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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Katey Lovell 2017

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Katey Lovell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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

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

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Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008240875

Version 2017-10-09

Praise for Katey Lovell

‘A joyful, funny, feel-good story – packed with showtunes, romance and a wonderfully warm cast’

Sunday Times bestselling author Miranda Dickinson

‘A warm and charming novel full of heartfelt friendship, romance and humour…the perfect book to escape into with a huge mug of coffee and a comfy sofa’

USA Today bestselling author Kitty French

‘This year’s most charming romance…it will make your heart sing’

Erin Lawless, bestselling author of The Best Thing I Never Had

‘An irresistible feel-good read, that will have you singing and smiling with each joyful turn of the page’

Irish Times bestselling author Carmel Harrington

‘I’m so glad I picked this up, it’s gorgeous’

Rather Too Fond of Books

‘Swooning all the way through’

Reviewed the Book

For David xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Katey Lovell

Dedication

Prologue: August 1977

Pearl

May 2017

Maggie

Fern

Lacey

Fern

Maggie

Pearl

Fern

Maggie

Lacey

Pearl

June 2017

Maggie

Fern

Maggie

Pearl

Lacey

Fern

Maggie

Lacey

Pearl

Fern

Maggie

Lacey

Pearl

July 2017

Lacey

Fern

Maggie

Pearl

Fern

Lacey

Fern

Maggie

Pearl

Maggie

Pearl

Maggie

Fern

Lacey

Pearl

Maggie

Fern

August 2017

Lacey

Maggie

Fern

Pearl

Maggie

Fern

September 2017

Lacey

Maggie

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon from Katey Lovell

Also by Katey Lovell

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Pearl

Poor Alf.

The song was a bad choice for a first dance, but he wasn’t to know. Why should he? There was no reason for my new husband to be aware of the feelings this song was stirring inside me. He hadn’t been there two years previously, when I’d first slow-danced to this song with another man.

But I’m aware.

Aware of the nausea; the bilious liquid rising in my throat until I fear for the future of the off-white satin court shoes that are pinching my toes.

Aware of the solid knot in the pit of my stomach.

Aware of the pain in my heart on what should be the happiest day of my life.

The joy of the day has been washed over – no, flooded out – by the actions of my past, as though everything that’s gone before is weighing me down and now I’m sinking, sinking, sinking.

I paint on a smile and force myself to sway along to the music. A ripple of applause fills the room as Alf and I move, and the flashing of a hundred cameras keen to capture our first dance pierces through the darkness of the church hall.

Relief rushes through me as the song comes to an end, replaced by an upbeat disco tune that gets even my sister Vivienne on to the dance floor, toddler balanced on her hip as she spins. The baby responds by releasing a full-on belly laugh of undeniable happiness, and I pull my husband just a fraction closer.

“Mmm, that’s nice.” Alf smiles, squeezing me back tightly. He follows my gaze, to where I’m still watching my elder sister, now twisting and twirling like a ballerina on a music box as the little one clings on to her hand for dear life. “What’re you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

I can’t tell him the truth. Not now, not ever.

“It looks like fun, doesn’t it? Having a little one.” The unsteady toddler excitedly claps along as my brother-in-law Glenn struts his stuff as though he’s cock of the town. “Maybe we should start thinking about having one of our own…we are married now, after all.”

I blink. “A baby?”

“No, a giraffe,” he teases. “Yes, a baby! That’s not such a crazy idea, is it? You’d make a wonderful mother.” He beams, and I know he’s imagining me with a sleeping child cradled in my arms, a perfect Madonna and child scenario. “We could be a proper little family. Just think, if we hit the jackpot right away we could be parents by summertime!”

My knees quiver beneath the lacy layers of my dress, and I tighten my grip on my husband’s arm.

“It might not happen right away.” My voice wavers. “Some couples try for years before getting caught.”

“It won’t take us years,” Alf says, his voice brimming with macho confidence. “I’d put money on it happening fast.”

It had happened fast last time. Too fast.

“Don’t get your hopes up, that’s all. We’ve got plenty of time, we’re only twenty-one!” I strain to keep my voice jovial and light, but Alf’s face looks pained. I feel awful for raining on his parade, especially when none of my reluctance to rush into starting a family is his fault.

“You do want children though, don’t you? I know we’ve not spoken about it much, but that’s what most women want…a husband, a baby or two…”

“I do, I really do. In the future I want us to have a family of our own, and maybe a puppy too. I just think I’d like to enjoy being married for a while first though.” Alf’s face falls, so I hastily add, “But we can always get some baby-making practice in?”

That obviously raises his spirits as he visibly brightens.

“Promises, promises,” he replies with a cheeky wink. “If you want to wait a few months, that’s fine by me. Whatever my beautiful bride wants.” He leans in, placing the softest of kisses on the tip of my nose, and I’m reminded of what a sweet, lovely man he is. “You’ll be a wonderful mother, one of these days,” he repeats.

“Thank you,” I whisper, burying my head into his chest. His heartbeat reverberates against my cheek. “And you’ll be a brilliant father.”

“I’ll do my best, for them and for you. I promise you, Pearl, I’ll never let you down.”

The words are so beautiful that I want to make the same promise back, but I can’t bring myself to speak. I’m not the person Alf thinks I am. By keeping the secrets of two summers ago from him I’ve already let him down.

But I did it to protect him, because it would break his heart if he knew. That’s why he must never find out. He must never know that I am already a mother.

May 2017

Maggie

Fir Tree Park’s one of those delightful places that exudes beauty whatever the season, and I know how lucky I am to work here. I’m blessed with the opportunity to appreciate its magnificence all year round; when the muted blanket of fallen leaves coats the weaving paths and walkways in autumn (well worthy of the admiration they get from welly-wearing dog walkers and exuberant toddlers alike) and when the icy layer atop the lake sparkles with winter wonder, pretty enough to adorn any Christmas card. And spring’s pale pink buds of cherry blossom are a welcome vision, cheery and uplifting in the extreme.

But during the summer months there’s something extra special about the park. It’s abuzz with life, more so than at any other point in the year. Once the days become longer crowds come out of hibernation, everyone keen to capitalize on the extra hours of sunlight. The armies of new mums pushing the latest must-have buggies walk with increased purpose and drive, office workers bring their sandwiches and cans of Coke on to the flat plain of grass in front of the café at lunchtime instead of wolfing their food down at their desks, and the fair-weather joggers whose trainers haven’t seen any action since the clocks went back – they all return to the park as the weather brightens up.

As the owner of The Lake House Café, a popular meeting point in Fir Tree Park, I’m delighted to see the park at its busiest. Busy means business and that can only be a good thing. But there’s more to it than that. It gives me a warm glow to see the masses celebrating the great outdoors; the children splashing in the waterpark, the keen-to-please parents puffing away as they exhaust themselves on the pedalos and rickety rowing boats, the dogs chasing their tails on the large, lush lawn. These people are my people. There’s an affinity between us. Knowing the café is at the heart of both the park and the community makes me so proud I could burst.

Every day starts the same way, with me rustling up cakes in the small yet pristine kitchen at the back of the café.

“Looks like it’ll be another busy one,” I call out to my eighteen-year-old daughter, Kelly. She’s up bright and early especially to help me set up for the day ahead. “I might have to conjure up another lemon drizzle cake.”

Even the thought of running out of cakes brings me out in a cold sweat. Heaven forbid it actually happens: there’d be nothing worse than demand outstripping supply. When I opened the café my mission was for every customer to leave happy, satisfied and itching to return. It’s still my aim now, nine years on.

Kelly’s laugh rings out as she continues to wipe the red and white polka dot oilcloths that cover the tables. I can see her smirking through the serving hatch. “There’s no chance you’ll sell out of cake. You’re a baking machine!”

Deep down I know she’s right – once I get started I can’t stop myself – but there’s a loyal band of customers who come to the café year-round in order to satisfy their sweet tooth. It’s all about giving them a varied choice, ensuring people can have the old favourites if they so choose with a few more experimental options thrown in for the more adventurous clientele.

That’s why from the moment I arrive at the café each morning and pull my cream chef’s apron over my head I’m in the kitchen mixing up batters and doughs like a whirling dervish. By the time the doors open at 8.30am a deliciously sweet smell permeates the air – people say that’s what makes it nigh on impossible to resist my wares. The baking continues on and off all day, even if the café’s already well-stocked with an array of yummy cakes and biscuits. The waft of sugar lingers so you can taste it with each breath, tempting customers to buy a slice of sponge for the road as well as one to go with their drink-in cappuccino. It’s a happy, homely scent. The kind those reed diffusers try (and fail) to mimic.

My over-baking is a source of great amusement to everyone. Staff often end up taking brown paper bags stuffed full of the leftover goodies home with them at the end of the day – chocolate chip cookies that don’t snap until they’re almost bent double; rich chocolate cupcakes with lavish buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles; and of course, generous wedges of my signature lemon drizzle cake. They say it’s a perk of the job, taking the unsold goods home. I say it gives me a chance to do more baking the next day, so it’s win-win.

“The day we run out of cake is the day hell freezes over,” Kelly calls out. She’s facing the other way, yet I can almost hear the sarcastic eyeroll that no doubt accompanies her words. “It’ll never happen.”

“I hope you’re right,” I answer cheerily, “but I might do something quick, just to be on the safe side. Another Malteser fridge cake, maybe?”

Kelly pops her head into the kitchen and lets out a long, purposeful sigh. Even when frustrated and flustered she looks beautiful – blonde, lean and glowing. Youth wrapped up in a neat daughter-sized package. “I know you’ll not listen to a word I say, but there’s plenty, and you’ve got a fridge full of millionaire’s shortbread too, remember? You’re making work for yourself again, Mum.”

“It keeps me busy. Stops me having time to worry about you.”

It’s a tongue-in-cheek remark, but the truth nonetheless. Being a parent is terrifying at the best of times, and when exams are looming and you can do nothing to help but provide them with tea and cake, parenting is ramped up to a whole new level. If I’d known how much brain-space kids take up, I’d have thought longer and harder before having them. Not that I regret Josh and Kelly, not for a minute, but I had them young – too young probably – and now I’m a forty-year-old single parent on the verge of an empty nest.

I’ve done my best for the pair of them, but there have been many, many times I’ve fallen short. The days they had to wear their grubby school sweaters for a third time because I’d not had chance to put a wash on, or when I was forced to serve beans on toast for tea four nights in a row because I couldn’t afford anything more substantial. Things have been tight over the years, in terms of both time and money, and I never understood it before, but I realise now that sometimes you can be doing your best and it’s still not enough.

“When you get home you can knuckle down to that history revision. There’s only three weeks until your exam, remember.” I throw a pointed look in my daughter’s direction, willing her into action.

“I am aware,” Kelly says brusquely, every inch the know-it-all teenager.

It’s a funny age, eighteen. She looks like a young woman but still has the capability to act like a petulant child. Her long blonde hair’s cascading down her back and her hand’s jauntily placed on her hip. Attitude aplenty, although she’s a good girl, mostly.

“It’s me that’s going to be panicking about it, not you,” she fires.

‘Ha, that’s what you think,’ I want to say. It might be Kelly revising long into the night and it might be her again, sat at a small, square desk to frantically scribble down everything she remembers about World War I and the Industrial Revolution on exam day, but I’ll have as many sleepless nights over these A-levels as she will. They’re all-consuming, I remember how it was with Josh.

It had been a different battle three years ago to the one now, but a battle it had been. I’d spent hours reminding him that although he was a natural academic, his aptitude for learning was no excuse for not hitting the books. With Kelly it’s something else entirely. She works hard, colour-coding her notes with fluorescent sticky tabs and a multitude of neon highlighter pens. They’re as bright as the accessory aisle in Miss Selfridge in the ‘80s, but for all her organisation and effort, study doesn’t come easy to her.

I’m a hard worker myself, never satisfied until the glass cabinet that runs the length of the old wooden counter is jam-packed full of sweet offerings. Since the day I bought the café, way back when Kelly was in junior school, it has always been the same. But it’s been a gruelling slog at times, and I hope beyond all hope that my children will have an easier ride than my own.

“What time’s Fern getting in?” Kelly asks, throwing the now-grubby dishcloth she’s been using into the hot soapy water that fills the kitchen sink. “Because I’ve loads of revision planned for today. My head’s a mess trying to remember all those dates and laws. I need to put the hours in if I’m going to get the grades for Birmingham,” she reminds me, as though I’m likely to forget. It’s all she’s spoken about for months.

“She’ll be in at ten, so you can get off after that. Or you can sit at the corner table all day if you prefer? I’ll make sure Fern keeps your cup filled with tea.”

I’m a great believer in the power of tea. A warm hug when the world feels cold, rejuvenating when you feel beaten. I pretty much live off the stuff and have passed my love of it on to both Kelly and Josh, who are equally addicted, although they’re far more liberal with the sugar than I am.

“It’s up to you,” I add. “Wherever you think you’ll concentrate best. My only worry is you’ll go home, turn on your laptop and fall down a YouTube-shaped rabbit hole.”

Kelly’s hooked on the beauty vloggers’ channels, constantly looking for tips on how to perfect her eyeliner flicks and discover which foundation offers best all-day coverage on a shoestring budget. All the important stuff.

Kelly groans. “Mum, really! It’s me you’re talking to. I’ll put in the work, I’m not like Josh.”

“I know you’ll put the effort in. I do,” I answer, ensuring my voice stays soft and reassuring. I don’t want to risk it veering off towards fussy fuddy-duddy mode, because Kelly doesn’t respond well to being told what to do. Never has, even as a tot. She’d been one of those puce-faced children who kicked and screamed at the supermarket checkout when she wasn’t allowed a packet of chocolate buttons, always knowing what she wanted and doing her level best to get it by fair means or foul. Both my children had been like that, and I don’t want to dwell on what that says about me. A psychoanalyst would have a field day, I’m sure.

I choose my words carefully, talking slowly. “But I can’t help but wonder if you only want to go to university because you think it’s expected of you, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

I catch Kelly’s gaze. Her turquoise eyes flash, but not with anger, and a tangible rush of love flows between us. For a second I wish I could turn back time. Things were bloody tough when the kids were little, but at least then I’d felt I was making a difference. Back then I’d had some level of control over her life and how she experienced the world. These days I have to trust the mistakes she’ll inevitably make will be minor rather than major. Kelly’s very much her own person, a glorious muddle of juxtapositions – stubborn and flighty, beautiful and petulant, angry and delicate – but beneath the lipstick and mascara she’s still my baby. She always will be.

“You don’t have to take the same path as your friends, you know,” I continue. “There’s more to life than university, other options you could explore. I was already pregnant with Josh when I was your age…”

“Are you saying I should get pregnant?” Kelly jokes. Quick-witted as ever, especially when a conversation takes a serious turn. Just like her dad. He never wanted to talk about anything heavy either. I bat away thoughts of Clint because there’s no point ruining a perfectly lovely morning. “I didn’t think you’d be up for being a grandma just yet.”

“Absolutely not!” I exclaim, flustered. I can feel my cheeks burning up; they’ve probably already turned an attractive shade of beetroot.

“All I’m trying to say is that what’s right for one person isn’t always right for another. I was married with a baby on the way when I was eighteen, whereas at the same age Josh got accepted on to his physics degree. Your dad…” I pause, consciously trying to keep the distaste from displaying on my face. I never purposefully badmouth Clint to the kids, as much as I’ve wanted to at times. It’s not their fault that their dad’s a waste of space. “…well, he was already in with the wrong crowd by then. But you, my gorgeous baby girl? The world’s your oyster! You can do anything you put your mind to. And you don’t need a piece of paper from a stuffy university to do most of it, and you definitely don’t need the debt that goes hand in hand with it. I wouldn’t be saying this if I thought history was your passion. But I don’t think it really is, sweetheart, do you?”

I wait for an answer, but nothing’s forthcoming. Kelly’s nibbling on the skin of her thumb, a bad habit she’s had since she was small, and I resist the urge to tap her hand away from her mouth.

I smile gently, hoping it can reassure her. “All I’m saying is three years is a long time to be miserable.”

Kelly smiles back awkwardly, more grimace than grin. “I don’t know, Mum. Everyone’ll be going away in September – Tash, Meg, Luke … I don’t want to be the only person stuck here when they’re all having fun at freshers’ nights and drinking bright blue cocktails from plastic fishbowls.”

There’s a tinge of fear in her voice, which I expect is linked to the thoughts of missing out on the rite of passage that is going to university. The youngsters today all seem to go, leaving in their droves every autumn. Surely they can’t all be brainboxes?

Even in my day things were different, and it’s not like I’m from the dark ages. Half my classmates went straight into work from school – poorly paid jobs as receptionists, barmaids, checkout girls – ordinary jobs for the ordinary people we were. There was no shame in that back then, it was the norm. How can the world have changed so much in such a short time?

I’d worked as a waitress before having Josh, serving stone-baked pizzas and rich cannellonis in a little Italian restaurant on the high street, a family-run eatery. Every available surface had been bedecked in the traditional national colours of red, white and green. It hadn’t paid that well but had provided a bit of pocket money, enough to get by. Even now I’m hardly Deborah Meaden; I just got lucky, buying the café for a song and slowly but surely building up the business. The Lake House Café’s doing well at the moment, with café culture on the rise.

“Who said anything about being stuck here? If you work over the summer, you’ll earn a bit of pocket money and maybe have enough to travel. You’ve said you wanted to see the world. Why not do it now while you have the chance? I always fancied getting one of those train tickets that lets you go all over Europe, packing a backpack and seeing where I ended up. Imagine what an experience that’d be! You could go to Rome…” I say dreamily. In my mind I’m drifting off on a sleeper train heading towards the Eternal City, rather than wondering if I’ve got enough plain flour in the cupboard to last the rest of the week. As much as I love my job, Rome sounds infinitely more appealing.

Kelly, however, looks doubtful. “I don’t know. I’d have to come back sooner or later, and without a degree I’d struggle to get a job.”

“For as long as I own this café, there’ll be a job here for you. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.” I cup my daughter’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Just have a think about things, that’s all I’m asking. Why don’t you head off home? Fern will be here shortly, and I can manage till then.” I nod towards the café door and the sprawling green park beyond. “Go and hit those books.”

Kelly reaches for her black leather satchel and slings it across her body. “Thanks, Mum. And I’ll think about it, the travelling.”

I’m sure she’s only saying it to placate me, but I humour her back, leaning down and kissing the baby-soft skin of her cheek. They’re growing up fast, her and Josh. If only I could slow it down a touch before they’re gone for good, lost to significant others and the daily grind.

“Do. There’s more to life than exams. I may not have got here by the most direct route, but I’m happier now than I’ve ever been before.” I can’t help but smile with a quiet satisfaction. “It took me the best part of forty years to achieve what I wanted, so don’t you go beating yourself up for not having your life mapped out at your age. You’ll get there soon enough. I’ve got everything I want now. It just took a bit longer than I thought it would, that’s all.”

Kelly makes for the door. “Everything you want except a man,” she says cheekily, quickly closing the panelled door behind her whilst I stand agog, wishing I was a bit sharper.

She’s right though. It’s the sad truth that I do wish I had a bit of male company once in a while. I don’t need a man in my life, but it’d be nice to have someone special to share the highs and lows with. There’s been no one serious since Clint, nothing more than a few paltry dates that didn’t lead to anything fulfilling. I’m only forty: surely I’ve not used up my share of romance already?

I sink into one of the wooden chairs, the plump gingham cushion softening my landing, as I reminisce.

Clint Thornhill had been my childhood sweetheart, a wild bad boy with convincing patter. As a teen, I hadn’t noticed his (many) obvious flaws, instead blindly worshipping the ground his bovver boots walked on. I’d fallen hard and deep, smitten by his white-blonde hair and strong features. He’d reminded me of my first major celebrity crush, Matt Goss from Bros. The similarity had set my heart aflutter.

I’d had to pinch myself to believe Clint would be interested in me, but for some reason he’d kept hanging around, turning up at places he knew I’d be. When he finally asked me to the pictures I’d accepted in a flash. We shouldn’t have wasted our money because we hadn’t watched the film: instead we’d snogged for two hours solid in the back row of the local fleapit. My lips had felt like they were burning, a blissful pain searing through my fifteen-year-old self that was full of both danger and excitement.

Two and a half years later we were married, a small register office do on my eighteenth birthday. Seven months after that came the two blue lines on the white plastic stick that had revealed I was expecting Josh, and I’d been so, so happy. Other people my age seemed so unsure, but I’d got it all – a husband, a council flat, a baby on the way. I’d foolishly thought I’d got it sussed.

But it hadn’t taken long for me to realise my mistake in marrying too young, and although I’d never regret Josh and Kelly, I do regret Clint. Mostly I regret the shame he brought on my family, the absolute heartbreak both his mum and mine had suffered when he’d been sent to prison ten years ago. Armed robbery, like one of those bank hold-ups in a cartoon. He’d even been wearing a black balaclava in an attempt to hide his face, just to live up to the stereotype. It was almost laughable. All he needed was a swag bag and a black-and-white-striped jumper to complete the Burglar Bill look.

The balaclava hadn’t worked, anyway. The bank teller he’d threatened had recognised him despite his disguise. In court she’d said that she knew it was Clint who’d pointed that gun at her because she’d recognise his eyes anywhere. Funny how the piercing blue eyes I’d lost myself in so many times were the very thing that eventually tore us apart.

After that things changed. Every time I walked into a shop people would stare, gossiping behind their hands about what an idiot I must be to have ended up saddled with two kids and a criminal for a husband; and his poor mum, you’d think she’d given birth to the devil himself from the way people spoke to her. People judge you on how your kids turn out, and Vivienne’s parenting skills were well and truly under scrutiny after Clint’s escapades. There’s no hiding in a small town like this.

Soon after Clint was locked up, I filed for divorce. Unreasonable behaviour, although I could have easily named adultery as the reason for the breakdown of our marriage. Clint might have made me feel like one in a million at the beginning, but a string of affairs throughout our married life left me with zero confidence. He came back grovelling time and time again, plying me with platitudes about how it was me he loved and how he only ever strayed when drunk, but I’d become a laughing stock, one of ‘those women’. His prison sentence was a chance for me to break free and reclaim my fragile heart, although I’m still recovering from the damage our toxic relationship caused.

If I’m being completely honest, that’s why I threw myself into The Lake House Café with every ounce of my heart and soul. The café had been a welcome distraction from the romance that was sadly missing in my life. It gave me a purpose, along with a ready-made excuse for turning down the occasional offers of dates I did get – always claiming to be too busy for love when really I hadn’t found anyone I was willing to take a chance on. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.

But today’s a Saturday, and Saturdays mean one thing – football coaching in the park. And football coaching means the handsome Italian with the floppy jet-black hair; tall, lean and athletic with rich olive skin and strong, taut thighs. Yes, Saturdays are especially pleasurable. He’s exceptionally easy on the eye.

It hardly matters that I’ve barely said a word to him in all the months he’s been running the kiddies’ football course. I’ve seen him, and that’s enough. My heart flutters more than I care to admit at the thought that he might pop into the café for an Americano and a slice of gingerbread at the end of the session. He doesn’t call in every Saturday, but when he does it brings a spring to my step and a smile to my face. Sadly, it’s the highlight of my week, so I hope today will be one of the days he rewards his hard work with some home baking. Please, please, please…

Pushing back the chair, I catch my reflection in the window. I plump up my dark brown curls to give them more volume and smack my lips forcefully together in the hope it’ll enhance their colour. Ensuring I look my best, just in case.

The jangle of the bells over the door catches my attention and my heart pounds for all the wrong reasons as I see my assistant Fern. Her face is blotchy, her eyes narrow and red. She sobs loudly and I dash towards her, placing my arm around her shoulder.

“Fern! Whatever’s the matter, sweetheart?”

The young woman pulls away, dragging the backs of her index fingers underneath her eyes in a bid to wipe away the tears. It works, but she smears her mascara in the process, leaving prominent dark streaks stretching to the edges of her face. She looks like a bedraggled version of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.

“Oh, Maggie, it’s Luke,” Fern says, referring to her younger brother. He’s a friendly, handsome boy; energetic and confident, the polar opposite of super-shy Fern. He’s been in the same class as Kelly since infant school. They dated briefly, and I’d been surprised and quietly disappointed when they’d called time on their relationship. He’d been good for her: far better than Mischa, the moody goth girl she’d dated last year. Mischa had a notebook full of depressing song lyrics from bands like Depeche Mode and The Cure, and the amount of kohl she used on her eyelids would have given Robert Smith a run for his money. It made her look like a raccoon. I’d never understood why Kelly was with her. They had nothing in common. Not once did Mischa’s purple-coated lips crack a smile, whereas I can’t help but smile at the thought of Luke, all youthful effervescence and enthusiasm. He’s a cheerful boy, uplifting and full of zest. “Last night he was screaming in pain and saying he couldn’t see. He’s been complaining of migraines for weeks, but this was the worst yet. Dad rushed him straight to the hospital and they ran all these tests, dozens of them.”

Fern whimpers, helpless, then swallows. When she finally speaks her words hit me like a sledgehammer.

“They found out what it is that’s making him feel so awful. It’s not a migraine, Maggie. It’s a brain tumour.”

Fern

If Maggie looks stunned by my revelation, she can’t feel as shocked as I do. It’s still sinking in that this is actually happening to my brother.

It had been one hell of a night, with all of us sat on uncomfortable plastic seats in a strip-lit hospital corridor while we waited for any scrap of information we could garner from the white-coated medics that hurried past us. Mum had started wailing at one point, a deep and hollow baying cry that echoed horrifically around the clinical grey hallway while I’d stared at a poster about diabetes testing for three hours solid because if I focussed on that I didn’t have to think about all the awful tests Luke was so bravely enduring in another room. It had been, without a doubt, the worst night of my life.

“They’re going to operate on him as soon as they can, but he’s too run down right now. They’re not sure he’s strong enough to survive a ten-hour operation, so they’re treating the infection first.” I laugh, but it sounds empty and joyless. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that he’s got a bundle of cells attacking his brain and trying to kill him but they can’t try and remove it because he’s got a runny nose and a tickly cough.”

“The specialists at that hospital are nothing short of amazing. Honestly, they’re some of the best in the world. They know what they’re doing.” Maggie’s calm reassurance is exactly what I need. She’s the voice of reason. “So when are they hoping to operate?”

I shrug. “It’s hard to know. As soon as he’s well enough for the anaesthetic to not be a danger, I think. Days rather than weeks, from what they were saying.”

Repeating this information to Maggie keeps me centred. It’s almost as though when I’m relaying the cold, hard facts of the story it isn’t real, as though my baby brother isn’t lying on a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of his body and drips pumping him full of medication. I can pretend everything’s fine here, away from the stark, cold corridors of the hospital. I’m glad to be at the café and especially glad to be away from my parents, so I don’t have to watch them crumble for another minute. I’d never seen my dad cry before, but last night he must have cried every tear he’d stored up inside.

“It’s not going to affect my work though, I promise. The customers don’t need to know anything’s changed. I’ll still be here on time every day and I won’t be a misery. I won’t let you down.”

Maggie places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You wouldn’t be letting me down by putting your family first, Fern. If you need to be at the hospital, you go. This should be the last place on your mind with Luke so poorly. Pearl can always do a few shifts if we need an extra pair of hands, so cover’s not an issue. I think she’s lonely, being on her own. She’d be glad to help out.”

“I’d rather be here,” I admit. “Although it’s good to know that Pearl’s available. I’d hate to leave you in the lurch if I need to dash off for whatever reason.”

I resist the urge to check my phone for the millionth time, just in case. I’d turned the ringer up to the highest volume and made my mum promise to call me if there was any news, no matter how small.

“Pearl’s more than happy to come whenever. That’s the thing about having family close by, they’re always on hand in an emergency.”

Pearl’s related to Maggie by marriage – she’s Maggie’s ex-husband’s aunt – and is a warm-hearted woman with a friendly smile. She’s usually being dragged around the park by her dachshund puppy, and has admitted that she sees the shifts she helps out with at The Lake House Café as some much-needed respite from her livewire canine companion.

“Hopefully there won’t be any emergencies,” I say grimly. “At the hospital we’re sitting around waiting for news and the time goes so slowly. I kept looking at my watch and the hands were moving that slowly I thought it had stopped. At least here I can find things to keep me busy, and it’ll do me good to see happy faces rather than wallow in self-pity all day long.”

“If you’re absolutely sure, then I’m always glad to have you. You know I couldn’t run this place without your input. But any time you need to dash off, you go. You don’t even need to tell me, just whip off your apron and get out of that door. Family’s important, Fern. I’m an only child, but I know that the bond between siblings is strong. Even though Kelly and Josh are tearing each other to shreds half the time, they’d be devastated if anything happened to the other.”

My heart sinks, Maggie’s words reminding me of my promise. I’ve got a phone call to make.

“Can I just have five minutes before I start my shift? I told Luke I’d ring someone to let them know what’s happening…”

“You take your time,” Maggie says soothingly, before switching on the radio. It’s playing a rock-and-roll song, the kind that’d normally have me tapping my feet along to the beat. Today I don’t feel like dancing. I don’t feel like much at all.

“I’ll go and clear that table,” she adds, humming quietly as she starts stacking the plates left by some of the morning’s early-bird customers.

Retrieving my phone from my pocket, relieved not to have any missed calls or messages, I scroll through the list of names. Café. Dad. Dentist. Doctor. They all flash before me before I see the name I’m searching for. I press the call icon, dread eating me up from the inside. I swallow as the phone rings once, twice, three times, and then a familiar voice answers with a sharp, and slightly irritated, hello.

“Kelly? It’s me, Fern. Luke asked me to call you…”

Lacey

There’s a nagging burning sensation nipping at my waist, the familiar gripe of a stitch building in my muscle. I’ve tried pinching it between my fingers and blowing out, something my old PE teacher used to insist was an instacure, but it’s not helping. I tried massaging it with my fingertips too, but that didn’t solve the problem either. There’s nothing for it but to slow down to a walk. The aches and pains are obviously my body’s way of telling me it’s had enough for today.

I’ve been running for a month now, which is approximately three weeks longer than I expected to stick at it. I made the rookie mistake of telling anyone who’d listen that I was doing a charity run, and because I have kind and generous (and borderline sadistic) friends and family they’d all been thrusting fivers at me and congratulating me on doing something so impressive. Admittedly, there were a few people who laughed in my face – namely my boss, who told me he’d offer sponsorship of a hundred pounds on behalf of Fine Time Events so long as I ran the whole half-marathon, obviously insinuating that he didn’t think I’d be capable. Well, I’ll bloody show him. There’s another nine weeks until the half-marathon. That’s plenty of time to up the mileage and my fitness, so long as I can find a way to get rid of this stitch.

“Lacey!” The cheery voice lifts my spirits and brings a smile to my face. The familiar tone wraps me up, warming and reassuring. “Don’t you go overdoing it, now.”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Carrick,” I say with a grin. “I know my limits. I managed forty minutes’ running today before I had to stop though, so I must be getting fitter.”

I’d been delighted with the improvement. My first ‘running’ session had been almost entirely walking, and whilst I still jog with a lolloping, ungainly gait, at least I’m picking up speed and covering more ground.

My uncle beams back, his wonky grin and twinkly eyes as sunny as the weather. “She’d be so proud of you for getting out there and doing something proactive. She was all about fighting for change, was Marilyn.”

“I think of her all the time,” I confess. “She inspires me to keep going when my legs are telling me to give up.”

I’d loved my aunt so much. Now, when my feet were aching and my thighs burning with pain, I close my eyes and imagine her face. Somehow it makes everything seem just that bit more manageable.

“It’s funny how you and her are so different to Dad,” I muse. “He’s always been so serious and strait-laced. It’s hard to believe you all have the same parents.”

Uncle Carrick snorts. “Well, Terrence always had ideas above his station. He was never going to be the type to settle for staying around these parts. Me and Marilyn, we were home birds, but your dad was forever talking about getting away. It was no surprise when he joined the army. Your Grandma Braithwaite told anyone who’d listen about how wonderful he was. He was her favourite. Youngest child by a country mile, see. Spoilt rotten.”

“I’m the youngest too, but I’m not spoilt.”

I know I sound defensive, but my parents have always been more lenient when it comes to my sister, Dina, even though she’s wilder than I am. She was the one that school would be making calls home about because she’d pierced her ears with a needle (and that one time she pierced someone else’s ears with a needle – it looked like someone had committed murder in their dorm, there was that much blood), or dyed her hair turquoise. The boarding school Dad had chosen for us was strict, and the headmistress a stickler for the rules. I lived for the weekends when I could escape the prison-like confines and stay with Uncle Carrick. It’s probably because of those weekends together that we’re so close now.

He’d never had children of his own, which was a shame as he was a natural with kids. He’d listened to me and Dina, valuing our opinions and not just humouring them like Dad did when he made his weekly phone calls from wherever he was stationed at that time. Uncle Carrick had encouraged thought and debate and offered a safe place for us to form our own opinions. Those weekends had been my highlight, when Auntie Marilyn and Uncle Lenny would pop over too with a hearty vegetable pie and we’d stay up late playing board games and laughing at Carry On films, even though I didn’t understand half the bawdy jokes. Those joy-filled Saturdays and Sundays had almost made boarding school worth it, and were far more fun than the holidays where we’d get shipped back ‘home’ to wherever Mum and Dad were at the time.

“Your dad wouldn’t know how to spoil anyone,” Uncle Carrick replies pointedly, pulling out a packet of mints and offering me one, before thinking better of it, taking one for himself then folding the half-empty packet into my hand. “He only ever looks out for number one.”

“And Mum,” I say defensively, although I don’t know why I’m standing up for Dad. “He looks out for her too.”

“He does,” Uncle Carrick concedes with a nod. “I just wish he was able to show you and Dina how much he loves you both. One of these days he’s going to regret missing out on your childhoods.”

“He thought he was doing the right thing, sending us to St. Eugenia’s. It’s an outstanding school.”

Everyone knew of my alma mater. There was a reason it was regarded as one of the top all-girls schools in England. The extortionate fees were offset by the fact they were top of the national results tables that were printed in the broadsheets each summer.

What people didn’t know was how miserable it was for some of the girls there, especially those like me and Dina. Our family weren’t poor by any stretch, but we didn’t have the country mansion and the London flat that the wealthiest girls had, or stables full of ponies, or Daddy picking us up in one of the cars from the collection of vintage autos in the family garage. Fellow pupils had teased us for having Uncle Carrick turn up in his sea-green Ford Fiesta, and when Auntie Marilyn showed up for prize giving wearing a gaudy paisley-print sundress and a wide-brimmed sunhat that she’d bought especially for the occasion, they’d made snide remarks about her bohemian appearance. Their words had hurt at the time, but now I realise I was far richer than those girls would ever be, because whilst they might have possessions, I’d been brought up with love and laughter by my extended family. Love was something some of them obviously lacked, if their ability to show compassion and empathy was anything to go by; not to mention their pompous, judgmental asses.

“At least going there meant I got to spend more time with you,” I grin, peeling a mint out of the silvery wrapper.

“And for that I’ll always be grateful, Lacey-Lou.”

His eyes are misting up, and he examines the roses he’d been pruning particularly carefully.

“I’m going to see Uncle Lenny later, if you want to come?” I offer. “I’d be glad of the company.”

It’s still strange going back to Auntie Marilyn’s house and seeing all her nick-nacks on display when she’s no longer there. She collected all sorts of oddities; paperweights and ornaments and clocks that hadn’t worked in years. Jumble, most people would call it. Or tat. Anything she thought was beautiful would be displayed for all to see, even if it had been unloved by its previous owner. Much like Uncle Lenny actually, who’d been divorced twice by the time Auntie Marilyn took him in.

“I’ve got a bottle of that whisky you like too?” I add, hoping the bribe might swing it.

“Go on then,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You know the way to win me over.”

“Too right I do.”

I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. He brushes it off with the back of his gardening glove, never one for public displays of affection, but he doesn’t need my hugs and kisses to know how much I love and appreciate him. I tell him all the time, even though the bond between us is so strong we don’t need words. Somehow we intuitively ‘get’ each other.

“Meet you there at eight?” I say. “We can watch that quiz show he likes then.”

Uncle Carrick groans. “I can’t bear that programme. The questions are too easy. I think that’s the only reason he likes it, makes him feel clever when he gets the answers right.”

“Think of the whisky!” I shout over my shoulder with a laugh.

“I might need a whole bottle to myself to put up with Lenny!” he calls jovially.

I smile as I head towards home, the thought of a fun evening with two of my favourite people bringing a spring back into my step. It’s almost enough to make me break into a run.

Almost.

Fern

“Yes, Jasper, yes! That’s much better!”

The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. That’s why the rich tone of the Italian’s voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.

Maggie’s had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. It’s obvious she’s got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention she’d given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but hadn’t questioned Maggie’s reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. He’s waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggie’s preparing.

After the eventful night at the hospital I’m glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to say what I need to say to her.

The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if I’d seen him before I’d have definitely remembered him. He’s got this sort of edgy look that’s slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m hardly Lady Gaga myself – but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hair’s a fraction too white to be natural, as though it’s aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced through his bottom lip. It keeps quivering as though he’s moving his tongue against it in the hollow of his mouth, which is kind of distracting.

He’s so far removed from the kind of boy I usually go for that I can’t decide whether he’s good looking or not. I never fancy anyone, except the same person I’ve had a painful crush on since the first day at secondary school. I’d fallen so hard and so deep that I’d never wavered. My heart had one not-so-careful owner who couldn’t care less that he held it captive.

I cast my eyes around the café for the edgy boy’s skateboard, assuming he’s one of the hip kids that hangs out at the purpose-built skate park on the other side of the boating lake. The stuff they do is frightening: dangerous flips and tricks that look like they belong in a music video. Just watching them makes my stomach turn with fear. I can’t see a board though, not even tucked under the table.

“Can you serve this to the gentleman in the window, please?” Maggie asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I carefully carry the gleaming silver coffee pot over to the man.

Ah, there’s a flash of navy blue polo shirt peeping out beneath the red and black flannel of his shirt, a giveaway that he works in the park. All the sports coaches, maintenance staff and gardeners wear the same style. They’re standard-issue, regulation and dull.

Memories of the uniform I wore at secondary school flood back to me. I’d hated it. The other girls had dressed in miniskirts that barely covered their tiny, shapely bottoms, with socks pulled up to their knees in a bid to look sexy. I hadn’t. I’d worn a knee-length skirt with an elasticated waist, the only grey skirt on the High Street that fit my large frame. It was hideous and unflattering and saddled me with the cruel nickname ‘Fernephant’ for all five miserable years I was there.

Thankfully Maggie’s stance on workwear is fairly laid back. As far as she’s concerned staff at the café can wear whatever we like, so long as it’s white on top, black on the bottom, and clean and pressed. I’m still fat, but black trousers are easy enough to come by. School uniforms are difficult to buy for those of us who carry extra weight, unless you accidentally click on those dodgy fetish websites that pop up when your laptop protection expires. At least black trousers are a wardrobe staple.

I place the coffee pot down on the table in front of the guy, cringing at the dull clunk it makes as it lands on the shiny surface of the tablecloth. It goes right through me, setting my teeth on edge.

“Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone. He’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading, silently mouthing words I’m unable to decipher. Lip-reading’s not a skill I’ve mastered.

I stand awkwardly for a moment, shifting on the spot as I wait for eye contact that doesn’t come. Most customers offer at least a cursory smile, but not this one. He doesn’t even look up.

Eventually I give up waiting, but still smile politely even though I know he won’t see. I wish I could be a bit less well-mannered, replying with a clipped “Enjoy,” or something, because it’s downright rude not to acknowledge the wait staff, but it’s too ingrained. I’ve been brought up to be civil regardless of how I’m treated, which is probably why I was such an easy target for the bullies at school. They knew they could say whatever they damn well pleased because I’d never have the guts to fight back.

As I walk back to the counter I wonder about his role. Most of the staff at the park have been here for years, the same familiar faces as much a part of the landscape as the imposing bandstand and the large boating lake. I remember Carrick Braithwaite, the friendly gentleman who tends the walled garden near the main entrance, from when I was young. He’d share interesting snippets of information about the roses he carefully pruned, such as how there were over a hundred species of roses and that it was England’s national flower. Maggie said he’d done the same for her when she was young too, and some mornings on my way to the café I see him passing on his wealth of knowledge to the next generation of curious children. The familiarity in the scene cheers me and although over the years Mr Braithwaite’s hair has changed from mousey brown to silvery grey to the brilliant white it now is, he’s still as friendly and upbeat as ever. He’s part of the park. I selfishly hope he’ll never stop clipping those plants with those secateurs of his, even though he must be closing in on retirement age.

I sneak one last look over at the edgy boy. It’s likely I’ll see him again if he’s working here all summer. Most of the park staff are much older than I am, but he looks a similar age, twentyish. Even if we never become best buddies, it might be nice to have someone else around who knows about chart music and the latest films. If he ever bothers to speak at all, that is, I think sulkily. Maggie tries her best to keep up with the trends but it’s not the same, and although Kelly helps out with the odd shift she’s not around enough. She’s always got her head down, revising for her exams.

I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me. What’s going to happen to Luke now? He won’t be able to sit his exams if he’s recovering from brain surgery, and without A-levels he’ll not be able to take up his place at Nottingham. The letter had been very clear – ‘conditional offer’. Will they let him defer until next year instead, if he’s well enough? Or is that it, his one chance blown because of some freak of nature that he can’t control? It doesn’t seem fair, but having never had any desire to go to university I have no idea how it works. Maybe that’s something I can ask Kelly when she arrives.

Moving towards the window, I tap Maggie on the shoulder with the tip of my index finger. She throws me a look, a warning, as she turns, spotting the knowing smile that’s playing out on my lips. I can’t help it. It’s so cute how enamoured with the handsome coach she is. I can tell by the rosy pink glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, so she can deny it as much as she likes – I still won’t believe her.

“Tell me the truth this time,” I say with a grin, “is it the kids you’re watching or the coach?”

Maggie’s cheeks flush further, until they resemble two red apples on the sides of her face. That’s my answer right there. She’s smitten.

“No, no, I was just looking…” Maggie stumbles over her words, knowing she’s been rumbled.

Peering out of the window, I follow her gaze to where the coach is patiently demonstrating to the kids how to pass the ball with the inside of the foot. His lean body moves nimbly, and his young students flock around him in admiration. He’s a footballing Pied Piper. With a sweep of his hand he nonchalantly flicks his long, dark hair out of his eyes. It’s like a scene from a shampoo ad, and although Maggie’s trying to play it cool I hear her inhale sharply at the motion.

“I suppose he’s quite good looking for an older man,” I think out loud.

“He’s probably only in his thirties, it’s hardly like he’s taking out his pension!” Maggie scoffs, fanning her face with her hand. She’s still a bit pink. “Older man indeed,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

“But he is older.”

“Older than you, maybe. I’d hazard a guess I’ve got a good few years on him.”

“He’s in good shape too,” I muse, hoping to coax her feelings out of her. “And those European men take good care of themselves. There was something about it on that breakfast show; apparently, men on the continent are more likely to cleanse, tone and moisturise than men here in Britain. Looking after your skin is vital if you want to keep a youthful glow.”

My hand automatically reaches for my face. Fortunately, my skin is one of my best features. Even during the height of puberty I rarely suffered spots and blemishes. It’s more the result of good genes and good luck than beauty products, though; Luke’s been blessed with good skin too. It’s probably just as well. I’ve neither the time nor the money to splash out on unnecessary, overpriced creams. Soap and water are good enough for me.

Maggie’s eyes twinkle mischievously, the first hint of a crease wrinkling at their outer corners. “Are you trying to tell me I’m looking old?”

The thought I may have caused offence horrifies me. I don’t want to insult anyone, and certainly not Maggie who’s both a boss and a friend.

“No, no, not at all! You’re always really well presented, but then you’re one of those young, funky mums, not like mine. You’re far more open-minded than either of my parents. And you don’t look forty; if I didn’t know you had a son my age, I’d think you were much younger.”

Now it’s my turn to flush red; I can feel the heat spreading up my neck and I silently curse as the familiar flaming sensation takes over. It’s bloody annoying how I can’t stop it happening. But thoughts of Joshua Thornhill have a nasty habit of turning me into a gibbering wreck, and add to that the fear of causing offence, my cheeks don’t stand a chance.

“I’m teasing, Fern,” Maggie replies, reassuringly placing her hand on my shoulder. “And although I’m delighted that you think I’m young and funky, my main concern is this place.” She gestures around the café, to where the young man in the window is still engrossed in whatever he’s reading and a group of middle-aged women are huddled around the long table near the door, sipping cups of tea whilst putting the world to rights. Her eyes rest on the large clock on the back wall. It’s already twenty past eleven. “Speaking of which, the football mums will be coming in any minute now. Would you be a doll and fill up the water jugs? Those little ones look so tired after all that running about and it’s so warm out there. I bet they’ll come in desperate for a glass of water.”

I hurry off, keen to please, but not before catching Maggie sneaking another discreet look at the coach.

She can deny it all she wants – my boss has a crush on him, I’m certain of it. I only hope it’ll be more fruitful than the one I’ve been harbouring for years.

Maggie

I’m fussing, fidgeting with the collar of my frilly white blouse, but that doesn’t stop me grasping the opportunity to steal one last glance out towards the football session before heading back into the kitchen to rescue a batch of fruit scones from the oven. The coach is smiling broadly as he holds open a large net bag and the boys and girls are gathering up the balls, helpfully putting them away as their training session draws to a close. His head lifts, his angular jaw and high cheekbones visible even from this distance, and I swear he’s looking straight at me. Then he nods, a half nod of acknowledgement that causes me to quickly turn away in embarrassment. I busy my hands by sorting the condiments that sit in a small silver bucket on the table, checking the use-by dates closely although there’s no need. I only bought them last week. If they’re out of date already, the wholesalers will be getting an earful.

How can I let someone I hardly know affect me like this? My stomach’s knotted, my heart pounding wildly. All that over a man I’ve spoken to a handful of times, and then only to say ‘that’s £2.49, please’? What an absolute fool I am. It’s ridiculously childish.

I make my way back to the kitchen, my haven, basking in the pleasurable aroma of the scones.

The kitchen is a safe place to hide, and being out here will give me a chance to regain my composure. I don’t want to be caught eyeing up the toy boy football coach even if Fern does think I’m young and funky.

I know the truth. I’m far too long in the tooth to do something as ridiculous as fall in love.

The lunchtime sun streams in through the window, flooding the café with waves of light. The whole room looks cheerful and welcoming with the natural illumination. The off-white walls radiate warmth, the slivers of thin red curtain that frame the windows casting a soft rosy hue.

It’s another moment that reminds me of how much I love The Lake House Café, and how much I’ve achieved. The place had been a boarded-up eyesore when I took it on. People had said I was crazy to try to turn it around, but I’d always believed it could be restored to its former glory and become a welcoming resting-place for everyone who used the park. I hoped it would become somewhere people could enjoy refuelling before heading back out on their merry way. I’d been right. These days the café is the most popular spot in the park, perfect for people-watching and enjoying a naughty treat. All those doubters had been proved wrong a thousand times over, and I couldn’t be more proud.

The café’s filling up again now. A glut of morning joggers have completed their circuit of the woods and are rewarding themselves with well-deserved lattes, and a young couple walking their two near-identical golden retrievers have popped in for two large sausage sandwiches slathered in generous lashings of tangy brown sauce. The man, a Dermot O’ Leary lookalike with a devilish grin, is secretly feeding titbits to the dogs underneath the table whilst his partner hungrily wolfs her butty down, oblivious.

Then there’s the football mums buying cupcakes with lavish, brightly coloured fondant icing for their ravenous offspring. I make a mental note to put another batch in later, because at this rate they’re going to clear me out altogether. The chatter of the excitable children fills the building with joy, and their mucky boots cover the floor in a dusty trail of dried mud. Fern will have to do a quick mop round when it quietens down a bit.

“Excuse me?”

The interruption snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Oh!” I exclaim, blood rushing to both my brain and my cheeks as I’m face to face with the dishy football coach. I should have guessed it was him by the exotic accent: even those two words were laced with a hint of Italian that reminded me of my current celebrity crush, TV chef Gino D’Acampo. The thought of Gino only makes me blush all the more.

“I’m sorry,” I say, momentarily flustered, “I was miles away. What can I get you?”

I force myself to smile, hoping I look less worked up than I feel. My manic smile can be a bit much: I’m all teeth and gums.

“It’s so hard to choose,” he replies, his voice like a song. “Everything looks delicious.”

Each word causes an excitable flutter low in my stomach, reminiscent of the butterflies I used to get when Clint and I first got together. That seems a long time ago. It is a long time ago, more than half my life. Surely by my age I should be well past crushes that leave me clammy-palmed and stumbling for words? The days of blaming my hormones for my lustful desires are long gone, and surely I’m not menopausal yet? Although that might go some way to explaining the obsession I’ve had with Gino of late…

“The scones are fresh out of the oven,” I offer, “or the lemon drizzle cake is popular. It’s a bit of a favourite with my regulars.”

I immediately regret my choice of words, worrying my comment might come across as big-headed.

“Then I’ll trust their judgement,” he says with a smile. It’s a wide, affable smile over a jaunty, stubble-coated chin, and his dark eyes manage to be both intense and friendly all at once. “A slice of lemon cake and an orange juice please, and one of the cupcakes for Pepe.”

He turns, beckoning a small boy in a navy-blue tracksuit. The child is the spitting image of the man, a miniature version right down to the floppy almost-black hair and the large, lazy smile. The similarity is a timely reminder, a warning, and I immediately chide myself for allowing my far-fetched daydreams to get the better of me. Of course a man like this is married with a family. He’s way too attractive not to be. Plus he spends his Saturday mornings coaching other people’s children. A catch like that was never going to be single.

“Coming right up.”

I busy myself with the order, placing a gleaming glass filled with ice cubes on to the smooth, round tray before adding a chilled bottle of juice and two matching small, white side plates. Reaching for the tongs to select a cupcake, I carefully clasp the frilly yellow bun case between them before purposefully placing it in the very centre of one of the plates. Picking up the mock-marble-handled cake slice, I carefully nudge one of the more generous slices of lemon drizzle along the cake stand, jimmying it on to its side to transfer it to the plate.

“I can already smell the lemon,” he says as the cake balances precariously atop the cake slice. “I like it. It reminds me of home.”

I look up to offer a smile and politely ask where home is, but before I can say a word the cake has slid straight on to the counter. It crumbles sadly as I exclaim “Oh!”, hurriedly reaching for a serviette to tidy the mess, as though hiding the evidence will somehow undo my clumsy error.

Scooping the largest remnant of the cake into the white tissue paper, I exhale, feeling every inch an absolute idiot. But I don’t have chance to dwell on it as an olive-skinned hand skims my own.

I jolt back, acting on instinct. It’s as though a shock has been sent through my body by his fleeting touch.

“Let me help you.”

Pulling his hand towards him, he brushes the rogue crumbs into the palm of his other hand.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter nervously. “I’ll tidy the mess, then I’ll get you another slice.”

The little boy, Pepe, is wide-eyed at the mere thought of his cupcake.

“Why don’t you two sit down and I’ll bring it over to you?” I say, mortification charging through me.

“It’s fine,” the man insists, brushing his hands against the silky black material of his shorts. Stray crumbs fall to the floor. “We’re in no rush, we can wait.”

His eyes lock with mine and I nod graciously. I throw the cake-filled paper napkin into the bin before washing my hands in the small sink that lines the back wall. This small act gives me a moment to regain my composure. Heaven knows I need it. Inside I’m a mess: a jibbering, cake-dropping mess.

“Anything I can do here, Maggie?” asks Fern, her rounded cheeks aglow after cleaning the tables. She’s a delicate English rose with her creamy complexion, dark hair and natural blush, a real beauty. It’s just a shame Fern can’t see for herself how pretty she is, but that’s the reserve of the confident. Shy, retiring people rarely appreciate how beautiful they are.

“This gentleman’s waiting on a slice of lemon drizzle cake. I had one of my ditzy moments and managed to smash a slice to smithereens on the counter.” I bring the heel of my hand to my forehead. “If you could finish serving him whilst I go and check on what’s in the oven, please?”

Fern gives me a loaded look, one that shows she knows full well there’s nothing in the oven and that I’m scrabbling for an excuse – any excuse – to escape the shop floor after my faux pas; but she takes over anyway, managing to slice and serve the cake in one effortless manoeuvre.

I’m very nearly in the kitchen when the man’s voice calls out to me, polite and genuine. “Thank you, Maggie.”

Twisting on the spot until our eyes connect, I pause before speaking.

“Thank you…?” I say, my voice trailing off questioningly.

“Paolo,” he responds, his Italian accent stronger than ever. “My name is Paolo.”

I push the swing door open just a fraction, peeping cautiously through the gap. I don’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, but can’t resist sneaking one last look at Paolo and his son. They’re sat at the same table as the attractive young man with the pierced lip and dimples. I wonder how they know each other: they seem an unlikely friendship. Maybe it’s nothing more than both working in the park.

The little boy is scooping the buttercream from the top of his cupcake with his index finger before deliberately licking it off, whilst Paolo is cupping his glass of juice as he talks. They are proper man’s hands, big and protective, but even from here I can see it, the tell-tale gold band on the third finger of his left hand. It’s thick and glistening and screams ‘married’.

I close the door, disheartened. I refuse to allow myself to so much as daydream about a married man; it doesn’t feel right. Those trollops who had affairs with Clint all the while knowing I was sat at home looking after Josh and Kelly, well, I don’t want to be like them. What little froth of excitement I’d allowed myself to feel at this crush (or whatever it is) is starting to dissipate already. Even thinking about him is wrong if he’s not available, and the ring, not to mention Pepe, show that available is something he most definitely is not.

Fern appears from nowhere, making me jump.

“What are you doing?” Fern asks curiously, her brow furrowing as she examines my face.

“Nothing!” I hiss, my heart still racing from being unexpectedly disturbed. “And stop sneaking up on me!”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” She looks put out at the suggestion. “I came to see if there was any more gingerbread in the kitchen, that’s all. It’s selling fast today.”

“In the red tin in the cupboard. I made a double batch.”

“And how was the cake?” Fern asks innocently. Her large brown eyes are wider than ever with exaggerated virtue but there’s a knowing look on her face. Not quite a smirk – Fern isn’t the sort to smirk – but almost. “You were in such a rush to get away, I hope you got to it before it burnt.”

“All right, all right,” I say, throwing my hands up. I know when I’ve been rumbled. “There was no cake. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and escaping into the kitchen was the closest I could get to disappearing.”

“Thought as much,” Fern answers with a quiet triumph.

“But don’t you go getting any ideas,” I say sternly, waggling my index finger in warning, “and don’t you dare breathe a word either. He’s a married man. That in itself means I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole, and you know how people around here love to gossip. I’ve been part of enough rumours to last a life time, so don’t go fuelling any more.”

“Hmmm,” Fern replies noncommittally. “But what if he wasn’t married? You must admit you’re attracted to him.”

“That’s neither here nor there: he’s a married man so there’s nothing to discuss. And that’s an end to it.”

Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath to prepare myself before walking into the café. Stealing one quick, stealthy glance at the Italian’s table, I see the little boy high-fiving the young man with the sweeping blonde hair and pierced lip before stepping out on to the terrace area, following his stunningly attractive father like an obedient puppy.

Pearl

“Stop pulling, Mitzi!”

I should get that put on loop on a tape so I can play it whenever I need to. It seems to be all I’m saying at the moment.

I knew a puppy would be hard work, especially as I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more. It’s eighteen years since Alf and I bought Bluey, our darling little Westie. He’d been a bundle of ruffled white fur, scruffy and cuddly and revelling in attention. Even as a pup he’d played on his cuteness, pricking his ears up and peering longingly at us with his head jauntily angled until we’d give him just one more titbit or allow him to sit up on the sofa with us. He’d been the baby we’d never had, although not for want of trying. Heck, we’d tried morning, noon and night for years. But it wasn’t meant to be, and in the end we decided enough was enough. Bluey might not have been a child, but he was a dog with real personality and charm, one that everyone would fuss over when we walked him in the park. Even when he was older and his fur turned a more silvery tone he’d had this perfect mix of cheekiness and elegance that drew park-goers to him. And he’d had a lovely temperament, always eager to please. He’d been the apple of our eyes.

Mitzi, on the other hand, is an absolute minx. She’s only six months old so has the excuse of still being a puppy, but she’s a total tearaway. Who’d have thought a miniature dachshund would be able to do so much damage? My poor slippers look like they’ve been mauled by a wild animal. She might only stand an inch or so off the ground but she’s a demanding little thing and hasn’t yet learned how to take no for an answer. And that’s not to mention the constant straining against the lead every time we’re out on a walk. For such a small creature, Mitzi’s surprisingly strong-willed.

She turns to look at me, all dark, wide eyes and open mouth, tongue hanging out like a strip of uncooked bacon.

“You can give me that look all you like,” I say sternly. “You’re a terror, and well you know it.”

It’s a warm afternoon. The sunshine reflecting off the lake causes me to squint and the ducks are dipping their heads under the water to keep cool. Mitzi’s probably in need of a drink too. After we’ve done the lap of the lake we’ll pop past the café, Maggie’s got a bowl of water outside ready for any thirsty pooches who happen to be passing. She’s thought of the lot, that one, which probably explains why the café’s so popular.

Mitzi’s still dragging me around, pulling the lead taut as her little legs scurry along the winding pathway. A young boy on one of those bikes without pedals comes zooming past and her head whips around in a flash. She’s nosey like that, desperate to know what’s going on.

The little boy’s feet are pushing him along, first the right foot and then the left. He’s going at quite a pace. He’s like Fred Flintstone in his Stone Age car, feet whirring until he picks up speed, and his parents smile on proudly at his achievements.

There’s an older girl too, probably around eight, but I’m terrible at estimating the ages of children. She’s bouncing a tennis ball as she walks, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump getting ever nearer.

The tug on the lead is more determined now, Mitzi’s long, lean body straining to play with the ball.

“Mitzi!” I chide. “For goodness’ sake. Behave!”

But my words are too little and too late, because the round black handle of the lead is already out of my hand, trailing along the floor behind my bouncy pup.

I give chase as best as I can, but for a dog with such short legs Mitzi is deceptively fast. It must be that boundless youthful vivacity, something I myself am rapidly losing.

She’s already sniffing around the little girl’s ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arm’s length. Mitzi thinks it’s all a game. Of course she does, everything’s a game to her, but I can see the girl’s nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.

When I finally reach her, flustered and out of puff, I apologise profusely to the girl and her parents for Mitzi’s exuberance. “She doesn’t mean to scare you though, she just wants to play. In dog years she’s still a child, like you.”

The girl looks at me thoughtfully. “So she wants to be my friend?”

“That’s right,” I say. “She’s not really used to being near children, so she gets excited when she thinks she’s found someone new to play with.” I smile. “Especially someone with a ball.”

“Don’t you have any children?” The girl’s face crinkles up, as though that’s almost inconceivable.

“No,” I reply sadly. “There’s only me and Mitzi.”

I swallow down the lump of grief that lodges in my throat. It’s still so very raw, being alone.

I can’t believe I’m a widow. When I was young I thought widows were old women with walking sticks and purple rinses, people who lived in ‘rest homes’. I’d laughed at that, thinking retirement would be a rest compared to the endless slog of first school, and then, in later years, work. I never thought Alf would die on me aged fifty-nine, when we were still wearing jeans and trainers and had all our proverbial marbles. My hair’s not even grey yet, let alone purple. The box of dye I buy from the chemist each month sees to that and does a reasonable job, although being blonde helps too. The greys are less obvious; they blend in.

“She’s cute,” says the girl, crouching down and tentatively reaching forward to stroke Mitzi’s smooth, brown coat. Mitzi’s tail wags happily from side to side at the attention. “I’d like to be friends with her.”

“Well, maybe we’ll see you in the park again. We’re here a lot, me and Mitzi. We only live over there.”

I gesture in the general direction of my back garden, the same house Alf and I bought soon after getting married. We’d never be able to afford it now, prices have gone silly. It was a stretch even then, but we were both working so we’d decided to take it. The three-storey villa had a curb appeal that was too hard to resist. Everything about it was attractive, from the pointed gable that crowned the building to the climbing peace roses around the front door that reminded me of dreamy summer sunsets. The bay windows had been the clincher though, huge glass panes that flooded the front room with light.

The house’s proximity to the park had been a draw too, back when we’d envisaged having a family of our own. We’d imagined lazy days in the sunshine with a picnic of jam sandwiches and savoury eggs. Alf and our children kicking a ball about. Hunting for squirrels as we walked through the wooded area at the far side of the park. As it turned out, children were never meant to be for us, but the park remained a blessing. It was perfect for dog walking for starters, a real community hub where I’d bump into people I knew, and on the rare occasions I cover a shift at the café it’s only a five-minute walk back home. I like having the greenery to look at too. It’s nice to be close to nature.

“See you,” the girl calls, waving as she chases after her brother.

I wrap Mitzi’s lead tightly around my hand, winding it twice so there’s no chance of her running free again. She’s a little Houdini, escape artist extraordinaire.

I’m thankful for the shade of the tall firs that line the pathway; it’s slap-bang in the middle of the day and exceptionally warm. It’s a little tricky with Mitzi pulling at the lead in my hand, but I manage to shuffle the sleeves of my blouse up so my forearms are exposed. I’m instantly convinced I can feel the heat prickling against my skin, despite the branches overhead offering protection from the scorching rays.

“Pearl!”

The voice rings out from the other side of the hedge in front of me and I spy the familiar face peeping out from over the dark green leaves.

“Oh. Hello, Carrick.”

He’s better prepared for the weather than I am, a floppy brown sun hat perched on top of his head. His skin’s already looking tan, as though he’s been away on his holiday already, but he’s always that shade. It comes from working outside, I suppose.

“How’s the tearaway?” he asks with a wink, nodding in Mitzi’s direction.

The tearaway is desperate to keep walking rather than stop to chat, but I don’t want to be rude.

“Oh, she’s fine. Already managed to give me the slip once this morning though,” I admit, lowering myself to scoop her silky body up in my arms.

He throws back his head and laughs. “She’s not like your Bluey, is she? A real rascal, this one. I think she likes keeping you on your toes.”

“She does that all right,” I smile, as a wet doggy tongue laps at my cheek. “Even though she’s a pain I can’t imagine not having her. The house was too quiet with just me rattling around in it.”

“It must be strange,” he ponders. “Being on your lonesome after all those years.”

“It’s taking some adjusting to,” I admit. “And it’s harder still without Bluey. But I’m keeping myself busy, you know how it is.”

He probably didn’t. Carrick’s the perpetual bachelor boy, and he’s not had a lady friend for years.

Alf had spent more time with Carrick than I had over recent years. They’d both been in the skittles team and had shared games of darts at the pub of an evening. They weren’t as close as they’d been in their youth, when they’d both represented the local cricket club, but they’d still enjoyed a chat over a pint. Alf said Carrick would fob off anyone who asked why he didn’t have a woman by his side. He had wondered if Carrick might secretly be gay. I knew that wasn’t the case.

“Well, if you’re ever after a bit of company, I can always pop in for a cuppa after my shift?”

There’s something in his eyes, a look that’s hopeful. Maybe he’s as lonely as I am. He doesn’t even have a canine companion, as far as I know, and his nieces are all grown up now with lives of their own. I’d heard on the grapevine that the oldest one, Dina, was getting married soon.

“That’d be nice,” I say as I pop a wriggly Mitzi down on the pavement, and I realise I mean it. Since Alf died I’ve done very little in the way of entertaining, but it’s the kind of house that needs people in it. Maybe if Carrick came over I could get the good china out of the cupboards; it’s been stashed away unused for far too long. “I’ll check my diary.” He needn’t know I had nothing more exciting than dog walking scheduled.

Carrick beams as he readjusts his sunhat. “Let me know when best suits. I’ll look forward to it.”

Mitzi tugs impatiently at the lead, the cord rubbing uncomfortably against my hand as she does so. “I’m going to have to go. Madam here doesn’t want to stand around chatting.”

“See you soon,” Carrick says with a courteous nod.

I have just enough time to hold up my free hand in a wave as Mitzi takes me on a walk towards The Lake House Café, probably longing to lap at the water that’s in a shiny silver bowl near the doorway. Carrick’s right back to work, secateurs in hand to deadhead the gorgeous dusky pink rosebush.

“We’re having a guest come and visit us soon,” I say breathily to Mitzi, who’s charging on ahead. “So you’ll need to be on your best behaviour.”

She twists her body round to the direction of my voice and pops her slathering tongue out of her mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was making fun of me.

Fern

Kelly’s blonde hair glimmers in the sun as she enters the café, a worried expression on her face. My stomach lurches. I’m not good at managing awkward conversations at the best of times and this is likely to be one of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had.

I’d told Kelly the cold hard facts on the phone, and she’d seemed to take it well. At least, she hadn’t broken down in tears or asked me questions I didn’t know the answers to. She’d replied with a quiet ‘okay’ at the end of each sentence and then thanked me for letting her know. Talking in person was going to be much harder than talking over the phone though. There’s something about seeing people’s expressions that makes it harder to control my own emotions.

“I can’t stay long,” she says in a whisper, her eyes flickering around the café. “If Mum sees me here she’ll go crazy. She thinks I’m at home revising. I was revising until I got your phone call. Now I can’t think of anything except Luke.”

Her expression is weary and pained and I can only imagine mine is worse. I had two hours of broken sleep last night, and my body can tell. It wants to curl up and shut down, but I’m not going to let it. I’ve got too much to do.

“I wish I hadn’t had to tell you, and I wish I had better news, but all we can do is wait for him to get over this infection so they can operate.”

“When I saw him on Thursday he was fine,” Kelly hisses through gritted teeth. “He told me the headaches had gone. I thought they were stress-related because he’s been working so hard lately. How wrong was I?”

I shrug.

“I don’t know, Kel. Maybe Thursday was a good day. All I know is that last night he was screaming in pain. I was lying in bed reading one minute and the next Luke was crying out for me to come and help him. The panic in his voice …” I shudder at the memory. “He thought he was going blind, said he couldn’t see anything but black. It was terrifying.”

“I should have been there for him. I’ve known for weeks that he’s not been right. If only I’d taken it more seriously…”

I hold my hand up to stop her mid-flow.

“There’s nothing you could have done, nothing any of us could have done. Luke has a brain tumour. We couldn’t have stopped it happening.”

I appreciate how helpless she feels. I’d had all the same thoughts myself last night, the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’, and the guilt had eroded my soul until I’d finally snatched a restless sleep leaning on my dad’s bony shoulder.

“I should have said something. Maybe if I’d told him to go to the doctor and get it checked out he’d have listened to me?”

“Kelly, please. Stop beating yourself up over this. If you’d tried to get him to go to the doctor he’d only have thought you were nagging. You know as well as I do that he hates making a fuss.”

“I can’t bear to think of him in hospital.” Kelly looks so unsure, her usual confident persona nowhere to be seen. “Poor Luke. Hospitals are depressing, full of old people waiting to die. He must be so scared. Can I go and see him?”

She’s looking at me with such hope, but I know there’s no way she can come to the hospital. My parents would hit the roof, especially in their current emotional state. “He’s not allowed visitors at the moment, because his immune system’s so low and they really need to get him back to full strength so they can operate.”

I’m not lying, but we both know it’s only half the reason. My dad had walked in on Kelly and Luke kissing at Luke’s eighteenth birthday party back in January. He’d been furious, despite both of them trying to explain that it was a typical drunken snog, the sort most teenagers have after a few too many alcopops.

I guess I’ve not been a typical teenager, holding out for someone who’s way out of my league, so my old-fashioned parents haven’t got experience in knowing what to expect from a hormone-addled adolescent. They’d already made it clear they thought it was outrageous that within Luke’s gang of closest friends there was a girl who identified as bisexual, and rather than being ashamed of her sexuality, openly revelled in it. Finding Luke kissing her was a complete shock for my prudish dad, so when they announced they were dating he took it as a personal insult. In his mind, Luke wasn’t seeing Kelly because he liked her, he was doing it just to wind him up.

Mum had inevitably sided with Dad in a bid to keep the peace, whereas I stood up for Luke. If it had been anyone other than Kelly that Luke had been dating there wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fuss; that was what got to me more than anything. Sometimes it’s as though Dad’s stuck in the dark ages. He didn’t believe Kelly would be able to ‘give up girls’ as though being monogamous and bi-sexual was as mythical as unicorns or fat-free donuts, rather than a perfectly normal way of life.

It all came to a head last month after a blazing row where Dad forbade Luke to spend any more time with Kelly, and since then they’ve been seeing each other in secret. My parents don’t have a clue that they’re still together. No one does, except me and their closest friends. Even Maggie believes they parted ways. She’s mentioned her fear of Kelly and miserable Mischa getting back in touch numerous times, and although I’ve wanted to reassure her there’s no chance of that happening I haven’t been able to. It’s not my place.

Kelly’s shoulders sink, as though she’s physically deflating. I can tell how much she wants to be able to support Luke, how now more than ever she longs to be able to tell the world that she’s his girlfriend.

“I wish I could see him. I wish I could give him a hug and tell him how much he means to me.”

I fix my eyes on hers.

“You don’t have to tell him anything. You’ve been together for months now, he knows how much you love him.”

Kelly shakes her head. “He doesn’t. He thinks I hate him.”

I can see she’s welling up and for one awful moment I think she might cry. I’ve seen enough tears in the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime, I don’t think I can take many more.

“He doesn’t think you hate him. He asked me to let you know what was going on. He wouldn’t have done that if he thought you wouldn’t care. You two have been through so much together already, and for what it’s worth I think you’re the perfect couple.”

“The perfect couple no one knows about,” Kelly replies sadly. “How am I supposed to support him when I’m not even allowed to be near him?”

“Bide your time. For now, I’ll be the messenger for you and I’m taking Luke’s phone to the hospital later too – we were in such a rush yesterday to get him checked out that we didn’t even think to take it. And I’m sure that one day Mum and Dad will get over it. If they saw how much love you two have for each other I know they’d give you both their blessing. They might be old-fashioned but they’re not monsters.”

Kelly looks away, shamefaced, but her words catch me unawares.

“You don’t understand. The last time I saw Luke we had this dreadful argument. He said he couldn’t cope with the secrecy any more and that we should either tell everyone about our relationship or else call it a day. And I got so angry. Not angry at him, more angry at the situation. Angry that my sexuality has caused so many problems for us. Something inside me just snapped, and I took it all out on Luke. Do you know what the last thing I said to him was?”

I shake my head.

“The last words I said to Luke were ‘drop dead’.”

And then the tears do start to fall, both mine and hers.

“Oh Fern, what if he does die? What have I done?”

Maggie

The sun’s shining for Fern’s 21st birthday, the bright morning at odds with the current mood around The Lake House Café. Things have been strained recently for everyone, with Luke in hospital. Emotions are running high. There have been times lately where I’ve felt like I’m treading on eggshells, but even so I couldn’t forget Fern’s birthday.

May 15th.

It’s Clint’s birthday too, although I push that thought to the back of my mind. I don’t want Fern’s celebration to be sullied, and certainly not by thoughts of him.

I had come in early especially to decorate the café in Fern’s honour, keen that our customers knew it was a special day. I’d pinned pretty bunting proclaiming ‘Happy Birthday Fern’ so the pastel triangles hung beneath the counter and wrestled with a canister of helium to fill dozens of shimmering lilac balloons. They were the centrepieces on each table, tied with silver florist ribbon that I’d painstakingly curled with a pair of scissors. It’s a good job I’m an early bird because the whole process had taken longer than I’d anticipated, but the effort was worth it. If anyone deserves a fuss it’s Fern.

I’d also, naturally, baked a cake – a gloriously rich red velvet cake topped with thick cream-cheese frosting. I’d known as I placed one spindly white candle at its centre what Fern’s wish would be. Luke had been deemed well enough to have the operation yesterday – a gruelling ten-hour ordeal that had obviously been a worry for everyone. I knew unequivocally what Fern’s wish would be for the operation to have been a success and for life to return to normal for the Hart family as quickly as possible. Thankfully early indications were that it had gone well, with the surgeon happy that the whole tumour had been successfully removed, but he’d been quick to remind Fern’s parents that there were no guarantees. Luke would be carefully monitored, both during his immediate recovery at the hospital and as an outpatient when he was well enough to return home.

The bell above the door jangles as Fern enters the café and I grin from ear to ear at her reaction. Her jaw physically drops in surprise. Individually the changes I made might only be small, but together they make quite an impact, transforming the café into a room worthy of a party. We might not have a knees-up planned, but I’m going to make sure every person who passes through that door wishes Fern a wonderful birthday full of happiness. She needs to know exactly how important she is to everyone, and especially to me.

“Happy birthday!” I exclaim, a ripple of pleasure rushing through me at Fern’s stunned response. She’s giggling in embarrassment at the realisation this is all for her. “Twenty-one today!”

“I know,” Fern groans. “Does this mean I’m officially a grown-up? Am I meant to suddenly have the answer to the meaning of life?”

I laugh. If only.

“I don’t think so, but if you find it, let me know. I’m still searching for that one myself. Now come here, you. Let me give you a birthday squeeze.”

Fern humours me, letting me wrap her up in a ginormous bear hug. Her body’s warm and soft, a joy to cuddle.

“I’ve got a present for you, too,” I say excitedly.

The younger girl’s eyes light up.

“You didn’t have to get me anything. I wasn’t expecting a present.”

“I know you weren’t, but I wanted to,” I insist. “Plus, I thought you might not have much to open. Your family have a lot on right now.”

There’s no point skirting around the issue. This has been a matter of life and death for Luke and as special as a big birthday is, I didn’t blame Fern’s parents for being distracted. Naturally Luke is at the forefront of their mind at the moment, being as poorly as he’s been.

Reaching beneath the counter, I pull out a neatly wrapped box. It’s not quite square (but near enough) and wrapped in tastefully ruched white tissue paper tied with a silky, pale purple ribbon that matches the balloons. What can I say? My eye for detail is impeccable. Handing it over with a grin, I watch as Fern carefully peels back the layers, waiting for the reaction.

As the birthday girl takes in the robin’s-egg-blue box, I know it was the perfect choice. Her eyes widen, she giggles nervously, and her hand reaches for her mouth, shocked.

“No way,” she stutters finally, her voice a trembly, squeaky mess. “This is too much. You got me a present from Tiffany’s?”

“Open it up and see for yourself,” I tease.

Fern carefully prises the lid off the box, gasping as she sees its contents. Nestled inside is a delicate silver chain with a small round disc hanging from it, engraved with an ‘F’ in swirling twirling script. It’s understated yet beautiful just like its new owner, a perfect keepsake for a milestone birthday.

“It’s too much,” Fern says, but I can tell she loves it. She’s gently fingering the charm, feeling the weight of it against the pads of her fingertips.

“Nonsense,” I pooh-pooh. “You’re only going to turn twenty-one once. It’s worth celebrating.”

I smile and nod towards the cake on the counter in case it’s been overshadowed by the jewellery. The cakes are the showstoppers at The Lake House Café.

“And naturally there’s a sweet treat too. If you want cake for breakfast then that’s fine by me – your day, your rules – or if you’d rather take it home to share with your family that’s perfectly okay too. I can easily box it up.”

Fern looks genuinely moved by all the fuss. She’s been graciously in the background for so long that it’s almost as though she’s forgotten how it feels to be the centre of attention.

“Thank you,” she manages, finally regaining her composure. She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ll have a slice in a minute.”

“You’re more than welcome,” I assure her, placing my hand on her arm. “You’ve been such an asset to the café and more than that, you’re a good friend to me too, and to Kelly.” I take a deep breath before talking again. I need to choose my words carefully. “She told me everything last night, you know, about how her and Luke have been seeing each other in secret because your mum and dad can’t handle the fact she’s had girlfriends in the past.”

Fern gasps.

“I’ve got to admit that hurt me, to think my daughter can’t be open about her relationships, not even with me, because of other people’s prejudice. It’s hard to accept, especially as her sexuality has never, ever been an issue to me. But she also told me how supportive you’ve been of her and Luke’s relationship even when your parents have disapproved, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, Fern. You’re a good friend and a wonderful sister, and now more than ever the pair of them are going to be grateful for having you on their side.”

I’d been shocked when my daughter had broken down yesterday evening, initially thinking it was the exhaustion of her self-imposed revision timetable causing her to go into meltdown. It turns out it was good old-fashioned matters of the heart, and we’d both struggled to keep our emotions in check as she poured out her feelings. I’d been tempted to go round and give Mr and Mrs Hart a piece of my mind, tell them how Kelly’s an amazing girl. How her past relationships are none of their bloody business and have no bearing whatsoever on the love she has for Luke. I’d only restrained myself because of the enormous stress they’re under right now, although Kelly had looked wary when she’d seen me cracking my knuckles as though preparing to go to battle. If it hadn’t been for Luke I’d have gone round all guns blazing.

“Things are different now I know they’re together. It explains a lot about how erratically Kelly’s been behaving. She hates not being able to go to the hospital to visit, but she told me you’d been keeping her in the loop. She’s lucky to have a friend like you, Fern. We all are. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Fern fans her hands in front of her eyes, her lips pursed tightly together as she struggles to hold back tears.

“I’m so sorry for my parents,” she says. “They’re not bad people, they just don’t understand.” She examines the necklace once more, draping the disc over her fingers. “Can you help me put this on? I struggle when they’ve got fiddly clasps. I’m such a butterfingers.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I jest, before gladly fixing the necklace around Fern’s neck. When she turns to face me, hands outstretched in front of her as though inviting opinion, I nod my approval. “It looks lovely.”

“Whoever bought it must have had exceptionally good taste,” Fern teases back, and in that one moment she looks more carefree than she has in the past fortnight. It’s lovely to see, and I wish I had a camera to capture a picture of her happiness in what has been a difficult time. “Speaking of taste, let’s get a knife and make a start on that cake. It looks scrumptious. In fact, almost too good to eat.”

I tut with modesty as I retrieve a knife from the drawer, a smart silver blade with an ornate handle that’s saved for special occasions. I hand it to Fern.

“You do the honours, birthday girl.”

Fern giggles. As I give a solitary and somewhat off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, she pushes the knife into the airy sponge. I’m not sure if it’s my bum notes or that she’s had her fill of time in the spotlight, but I notice her catch sight of the clock hanging on the far wall amid a multitude of dangling, lilac-coloured heart decorations. “We should have opened up already!” she exclaims.

“No one’s banging the door down, so I’m sure it’s fine,” I assure her. “Stop worrying. Now, let me have a tiny taste of that cake before we open that door…”

The slice she hands me is enormous, but I don’t complain. Just this once, the punters can wait.

Lacey

My heart’s pounding in my chest and my mouth is uncomfortably full of saliva. My bedraggled hair’s sticking to the sweat on my face and neck too, and that’s not to mention the unpleasant sticky sensation under my armpits. Every part of me feels grimy. No wonder everyone I passed on my last lap of the park kept a wide berth. I must look like some kind of wild beast, a freakishly unkempt animal that’s escaped from the circus or something. Ick.

I thought I’d be finding this running malarkey easier by now. That once I’d got past the first few horrific runs it’d suddenly fall into place and I’d be like a victorious athlete heading into the stadium at the end of a marathon – tired from the physical exertion, but with that athletic glow and built-in grit that compels the naturally sporty to push themselves until the bitter end. In reality I’m a hot mess of sweaty exhaustion. Whoever made up that crap about women ‘glowing’ rather than sweating obviously never saw me doing laps around the park when it’s already scorching hot.

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