About the Author

PORTIA MACINTOSH has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.

After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead.

Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real-life experiences to show what it’s really like being a woman today – especially one who doesn’t quite have her life together yet.

Readers Love Portia MacIntosh

‘What more do you want except the next book!’

‘It usually takes me a bit of time to get into the author’s style of writing, but with Portia it was easy reading’

‘It was the perfect, lighthearted read – great for relaxing by the pool’

‘It was a great book couldn’t put it down!’

‘Another warm and witty read perfect to curl up on the sofa and immerse yourself in. I love the Macintosh style!’

‘Thoroughly enjoyable and I did find myself struggling to put it down’

Also by Portia MacIntosh

The Time of Our Lives

Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop

Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

You Can’t Hurry Love

The Accidental Honeymoon

It’s Not You, It’s Them

Truth or Date

Drive Me Crazy

Bad Bridesmaid

If We Ever Meet Again

One Way or Another

Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B
PORTIA MACINTOSH

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2020

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

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

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

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

E-book Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008328856

Version: 2019-12-24

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Portia MacIntosh

Also by Portia MacIntosh

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Bambi Brambles-Brown & Teddie Charles Bear.

Chapter 1

Mrs Gia Delaney’s wedding has been the wedding to end all weddings.

Seriously, if you’re planning your wedding right now I probably wouldn’t even bother because today has been a day that would put most royal weddings to shame. Gia’s nuptials made Meghan Markle’s look like nothing more than a piss-up down the pub!

She had a swan ring bearer, for crying out loud. How do you even coerce a swan into performing such a duty? A cute dog or trustworthy relative, sure, those are things that can be worked with, but a swan? I’ve never met a swan that didn’t want to kill me. Still, I booked it for her, like she asked me to. Being chief bridesmaid left me standing awfully close to the angry bird (not the bride, although she does seem especially hot-headed today) and I was absolutely petrified. It sure will look good in the pictures, though.

Gia and her husband Kent, the spoilt son of a dotcom millionaire who managed to survive the 2000 tech bubble burst (because people will always want, ahem, adult material, but that’s nothing to talk about at a wedding), have gone all out, all day.

The wedding ceremony took place at an enormous castle, belonging to a friend of the family who is something like ninetieth in line to the throne. It’s gorgeous, like something out of a fairy tale. Honestly, it’s like the kind of building you usually only see in romcom movies – or horror movies, depending on whether the venue is playing host to a lavish wedding with a Matthew McConaughey-type groom or a petrifying poltergeist with a smoky glow and chains hanging from it.

Speaking of dripping with chains, Gia’s bling is like nothing I have ever seen in real life. It’s the kind of diamond necklace you would expect to see the likes of Margot Robbie wearing on the red carpet at the Oscars – and even a mega star like her would only be borrowing them. Honestly, it’s all I can look at right now. Then again, I am jammed into a toilet cubicle with her, carefully holding her dress up while she has a wee. I didn’t really realise, when I agreed to be her right-hand woman for the day, that I would be taking on many of the duties of her actual right hand, but these are the kinds of things we do for our best friends, right?

‘Are you having a nice day?’ I ask her.

‘God, Lola, seriously, it’s amazing,’ she says. ‘I knew it was going to be amazing because, you know, I planned it, and because Kent has spent a fortune on it. Like, honestly, you could buy a house with the money we’ve spent. Not one that I would live in though.’

I laugh. Even when she’s on the toilet, Gia is a snob. She’s my snob though.

‘You deserve it,’ I tell her.

‘Thanks, babe,’ she replies. ‘And thanks so much for all your help with the planning – I can’t wait until I can return the favour for you. Any chance Patrick will be popping the question soon?’

‘Gosh, I doubt it,’ I say with an awkward chuckle. ‘We’ve only been together for nine months, and we hardly see each other with him being away for work so much. Things are going great, we just need to work on our schedules … but anyway, when I do get married – if I get married – then you will absolutely be right there by my side, and you can hold my dress in the air while I use the loo.’

‘Thanks so much for this,’ she says. ‘You can get these … I don’t know what to call them, sort of weird pant things that you can wear under your dress, that you can kind of bundle your dress up in while you use the lav.’

‘That sounds like a really good idea – why didn’t you get some?’ I ask.

Well, money was clearly no object, and I don’t mind doing this for her at all, it just sounds like a much better system, with much less awkward eye contact.

‘They were a little … granny pants-esque,’ she says. ‘Very ugly. I’d rather have my bestie do it.’

‘Aww, thank you,’ I tell her, only a little sarcastically. ‘It’s the closest I’ll come to wearing a dress like this anytime soon.’

‘You look hot in your bridesmaid dress,’ she tells me, as I sort out her dress by the sinks. ‘Patrick won’t be able to keep his hands off you.’

‘He looks amazing in a suit, doesn’t he?’ I say. I’m not usually one for boasting, but Patrick looks incredible when he’s all dressed up.

‘If I weren’t just married,’ Gia jokes as she washes her hands. ‘Right, let’s get back out there, get some more champagne.’

‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

Gia and I have always enjoyed the finer things in life. Our friendship was formed over £12 cocktails and lengthy shopping trips. We would frequent the Sky Bar, an exclusive rooftop cocktail bar in London, which is where Gia met Kent – it’s also where I met Patrick. Gia is basically my brunette counterpart. She’s like the sister I never had. It actually made me a bit emotional today, watching her get married. I’ve never had a friend I felt so close with and I was genuinely delighted. I was so proud of how beautiful she looked; like wow, that stunning babe is my best friend, and I’m helping her celebrate the best day of her life.

Gia kisses me on the cheek before getting back to her rounds, circulating, checking on all the guests, thanking them for coming.

This quick break in bridesmaid duties allows me to hurry over to Patrick, to steal a quick kiss.

‘Hey, handsome,’ I say as I sneak up behind him at the bar, wrapping my hands around his waist.

‘Hey there, sexy,’ he replies. ‘God, look at you in that dress. Every time you walk away, when I see you again I convince myself more and more that we should sneak off upstairs to our room, see how you look out of it.’

I feel myself blush, just a little, as a massive grin spreads across my face.

Patrick is so confident and it’s ridiculously sexy. He’s self-assured, but in the best possible way. It’s like he knows who he is and what he wants and he’s not afraid to get it. On the first day we met, he just walked over to me, bought me a drink and asked me to go on a date with him. He reckons he just knew that I would say yes – and I did. Imagine having that much self-confidence! I know all the right things to say and do when approaching the opposite sex but I could never have that level of self-possession fuelling it. Patrick has so much it’s spilling out of his pockets – and he has so much to spare, he isn’t concerned with picking any up.

I unsubtly bite my lip. I am more than tempted to take Patrick up on that offer; he looks so good today. His pompadour haircut is so stylish, as is his trendy, neat beard. He’s tall and muscular and there’s just something about his posture … so relaxed, but so confident.

I do wonder, as you do when things are going well with someone you are seeing, whether or not Patrick is the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. I would absolutely love to get married one day – though I’d probably be a little more low-key than Gia is being. I’m not exactly shy, and I know that you are supposed to be the centre of attention on your wedding day, but even so, this is a little much for me.

I got a real lump in my throat, watching her and Kent exchanging the vows they had written for each other (or paid a professional writer to pen, in Gia’s case) and it made me wonder what I would say about Patrick, if it were us. Only in a just-wondering-to-myself kind of way – there’s no way we’re ready to get married anytime soon. With Patrick working as a stockbroker, and spending a lot of time abroad, I don’t get to see him as much as I would like. We’ve got a trip planned in the not too distant future, just a little break away, but it will be some much-needed time alone together. I worry about him, working so hard all the time, travelling so much, doing such a stressful job. He loves it though; he loves the risk and the action – somehow this only makes him seem sexier to me.

‘How are you doing?’ Patrick asks me. ‘Are you having fun?’

‘I am,’ I say. ‘So, so much fun … I’m really hungry though. I was so nervous when we were eating – I think I was worried I might spill on my dress or something else classically clumsy me.’

‘I hear they’re doing the rounds with dessert items,’ Patrick tells me. ‘And apparently the disco is about to start, if you fancy a dance?’

It isn’t long before Gia’s favourite song, ‘Stop’ by the Spice Girls, starts playing.

Gia charges towards the dance floor, a champagne glass in her hand, without a care in the world. Her dress cost more than most people’s annual salaries, yet she’s carrying herself without a care in the world; she may as well be in her pyjamas. Whoever said money can’t buy you happiness obviously never tried to eat a three-course dinner in a dress most people couldn’t afford to dry-clean – I know I couldn’t. I’m going to lock it away in its protective box as soon as I take it off.

My gaze shifts from Gia to the waiter behind her, carrying a mountain of profiteroles around. And they’re not just normal profiteroles, they are salted caramel profiteroles – I know because I helped Gia choose them, and they are incredible.

‘I’m going to grab some dessert, then we’ll dance, OK?’

‘Can’t wait,’ Patrick replies.

Gia has put so much time, effort and money into making today the happiest day of her life. She really has thought of everything. There is one thing she hasn’t considered though: that her best friend might fall flat on her face on the dance floor.

I was making a beeline for the profiteroles, heading across the dance floor – not dancing, I hasten to add – balancing on the pin-like heels I’ve been wearing all day (the ones Gia insisted I had to wear, even though I said they weren’t the easiest of shoes to walk in), and I was doing a great job of balancing on them until about ten seconds ago, when I stacked it in front of everyone. Still, I suppose you can see the red soles now that I’m laid out on the floor, which was the main reason Gia wanted me to wear them in the first place.

Patrick comes running over and tries to help me up, but as soon as I try to move my leg, I cry out in pain.

‘Shit, shit,’ I blurt out.

I watch as one of Gia’s aunties ushers one of her young cousins away from me, her hands placed lightly over their ears.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just … I’ve never felt anything like it … It’s … God, I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘We’d better take you to hospital,’ Patrick says.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to go to hospital,’ I insist, trying to get up, but this only makes me cry out again.

I look for Gia in the crowd around me. There she is, with a face like thunder. Hell hath no fury like a bride upstaged at her own wedding. I swear, the way she’s looking at me, it’s almost as if she’s jealous. Like she wishes it were her, sprawled out on the floor, trying not to cry all over her £1,299 bridesmaid dress (for some reason, I think Gia thinks reminding me of the price might encourage me to get up quicker, but I can’t). If she knew how much pain I were in, she’d be happy where she was, even if everyone’s eyes are off her for a fleeting moment.

It takes a few people to help me up from the floor and it is the most pain I have ever known in my life.

I feel bad for Gia. I know that she knows I can’t help it, even if she does look upset, but it’s bound to ruin her day a little, having her best friend carted off to A & E. I’ll just get it checked out and try to get back here ASAP. I hate hospitals but I’m sure it will be just a quick in and out. I’ll find out that I’m a big baby, I’ll walk it off, I’ll be back on the dance floor in no time.

I’ll probably get my flats on the way back though.

Chapter 2

‘OK, Lola, you are not going to like me now,’ the radiographer tells me.

I didn’t realise I liked him before. Well, what’s to like? So far all he’s done is talk to me like I’m a clumsy child and ask me a bunch of personal questions about my menstrual cycle.

‘I’m going to have to move your leg into the right position for the x-ray,’ he tells me through an incredibly forced smile.

‘OK,’ I say, taking a deep breath. I already know how this goes. It’s been two hours since I fell, and the majority of those two hours have been spent slowly transporting me to the hospital, because the slightest movement of my leg causes me the worst pain I have ever felt in my life.

The radiographer begins moving my leg into position.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He sounds like he means it.

‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ I reply.

‘It’s OK, you have a free pass in here,’ he assures me. ‘And I’ve heard much worse.’

That’s fortunate, because I know much worse. I wish I’d had a free pass to swear on the journey here. I kept getting these stabbing pains in my leg, and every time it happened, I couldn’t help but drop S-bombs, and each time I did, you could guarantee there was a child lurking around. We had to apologise to a lot of parents on the way here – at the hotel, as the paramedics did their best to carefully get me off the dance floor and into the ambulance, and then at the hospital as they wheeled me to A & E.

‘Well, I can see the problem here,’ he finally says after taking my x-rays. He doesn’t say much more than that though. I wait with bated breath, until he comes over to move my leg again, making me (as) comfortable (as is possible right now) in my wheelchair.

‘You’ve broken your leg,’ he tells me.

‘What? Really?’

‘Really,’ he replies.

I mean, it is very painful, more painful than anything I’ve ever felt in my life, but I didn’t think it was broken. In fact, after I fell, the first thing I did was insist that I didn’t want to go to hospital. Even when we arrived here, and the nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale from one to ten, I gave it a six and turned down painkillers because I didn’t actually think it was broken. I thought I was just being a big baby.

‘You’re not actually a doctor though, are you?’ I say. ‘You could be wrong?’

The radiographer’s eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t trying to offend him, I just meant that, maybe he could be wrong? He has to be wrong. I really, really can’t have a broken leg right now.

He wheels me across the room, in my wheelchair with my leg sticking out in front of me, sticks my x-ray on the wall and flicks a switch. As the x-ray comes alive, my hope dies.

‘See that there,’ he says, pointing to a bone that is broken clean in half.

‘Yes,’ I reply softly.

‘That’s your fibula,’ he replies. ‘And yours is screwed.’

‘Are … are you allowed to say that?’ I ask, a little taken aback.

‘Everyone gets a free pass in here,’ he replies moodily.

I guess I must’ve offended him when I said he wasn’t a doctor. I wasn’t being sassy with him, I was just really hoping he might be wrong.

As he wheels me along the corridor, I spot Patrick.

‘Hey,’ I call out.

‘Hey, what’s cracking?’ he asks, looking up from his iPhone.

‘Her fibula,’ the radiographer tells him. ‘You can take her the rest of the way back.’

‘Thanks for all your help,’ I call after him guiltily.

‘You’ve broken it?’ Patrick asks me in disbelief.

‘Now that I think about it, I did feel a sort of … popping sensation.’

‘Christ,’ he replies. ‘Well, let’s get you to the doctor, get you patched up.’

I puff air from my cheeks as Patrick wheels me back to the minor injuries unit. We’ve had nine amazing months of going out on lovely dates, enjoying romantic evenings in, entire days in the bedroom … This is our first trip to A & E though. I suppose all couples have to have one eventually, right?

‘I still don’t understand how you did it,’ he says.

‘I just lost my footing,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t exactly diving for the bouquet. It’s these silly bridesmaid shoes Gia made me wear.’

Patrick sighs. ‘Women and shoes,’ he says as he wheels me back to see the doctor.

‘So, it’s broken,’ the doctor says, appearing from behind the curtain. ‘Fancy that codeine now?’

‘Yes please,’ I reply.

Now I know I’m not going to be able to shift the pain with a bag of ice and a couple of days off my feet, give me all the drugs.

‘Here we are,’ she says, handing me two paper cups: one with a tablet and one with water.

I knock it back.

‘So, you’ve broken your fibula, I’m afraid,’ she tells me. ‘I’m just going to run your x-ray by the orthopaedic surgeon, see what he says.’

‘OK,’ I reply. My heart is in my mouth.

‘Surgeon?’ I say to Patrick. ‘Am I going to need an operation?’

‘Calm down,’ he insists. ‘We’re … it’s going to be OK.’

Is it?! It doesn’t seem like it is.

I can’t help but notice Patrick’s bedside manner – or lack thereof. He isn’t being very patient or reassuring. He isn’t rubbing my shoulder or holding my hand. He seems deeply uncomfortable with the hospital generally. I suppose some people are just like that.

‘OK,’ the doctor says as she reappears through the curtain. ‘So, we’ve had a chat and, as you’re relatively young, an operation probably isn’t necessary. You should heal just fine in a cast.’

I can’t help but take issue with her use of ‘relatively young’ – I’m only thirty-two, for Christ’s sake. Don’t tell me I’m on the verge of old, brittle bones yet!

‘OK,’ I reply.

‘I’ll get you a prescription for some codeine to take home, OK?’

‘OK,’ I reply.

Why does everyone – myself included – keep saying OK? This is absolutely not OK, and repeatedly saying it’s OK isn’t going to make it O-bloody-K.

My cast goes much higher up my leg than I expected it to. It’s big, and bulky, and I hate the way it smells. It certainly doesn’t match the stocking on my other leg.

I notice Patrick staring at it with a look of discomfort. He winces, as he watches me shuffle to find comfort in my wheelchair.

Patrick wheels me out into the hospital reception. It must be quite late now. All I want is to sleep. If I sleep, things might feel easier in the morning.

As he manoeuvres me through a doorway he catches my wheelchair on the frame. The jolt sends a wave of pain around every nerve ending in my body. I turn my head to look at him, only to realise he’s looking at something on his phone while he pushes me with one hand.

‘Patrick!’

‘Sorry, sorry, it’s work,’ he says.

It’s always work with him. Being a stockbroker is, apparently, a twenty-four hour a day job. I say apparently because I honestly have no way of knowing whether this is true or not. Aside from the most basic knowledge of stocks, I don’t really get what he does. I just know that it makes him very angry, and he’s always on his phone. So perhaps it is a twenty-four hour a day job, perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on him.

‘I’ll go book a taxi,’ Patrick says. ‘Get you home to your bed.’

‘Can I come to yours?’ I ask him.

‘Wouldn’t you be happier in your own home?’ he replies.

‘Perhaps, if I didn’t have a stupid bloody step up into my bathroom.’

I curse myself. When I was flat hunting, I thought the cute little step up to my bathroom was, well, cute. It made it look like a mini spa. I never imagined I’d be wheelchair bound. Now I’m kicking myself … or I would be, if I physically could.

‘Oh, right.’ Patrick scratches his head. ‘Yes, OK then.’

As he wanders off to book us a taxi, a wave of cramp grips my broken leg, just like it kept doing on the walk over – I suppose from holding it in one careful but awkward position for so long.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I can’t help but blurt out.

Right on cue, a toddler waddles out from behind one of the pillars.

Every single one of my excruciating agony-fuelled outbursts so far has had an accidental audience of someone who shouldn’t be watching anything more than a PG, at best.

There’s nothing I can do but watch, as the giddy little boy’s legs turn to jelly underneath him and he flops to the floor with a clap, in that way toddlers always seem to go down. As he bursts into tears, his dad finally appears and picks him up. Poor kid, I know just how he feels (let’s casually gloss over the fact that I have thirty-two years’ experience with my feet, compared to his maximum of two).

His dad dusts him down and his crying stops all at once, as though someone has flicked a switch. The little boy is absolutely fine. In fact, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s waddling around again.

Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be quite so easy for me.

Chapter 3

Bloody men and their bloody sex drives!

I have it on pretty good authority – from my Auntie Val, of all people – that these are the days of our (sex) lives.

She had a few too many drinks at my twenty-first birthday party and took it upon herself to sit me down and tell me about the facts of life. Not the usual facts of life though, her facts of life, the supposedly real ones.

Auntie Val told me that, once men hit middle age, they’re not worth bothering with. She said my Uncle Robert was ‘fantastic in the sack’ when he was younger, but that his ‘tackle’ could no longer rise to the occasion, and that they slept in separate rooms. Auntie Val might’ve had a fair bit to drink, but she and Uncle Robert did eventually break up, and she has only been known to date wildly age-inappropriate younger men ever since.

With that to potentially look forward to in my future, you’d think I’d take whatever I could get now … except right now, my leg is literally broken in half.

‘Boy, are you out of your mind?’ I ask Patrick. He’s lying in my bed next to me, caressing the thigh of my good leg. I know he isn’t comforting me though, he’s caressing with intent.

‘What?’ he replies innocently.

‘Are you seriously putting the moves on me right now?’

‘I thought you’d welcome the distraction,’ he says.

I slowly eject every drop of air from my lungs.

‘I’ve been awake almost all night, in so much pain, unable to get comfortable, and you think thrashing away at me is going to make me feel better?’ I reply in disbelief.

‘Usually you like my thrashing,’ he replies. ‘Plus, I’m going to Amsterdam for work for a few days, so …’

‘You are?’

‘I told you I was.’

‘You absolutely didn’t,’ I reply.

‘Hmm.’ He ponders whether he did or didn’t tell me for a moment. ‘Yeah, it’s for work. For a few days.’

‘Oh,’ I reply.

‘Did you think I was going to be able to look after you?’

‘I did …’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Maybe ask your friends?’

‘Erm, yeah, OK.’

I don’t really know what else to say. If he has to work, then he has to work.

‘I should call work, actually, explain what has happened,’ I say.

Patrick plants a peck on my forehead.

‘I’d better get ready for work,’ he says, hopping out of bed. I can’t help but envy the ease with which he is able to switch from lying to standing. For me, it feels like a distant memory – and it’s only been ten hours! ‘I’ll leave you to your call.’

Patrick has always slept naked. I think he’d prefer to be naked all day long, if he weren’t so into fashion. I like that though, that he cares about what he wears and how he looks. He works hard to keep in shape, and he has a beauty regime to rival my own, but he looks incredible for it, with his rippling muscles, his £60 pompadour haircut, his neat, short beard and his threaded eyebrows.

I can’t help but admire him as he walks across the bedroom. I don’t think that I’m out of his league, or anything like that, but I do know how lucky I am. Women just seem to fall at his feet.

I carefully reach for my mobile, to call my boss. My plan is to – hopefully – take a couple of days off, just until I get the hang of the wheelchair, and the pain settles down, but then it will be business as usual, as far as actual business is concerned, at least.

‘Hello,’ Andrea pants down the phone.

‘Oh, erm, hello … It’s Lola James … Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘No, no, I’m in the gym,’ she replies.

That’s a huge relief. It would be so like my randy boss to answer her phone while she was at it.

We both work for the Beautiful People Agency, which manages a range of clients who are either rich, famous, or an obvious combination of both, giving perfect people their perfect lives. We handle finding them work, advertising deals, we manage their appearance (both how they look and how they come across) – we even have an in-house estate agency, to make sure that they live in the perfect place for them. And then there’s the department I work for, handling their relationships. I play cupid to the rich and famous, not only finding them their perfect matches, but also advising them on all areas of their love lives. It’s a strange job sometimes, but I absolutely love it. How many people can put on their CV that they gave rock star Dylan King advice on a particular aspect of his lovemaking game? It’s got to be fewer than five.

‘Oh, on Friday, did you find someone for Kelly Parker in the end?’ she asks me.

‘I did, yes.’

‘Someone from the Bin?’

‘Yep. Fabrizio Napoletano – he was on Love Island last year …’

The Bin is a particular category of client we talk about in the office, referring to someone who we signed (usually off the back of a reality TV show), who we are thinking of dropping. Before we do so, we’ll keep them in the Bin for a while, until we can match them with someone of a higher calibre (dictated by our guidelines). It sounds awful, but I do take pride in my work, and I will absolutely not pair up anyone who I don’t truly believe belong together. My job is to find perfect relationships for people who find it hard to meet people. It’s not easy, being rich or famous – there are thousands of people willing to date you (or even marry you) simply for your money and status. But I can spot a fake from a mile off, and I have a one hundred per cent success record. I’m so good that my company offers a money-back guarantee.

‘Great,’ she replies.

I hear a few beeps coming from whatever machine she’s using. It sounds like she’s getting faster.

‘So, what couldn’t wait until you got to the office tomorrow?’ she asks.

‘Oh, God, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Sorry, I get so confused with Patrick working seven days a week. I thought I was in work today.’

‘Not today,’ Andrea says with a snort. ‘Don’t worry, I was up for my workout anyway. Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘Well, I’m not going to be able to come in tomorrow either,’ I start.

‘Oh. It’s not like you to take sick days,’ she says.

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But, well, I’ve broken my leg.’

‘Oh, no, that’s terrible,’ she replies.

‘Yes, it’s not ideal. I’m in a wheelchair, actually. I’m not allowed to put weight on it – they didn’t even give me any crutches for these first couple of weeks.’

‘Oh gosh …’

‘And my silly apartment has steps in it, so I’m going to have to find a friend to stay with.’

‘Lola, listen, it sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.’

‘I am figuring it all out, don’t worry.’

‘It’s not just that,’ she starts. ‘You know, having you in a wheelchair in the office, it’s just not practical. You’re not going to be able to get around to clients, you’re going to need ramps and whatnot – it’s going to be a logistical nightmare.’

‘So …’

‘So, I’m going to hand over all your work to Angel, until you’re back on your feet, and I won’t hear another word on the subject, OK?’

Pssh. Angel. She isn’t like any angel I’ve ever heard of, she’s more like a devil. She’s my office frenemy, the thorn in my side, the one always vying for Andrea’s attention and trying to pinch my high-profile clients, because hers are all from the Bin. I always knew she was after my job, I guess now she’s going to get it. At least it’s only temporary.

‘OK then,’ I reply, but it’s absolutely not OK.

‘You rest up and take care now,’ she insists, before hanging up the phone.

For a moment I just stare into space.

Andrea is right: I don’t ever take sick days. I work myself into the ground for that company. Suddenly, because I’m in plaster and being pushed around in a wheelchair, I’m, what, not cool enough to be seen around the office? Andrea always tells us that we’re selling a sexy lifestyle, so it’s important that we look sexy. While I’m not entirely sure how legal this might be, female employees have to adhere to an office-wide ban on ponytails, trousers, and natural-look make-up. I don’t mind too much. I like to have my long blonde hair flowing, wear nice clothes, and spend time applying my make-up each day. I do it for myself, not because Andrea tells me to. I feel like I really fit in there, which is why I’m so gutted to be put on the bench.

My next order of business is to find someone I can stay with. Patrick might not be able to look after me but, lucky for me, I have a lot of friends.

I call Gia, my best friend. I’m sure she’ll be dying to know if I’m OK, but with last night being her wedding night, I didn’t want to put a downer on things.

‘Heeey,’ she sings down the phone.

‘Hey, how was last night?’

‘Oh, amazing,’ she replies brightly. ‘Just … magical. Where did you end up?’

‘I fell.’

‘Yeah, I saw,’ she replies. ‘After that?’

‘The hospital, Gia …’

‘Oh, wow, how you feeling now?’

‘Not great,’ I confess. ‘I’ve broken my leg.’

‘No way!’

‘Way,’ I reply. ‘I’m in a wheelchair.’

‘Ah, Lola, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply.

I’m so lucky, to have a best friend like Gia.

‘The worst thing is, Patrick is going away for work, so he can’t look after me. And I’ve got that silly step in my apartment.’

‘Oh, gosh, yeah,’ she replies. ‘I forgot about that.’

I hear Gia giggling.

‘Stop it,’ she whispers.

‘Do you want me to let you go?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s just Kent, being a randy newlywed. Get off, Kent, I’m talking to Lola. She’s broken her leg.’

‘Get well soon, Lola,’ he calls down the phone.

‘Tell him thank you,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Patrick can’t look after me, so I’m just trying to work out what to do.’

‘Oh, well, Lola, you know I’m going on honeymoon,’ she reminds me.

‘Yeah, in three weeks, right?’ I reply.

I wasn’t necessarily angling to stay with her – I get that she’s a newlywed – but I’m surprised she hasn’t offered. She’s my best friend, and she and Kent live in a massive house. Everything I could possibly need is downstairs in her house. I thought she might have suggested I look after the place while she’s in Bali for three weeks or something. Just offered, even if she knows I’ll say no. All the more reason to ask, right?

‘Well, yeah, but … I mean, we’re just married. It’s not really a good time for guests, you know?’

I swallow hard. I’m not a guest, I’m her best friend. I’m the person who basically organised her entire wedding, right down to that stupid ring-carrying angry swan she insisted she needed me to arrange. When Gia asked me to help plan her wedding, she said she needed my organisational skills … I can’t help but feel a bit used.

‘Oh, no, I totally get that. I wasn’t expecting you to look after me,’ I insist. Well, I wasn’t, I’m just shocked by how not her problem this is sounding.

‘You’re a star,’ she replies. ‘You’ll land on your feet – oops, poor choice of words.’

‘Drinks tomorrow,’ I start, remembering our plans.

‘Yeah, no, let’s just … put a pin in that until after my honeymoon? I’m sure you need the rest.’

‘Erm, yeah.’

‘Maybe try your parents?’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply.

And now she doesn’t even want to hang out with me?! What, just because I’m in plaster, is that not cool? Is she really that superficial?

‘You all sorted?’ Patrick asks, walking out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

As he runs a hand through his hair, I notice his bicep wiggle. Something I suspect he does on purpose, either for my benefit or the mirror’s.

‘Erm, not really,’ I reply. ‘Work have told me not to go in until I can walk, and Gia doesn’t want to know.’

‘Shit, that’s awful,’ he replies. ‘You’d better get calling someone else, or you’re in big trouble.’

Wow, even Patrick doesn’t have much time for injured me. It’s like everyone is happy to have you around when you’re all dressed up and socialising, but when the shit hits the fan and you need help, no one wants to take time away from their awesome, easy life to help out.

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Thanks.’

I frown.

He’s right, I guess. I’d better start working my way through my contacts. There’s absolutely no way I can cope on my own, at least to start with. But if you can’t rely on your boyfriend or your best friend, who else can you ask?

Chapter 4

Life, it turns out, is a pretty fragile thing.

I don’t mean in terms of life and death, although I’m sure that’s a realisation we all come to eventually. I feel very grateful to have not lived through circumstances to cause me that epiphany yet.

What I actually mean is that, having a life is a fragile thing. Having a rich, full, happy life, with everything you’ve ever hoped for, everything you’ve dreamed of … just one little accident, and it falls apart like a fibula on a dance floor (hmm, perhaps that metaphor is a little me-specific to use here, but you know what I mean).

Yesterday I had it all; today none of it is anywhere to be seen. I’m stuck in this wheelchair, I can’t go to my own home, my boyfriend is too busy to look after me, my best friend is too wrapped up in her own stuff, all my other friends are too busy with their own lives too. I rang round every single one of them, but none of them wanted to know. We’re all BFFs when there are fancy nights out and showbiz parties to go to (parties that my job gets us entry to), but now I need a favour from them … nothing. And I call it a favour, like it’s help moving house or a lift to the train station, but I’m here, in this chair, with nowhere to go, and no one to look after me. I don’t need a favour, I need a lifeline. How can they all just leave me to it?

Ordinarily, I would throw myself into work, because I love my job so much, nothing makes me happier than helping other people find happiness … and I can’t even do that. Even work doesn’t want me.

I wiggle carefully in my seat. I’m not all that comfortable at the best of times, but sitting in the back of a car with my broken leg stretched across the seat feels especially awkward. Not just because it makes my break feel especially painful (although it does, everything does, even breathing makes my leg hurt) but because it is an ambitious stretch at the best of times. All this does is rub in my face the fact that I probably do just go to yoga because I think it’s trendy, and because all my friends go. It turns out I’m not actually gaining that much flexibility from it. I suppose I knew, deep down, that I didn’t take it all that seriously. I was in it for the chat with my friends, the funky, colourful yoga pants, and the drinks we would go for after. Now I kind of wish I had taken it more seriously – it might make this drive more bearable.

‘I have to say, your mum and I are over the moon,’ my dad chirps as he drives.

I can see his face in the rear-view mirror and he certainly looks overjoyed.

‘That’s great,’ I reply, but I can’t muster up much conviction. Not in these circumstances.

‘I mean, your mum and I are sad you broke your leg – obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ I echo.

‘But over the moon,’ he insists again.

‘OK, Dad, calm down,’ I say.

It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s unbelievably kind of him to drive all the way to London to pick me up, only to hit the road again straight away. It must be at least a ten-hour round trip he’s making. But he could at least sound like he isn’t delighted I broke my leg.

‘Sorry, love,’ he replies.

My dad, Paul James, gives me a reassuring smile in the mirror. One that I imagine is supposed to put me at my ease, but I still suspect he might drive into a tree if it means I have to stay with them for longer. He’s your typical broad Yorkshireman, with an angry brow and an even less friendly resting face. He’s a big softy, of course, but I did find it an advantage, growing up with an intimidating-looking dad. I certainly won every single ‘my dad is bigger than your dad’ standoff, that’s for sure.

That’s what I’m doing, by the way. I’m moving back in with my parents.

It’s only temporary, may I add, until I’m back on my feet, and with this being very literal in my case, I know how long it will be – six weeks. That’s what they told me when I went to have my temporary cast swapped for a regular one, before we hit the road today. They didn’t even say I’d be better in six weeks, they said I could hopefully swap my cast for a brace then, so at least I’d be able to put some weight on it.

So, that’s my countdown. Six weeks. I don’t think I’ve spent six days at my parents’ house since I moved out, with me only popping back for Christmas or encouraging them to visit me. It’s hard for them though, running a B & B, because at the times of year when people have time off and usually want to get together, that’s when they are busiest.

Anyone can survive six weeks back home, right? It might be kind of nice, taking in the sea air, eating my mum’s cooking, watching TV with my dad. It’s been ages since I had some time off, not without a holiday to jet off on. Yes, it will be great, just the chilled-out break I’ve probably been in need of.

I look out of the car windows, admiring the greenery on one side and the sea on the other. We must be nearly there now.

‘It’s a shame Mum couldn’t come for the drive,’ I say.

‘Yes, but you know what she’s like,’ my dad replies. ‘She’s washing the windows and doing the stairs down.’

Almost all of my significant memories involve my mum on her hands and knees, with a cloth and a bucket of warm soapy water, starting at the top of the stairs and working her way down, scrubbing each step along the way.

‘I can’t even go up the stairs,’ I laugh.

‘Oh, she knows, but you know what she’s like. She’s just excited, her baby is coming home.’

I want to remind him that it’s only for six weeks, but he knows. No sense in reminding him and bursting his bubble.

‘How’s the work coming along?’ I ask.

When I was home for Christmas I made a few suggestions about the B & B. Just little things here and there that needed a fresh lick of paint, or new ideas for how to drum up more business.

Driving through Marram Bay, where I grew up, always feels like looking through an old photo album. You know how sometimes you remember how things were when you were a kid, and even though they look different now because of time or advances in technology, they remind you of the good old days? Well passing through Marram Bay is nothing like that. I always come back to find this place exactly as I left it.

I would hazard a guess there are a few reasons nothing changes in Marram Bay. First of all, it’s a tourist hotspot. People travel from all over the world to visit expecting a Yorkshire seaside town, cute and picturesque, with quirks aplenty.

There are lots of weird and wonderful events that people flock here for. In December, Marram Bay plays host to the Winter Wonderland Festival down by the beach. We have rides, stalls, and performances, but the pièce de résistance is without a doubt the Christmas tree maze. I would always look forward to getting lost in the maze when I was a kid. It’s funny, because I would try so hard to learn the layout so that one year I could walk it – I don’t know how many years it took me to figure out that the layout is different each time.

In summer we have the 1940s weekend, which we take seriously – and I mean very seriously. It’s exactly as it sounds too. The entire place hops into a time machine and goes back to the World War II era. Locals cover their windows in white tape, hide their cars and dress up in their 1940s’ best, and if you even think about breaking character, they probably force you into moving house.

Other annual events include a hot air balloon festival and a Valentine’s Day Festival, dedicated to all things love. It’s no wonder we get so many tourists.

People in little towns like this are always so set in their ways. They don’t want things to change. They hate change. New builds, Tesco Expresses, Nando’s – no one can get a look in.

As we drive through Marram Bay I spot the Little Acorn Primary school – the first school I attended – before passing the small park where I had my first kiss. I can pretty much map my pre-London-move life events across this small but beautiful stretch, although I’m not sure how much interest there would be in a tourist pamphlet like that.

‘Oh, just in time,’ my dad says as we approach the causeway to Hope Island. ‘It closes in ten minutes.’

When I was growing up on Hope Island, I didn’t give the causeway much thought. I was just so used to it that it became little more than an annoyance that stopped me getting to see my friends or returning home after. Now that I’m older and it isn’t something I get to see very often, it absolutely captivates me.

Twice a day, when the tide comes in, the mile-long road that connects Hope Island to Marram Bay will be completely covered by the North Sea, isolating Hope Island from the rest of the country. Then, when the tide goes back out, and the road beneath becomes visible, the tidal island is connected again.

So, what used to just be a road closure that annoyed teenage me is now a real marvel of the natural world that I can’t get enough of. That said, if it had been closed just now, I would have been annoyed at being stuck on the mainland for even longer – hours probably – because I really need the loo (which is an absolute ordeal that I’d rather not go through with my dad in a public lav) and I’m so uncomfortable in this car.

‘Thank goodness,’ I reply as we drive along the causeway. I look out of the window only to see the water edging closer at both sides of the road. It’s fascinating, how it just looks like a centimetre or two of water creeping in slowly, but come high tide this road can often be under six foot of water. The locals know the causeway and the tide like the backs of their hands. They know how long they have to drive the mile-long road and they know what will happen if they drive when it isn’t safe.

Tourists, however, who aren’t familiar with our tidal island, will often think they can take a chance and cross, either expecting the road to keep clear for them, or that it will only be like driving through a big puddle. Of course it’s nothing like that; it’s so dangerous, which is why people get halfway across and realise the tide has them surrounded, leaving them marooned in their car, but not for long. Soon the sea takes their car too, and that’s when they wind up in big trouble.

Growing up here, the risks with the tide were always made very clear to us, and I remember the consequences – along with the costs involved – clear as day. A sea rescue costs £2,000 whereas an air rescue costs £4,000 – and of course you’re in danger if you need rescuing, and then there is the damage to your car, so why even risk it?

‘Hopefully your mum will have finished tidying and we can have a nice cup of tea,’ my dad says.

The thought of sitting there in pain while my mum tidies around me makes me anxious. I know she’s just trying to make the place nice for me, but all I care about is getting comfortable in a room with an adjoining bathroom that doesn’t involve any steps.

Hope Island is gorgeous, packed with cute little cafés, homely-looking B & Bs and plenty of tourist hotspots, like the old abbey ruins, but I’ve no time to stop and admire them today. I’m really starting to regret keeping hydrated on the drive here.

‘Home sweet home,’ my dad says as he pulls up outside the Lighthouse B & B.

On the coast, looking out to sea, sits the old converted lighthouse that my parents live in. Their bed and breakfast is in the newer building attached to it. I grew up in the lighthouse – the tall, slightly off white, weather-battered building with the red stripe across the middle.

Growing up, my old bedroom was on the top floor, which was as magical as it sounds. There’s no chance of me getting up there today though so the bottom floor – also known as the family living room – will be my bedroom for the foreseeable future. Thankfully there is a bathroom just off the living room, so I’ll be able to roll between the rooms with ease.

As my dad helps me out of the car and up the path, my mum runs out to meet us.

‘Lola, darling,’ she says excitedly.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I reply. I allow her a moment to kiss my cheek before wheeling myself past her. ‘I need the loo, then we’ll talk.’

‘She didn’t even mention the new curtains,’ I just about hear her say to my dad as I struggle to close the door behind me.

It’s just six weeks, I remind myself. Just six weeks.

Chapter 5

‘Lola … Lola, honey, time to wake up.’

When I hear my mum’s voice my first thought is that I’m going to be late for school. I always had a tendency to oversleep but she would talk me awake ever so gently.

It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that I haven’t travelled back in time to my teens. I am here as a thirty-two-year-old grown person – one who has nothing to get up for.

‘Just five more minutes,’ I plead. Well, old habits die hard.

‘Nope, I won’t let you be an invalid,’ she insists. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast, come on. Do you need me to help you up?’

‘No,’ I insist, pulling myself into more of an upright position. ‘It’s OK, I’m a fully grown woman. I can do it.’

If there’s one thing I don’t want, it is to feel like a child again.

To prove a point I shuffle from the sofa into my wheelchair, being as careful with my leg as possible. I am most definitely overdue some painkillers because an agonising electric shock type pain shoots up and down from the break.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I say as I settle into my chair. I exhale deeply as I realise I’m going to have to move from my chair to the toilet. Perhaps I’ll wait until after I’ve had my painkillers, before I attempt moving again.

‘Oh, love,’ my mum says. ‘Please let me help you. Can I help you to the bathroom? Do you want to get changed?’

I remove a scrunchie from my wrist and scoop my long blonde hair up into a bun on the top of my head.

‘I’ll have something to eat and take my painkillers first,’ I say. ‘But then that would be great, thank you.’

Well, I can’t do it on my own, and a little help isn’t exactly going to make me feel like a big baby, is it? I do have a broken leg; I need to cut myself some slack.

I grab my phone from next to the sofa before my mum wheels me from the lighthouse into the B & B. We go through the door into the B & B office where there is also a door into our private family kitchen, separate from the bistro kitchen where food is prepared for the guests.

A quick glance at my phone turns up two surprising pieces of information. First of all, it’s only 8:30 in the a.m. – way earlier than I want to get up when I don’t have work, but also evidence that my mum has allowed me to sleep in. She’s probably been up since 5:30 a.m., getting ready for a busy day in the B & B, working on her permanently flawless hair and near invisible make-up.

I’ve never really pulled off the natural look like my mum does. I have to spend time on my hair – lest it look like a bird’s nest, like it does today – and it pretty much always takes a full face of make-up to get me looking well rested and healthy. I need to contour and highlight and open my eyes up. Otherwise I look like I do today – old, tired and like I just don’t care anymore. That’s not to say I do it because I think I have to though. I’ve always been a girly girl who loved doing her hair and messing around with make-up; it would just be nice to be a little more effortlessly polished like my mum is.

The other piece of disappointing information gathered from my phone is the fact that Patrick hasn’t sent me so much as a text to see how I’m doing. I know he’s in Amsterdam and I know he’s working, but his phone is never out of his hand, and it wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to punch me a quick text to see how I’m feeling, or if I got home safe.

‘There’s my two favourite ladies,’ my dad says as my mum wheels me into the private dining kitchen, parking me at the table.

‘Morning, Da … Oh my God.’

My sentence is derailed by the breakfast on the table in front of me.

‘What?’ my mum asks.

‘Is this for me?’ I reply.

‘Yes.’

‘All of it?’ I check.

‘Of course,’ my mum says. ‘We need to get your strength up, get you back on your feet.’

My mum, Linda James, has always taken a very domestic approach to any problem she’s ever encountered. This kitchen is her Situation Room and her weapons of choice? Usually food. Today that food is scrambled eggs and toast, but not just any scrambled eggs and toast, a mountain of scrambled eggs and a stack of smiley face toast. She used to make me this when I was younger. I think it came from my obsession with the Teletubbies, but that was over twenty years ago, and I was probably too old for it even back then.

Ordinarily, I’d probably find it cute that my mum has made me my favourite childhood breakfast, but now, in these circumstances, it just makes me feel even more like I’ve regressed.

‘There’s no way I’ll eat all that,’ I blurt out.

My dad chuckles from behind his newspaper. ‘Told you, Lin.’

‘Shush, you,’ my mum ticks him off. ‘This is just what she needs to get her life back on track.’

‘Eggs?’ my dad asks in disbelief.

‘Home cooking,’ my mum replies. She gives my wheelchair another short, kind of sharp, push towards the table. ‘Eat up, baby.’

‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ I say.

I twist my body around awkwardly to try and eat from the table. The eggs are kind of on the cold side and the toast is definitely cold because it is rock solid, but I can see the love that has gone into making it, from carving the faces to including finely chopped chives and pieces of smoked salmon because she knows that’s my favourite. I owe it to my mum to eat as much as I can, without throwing up from the pain coming from my leg. I just need to eat enough to take my painkillers; once they kick in I won’t feel so tetchy.

My mum watches me like a hawk as I eat. She nods encouragingly as I raise my fork to my mouth.

‘It’s so good to have you home,’ she tells me again. ‘Isn’t it, Paul?’

My dad reads his newspaper with that dad brand of harmless ignorance. You know he’s in his own little world, no longer listening to either of us. I suppose that’s a defence mechanism he’s developed over the years, living in a house with two women. Whether my mum and I were at odds over me wanting to go to some house party or other, or if we were just having an in-depth natter about Emmerdale, my dad has perfected the art of tuning out. The only problem there is that he doesn’t always tune back in when we need him to.

‘Paul,’ my mum snaps.

‘What?’ he replies with a similar faux anger.

‘I said it’s nice to have Lola home,’ she tells him.

‘Lovely to have you home, love,’ my dad says, suddenly all warm and welcoming. He immediately goes back to his newspaper.

My mum and dad have always had a happy marriage, but the two of them couldn’t be more different on paper. My dad is, for the most part, the strong silent type. He likes to keep himself to himself and he’ll mostly keep his nose out of other people’s business too. This makes him the perfect B & B owner really, because he isn’t just discreet, he’s oblivious.

My mum is the exact opposite. My dad always jokes that my mum doesn’t have an off button, which is why she’s always talking. She loves nothing more than a good chat, and if she can sort someone’s life out while doing so then she will be even happier.

When I lived here I felt like I acted as a sort of buffer between them. Someone to play the middle ground, bring my dad out of himself a bit, rein my mum in as much as possible. Since I moved out, I’m not sure how the balance is maintained but my parents have been married for nearly forty years. They are living proof that opposites do actually attract and I’ve always taken comfort in that. It’s always filled me with hope that, if I ever do meet someone who isn’t exactly like me, it’s not like we’re doomed. Thankfully I’d say Patrick and I are quite similar – well, except for the fact that since I had my accident he’s been far too busy with work to care about me.

‘This is lovely, Mum, thanks,’ I tell her. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to force too much down, but I’ll do my best.

‘Good girl,’ she replies. ‘Let Mummy take care of you; you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

‘You want to be careful,’ my dad chimes in. ‘Make sure she isn’t whacking your leg with a hammer while you sleep, just so she can keep you here longer.’

I know that he’s joking, but this triggers my mum.

‘I already have a helpless lump to look after,’ my mum points out. ‘I’m certainly not in need of another.’

‘Ow, ow,’ I say, dropping my fork to grab my leg. It hasn’t actually got worse, but acting like it has seems like a great way to defuse this situation.

My mum jumps up from her seat at the table and rushes round to me. She strokes my hair as she asks me if I’m OK. My dad puts down his newspaper, which is his equivalent.

‘It’s OK, darling. It’s OK,’ she reassured me. ‘You’ll be back to normal in no time at all.’

‘I’m worried it’s going to be a long recovery,’ I admit. ‘I’m scared I’m going to go out of my mind with boredom, without my job or my friends or any aspect of my day-to-day life at all.’

‘We’ll keep you busy,’ my mum insists. ‘Everything we talked about, for the B & B, is in place now, and it’s all been great.’

‘Really?’ I reply.

‘Oh, yes,’ she insists. ‘We’ve had a makeover. We’ve expanded the dining room so we can have more diners – we’re more like a small hotel now. We’ve hired an extra chef – Robbie, such a lovely young man. Vince is training him up.’

‘Oh, that will be nice for him,’ I say sarcastically.

Over the years we have had a few chefs here at the Lighthouse B & B. Vince is the most recent, and he’s very highly strung, very snobby and far too easily angered. He is a great chef though, so I think everyone has adopted a general rule of thumb to just leave him alone and let him do his job.

‘Yes,’ my mum starts. ‘He’s not happy to be sharing the kitchen with an up-and-comer, but everyone needs to start somewhere. And Robbie is so lovely. If you were single …’

‘Ah, but I’m not,’ I remind her. ‘So don’t go trying to play matchmaker while I’m unable to run away.’

‘Would I?’ my mum asks with a faux innocence. ‘Anyway, if you let us meet this Patrick, then maybe I’d see how settled you were.’

I’m not really sure Patrick is a meet the parents kind of guy, not too early at least. I’m sure we’ll do it when the time is right for both of us. My mum will just have to be patient.

‘And then there’s the fact that he isn’t looking after you, in your time of need,’ my mum adds.

‘The man has to work,’ my dad insists from the safety of behind his paper.

‘Too busy for your little girl when she needs help?’ my mum asks him.

‘Ow,’ I cry. ‘Shit, my leg is really hurting.’

This time I’m not pretending.

‘It feels really tight and warm,’ I explain. ‘Is that right? They told me to watch out for things like that.’

‘It could be a DVT,’ my mum says, going from nought to a medical emergency in a matter of seconds. ‘That’s it, we’re getting you dressed and taking you to see the doctor.’

My mum wheels me away from my breakfast and back towards the living room (which is currently serving as my bedroom). She begins sorting through my clothes, looking for something for me to wear, before dressing me in them.

I have never felt more like a child.

I grab my phone to call Patrick. He told me he’d call me this morning, so I should probably let him know that I’m going to the doctor’s, just in case he tries to call.

After a couple of rings someone answers. It isn’t Patrick though, it’s a female voice.

‘Erm …’ I look at my phone and realise that I’ve actually called Patrick’s home phone by mistake. Still, there shouldn’t be someone else answering – especially not a woman. ‘Is Patrick there?’

I feel like an idiot for asking this random woman if my boyfriend is home.

‘Not at the moment,’ she replies. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Erm … no … I’ll call back later,’ I say before hanging up quickly.

Who on earth was that? Why is she answering Patrick’s phone while he’s away?

I suppose I could text him, tell him that my mum is taking me to see the doctor and that I’ll call him after. I don’t want to seem like I’m keeping tabs on him, and I really don’t want to seem like I’m trying to worry him, as some sort of kneejerk reaction, just because I heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone.

Now I’m more worried than anyone, and not just about my leg – although it is frustrating to be going back to see another doctor. Like it’s not bad enough I thought I was going to be stuck on my arse for six weeks, now I have to go and be poked and prodded again.

But I’m not just worried about that. Now I’m worried about Patrick too, because unless something bad has happened, things are starting to seem a little fishy.

Chapter 6

‘I can’t believe how much your accent has changed,’ Kim, the local nurse, says.

Kim isn’t just the local nurse though, she’s my childhood best friend. In fact, I’ve known her since the day after I was born (if, you know, a new-born baby can actually know another one) because our mums were in hospital together, with Kim being born only a few hours after me. I was a night owl, she was an early riser, traits that followed us way into our teens.

So our mums became best friends, which meant that we became best friends, and we did pretty much everything together until after our A Levels, when our different studies took us to different ends of the country. The main difference though is that Kim moved back to Marram Bay, whereas I decided I liked life more in London. Up until the moment our lives went in different directions we were inseparable. We always looked alike too – at least we used to. People would often mistake us for sisters, or cousins at least. Perhaps that has more to do with the fact we were always together.

We definitely don’t look alike anymore though and it is down to just one thing. We’re both still the same height (a just above average five-five), both a not-thin-but-not-fat build (although my mum keeps harping on about something called a middle-aged spread that she reckons I’ll fall victim to in under a decade) and we both have blue eyes. The only difference now is our hair colour – I am still blonde (with a few helpful highlights to make it more vibrant) with long hair almost to my elbows, but Kim has gone for a chocolaty brown long bob. It really suits her and I can’t imagine how much courage it must have taken to get the chop. I’m too scared to do anything wild with my hair because there’s no taking a style like that back in a hurry.

‘I didn’t realise my accent had changed that much,’ I reply. ‘I don’t suppose I notice my own voice.’

‘It definitely has,’ she insists. ‘You don’t sound like a cockney geezer though, don’t worry about that. You’ve just lost your Yorkshire charm.’

Kim gives me a sympathetic smile, as though she feels sorry for me for losing part of my identity. My regional accent made it hard for people in London to understand me, so it had felt right to gravitate towards something that sounded a little more universal.

‘I can’t believe you’re sitting here in front of me,’ Kim says, hugging me again. ‘I see bits on Facebook and always tell myself we need to find a way to meet up, but you seem so busy. How have you been?’

I look down at my leg.

‘I’ve been better,’ I joke. ‘Other than the leg, things are good. I have a nice place in the city, I love my job, I have a boyfriend. What about you?’

‘Well, I’m a nurse, you’ll be relieved to hear,’ she jokes. ‘No boyfriend though, and I’m just living with my mum but, well, my dad has dementia, so it felt right to move back in and help out. My mum doesn’t really want him going into a home.’

‘Oh my gosh, Kim, that’s awful. I’m so sorry,’ I reply. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think it would make the best status update,’ she replies. ‘Are you in the Marram Bay Facebook group?’

‘I’m not,’ I reply. ‘Should I be?’ I know Mum is part of the group but I’ve never seen the point in joining it myself.

‘One of our neighbours shared a Just Giving page on there, raised nearly £5,000 so we could make the house more safe for him,’ she replies.

‘That’s incredible. I’ll have to join.’

‘Otherwise it’s just missing cats, found cats, people complaining about the length of other people’s grass, blah, blah, blah – probably not worth joining.’

I laugh, but then all at once my thoughts jump back to my leg, as a pain shoots from the break right up into my thigh.

‘So,’ I say, nodding towards my leg.

‘Oh, right, yes,’ she babbles. ‘The real reason you’re here. Well, I think perhaps you need to see the doctor, so I’m going to go and get him.’

‘Oh gosh, is it bad?’ I reply. ‘Is it a DVT?’

‘No, it’s nothing bad,’ Kim quickly insists. ‘I just … I really think you should see the doctor.’

Kim gives me a wink, which I find confusing.

‘Do you remember Will Coleman from school?’ she asks.

‘I do,’ I reply.

Will Coleman was a quiet, nerdy kid. He was quite chubby (which is apparently the worst thing you can be in the eyes of your fellow fifteen-year-olds) and massively into Dungeons and Dragons (which also does not make you all that popular amongst your peers). I liked him though, because he was funny and he always seemed to be genuinely interested in what girls had to say, rather than just trying to grab their boobs while they shared a cigarette behind the IT building.

Kim wiggles her eyebrows and leaves me in the examination room on my own. It’s nice to see that she hasn’t changed much; she’s still the same fun-loving, kind of kooky girl I grew up with – except now she’s a grown-up and doing a job that changes the world. Thinking about what her life is like makes me feel like a big woman-child. Well, I’m not exactly a grown-up, living in my flat, relying on cleaners and restaurants to keep me alive, and my job isn’t exactly changing the world. All I do is make sure that footballers get dates with girls who aren’t going to try and extort money out of them over an ill-advised (usually poorly executed) photo of their genitals.

I examine the posters on the walls, all dishing the gory details of a variety of diseases and medical conditions. As I read the symptoms for various lists, I check a few of them off. Tired – yes (but I’ve always slept less than most). Losing weight – yes (but I have been on a diet to try and look better in my bridesmaid dress, because Gia looks like a Victoria’s Secret model). Aches and pains – yes (then again, I did fall flat on my face a matter of days ago).

The posters amuse me, in a weird way. It’s a bit like, while you are here and unwell, have you considered these illnesses? It reminds me a lot of the ‘customers also bought’ bit on Amazon.

I’m going to stop reading them. I’ve already got a broken leg, I don’t need to find out I’ve got psoriasis too. Not today.

‘OK, the doctor will see you now,’ Kim sings and she enters the room. ‘Lola, this is Dr Will.’

It takes me the longest thirty seconds of my life to realise that the man standing in front of me is chubby, dorky Will Coleman from school. Except he isn’t chubby or dorky anymore. He’s kind of dishy now. He’s tall and lean with neat, dirty blond hair. He’s wearing black trousers and a tight, white shirt with the sleeves partially rolled up. Of course he’s got a stethoscope hanging around his neck, making him look like a fake sexy doctor from the cover of a Mills & Boon novel.

‘Lola James,’ he blurts out.

From the look on his face, it doesn’t seem like Kim told him I was the patient. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. I feel sort of like I’ve seen a ghost … just a surprisingly sexy one.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘It’s been years,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

I nod down at my leg again.

‘Oh, God, right, yes,’ he babbles. ‘The broken leg.’

‘Here’s a letter they gave her at the fracture clinic in London,’ Kim tells him. ‘I’ve actually got to go do something else but, Lola, you’re in very safe hands now.’

I watch Kim leave through the door behind Dr Will’s back. Out of his line of sight, she gives me another wink. Now I understand exactly what she meant before. I don’t need to see a doctor about my leg, I just need to see this doctor – literally just cast my eyes over him and see what kind of man he’s grown into.

‘OK, let’s take a look,’ he says.

I feel a strange little tingle as he lightly touches my toes.

‘Well, I’m sure Kim was just being vigilant, but everything looks as expected to me – I’d be hesitant to say it looks fine, because, you know, it’s broken in half, but yes, it looks as I’d expect.’

‘That’s a relief,’ I reply. ‘Good to know it’s all as it should be, even if it sucks.’

‘How are you coping?’ he asks.

‘Well, I’ve had to move back in with my mum and dad, and that’s as fun as it sounds, and I’m stuck on my butt with nothing to do …’ I soften a little. ‘But my parents are being a huge help, and I don’t think I’d be coping without them.’

‘You’re never too old to be looked after by your mum,’ he tells me.

‘That’s true,’ I reply. ‘I definitely think there’s an age limit on being washed though.’

Will laughs.

‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘OK, well …’

Will pulls a prescription pad from his pocket and writes on it. ‘Your prescription,’ he says, handing me the piece of paper. I notice it has a mobile number written on it. ‘That’s my mobile number. There are lots of things I could drop by with, to help you cope a little better, so if you’re struggling just give me a ring.’

‘Ah, damn, I thought it was more codeine,’ I say with chuckle, to make sure he knows that I’m just kidding.

‘I’m sure they’ve given you plenty,’ he replies. ‘Unless you’re selling it on.’

‘Well, you remember my mum,’ I joke.

I’m sure he probably does remember my mum though. I think she probably scarred him for life. Will came over to help me with my biology homework once (not a euphemism) and he was curious about the lighthouse so I took him upstairs to look out. My mum caught us and thought we were up to no good, and politely asked Will to leave and not to come back – I say politely, but it had the low-key anger that bubbles inside an overprotective mother.

‘I do indeed,’ he replies. ‘And, of course, I’m her doctor now.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure you’re supposed to tell me that,’ I reply – and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I detected a flirtatious tone to my voice.

‘Probably not,’ he replies. ‘But I’m also not supposed to keep a room full of patients waiting while I’m in here dealing with a fake emergency.’

We exchange smiles.

‘Call me if you need me, OK?’ he says.

‘I will do, thank you.’

Once Dr Will has gone back to work, I feel an enormous grin spread across my face. Wow, I can’t believe that’s Will! He looks so different. I mean, of course he does, the last time I saw him he was a teenage boy and now he’s a man, but he looks really different. Kim’s hair looked very different, but she still looked like Kim. I can’t believe Will grew up to be a hot doctor – I’ll bet everyone who bullied him at school (especially the ones who still live locally) are kicking themselves now.

One thing I can’t help but think though, is that if I don’t call Will and hang out with him more while I’m here, I’ll be kicking myself – well, I would be if it were physically possible.

Chapter 7

Day three stuck on my arse, trapped in the little lighthouse on Marram Bay: I’m going mad.

So apparently, at the moment, the town hall is undergoing some major refurbishments, so my mum and dad have kindly offered the B & B function room as a space for those who usually rely on the town hall for their events.

Ordinarily I would say this was a great thing. Great for the community, great for business, great for raising the profile of the B & B … It isn’t great for me though. From where I’m (stuck) sitting, all I can hear is the local line dancing group practising. It’s a group of mostly retired women, all of whom can move a lot better than I can right now. They’re having fun, which is all that matters, but they’re practising the same song on repeat. If I hear ‘Elvira’ by The Oak Ridge Boys one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.

Bored out of my mind, uncomfortable, and hungry, I decide to venture into the B & B and see if I can get something to eat. My dad is out running errands and my mum is upstairs helping the ladies who clean the rooms and change the beds – my mum is such a perfectionist, and it doesn’t matter to her whether there are employees who are paid to do these jobs; she likes to make sure they are done right, and she’s happy to get her hands dirty. It’s one of the reasons I look up to my mum, but today it’s the reason I don’t have a sandwich in my hand, and what else do I have to live for right now? I want a sandwich of white bread, a little butter and a full packet of salt and vinegar crisps crushed up. A crisp sandwich might not be very refined, but it’s what I want. It’s the thing that’s going to make me feel better today. It’s also only available in the B & B restaurant kitchen, which is far enough away from the function room that I won’t be able to hear the line dancing crowd, the rhythmic pounding of their feet on the floor, the excitable woos, and that bloody song that I must have heard five times today already.

I’m getting a little better at wheeling myself around. I’ve never had much upper arm strength, but my dad reckons that will change after several weeks in this thing, and then even more on crutches, when I’m eventually allowed.

It’s a little tight, wheeling myself through the doorway into the kitchen, but staff will be between meals so I’m not likely to get in anyone’s way at least, and someone will have some time to very kindly make me some lunch.

‘Get out,’ Vince says the second he claps eyes on me.

I frown at him. Vince is a short, bald man, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in Gordon Ramsay style aggression.

‘It’s health and safety,’ he insists, wildly gesturing towards the door with his hands. ‘You’ll be under our feet.’

I glance over at Robbie, the new assistant chef. He’s a tall, skinny twenty-something with his longish brown hair pulled into a man bun on the back of his head. He rolls his eyes behind Vince’s back, which makes me feel a bit like I’m getting a telling-off.

‘I’m not sticking around,’ I quickly explain. ‘I’m just hungry and my parents are busy. I hoped I could order some lunch.’

Vince looks down at my leg sympathetically and visibly softens. ‘What can I get you?’ he says, crouching down in front of me.

‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ I reply gratefully. ‘I just want a salt and vinegar crisp sandwich.’

Vince’s eyes widen and he pulls himself to his feet. ‘Absolutely not,’ he insists. ‘I did not train in Paris, under Chef Grégoire Trémaux, so that I could spend my day making … crisp sandwiches.’

Just saying the words ‘crisp sandwich’ clearly leaves a horrible taste in his mouth.

‘But …’ I protest.

‘No, absolutely not, I will make you something that is worthy of my talent or I will let you starve,’ he insists.

Bloody hell, why do chefs have to be so dramatic?

‘I’ll make it,’ Robbie offers. ‘OK?’

‘Of course you will,’ Vince replies. ‘I’m going for a cigarette. There better not be so much as a sprinkling of salt on that worktop when I get back.’

On that note Vince storms off, leaving me alone with Robbie, my saviour, the man who is going to make all my sandwich dreams come true.

‘He seems in a good mood,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Has he won the lottery or something?’

Robbie just laughs. ‘It’s comforting, to see him talk that way to everyone,’ he tells me. ‘I thought it was just me he hated.’

‘How are you finding the job?’ I ask.

‘I love the work,’ he replies. ‘It’s a stressful environment though. Vince likes things the way he likes them, but sometimes he inexplicably likes them the other way. He doesn’t tell you though, you’re just supposed to know.’

I laugh. ‘Yeah, he’s definitely the most highly strung chef we’ve had,’ I reply.

‘You must be Lola then,’ he says as he gathers ingredients to fix my sandwich. ‘The bosses’ daughter.’

‘Is it the family resemblance?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s the broken leg,’ he replies. ‘I’d heard you were coming to stay for a bit. Until you’re …’ His voice trails off.

‘It’s OK,’ I assure him. ‘You can say “back on your feet”. Everyone else keeps saying it.’

I watch a wave of relaxation spread through Robbie’s body. Vince must have him so on edge. I can’t imagine trying to do my job under pressure like that, constantly walking on eggshells – I’d imagine because Vince has been chucking eggs around in temper.

‘I didn’t want to sound like I was taking the mick,’ he replies.

‘Are you a local?’ I ask.

‘I lived here until I was ten, then I moved away with my mum, then I wound up working in the kitchens on a few cruise ships.’

‘That sounds fancy,’ I say.

‘Believe me, it wasn’t,’ he replies. ‘It’s fancy for the guests, it’s Titanic third-class conditions for the staff.’

‘Is Vince better or worse?’ I ask.

‘That’s like asking me which one of my legs I’d rather break,’ he replies absent-mindedly. ‘Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t a joke either.’

‘It’s fine,’ I insist. ‘Or at least it is until you pass me that sandwich. Once I secure some food, I’m never speaking to you again.’

He laughs. Robbie cuts my sandwich diagonally before garnishing my plate with a small salad and a few extra crisps.

‘That looks amazing,’ I reply as he places it down in front of me.

It’s so great, to have my appetite back. It’s one of those things that you don’t realise you’ll miss until it’s gone. When I was trying to shave a couple of inches off my hips so I didn’t look like a disproportionally stuffed sausage in my bridesmaid dress, I would’ve probably given anything to curb my appetite and stop me craving Chinese food or red velvet cake or a simple crisp sandwich, but when my appetite was taken from me after my accident all I wanted to do was eat and I just couldn’t face it.

I give the sandwich an unladylike squash with my hands to make sure the crisps are as fragmented as possible, because that’s the way to do it. I squash it so hard I leave fingerprints in the soft white bread before lifting the almost paper-thin triangle to my mouth. I taste it and it’s everything I hoped it would be and more. I feel like I’m eating for the first time in years, even if it has only been a few days that I’ve been off my food.

‘Is that OK?’ he asks me.

‘It might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had,’ I reply, and while it might just be because I’m so happy to have my appetite back, I actually think I might be telling the truth. ‘So, what made you give up a life at sea to come here and be beaten and scrambled by old Vince?’

‘You know what Hope Island is like,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘It just drags you back. You know what they say, people go elsewhere, but they never leave. Their heart is here and at some point they have to come back for it. They can’t live without it.’

‘Well, I live in London,’ I point out. ‘And nothing is dragging me back here.’

Robbie raises his eyebrows and gives me a smug smile. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s getting at.

‘Oh, OK, I know what you’re thinking,’ I start, a little defensively. ‘I do realise that I am technically back living here now, but it’s only temporary, only while my leg is broken – only six weeks, tops.’

‘You think breaking your leg was an accident?’ he asks.

‘Are you suggesting …’ I pause, to gather my words. I’m about to say something so stupid I can hardly even bring myself to do it. ‘Are you suggesting that the island broke my leg? Of course it was an accident – I know it was an accident because it happened to me. I fell on the …’

As I notice Robbie’s serious expression melt into something more playful, I realise he’s winding me up.

‘Oh, hilarious,’ I reply. ‘Very good. If this sandwich wasn’t so good I’d have my parents fire you.’

I’m kidding, of course, but he doesn’t even entertain for a second that I might be serious.

‘Lola, there you are,’ my mum says as she bursts into the kitchen. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

‘Well, you know I couldn’t have got far,’ I remind her.

‘Well, your Auntie Val is here to see you and … What is that?’ she asks, nodding towards my sandwich.

‘It’s a sandwich, Mum,’ I reply.

‘Bread?’ she says.

‘Yes, that’s what sandwiches are made of,’ I confirm.

‘That’s not what you need,’ she insists.

‘You literally made me five slices of toast for my breakfast my first day here,’ I remind her.

I hear Robbie sniggering. He quickly tries to wipe the smile off his face. My mum is, after all, his boss.

‘By the time I removed the eyes and the mouth it was more like three slices,’ she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. ‘Where’s Vince? You could have had him make you anything, something helpful, like with carrots in.’

‘Carrots?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

‘Yes, isn’t carotene good for broken bones? I thought everyone knew that.’

‘I’ve never heard that,’ I tell her.

‘Well, what am I thinking of?’ she asks, a little frustrated.

‘Calcium?’

‘Anyway,’ she says, changing the subject as she grabs the handles of my wheelchair to take me into the other room. I quickly grab my sandwich, so that I can bring it with me. ‘Auntie Val is waiting.’

‘Thanks for the sandwich,’ I call to Robbie as my mum wheels me away.

‘You’re welcome,’ I just about hear him call back.

‘He’s single, you know,’ my mum whispers into my ear as she pushes my chair from behind.

I wasn’t expecting to hear her voice so close to my ear. It makes me jump.

‘Bloody hell, Mum,’ I say. ‘And anyway, I have a boyfriend.’

‘Oh, yes, the one I’m not allowed to meet,’ she pointlessly reminds me. ‘The one who you haven’t heard from.’

‘Erm, I have heard from him,’ I reply.

I’ve had a few texts from Patrick, which has made me feel a little better. He explained that he is really busy with work, and without me prompting him he mentioned that he’d hired a cleaner to take care of his flat while he’s away/busy/I’m not there to help out with jobs. I think being stuck up here is messing with my head and making me paranoid. Well, I hope that’s all it is. For someone who is supposed to be a relationship expert, I feel uncomfortably confused about my own right now.

One thing I’m absolutely not imagining though, are the photos of my friendship circle on Instagram, showing everyone out partying together, having a lovely time. So much for Gia insisting she wanted a few weeks of married bonding time with her husband or whatever line it was she fed me. She just didn’t want to look after me. I suppose at least Patrick has work, maybe, I don’t know. I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt but I keep feeling like maybe he doesn’t care as much as he should either.

One person who does care, more than I’d like, is my mum.

‘There’s my little showgirl,’ my auntie greets me.

Auntie Val has referred to me as showgirl for as long as I can remember, which I’m sure is a weird thing to call a child, but it’s an obvious riff on my name so I can let it slide.

‘Hi, Auntie Val,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m doing better than you, love,’ she points out. ‘Although your mum was just trying to convince me to join the biddies in the line dancing room.’

‘I just thought it might be a more age-appropriate activity,’ my mum says.

My Auntie Val is my mum’s younger sister, although not by much. She’s nearing the end of her fifties but you’d never guess if you spent a little time with her. She certainly doesn’t look or dress her age, with her peroxide blonde hair and her trendy high-street clothes that she travels all the way to Leeds to buy. Otherwise Val is in great shape (she loves her yoga) and I suppose without the stress of a family or a man in her life, she dedicates her time to looking after number one, which I really respect her for. Lots of people need an other half to feel whole, but not my Auntie Val. Ever since she and my Uncle Robert broke up, she’s either been happily single or just casually dating.

‘A more age-appropriate activity than what?’ I ask.

‘She’s …’ my mum lowers her voice. ‘She’s trying to boink the roofer.’

‘Boink the roofer,’ I can’t help but repeat back.

‘I am a vibrant woman in my sexual prime,’ Val insists. ‘And Ben is a single young man who just so happens to be doing my waterproofing.’

‘Is that what the kids are calling it?’ I joke.

‘I haven’t done it yet,’ Val insists. ‘But Auntie has needs, and things didn’t work out with Karl.’

‘The man who fitted her new kitchen,’ my mum tells me with an uncomfortable yet satisfied I-told-her-so kind of tone. ‘I did warn her not to boink where she eats.’

I’m not really sure whether my mum means she advised my auntie not to sleep with the people working on her house renovations, or whether she literally just warned her not to have sex in her kitchen. Either way I wish she would stop using the word boink.

‘If you’re looking for someone to spend some time with, why don’t you let me help you?’ I suggest. ‘I literally mean to spend time with though – I’m not helping my auntie find hook-ups.’

‘Really?’ she replies.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I say. ‘I’m bored, I’m stuck on my arse – and matchmaking is my job. You might not have been on Love Island but I’m sure the same rules apply for finding love for the general public.’

‘Oh, Lola, you always were my favourite niece,’ she insists, gently hugging me.

‘I’m your only niece,’ I point out.

Well, I am bored out of my mind, so I may as well help my auntie out. Just because my own love life seems like it’s a bit of a mess, doesn’t mean I’m not still amazing at putting other people together.

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