it’s not quite the same but an extra day is being added to the show’s run. Can I put you both down for two seats on the thirty-first instead?’

She scans the entrance hall, presumably expecting to spot someone who looks like she might be my mum.

I swallow hard.

If I tell this nice woman the truth, her face will fall in shock and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

‘Yes. Two seats on the thirty-first would be perfect.’

‘Lovely. Let me just organise that for you.’

I nod, blinking furiously as the tears threaten to spill over. I can’t bring myself to tell her that, actually, only one seat is required.

Because my lovely mum died eleven days ago.

I can hardly say those words to myself, never mind a stranger.

It won’t sink in that she’s gone. I keep thinking it’s all been a bad dream and that, any moment, my phone will ring and it’ll be her, wanting to know if I’d prefer chicken or beef for the big Sunday lunch she always makes for us, and laughing about some TV show she’s been watching.

I suppose I’ve been in denial ever since that terrible day when I had to say my final goodbyes.

The woman looks up from amending the booking with a big smile.

‘I’m sure your mum will still enjoy her birthday treat. Even if it is just a little bit late …’

*

Afterwards, I walk straight to the nearest pub, go up to the bar and order a double brandy. I don’t drink much as a rule. A glass or two of wine at the weekend is all. I don’t even particularly like pubs. But numbing the raw pain with alcohol suddenly seems like a very good idea.

It’s mid-afternoon and the pub is fairly deserted, which I’m thankful for. It means I can sit at my table in a shadowy corner for as long as I like, with no curious eyes looking over, wondering about the identity of the sad person sitting all alone, drinking double after double.

All I want is to feel numb. I want to reach that stage of intoxication where you’re wrapped in a warm glow and anaesthetised against reality.

But unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be working.

No matter how much brandy I down, thoughts of Mum – and how I’m going to manage without her – continue to march relentlessly through my exhausted brain.

If only Mum hadn’t had a fear of doctors and hospitals, she might still be here. But she’d ignored the tiny lump in her breast, not even telling me about it because she knew I’d march her straight along to the GP. She kept telling herself it was nothing and, by the time she eventually decided she should probably get it checked out, it was already too late.

Sitting there, all alone with just my drink for company, frustration and anger at Mum for not going to the doctor sooner mingles queasily with my grief.

I need to go!

I stand up – whoa! – then promptly sink back down again. I feel like I’m on a whirling merry-go-round. I appear to have lost control of my legs, which is not good. Not good at all.

How will I get home?

Toby.

It’s after seven so he’ll probably be finishing up for the day.

My boyfriend is a busy fund manager at Clements & Barbour, based in the City – just around the corner from here, in fact. A lift would be perfect. (The idea of trying to board the correct bus in my helpless state – climb on any bus, for that matter – is not an appealing one.)

I scramble in my bag for my phone and start panicking, convinced I’ve lost it, before realising it’s right there on the table in front of me. I stab at his name.

It rings for ages but, finally, he answers.

‘You’re there!’ Relief floods through me at the sound of his voice. ‘It’s Daisy. Could you – could pick me up, please, Toby? I’m in The Seven Bells and I’m – er – a little bit squiffy.’ A loud hiccup escapes. ‘Oops. Sorry.’

There’s a brief silence. I can hear papers rustling on his desk.

‘Can’t you get the bus?’ he asks at last, and my heart sinks. Tears spring to my eyes from nowhere. I hate being a bother. Especially when Toby works so hard and such long hours.

I swallow hard. ‘It’s just I’ve had the worst day and the alcohol has gone straight to my head.’ And I really want you to scoop me up and take me home and tell me everything is going to be all right!

‘Okay. Well, if you give me five minutes, okay? Five minutes.’

‘Five minutes,’ I repeat, but he’s already hung up.

I sink back in the seat, feeling wretched and guilty, like a teenager who’s sneaked out on a school night and is now in the doghouse waiting to be picked up.

I glance expectantly at the door every time it opens. But forty minutes later, Toby still hasn’t arrived. Some emergency must have come up, delaying him …

People are giving me funny looks. I need to get out of here.

Then I think of Rosalind, Toby’s mum. She lives just a short walk from here.

Somehow I manage to make it across two main roads in one piece, and then I’m knocking on Rosalind’s door. I can hear screaming and wailing from inside and I nod, reassured. Definitely the right door. It’s just a normal day in the life of the chaotic but lovable Carter family.

Toby doesn’t know how lucky he is to be part of such a large brood.

Rosalind takes one look at me and pulls me against her large, pillow-like bosom, almost squashing the breath out of me. ‘Oh, you poor love. What’s happened?’ she murmurs into my hair.

Her familiar warmth is too much, and the tears I’ve been trying to suppress all day start leaking out.

‘Come on in.’ She pulls me over the threshold.

‘It’s Daisy!’ yells one of Toby’s ten-year-old twin brothers and the screaming suddenly stops. Several pairs of small feet thunder along the corridor to greet me. I’m called upon to admire a model of a jet aeroplane, and a paper bag of sticky red sweets is thrust under my nose from another direction.

‘Let me talk to Daisy, you lot,’ commands Rosalind, shooing the kids away good-humouredly and ushering me into the kitchen. ‘Honestly, what’s this place like? A total madhouse!’

I breathe in the smell of home baking and feel my shoulders relax.

‘It’s perfect,’ I say, sinking down at Rosalind’s scrubbed wooden table with a sigh.

CHAPTER TWO

I first met Toby when we bumped into each other – quite literally – in the centre of Manchester one day.

I noticed this dark-haired man hurrying in my direction, engrossed in his phone, and I prepared to step aside to avoid a collision. But he looked up, saw me and swerved the same way, which resulted in us doing the awkward ‘dancing’ thing, shifting one way then the other. We apologised and laughed – and I noticed he had the most startlingly blue eyes.

The encounter was all over in a few seconds, but as I watched him striding off, I suddenly realised he’d dropped something. A book. I picked it up. It was a slim volume entitled Mergers & Acquisitions.

I started hurrying after him, eventually catching up at the entrance to a large, glass-fronted building with a plaque announcing, ‘Clements & Barbour Financial Analysts’.

‘Excuse me.’

He was about to go through the swing doors but he turned.

‘I think you dropped this.’

He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. Then recognition flared as he saw what I held.

‘Hey, thanks.’ He looked genuinely delighted to be reunited with his book. ‘It was really nice of you to come after me.’

‘No problem. It was on my way,’ I lied with a casual shrug. ‘The book looks – erm – interesting.’

His eyes widened. ‘You think so? Most people glaze over at stuff like this.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s always nice to learn about something new.’ Especially if your teacher is handsome and intelligent to boot!

He nodded. ‘Listen, I’ve got to dash into a meeting but if you’d like to know more, we could meet later for a drink?’ He held up the book.

‘That would be lovely.’ I smiled knowingly. It was as good an excuse as any to get to know each other.

‘Toby Carter,’ he said, and we shook hands.

‘Daisy Cooper.’

When I walked into the pub later, he was already there. Mergers & Acquisitions was on the table in front of him, along with several other thick tomes with mysterious titles.

I quickly realised he’d taken me quite literally when I said I liked learning new things, and his guided tour through the financial implications of mergers and acquisitions was somewhat of a surprise. I didn’t mind, though. It meant I had a legitimate reason to stare into those gorgeous blue eyes!

‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’ he said at one point.

‘No, no,’ I rushed to reassure him.

‘I tend to think everyone must be as fascinated as me by this stuff,’ he said with a sheepish look that made me really warm to him. ‘My brothers say I’m a nerd.’

I smiled and asked how many brothers he had.

His reply left me temporarily speechless. ‘You have seven brothers?’ I gasped at last.

He nodded. ‘I’m the oldest. Mum and Dad kept trying, hoping for a girl, but it never happened.’

‘That’s amazing. I mean, it’s almost a whole football team! Gosh, you’ll never have to worry about being lonely, will you?’

He smiled rather wearily. Clearly I wasn’t the first person to look gobsmacked by the copious amount of male siblings.

‘Do you still live at home?’ I asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to have such a big family. I couldn’t help thinking it sounded perfect.

‘No, thank God. I’ve just moved into my own place. We lost Dad last year and Mum’s not so great at the old discipline thing, so the younger kids were becoming far too loud and unruly. It was a relief to get my own space, to be honest.’

‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ I said, wondering how I’d cope if anything ever happened to Mum. ‘But you’re lucky to be part of such a lovely big family. I’m an only one. And if I’ve got brothers and sisters, I don’t actually know about it because I’m adopted!’ I smiled broadly to let him know I was perfectly comfortable with this.

‘Oh.’ His eyes widened. ‘Have you – have you ever tried to find your real mum and dad?’

I shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the mum and dad I’ve always known are my real parents. And I’d hate to upset Mum by going looking for my biological mother, so I never have.’

He looked a bit surprised by my revelations. I was fairly taken aback myself, to be honest. I didn’t make a habit of talking about my adoption to relative strangers.

I’ve known I was adopted ever since I was small.

Mum and Dad grew up in Surrey and, after they married and found out they couldn’t have children, they decided to adopt and I arrived. Then, when I was four, we left our home in Surrey and moved north to Manchester, where I’ve lived ever since.

I’ve never been able to establish exactly why we left Surrey. I always felt I never got a proper answer from Mum when I asked her. She talked vaguely about there being better job opportunities for Dad, but he worked for the same sort of engineering company up north as he did when we lived in Surrey, and her explanation didn’t quite ring true. So I just stopped asking.

Whatever the reason, Mum and I have always been happy in Manchester …

There was a slightly awkward pause and I cast around for a change of subject. ‘You’ve got lovely eyes.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ Toby smiled and leaned closer across the table. ‘Listen, Daisy, do you fancy grabbing something to eat?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to prepare for a presentation tomorrow but I could give you … um … fifty minutes?’

I nodded. ‘Great.’

It wasn’t the most romantic proposition I’d ever received but I was intrigued.

Toby Carter was clearly passionate about his work and I’d always found that sexy in a man.

We started dating, seeing each other once or twice a week. Toby often had to work late, so he’d phone me when he was finishing up and I’d hop on a bus into town and we’d go for something to eat in the pub round the corner from Toby’s work. He’d tell me about the people he worked with and the places he’d been to on company business, like New York and Paris and Geneva. And I’d stare into his gorgeous blue eyes, loving the fact that I was spending time with a real grown-up man – not some overgrown teenager like Mason.

Mason had been undeniably sexy; a fabulous kisser with twinkly eyes and great one-liners. But he was strangely resistant to changing his underwear, and his idea of the perfect night was to loll around on the sofa in his favourite baggy sweatpants, drinking cans and eating pies from tins. His flat was a tip. It always looked as if it had just been ransacked by intruders, and during our very brief relationship, I’d avoided staying over because that would have meant venturing into the scary wilds of his bathroom.

Mason ambled through doors ahead of you, but Toby held them open. And his bathroom, when he took me back to his flat for the first time, was spotlessly clean.

I wasn’t sure if it would be a long-term relationship. We got on well and the sex was good but he seemed strangely averse to me meeting his family.

Then finally – three months into the relationship – his mum invited us for tea and I realised why Toby had been hesitant about taking me to his old family home.

‘The place is a bloody shambles with kids everywhere arguing over nothing,’ he groaned in the car, before we went in. ‘Honestly, Daisy, it was such a relief to get my own place and move out. Are you sure you don’t just want to grab a pizza? Mum won’t mind. She’s very easy-going.’

‘But I’ve been looking forward to meeting them,’ I said, smiling encouragingly. ‘And I’m sure it’s not half as chaotic as you make out.’

Actually, it was. And then some.

But I loved it.

I’d never been to a house like it. There were people all over the place: in the kitchen, chatting over tea and biscuits, and in the living room, apparently watching a horror movie. Toby was the oldest and his brothers ranged in age from twenty-one-year-old Tom – who was apparently there with his girlfriend, Becky – right down to eight-year-old Josh. Two boys of about ten, who I assumed were the twins Toby had told me about, charged down the hallway, shouting, ‘Can we go out, Mum? Just to the park?’

‘Yes, but don’t be long,’ called their mum from the kitchen.

Toby groaned as they fled past us. ‘Daniel and Harry. Sorry about that.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s absolutely fine.’

It was only ever Mum and me at home. I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a big family.

I smiled at the pairs of trainers, wellies and shoes lined up along the wall of the hallway. It looked as if a shoe shop was having a stocktake. There was something quite cheering about it.

‘Let’s see if we can find you a seat.’

As we walked into the kitchen, the young people gathered around the table looked up curiously, and a plump woman with masses of curly auburn hair heaved herself out of a rocking chair and bustled over to us. Her radiant smile lit her face, all the way up to her friendly blue eyes. They were the exact same shade as Toby’s.

‘This is my mum. Rosalind,’ said Toby. ‘Mum, this is my new friend, Daisy Cooper.’

I smiled shyly at her and held out my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs – um – Rosalind.’

‘Likewise, Daisy Cooper.’ She gave a throaty chuckle and, ignoring my hand, pulled me into a big warm hug.

CHAPTER THREE

Mum was always the biggest champion of my writing. My most adoring (and my only) fan.

She kept pressing me to finish writing my book but I always considered it pie in the sky, the idea that I could make it as an author. It just didn’t happen to ordinary mortals. Publishing was such a competitive industry. You had to be super-talented to be in with a chance. I couldn’t imagine something so miraculous as a book deal ever happening to me, so why would I waste my time trying, when the inevitable result would be crushing disappointment?

But one day, about six months after we received the devastating news of her cancer, I arrived at the house and she waved a magazine at me with an excited little smile.

‘A short story competition,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think you should enter.’

I started to shake my head but she got quite stroppy, which was unusual for her. She was normally so easy-going about everything.

‘You need to stop prevaricating and just do it, Daisy! If I had my time over again, there’s lots of things I’d do. I’d train to be an optician for a start!’

‘Really?’ I stared at her in astonishment. Why hadn’t I known this?

‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the way eyes work and it seems like a good, steady job. But what I’m saying is: stop pussyfooting around and do what you love! For me! Because life is much too short!’

We stared at each other through a blur of tears. And then, silently, I took the magazine, folded it up and put it in my bag.

I went home and stayed up late into the night, turning over ideas in my head. And then by morning, I had my plot. The advice was always: Write what you know! So I decided I’d make my lead female character a high-flying magazine editor, like Rachel. Unlike Rachel, however, my heroine had sworn off love after one disappointment too many (I knew enough about that to write all too convincingly) – until the new and charismatic head of marketing arrived and made her rethink everything …

It took me a week to write it.

During that time Mum suffered a chest infection that hit her really badly and she ended up in hospital. I was frantic with worry, but it helped me cope, having the short story competition to focus on and being able to tell Mum about my progress.

Once the story was written, I spent two weeks rewriting and agonising over whether it was good enough to send, during which time Mum was allowed home but then readmitted to hospital a few days later. The infection had apparently returned with a vengeance.

I told myself she was strong and would triumph over this latest setback. But the night after she was readmitted, I finally stopped prevaricating, closed my eyes and hit ‘send’. My story flew off into the unknown and I sat back, feeling exhausted. There was nothing more I could do. If the story was bad, it didn’t really matter. At least Mum would know that I’d tried …

A few days later, the house phone rang early one evening and Rachel knocked on my bedroom door, saying it was for me.

My heart leaped into my mouth and, for one wild moment, I dreamed it was the magazine phoning to say I’d made the shortlist.

But it wasn’t the magazine.

It was the hospital.

Mum, who was already very weak, had now succumbed to pneumonia. She was slipping in and out of consciousness and I was quietly advised that time was running out.

I drove to the hospital in a state of shock.

How could this have happened? The doctor had said she thought Mum had months to live. Possibly even a year. And we’d been planning all sorts of lovely things to do together that didn’t involve too much strength on Mum’s part. So to suddenly find she might not even have days …?

Joan! What about Joan?

My heart was in my throat.

Joan was Mum’s best friend but she lived down in Surrey, my home until I was four, a long train journey away. Even if Joan got on a train now, she might not make it in time. But she’d made me promise I’d tell her immediately if Mum’s condition worsened …

Running from the car park to the hospital entrance, I made a breathless call. Joan seemed to understand the urgency immediately – probably from the stark fear in my voice – and she told me to be strong and that she’d see me and Mum soon.

‘Tell Maureen I’m on my way with a bag of sour apples,’ she said before she rang off.

I smiled to myself as I rode the lift to Mum’s floor. ‘Sour apples’ were Mum and Auntie Joan’s favourite sweets when they were schoolgirls together in Surrey. It was sure to give Mum a boost to hear that Joan was travelling up …

When I entered the ward, the curtains were pulled around Mum’s bed and a nurse was emerging. Her eyes softened when she saw me. I walked over to her, my heart banging uneasily.

‘We’ve made your mum comfortable,’ she murmured, touching my forearm. ‘She’s in no pain although she’s drifting in and out. Go in and let her hear your voice.’

I nodded, suddenly terrified of the responsibility. It had only ever really been Mum and me after Dad died. I was all she had. I had to do this right …

But how did you stay strong enough to say a final goodbye to the person who meant the whole world to you?

In the end, I couldn’t hold back the tears. But it felt peaceful and absolutely right that I was there, holding her hand, telling her that she was the most wonderful mum in the world and that I would always love her.

Her hand tightened a little on mine when I said that, so I knew she could hear me. I leaned closer and whispered, ‘I sent the short story off. If it turns out I’m the next Jane Austen, it will all be down to you.’

She opened her eyes and her lips moved, and I realised she was trying to tell me something, so I leaned closer.

Her voice was so faint, I couldn’t make out what she was whispering at first. But then I realised. ‘Wuthering Heights.’ She was murmuring the name of her all-time favourite book.

My eyes filled with tears and I nodded and kissed her hand. ‘I’ll bring the book in later and read it to you,’ I promised her.

She looked straight at me for a moment, her eyes shining with love.

And then she was gone.

*

A month later, when I got the call saying I was one of three runners-up in the short story competition, I could hardly believe it.

I’d won a thousand pounds. But better than that by far, my story was actually going to be published in a future edition of the magazine!

When I imagined all the people – perfect strangers – who would read the words I’d written, it gave me such a jolt of disbelief and happiness.

My triumph was tinged with pain, though.

The one person who would have joined wholeheartedly in my silly dance of delight around the house was no longer here to share my joy.

I swallowed hard, steering my mind away from the memories.

Rachel would whoop with glee when she heard, though. And Toby would be amazed. He might finally see that I was serious in my ambitions to be an author! I couldn’t wait to tell him …

It seemed such a momentous thing to have happened in my life that I decided a celebration was definitely in order. So I booked a table at our favourite restaurant and phoned Toby at work to break the news.

‘I heard from the magazine. I was a runner-up,’ I squeaked, as soon as I got through. ‘So I’ve booked a table for dinner tonight. My treat!’

‘Dinner tonight?’ He sounded uncertain and my heart sank.

‘Yes. But I made the booking for later …’ I could hear the hum of voices in the background.

‘Could we do it tomorrow night instead?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, it’s just I doubt I’ll get away till after nine tonight.’

A sharp dose of reality pierced my high spirits but I forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine. Tomorrow night it is.’

‘Great. Look forward to it. Hey, well done you, though. I can’t believe you won it. Wasn’t there a big cash prize?’

‘Well, no, I was a runner-up. The prize is – erm – a thousand pounds.’

‘Ah, right. Still, that’s a very nice result for a few hours’ scribbling, though. You never know, this could turn out to be a nice little earner. How much do they pay for magazine stories?’

‘I’m not sure. But really, I’m more excited about the fact that people in the publishing industry seem to think I have some talent …’

‘Well, I’ve always known that, Daisy.’

‘You have?’ My heart gave a joyful little lift. Perhaps he’d read some of my stuff, after all. I was writing the first draft of my book with pen and paper, and I sometimes left my notebook lying out so Toby could peek if he was curious.

‘Of course. Your creative talents are legendary, my love. No one whips up a chocolate fudge cake better than you.’

Chocolate fudge cake?

‘A thousand pounds, eh? Dinner is definitely on you tomorrow night!’

I was about to tell him the most exciting bit – that my story was going to appear in the magazine. But before I got a chance, he said, ‘Sorry, love, got to dash. See you later.’

I hung up, feeling strangely sad. The conversation hadn’t gone at all the way I’d thought it would. Toby had missed the point; he seemed far more delighted about the prize money than anything else.

Then I told myself not to be so silly. Being runner-up, out of thousands of entries, felt epic to me. It was bound to after all the hours I’d spent daydreaming of becoming a published author. But I couldn’t expect Toby to understand the thrill I felt when I read that email telling me I was a winner …

Also, being so busy at work, he probably wasn’t totally focused on what I was telling him. I was sure that, by the following night, he’d have begun to realise what it meant to me, and we could have a lovely time celebrating.

I might even push the boat out and order champagne!

The following night, I called at the hairdresser’s on the way home from work and treated myself to a sleek blow-dry. Then later, with a tummy full of excited butterflies, I dressed in my favourite little black shift dress, which looked more expensive than it was, teaming it with patent heels and chunky pearls.

I scrutinised myself in the mirror. It was maybe a bit over-the-top for a weekday dinner but I didn’t care. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and I was going to enjoy it! After losing Mum, I was due a break. Hopefully this would be the start of a whole new adventure.

Perhaps, one day, I might even dare to dream of handing in my notice at Plunge Happy Monthly …

I’d arranged to meet Toby at the restaurant at eight-thirty but I was there a little early, just in case. The waiter came over and, after a second’s hesitation, I ordered champagne. It arrived in an ice bucket and I smiled and said I’d wait for my dinner date to arrive. It was important Toby was here when the cork was popped! I wanted him to feel he was in it with me; that he was an important part of my success.

By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t arrived, but I wasn’t worried. He’d have got held up; it happened all the time. There was no point phoning. He was probably already on his way.

I ordered a soft drink and read the email from the magazine for the hundredth time.

At nine-twenty, fed up with the sympathetic looks I was getting from other diners, I dialled Toby’s number.

I braced myself for multiple apologies but he actually sounded quite calm.

‘Daisy? I just got home to an empty flat. Where are you? Did we run out of milk or something?’

Crushing dismay punched me in the gut. No wonder Toby was ‘late’. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Daisy?’ I could almost hear the cogs in his head ticking over. Realisation dawning. ‘Oh God, we were meeting for dinner, weren’t we? Listen, stay there. I’ll be along now.’

I finally found my voice. ‘No, it’s too late now, Toby. I’ve hogged the table for long enough and I’ve lost my appetite. I’m coming home.’ I couldn’t keep the hurt from my tone and, as he rushed to apologise some more, I hung up.

I drove home with a horrible sick feeling inside. I realised I was probably over-reacting, but the forgotten dinner just illustrated what I’d long suspected – I was far more interested in Toby’s life than he was in mine. He’d known ever since we met that I longed to be a writer, and although I realised he viewed my ‘scribbling’ – which was how he termed it – as just a nice hobby and never likely to lead anywhere, I’d nonetheless thought he’d understand how thrilled I was about my magazine success.

But apparently it was so insignificant to him that it had totally slipped his mind!

My throat hurt.

I wanted a partner who supported me to the hilt in whatever I wanted to do in life. Someone who cherished my hopes and dreams almost as much as I did myself. The way Mum did.

Was I kidding myself imagining Toby could ever be that person?

When I got home, he greeted me at the door, full of more apologies, blaming the falling markets for wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He’d laid the table and ordered Thai food, my favourite, and there was a big bunch of hastily acquired roses in the centre of the table. But I was nowhere near ready to forgive.

I ignored him, threw my coat over a chair, yanked the fridge open and pulled out an open bottle of white wine. ‘You probably aren’t even interested in reading my story, are you?’ I glared at him, all the hurt tumbling out, then glugged half a glass of wine down in one go.

‘Of course I am.’

I laughed bitterly. ‘Well, you’re hardly going to say no now!’

I was being petty, I knew, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted more from a relationship than this …

‘Hey, listen. Of course I’m interested.’ Gently he removed the glass from my hand and took me in his arms. I stood there, rigid, desperate not to respond.

‘The thing is, though, I’d much rather read your story when it’s printed in the magazine and your name is right there on the page in big letters! How proud will I feel then?’

I twisted away from him. ‘That’s easy to say.’

‘It’s easy to say because it’s true.’ He sighed. ‘Look, you know I’m no good at English. The only thing I ever read is books about finance. And take-away menus.’

‘That’s true.’

‘But when that magazine comes through the door, believe me, I’ll be the first to read your prize-winning story.’ Smiling, he put a finger to my chin and gently turned my face to his. ‘You’re brilliant, Daisy Cooper.’

When he kissed me, I relented and kissed him back, relief flooding through me.

The thought of us splitting up terrified me. It was too soon after Mum to cope with something else so emotionally devastating.

I might have had misgivings about Toby and I being right for each other, but the fact was, Toby and his family – especially Rosalind – had been totally there for me when Mum died. I wasn’t sure I could bear the thought of doing without them now.

The doorbell rang, announcing our take-away. Toby bounded to the door, calling, ‘Let’s do something special for my birthday in July? I’ll book a week off work and you can have me all to yourself!’

Grudgingly, I agreed. Perhaps a holiday was what we needed.

I’d book a surprise romantic trip and then we’d see …

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s a month later and I’m sitting on the floor of Toby’s bedroom, sorting through the latest load of boxes I’ve brought over from Rachel’s garage.

I always thought moving in with a man for the first time would be a mark of how responsible and grown-up I’d become. It would be a conscious, level-headed decision to move the relationship to the next stage.

But there was nothing remotely level-headed about the speed with which this latest life-changing decision was made.

Not that I’m complaining!

The past few weeks since my short story triumph have passed in a mad whirl, mainly due to the fact that Rachel’s boyfriend, Adam, proposed to her right out of the blue. Rachel was ecstatic and, after we’d celebrated for the best part of a week, she told me she’d decided to sell her house and move in with Adam. So obviously I needed to find somewhere else to live.

It was the following Sunday, when we were over at Toby’s mum’s house for lunch, that everything crystallised into an obvious solution …

*

I was in the kitchen, helping Rosalind make cauliflower cheese to go with the roast.

I suppose I was feeling more emotional than usual at the thought of my flat-share with Rachel coming to an end.

Rosalind seemed to pick up on my feelings.

‘So how are you, my love?’ she asked, her tone filled with empathy. I knew she was thinking about how I must be missing Mum and, immediately, the pain of loss – which was never far away – came crashing in.

‘I’m fine. Absolutely perfect,’ I said, pasting on the bright smile I used when people started asking questions that brought on the panic. I could feel Rosalind’s kind eyes watching me as I stirred the bubbling cheese sauce on the hob.

‘Yes, but how are you really?’ Her voice was soft and loving, and my throat closed up. To my alarm, my hand started to tremble and I had to stir extra fast to stay in control, with the result that some of the hot sauce splashed onto my hand.

Rosalind gently took the pan from me and I ran my hand under the tap, grateful to turn away so she couldn’t see the tears of panic that had sprung up when she tried to probe deeper.

Why did people always want me to talk about Mum and what had happened?

Didn’t they realise that was the worst thing they could possibly make me do? I needed to get over this, otherwise I was in danger of losing my sanity, and in order to move on, I needed to concentrate on the present, not keep going over and over what I couldn’t change.

Why couldn’t they see that?

With an effort, I pulled myself together and turned. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, actually,’ I said. ‘Rachel’s selling the flat.’

‘Oh, Daisy, you poor thing. So you have to move out?’ Rosalind looked horrified.

‘Well, not immediately. She won’t even be putting it on the market until later in the year.’

‘But still … it’s a bit unsettling.’ Her look said: As if you haven’t already been through the mill enough …

I shrugged and started grating more cheese for the topping. ‘Something will turn up.’

‘Perhaps it already has.’

‘Sorry?’

Rosalind smiled, dimples appearing in her rosy cheeks as she stood up, flushed from checking the beef in the oven. ‘Toby was telling me only the other day how well things are going between you.’

‘He was?’ I looked at her in surprise. I didn’t think Toby confided in Rosalind about such personal stuff.

She shook her head and laughed. ‘Well, he was actually talking about the rising cost of living and how it was probably true that two could live just as cheaply as one. But when I cheekily asked if he was thinking of sharing his place, he didn’t deny it. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

‘Did I hear my name there?’ Toby walked in at that moment.

‘Daisy was telling me about her housing situation and I was just pointing out that a solution might be staring you both in the face, that’s all.’ She gave us a mischievous smile. ‘Keep an eye on the roast, will you? I’m just going to make sure those kids aren’t actually killing each other out there!’

When she’d gone, Toby and I looked at each other. We both laughed a bit awkwardly.

‘Mum wants you for a daughter. You do realise that,’ Toby said with a sheepish grin.

The idea of that squeezed my heart so that I had to look away and blink rapidly.

‘It does make sense,’ he added. ‘I mean, you moving into my flat.’

I swallowed hard. ‘Really? You’d like that?’ All sorts of feelings were tumbling around inside me. A while ago, I’d doubted that we were right for each other. But then Mum got ill and I was just so grateful for Toby’s support that I forgot all about my concerns that we were suited for the long haul. It just seemed important to get from one day to the next.

Could I really move in with Toby? It was such a huge commitment. Shouldn’t I at least take a week to decide?

But then I thought about how the times I spent here with Rosalind, Toby and the boys filled me with new hope for the future. I always came away from these lovely family Sunday lunches feeling happier than when I arrived and that had to mean something. It was that precious feeling of belonging. It was worth its weight in gold …

‘I’m game if you are,’ said Toby, and there was a vulnerability in his smile that took me by surprise and melted my heart. It wasn’t the most romantic of propositions but that didn’t matter. I was being given a chance to move on with my life. To start afresh and make brand-new memories with Toby.

I wanted that new start like I’d never wanted anything in my life before.

So I smiled shyly and took his hand. ‘I am game.’

We were kissing when Rosalind walked in.

‘Oh, please tell me you have good news?’ She beamed, crossing her hands over her heart. And when we nodded, she gave one of her throaty laughs, hurried over and drew us both into one of her big hugs. Toby, never one for displays of emotion, went a bit wooden, but the tears in Rosalind’s eyes were reflected in mine and I knew then that everything would be all right.

*

So at the age of thirty-two, I’m finally doing the grown-up thing of living with a guy! It feels unsettling yet quite exhilarating all at once.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m trying to get unpacked. But the boxes I’m tackling are full of Mum’s belongings – stuff I kept after clearing the house to put it up for sale – and I keep snagging on memories of my life with her. Everything I pull out seems to have a special meaning attached to it.

Toby, who’s getting ready to go into work, pops his head round the bedroom door, holding the house phone aloft. ‘It’s Joan.’

Panicking, I shake my head, miming to him to tell her I’m out. Joan will want me to talk about Mum and I just can’t face all that.

But Toby says, ‘Yeah, she’s here. Hang on a second, Joan.’

He hands me the phone with a frown. So obviously, I have to take it.

I close my eyes and take a big, bolstering breath. ‘Hi, Joan. Lovely to hear from you!’

Her warm voice on the other end, asking me how I’ve been and when I’m going to come down and visit, squeezes my heart painfully. Joan and Mum were such great friends. The memories of spending happy times together, the three of us, immediately start crowding in, and I feel the familiar clench of panic in my chest. With my free hand, I pull my cardigan tighter around me. It’s a dark maroon colour, a loose, waterfall design, with shiny maroon buttons. Toby hates it but it’s really comfy.

Joan asks about Toby and I tell her it’s his thirtieth birthday next month and I’m planning to surprise him with a romantic break away.

‘You could both come down and stay with me,’ she says. ‘Use my place as a base to explore Surrey.’ Then she laughs. ‘Hardly romantic, though.’

‘Oh, no, we couldn’t impose on you like that.’

She sighs. ‘It’s just a shame I don’t have a spare room. Ooh, I know! Why don’t you stay at Clemmy’s place, the two of you? Now, that would be very romantic!’

‘Clemmy’s place?’

‘Yes, didn’t I tell you? I definitely mentioned it to Maureen. Your mum always quite fancied the idea of glamorous camping.’

‘Glamping?’ I ask. ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she?’

‘I wish Maureen could have seen this place.’ Joan sighs. ‘She’d have loved it.’

My throat tightens. Mum and I talked about going glamping together but we never got round to it. If only I’d realised my precious time with her was limited …

Joan clears her throat. ‘Anyway, yes, Clemmy and that lovely fiancé of hers, Ryan, have opened the most glorious glamping site on the banks of a lake. It’s completely idyllic and the tents are magnificent. You’d really think you were staying in a five-star hotel!’

‘Sounds lovely.’

Clemmy is Joan’s niece and was one of my best friends at university, although we’ve sadly lost touch in the years since we left. She went back to live in Surrey, near Joan, and I returned to Manchester. I’m intrigued by the idea of the glamping site but, however much I love Joan, I don’t think spending time with her during our romantic break would be the best thing to do. She would want to talk about Mum and, quite frankly, that’s the last thing I want.

Why would I need to when I have all my lovely memories of Mum locked away inside?

And anyway, this romantic break away is going to be a special time, just for Toby and me. We’d finally have time to talk – really talk – about our future together. The magazine with my story printed in it had arrived, which was really exciting, but I’d purposely not told Toby. I was going to present it to him when we were away on holiday and he finally had the time to read it!

Glamping in Surrey is a nice idea but not for us right now …

I don’t like disappointing Joan, though, so I tell her I’ll think about it.

In all the whirl of moving house, I haven’t even thought where to take Toby for his birthday. But it’s June already. I need to make a decision!

I get back to the unpacking, thoughts of Greece – or maybe Italy – flitting through my head; Toby and I, perfectly relaxed, languishing on a hot sandy beach somewhere, next to a sun-sparkled sea …

I’m currently tackling a box that was up in Mum’s loft and looks as if it hasn’t been opened since we moved there more than a quarter of a century ago. I brush a cobweb from the front of my cardigan as a musty smell rises from the contents of the box – old books, mostly romance fiction with rather garish covers. Mum loved reading and never liked parting with her books. She was ruthless about clutter and was always boxing up stuff like clothes, shoes, old handbags and jewellery for the charity shop. But books were different. She held on to those. I’ve kept some of her favourites but I’ve carted so many off to the charity shop already.

I’m about to seal the box up again and mark it ‘charity’, when I spot something wedged down the side of the box. I pull it out.

A handbag.

It’s a cheap-looking bag. Glossy pink plastic with a gold-coloured clasp and a long narrow strap. Appliquéd onto the front is a pink and gold pony with big eyes and a flowing mane. I can’t imagine Mum would ever use something like that herself. It’s definitely not her style. But someone clearly loved it because it’s scuffed around the edges and well-used.

Was it mine when I was a teenager?

It’s so distinctive, I would surely remember it. But I don’t.

Opening the clasp, I find it’s empty, apart from an ancient-looking bus ticket and a lipstick in ‘shell pink’. There’s a pocket inside, though, and I can feel there’s something in there. Carefully unzipping it, I draw out a folded-up envelope.

Smoothing it out, I’m disappointed to find that it’s empty. Whatever letter was in there, which might have brought a clue as to the owner of the bag, has long gone. But there’s an address on the front of it that makes the breath catch in my throat.

Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green, Surrey.

I’ve never been to Appley Green. But I know it for one very important reason.

Mum told me it was the place where I was born.

I asked her once if she knew anything about my birth parents and where I came from. I must have been about sixteen at the time. She was ironing a shirt at the time. It’s funny how you remember the little details. Mum looked across at me and, for a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. Then she shook her head. ‘Sorry, love. All I know is that you were born in a village called Appley Green, not far from where we lived in Surrey, and your mother couldn’t look after you so she put you up for adoption. I wish I could tell you more but …’

‘So you don’t know anything at all about my … real mother?’

She got really flushed when I asked her that. The iron slipped and she burned her hand and had to dash through to the tap in the kitchen to run cold water over it.

I felt bad because actually, she was my ‘real mum’. The other woman, who had had nothing at all to do with my upbringing, was only my ‘birth mother’.

After that, I never asked again. I suppose I didn’t want Mum to think she might some day lose me to my biological mother.

The name, Appley Green, stayed in my mind, though. I have an image in my head of what the village looks like, although it’s probably not like that at all. I searched for a photograph of my birthplace online once but I drew a blank.

I glance at the date on the old bus ticket I found in the bag.

July 15th 1990.

I was born in 1987 so I would have been three years old when this ticket was issued.

I stare at the envelope. It obviously held some sort of advertising letter because it’s simply addressed to ‘The Householder’. No name to give me a clue. My eye focuses on the village name. Of course it’s pure coincidence that I was born in Appley Green and there it is, typewritten, on this envelope. But it still sends a little tingle of curiosity through me. The owner of the bag must have lived at Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green.

Maybe they still do …

I turn the envelope over, and scrawled on the back of it, in child-like writing, is our old address in Surrey. I always remember it because Mum used to laugh about the name. Our street was apparently called ‘Bog Houses’, and Mum used to say it was a lot more picturesque than it sounded.

There it is, on the back of the envelope, presumably scribbled down by the owner of the handbag.

3 Bog Houses, Chappel-Hedges, Surrey.

So many questions are tumbling through my head.

Who did the bag belong to?

How did it end up in Mum’s loft?

And why did Mum – who was so meticulous about getting rid of clutter – carefully box it up and keep it for all these years?

CHAPTER FIVE

The words on the blog site jump out at me.

*

Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping, near Appley Green, Surrey

Live in luxury while getting back to nature at our

beautiful lakeside glamping site!

*

Going online to find out more about Clemmy’s glamping site, I wasn’t prepared for what I would see.

But there it is, in bold black letters.

The nearest village to Clemmy’s site is … Appley Green.

I sit back, my head whirling. How weird is that?

A little zing of excitement rushed through me when I spotted the name of the village, and my heart is now bumping along at a fair old rate. From my perch on the bed, I stare at Clemmy’s website on my laptop for a long time, wondering if it might be some sort of a sign.

Glamping in a gorgeous setting could be the ideal holiday for us. Toby and I could go down there and have a lovely time together. And it would be the perfect opportunity to see Appley Green for myself and catch up with Clemmy.

I don’t usually believe in signs.

But finding the handbag with the address in it? And now this a few days later?

The glamping site looks gorgeous.

The three dwellings, well spaced across an acre of grass leading down to the lake, are nothing like the tent we took with us on camping holidays when I was little. They’re spacious and elegant, the cream-coloured canvas sweeping up into two dramatic peaks, giving them the look of a Bedouin tent in the desert. Toby would be sure to love them.

Inside, Clemmy has worked miracles with the space. She always did have a great eye for design. No expense has been spared on the canopied beds, and the soft furnishings are to die for. There’s a gorgeous bedroom and a separate living area with a big squashy sofa, all done up in creams and golds. Then there’s a shower room with loo, and even a little kitchen with all mod cons. Plus a gorgeous log burner for when the nights are cool.

A photo of an elegantly dressed couple catches my eye. They’re sitting at a little table for two, just outside their tent, clinking champagne glasses and laughing. Candlelight flickers on the table and there’s a rustic blue jug filled with hedgerow blooms. In the background, the setting sun streaks the horizon in glorious reds and pinks as the beautiful couple toast their future together.

There are lots more photos of the surrounding area, too.

The lakeside setting is glorious and it’s clear there will be ample places to explore – from the sophisticated boutique hotel a short walk from the glamping site, to the long swathe of forest glimpsed on the far side of the lake. Toby and I could go for long walks with a picnic and, if it’s warm enough, we can swim in the lake.

I stare at the two words, Appley Green, until they start to blur into one.

The oddest feeling is growing inside me, adding very frisky butterflies to my churning stomach. It feels as if everything is happening for a reason and I’m being led towards something that could be life-changing.

It only takes five minutes to book it.

Sunday to Sunday. The second week in July. Just a few weeks away.

We’re going glamping!

*

‘Do they have Wi-Fi?’ asks Toby when I tell him we’re all booked.

‘Of course. They’ll have everything you could possibly want. Including me.’ I snuggle up to him with a flirty smile. Actually, I’ve no idea about the Wi-Fi. I’ll have to check with Clemmy.

‘Sounds lovely,’ he says, smiling and kissing my forehead. ‘Let me pay for it, though. I earn far more than you.’

‘But I want it to be my treat.’

‘Yes, but it’s the thought that counts. Don’t bankrupt yourself. At least let me pay a bit towards it.’

I feel a twinge of uneasiness.

It sounds like Toby’s imagining five-star luxury, or at least somewhere more expensive than a glamping trip. Perhaps I should book a hotel break instead?

Am I being selfish, taking Toby there because part of me is really curious to see Appley Green?

Then I think of the pictures on Clemmy’s website. When Toby sees how special it is, he’ll love it, I’m sure. It will be something a little bit different that he’ll always remember when thinking of his thirtieth birthday.

What could be more romantic, after all, than eating dinner under the stars, at that pretty little table with its glowing candles and fresh wild flowers. Listening to the sounds of the countryside, watching the sun go down and planning adventures for the next day.

Clemmy’s glamping site looks like the perfect setting for romance.

What could possibly go wrong?

*

The following morning, I’m dozing after the alarm has gone off, when I have the weird nightmare once again.

Afterwards, my eyes spring open in alarm and I find I’ve been clenching my fists so tightly there are red nail marks on my palms.

Technically, they’re not nightmares because I’m never actually asleep when I have them. It’s more of a flashback, really.

And it’s always the same.

It’s dark. I’m running along a narrow lane with tall hedges on either side, and terror has me gripped in its clutches. I don’t know what I’m afraid of but there’s a frenzy of panic inside me and I’m crying – huge gasping sobs that hurt as the icy night air blasts my throat. It’s winter. Snow is clinging to the hedges, and their ghostly shapes as I blunder past are like an army of sinister snowmen.

Looking back along the lane, I peer desperately into the pitch black, searching for something. I’m crying for the thing I’ve dropped. But all the time, I’m moving further and further away from it, against my will, along that spooky lane …

More than the panic and the fear, it’s the feeling of heartbreaking loss that lingers longest when the images start to fade.

Eyes open now, I stare into the early morning gloom, thinking about the pink plastic handbag I found in Mum’s box the day before. Slipping out of bed, I take it out of my bedside drawer and, trying not to disturb Toby, I cross to my case that’s lying open on the floor, partially packed, and I slide it in, under some clothes.

Could there be a link between my recurring flashback and that mysterious pink bag? I need to take it with me …

CHAPTER SIX

On the morning of our departure, as luck would have it, the stock markets decide to plummet.

It’s hardly the Wall Street Crash, but it’s dramatic enough to etch a permanent groove above Toby’s nose as he sits in his study, urgently discussing the repercussions with his colleagues in the office.

I knock on the door as noon approaches. Toby’s ear is still welded to his phone.

‘Shall I pack for you?’ I ask, feeling guilty for interrupting such high-level discussions.

He turns and looks at me blankly.

Then he says in a really stern voice, ‘Bloody hell, no, that would be an absolute travesty.’

I blink at him, confused for a second. I suppose he thinks I’d pack all the wrong things. Then I realise he’s still talking to his colleague.

Sighing, I slink out of the room and leave him to it.

I told Clemmy we’d be there by three and she said she’d have a picnic basket with afternoon tea waiting for us. But my vision of lounging on a rug in the sunshine with Toby, enjoying home-baked scones with jam and cream and Earl Grey tea, looks like it might not happen after all.

At last, at just after four, we hit the road in Toby’s Fiesta.

It’s not exactly the relaxing journey down I’d envisaged as Toby is constantly on the car Bluetooth, talking to the office. But I don’t mind too much. It means I can indulge in a spot of daydreaming, staring out of the passenger window, enjoying the scenery and looking forward to arriving at what will be our lovely home for the next seven days.

I’d thought about asking Toby if we should invite Rosalind along and maybe some of the boys if they wanted to come. But I sensed Toby would probably want it to be just us.

We go round to Rosalind’s every week for Sunday lunch and it’s pretty chaotic, with kids running around and everyone talking over each other. Toby hates it, but to me, it’s a sort of celebration. It reminds me of Christmas.

Every Christmas Eve, Mum used to invite the neighbours and her friends from the call centre where she worked for a bit of a party. It was the one time in the year we had folk round and Mum really pushed the boat out. The house was bursting with people and laughter, Christmas music and big aluminium platters of festive food.

Even as a little kid, I looked forward to that party on Christmas Eve more than the big day itself. I’d love a big family one day …

I glance across at Toby with affection and catch his eye. His stern brow smoothes out and he smiles at me, before returning to the vexing world of market slumps.

Eventually, he winds up the conversation then turns and beams at me. ‘After a day like today, this is just what I need. Some no-holds-barred pampering in a luxurious setting.’ He sighs and rolls his shoulders in anticipation of the relaxation ahead.

I stare at him in alarm.

Why didn’t I at least think to bring a bottle of supermarket champagne?

I clear my throat. ‘Listen, Toby, I … er … there’s something you need to know. This place we’re going to—’

He shakes his head firmly. ‘Stop right there! You said you wanted it to be a surprise, and I’m absolutely fine with that.’ He smiles across at me and my heart flips. He looks so handsome with his fair hair flopping over his forehead.

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts, Daisy. Just tell me where to go when we get to – Appley Green, is it?’ He grins. ‘And for goodness’ sake, stop looking so worried. I’m sure I’ll love it, wherever it is. In fact, I know I will – as long as you’re there with me.’

He pats my knee and I relax slightly. Perhaps he won’t be disappointed after all. Spotting a signpost, a little thrill of anticipation – mixed with a degree of trepidation – zips through me as it hits me that we’re travelling nearer my place of birth with every mile. I lived down there for the first four years of my life. Would anything spark a memory?

I’m not even thinking about Maple Tree House, though.

I’ve tried to imagine myself knocking on the front door. But I can’t for the life of me think what I’d say if someone actually answered it.

Did you used to know my adoptive mum, Maureen Cooper?

Is this your handbag?

Do you know anyone round here who had a baby thirty-two years ago and gave her up for adoption?

I break out into a sweaty panic every time I think about it.

So I’ve decided the best thing to do is to just enjoy the holiday with Toby and put searching for my birth mum out of my mind.

I can obviously check out the area and maybe even visit the village of Appley Green and have a look around.

But as for walking up to the front door of Maple Tree House?

Absolutely no way …

CHAPTER SEVEN

My heart is hammering as we draw near our destination – for two reasons.

With signs for ‘Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping’ popping up here and there, I’m wondering when the penny will drop and Toby will guess that’s where we’re going.

And I can’t stop peering at all the dwellings we’re passing, wondering if any of them are Maple Tree House. I’m trying not to look because we’re here for Toby’s birthday treat and I’m feeling a little guilty that I have an ulterior motive for choosing the glamping site for our holiday.

I haven’t told Toby about finding the handbag with the Appley Green address inside it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rachel. I’m hugging it to myself for now, processing it all in my own head before I tell anyone else about it.

I had no idea how I’d feel when I actually got here.

I think I vaguely imagined that I’d go to Appley Green and have a look around, marvelling that it was here I began life. I even pictured locating Maple Tree House and knocking on the front door, although I’d ruled that out. Beyond that, I hadn’t really thought.

But now that I’m here, everything is suddenly scarily real. There’s a drive in me to find my birth mum that wasn’t there before. Did I really imagine that just visiting Appley Green would satisfy my curiosity and I’d be able to return to Manchester content simply to have seen the place where I was born?

But alongside the desire to discover where I came from is a deep, gnawing guilt. I can’t help feeling that in contemplating searching for my birth mum, I’m betraying the woman who, to all intents and purposes, was my mum. How would she have felt if she’d known I was thinking of following my curiosity to its natural end?

Driving through Appley Green itself is the weirdest feeling. My head feels as if it’s floating away from my body and there’s a buzzing in my ears as if I might be about to faint. I stare at the faces of the women walking along the high street, looking especially at the middle-aged women, going about their normal business on an ordinary Sunday morning in Appley Green.

Any one of these women could be my birth mother!

I want to tell Toby. But something is stopping me.

I think I’m worried that, if I tell anyone, it will all become overwhelmingly real and then there’ll be no going back. I’ll have to go with it and search for the truth.

But that’s where my biggest fear of all lies.

Because what if I search for the truth and it’s not the fairy tale I want? What if my birth mother had me adopted simply because she didn’t want me?

What if I turn up on her doorstep and she rejects me all over again?

‘Daisy?’ Toby sounds tense. ‘Earth to Daisy.’

I swing round. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘You need to direct me. I spotted a sign for a Michelin-starred manor house hotel back there if that’s any help?’ He looks at me hopefully and my heart sinks.

‘Try next left.’ I point at a looming sign announcing ‘Glamping’ in bold letters.

Toby looks at the sign and chuckles. ‘You and your little jokes.’ He shakes his head at me as if he’s the patient adult and I’m the naughty, wayward child. ‘So?’ He glances over expectantly, as if at any moment I’m going to shout, ‘Hah! Had you fooled! No, of course we’re not going glamping for a week. Not when there’s a posh manor house hotel with a couple of Michelin stars and an award-winning spa back there!’

This is awful.

What was I thinking, booking something that really is just one step up from a Boy-Scouts-round-the-campfire-back-to-nature sort of trip? I suppose I was carried away with how romantic the photos looked.

‘Toby, turn left, please. This is the surprise.’

He looks startled, and having been about to drive straight past the turn-off, brakes suddenly and turns off. Then he drives slowly along the narrow road, looking from left to right as if he can’t quite believe where he is.

We approach an impressive-looking chalet-type building on the left. It looks spacious and very handsome and there’s a sign saying ‘The Log Fire Cabin’.

Toby slows almost to a standstill, staring up at it admiringly. ‘Very nice.’ He nods in approval. ‘So come on, Daisy, this is where we’re really going, isn’t it? A beautiful chalet overlooking a lake. Have we got butler service?’

Irritation breaks through my feelings of guilt.

Butler bloody service? I haven’t exactly got money to burn! Although to be fair, Toby did offer to pay for it himself.

‘No butler service but I promise I’ll wait on you hand and foot on your birthday.’ I force a cheery tone. ‘We’re going glamping, Toby!’

I perform a cheery ta-dah with my hands in the direction of the glamping sign up ahead.

There’s silence from the birthday boy as he stares at the sign.

I take a breath and launch in. ‘It looks absolutely gorgeous on the website. Honestly, I think you’re going to love it. The tents – er, the dwellings – have got a proper loo and a kitchen and everything. Even a log-burning stove! And we can always head to the supermarket and splash out on a good bottle of champagne.’

Champagne actually gives me indigestion but anything to put a smile on Toby’s face.

Toby turns the car slowly into the parking area for Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping, switches off the engine and nods at a small but perfectly formed house nearby. ‘Nice architecture.’

I nod in agreement. It’s in the same style as the Log Fire Cabin that we just passed but on a smaller scale. This one is called, not very imaginatively, ‘Lakeside View’.

Toby looks over the expanse of grass towards the lake, at the elegant structures with their exotic air of a Bedouin tent. He nods slowly, gazing around him, and my heart lifts a little.

Perhaps it’s going to be fine, after all.

Toby swings round. ‘What about Wi-Fi? I must have Wi-Fi.’

I nod and he visibly relaxes. ‘Thank God. I don’t mind where I stay as long as I can keep in touch with the office.’

He sees my crestfallen face and adds hurriedly, ‘Not that this isn’t … great!’

A tall girl in jeans and T-shirt with chestnut red hair and a curvy figure is walking towards us.

‘This is my old friend, Clemmy,’ I tell Toby, my heart lifting at her warm smile of welcome. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

‘Oh, Daisy,’ she says. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your mum.’ She draws me into a big hug, squeezing me tight, and I cling on to her, my eyes suddenly wet with tears. ‘Auntie Joan is devastated. But she’s so looking forward to seeing you.’ She smiles across at Toby. ‘Both of you.’

After the introductions, Clemmy walks us over to our tent, which turns out to be even more beautiful than I imagined it would be.

Even Toby seems impressed.

‘This is amazing,’ he says, looking around him. ‘I can’t believe the level of style and comfort you’ve achieved here.’ He wanders over to the wood-burning stove and runs a finger over the top of it, absent-mindedly checking for dust. (He blames dust mites for his highly sensitive nasal passages.)

Clemmy beams. ‘I’m so glad you like it. I wanted to get the feel of a really first-rate hotel?’ She looks a little anxiously at Toby when she says this, as if she senses it’s him she needs to impress.

He tips his head on one side and frowns, as if to say, I’m not sure you’ve quite achieved that.

To make up for his lack of fulsome praise, I start going totally overboard, praising the floral-patterned quilt on the bed, which tones so beautifully with the drapes – because they are drapes, not just ordinary curtains. Generous swathes of lilac fabric sweep to the floor in the bedroom, which has walls of soft grey and lots of squishy cushions providing splashes of summery fuchsia pink and pale green. I can see similarly lush drapes in the living room area, although there the colour scheme is a more neutral mix of cream and mushroom, the roomy sofa providing a colour pop of deep turquoise.

The same area contains two chairs and the little table with its pretty jug of flowers, just like in the picture on the website.

Clemmy shows us how the log burner works and says there’s a plentiful supply of logs and a wheelbarrow in the shed by the Log Fire Cabin. Then she gives us the run-down on the little kitchen area and the toilet and shower cubicle.

No bath for Toby, obviously. But the shower looks perfectly functional!

Clemmy has left a big basket of goodies for us on the little counter top in the kitchen – and I breathe a sigh of relief to see chocolates and a bottle of champagne sticking out of the top of it.

‘I’ve got some basic foodstuffs at the house if you don’t want to go food shopping now,’ says Clemmy. ‘Nothing more exotic than baked beans, though, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve brought some homemade moussaka,’ I tell her. ‘And I think I spotted a little microwave?’

She smiles. ‘You did indeed. That’ll be lovely. And it’s such a lovely night for eating al fresco.’

‘Al fresco?’ Toby swings round.

‘Outside?’ I explain helpfully.

He frowns. ‘I know what al fresco means. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea. Bugs are absolutely rife near water. I’m not sure I fancy ingesting midges with my moussaka.’ He shoots me a worried glance. ‘You did pack the insect repellent, didn’t you?’

I assure him I did, and Clemmy says, ‘They can be a bit pesky, the midges, but usually only when it’s been raining. And we’ve had the most glorious dry spell lately.’

‘We can always eat in,’ I say cheerfully, to allay Toby’s worries of being eaten alive.

‘Or we can go out for dinner.’ Toby’s eyes light up. ‘There looks to be a rather fine eating establishment just along there, by the lake.’

‘Yes, the Starlight Hotel,’ says Clemmy. ‘It’s fabulous in every way. Very elegant. But – um – rather expensive?’

We glance over and Toby nods approvingly. ‘Excellent.’

Clemmy smiles. ‘I can phone and make a booking for you if you like?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll sort it,’ says Toby.

‘Okay, I’ll leave you to settle in then. Give me a knock in the morning if you’d like breakfast,’ says Clemmy. ‘I live in the converted barn over there.’ She points to the chalet-style building we spotted earlier. She laughs. ‘Well, it was more of a big shed, really, but Jed, who owns the Log Fire Cabin, is an architect and he did an amazing conversion job on it for us. Jed is my fiancé’s brother.’

I smile. ‘How lovely. When’s the wedding?’

‘October. There’s still so much to organise, but we’ll get there.’ A dark shadow passes over her face. But next second she’s back into professional mode. ‘Jed’s fiancée, Poppy, has her own catering company, and she bakes fresh bread and pastries every morning, which I can highly recommend.’ Clemmy pats her rounded tummy ruefully. ‘Way too moreish. Come over any time after eight if you’d like to sample them.’

As soon as she’s gone, Toby picks up the jug of flowers from the table, dumps it on the bedside table and puts his laptop on the table instead. ‘Just need to check in. Won’t be a mo.’

My heart sinks but I smile and say, ‘Okay. I’ll go and freshen up while you’re busy. I really hope you like it here. It’s such a gorgeous lakeside setting, isn’t it?’

But he’s already peering anxiously at the screen and doesn’t appear to have heard me. So I go off to investigate the tiny bathroom, hoping Toby won’t be too long. I hope he manages to get us a table for dinner at the Starlight Hotel. It sounds utterly gorgeous. Possibly even more romantic than eating al fresco! And definitely no bugs.

My stomach is already rumbling like mad at the thought of Poppy’s freshly baked breakfast pastries …

*

‘Let’s just walk along to the hotel, Toby. It’s a lovely evening.’

I finally managed to prise Toby away from his laptop in order to get ready. While he was in the bathroom, I took the magazine with my prize-winning story in it out of my case and, with a little lurch of excitement, slid it onto Toby’s bedside table. Hopefully he’ll finally have time to read it this week!

Toby frowns. ‘I thought you were hungry,’

‘I am. But Clemmy said the hotel was only a ten-minute walk away, and I thought it might be nice to take a stroll along there by the lake. You know, get to know our surroundings a bit?’

‘Okay. Let’s go.’ He pockets his work phone and I know there’s no point objecting. The office comes before everything else for Toby – even relationships. That’s just the way he is, and I’ve always had a theory that there’s no point trying to change the person you’re going out with. Sure, some of your own good habits will likely rub off on each other. But essentially, they’re not likely to undergo a great transformation, so you either accept them, warts and all, or you move on.

There’s no doubt that Toby and I are very different in some ways. But every time I imagine us going our separate ways, I think of just how much I would lose. Toby and his family have basically taken me in and provided the love and comfort I missed so badly when Mum died. I couldn’t leave Toby. And what about my friendship with Rosalind? How could we still meet up for coffee and a chat if I was no longer going out with her son?

I swallow hard. Toby and I get along fine together. Every relationship needs to be worked on. And this week, we’ll have the chance to do just that …

I tuck my hand in his arm and we start walking down the road to the hotel.

‘So, what do you think of glamping?’ I ask. ‘I know it’s not what you were expecting, but I think our tent is incredible.’

He smiles at me. ‘It’s certainly different. And I’m looking forward to finding out how springy that mattress is.’

‘Ooh, yes, me too.’ I give him a wicked grin and snuggle closer, laying my head briefly against his shoulder.

He nods. ‘Of course, I prefer a pocket-sprung, memory-foam hybrid mattress. As you know. But hell, I’m willing to try something different!’ He gives me a jolly wink.

This is promising, I think to myself. Toby actually seems quite relaxed now and he hasn’t checked his phone once since we left our tent. Admittedly, we’re only five minutes down the road, but even so …

Approaching the hotel entrance, I spot a ‘workmen’ sign just to the left, with a cordon in a ring around whatever they’ve been working on. Toby takes my hand and guides me firmly around the obstruction.

Then he suddenly stops and takes hold of my other hand as well. ‘Thank you, Daisy, for my birthday treat. I know I’ve been preoccupied with work today, but I promise I’ll make it up to you while we’re here.’

I smile shyly up at him. ‘You will?’

He nods and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him. His mouth tastes of fresh minty toothpaste and it’s lovely.

I slide my hands up around Toby’s neck as the kiss deepens and my head spins deliciously. This is what a romantic break should be like.

This, right here … kissing under the stars … just us and no one else to ruin the moment …

‘You’re blocking the way.’

I jump at the sound of a deep voice behind me.

Toby, too, is startled and springs back, colliding with the workmen’s barrier.

A tall, well-built man, wearing a backpack and hiking gear, strides past us and mounts the hotel steps, his long legs making easy work of them.

‘Hey, hang on, mate,’ protests Toby, and the man turns at the top of the steps.

‘Yes?’ he snarls, glowering at me for some reason and not Toby.

I swallow, staring up at his dark shock of hair and rough, unshaven face.

‘An “excuse me” would have been nice,’ I point out testily.

But he just gives a snort of contempt and disappears into the hotel.

‘Ah, shit. Fucking shit,’ says Toby. And when I turn, he’s extracting one foot from some syrupy, just-laid cement.

‘Oh, God, your shoe!’ I wail, staring at the gunge that’s welded to it and feeling Toby’s pain. Toby prides himself on his quality shoes. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some wipes in my handbag.’

Luckily, Toby always keeps a stash of baby wipes in the car in case of messy emergencies.

We manage to get him cleaned up fairly satisfactorily, but it’s put a definite dampener on the evening. This particular pair of shoes was handmade in Italy; Toby’s pride and joy. It would be like if someone threw my best handbag into the back of a bin lorry. It would never be the same after that. I totally get where poor Toby is coming from.

So basically, that rude stranger who pushed past us on the stairs has managed to ruin Toby’s night. Which obviously means I’m not exactly leaping about with joy, either. Still, it can only get better from here …

CHAPTER EIGHT

We haven’t booked and the restaurant is full.

All the waiter can suggest is that we have a drink in the bar and there will be a table for us at nine o’clock. Toby’s face falls and I decide not to point out that Clemmy offered to book us a table but he said he would sort it. Work, of course, got in the way …

Toby looks at his watch. ‘That’s nearly a two-hour wait. Is there anywhere else around here we can eat?’

I shake my head. ‘The nearest village, Appley Green, is ten miles away and I didn’t see a restaurant when we drove through earlier.’

‘Bloody countryside,’ mutters Toby, glaring down at his shoe, as if a rural cowpat was to blame, not wet cement. ‘At least in the city, everything’s just a phone call away.’

He sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted, and I take his hand and say softly, ‘Why don’t we just go back and microwave the moussaka I brought?’

He grimaces. ‘Don’t fancy it.’

‘Okay, well, we could get some basic stuff from Clemmy’s store cupboard, like she suggested?’

He frowns. ‘Beans on toast?’

I nod. ‘Beans, anyway. I’m not sure there’s a toaster.’

He flicks his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Great.’

Toby likes to sit down to a proper dinner – at least two courses – every night. So I can understand why a tin of beans isn’t exactly floating his boat. Especially when this is supposed to be his birthday week surprise!

He sees my face and shakes his head. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ve just had a piss-awful day, that’s all. And I was looking forward to a nice meal.’ He shrugs. ‘But hey, that’s life.’

He goes off to find the men’s toilets and I sink down onto a stylish burnt-orange sofa by the hotel’s reception desk.

What a nightmare!

It’s obvious Toby isn’t a huge fan of glamping or the countryside in general. We’ve spent all our time since we got together in the city. How was I to know Toby would be so ill at ease in the country?

Now that I think about it, the warnings were there for me to see. On the odd occasion I’ve suggested going for a hike and a meal in a country pub, Toby has always thought of an alternative. The showing of a foreign film he’s wanted to see for a while. Or a visit to a museum. Actually, most of the time, our evenings are spent with him catching up on work while I cook dinner. Two courses at least. Obviously.

Apparently, I’ve failed utterly with the glamping …

Tears spring up from nowhere. I feel so defeated.

A woman bustles into reception from somewhere within the hotel. She’s wearing a smart black suit that skims her generous curves and her blonde hair is scraped back in a severe bun. She glances at me over her dark-framed spectacles and I quickly blink to despatch the tears.

‘Can I help you, Madam?’ she asks.

I struggle up from my slouched position and force a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

She gives me a thin smile, then approaches the girl behind the reception desk and they have a murmured conversation about a hotel guest needing special pillows. I notice she’s wearing a badge with ‘Manager’ on it.

On her way past me, she stops and murmurs, ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you need?’

I heave a sigh. ‘A table in the restaurant? So my boyfriend can have the birthday he deserves?’ I shrug and smile, as if to say: It’s no big deal.

‘Are we full?’

I nod. ‘But really, it’s fine. It’s our fault for not booking a table.’ I must look really downhearted because her face relaxes into a sympathetic smile, her head tipped to one side.

‘Is it a special birthday?’

I tell her it’s his thirtieth and she thinks for a second.

‘Let me see what I can do.’ She bustles off, her patent leather court shoes squeaking slightly on the plush carpet.

She returns less than a minute later. ‘Table for two at eight suit you?’

My heart lifts. ‘Yes, that’s brilliant. Thank you so much. Toby will be delighted.’

She nods and smiles. ‘Good. Well, enjoy!’ And then she’s gone.

Anxious to deliver the good news to Toby – no baked beans for us tonight! – I wander over to the men’s toilets and lurk outside for a minute. What’s he doing in there?

After another minute, I’m getting impatient. Perhaps I could just go in.

These are obviously posh loos so there’ll just be cubicles in there. No urinal thingy.

Slowly, I push open the door a crack. Hesitantly, I call out Toby’s name.

I hear a grunt so I push the door wider. Sure enough, cubicles only. And very posh, with hand cream and everything. Just one cubicle is engaged.

I walk in and call out, ‘You’ll never guess? I’ve managed to get us a table for eight o’clock. Isn’t that great? And …’ I move close to the door and murmur, ‘I’ve packed the wellies and the apron. If you’re a very good boy, I’ll put them on later …’

The first time I cooked Toby a meal, he arrived early and surprised me in the garden picking herbs for the tomato sauce. I’d just emerged from the shower and was wearing little more than wellies and a large apron. Toby clearly admired my quirky ‘outfit’ because after we laughed about it, we ended up in bed together, tomato sauce temporarily forgotten …

The toilet flushes and I stand back, expecting Toby to emerge all smiles at the memory of our first night together.

My mouth sags open.

It’s not Toby. It’s a complete stranger.

Well, not quite a stranger. It’s the hulking, surly, obnoxious man from earlier. The one who barged in on our kiss and accused us of blocking his way.

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