Lily Holmes is ready for a fresh start. And there’s no better place to begin again than the idyllic seaside town of Marram Bay.

All Lily wants to do is focus on making her new deli a success and ensuring her son’s happiness. Not the postcard creeping out of her handbag, and definitely not finding a new man in her life!

ddared to join them and she’s fighting a battle at every turn.

Perhaps with a little help from the gorgeous cider farmer next door, she may be able to win them over, but her past secrets threaten to ruin everything…

The brand new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from bestseller Portia Macintosh. Perfect for fans of Jo Watson and Tilly Tennant.

Also by

Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place

How Not to Be Starstruck

Bad Bridesmaid

Drive Me Crazy

Truth or Dare

It’s Not You, It’s Them

The Accidental Honeymoon

How Not to be a Bride

Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

Portia MacIntosh

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2018

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 © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008297718

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. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh

For my amazing family

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgements

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Well, that’s what the dog-eared copy of The Guide to New Beginnings currently poking out of my handbag on the front seat has been trying to convince me.

The last month has been a bit of a blur. It feels like just yesterday I was sitting at my desk, mindlessly yet happily going through the motions when one of my bosses perched on the corner of my desk, offered me a new job in a different location and, before I knew what I was doing, I said yes. A more exciting role in the company and a pay increase appealed, of course, but more than anything it was the chance take my 8-year-old son out of life in inner-city London and raise him in a cute little coastal village up north. I’ve been worrying about a few things recently and getting out of the city seemed like the best solution – the only solution, really.

I was born and raised in Croydon, only moving closer to central London as I got older. My son Frankie has never known anything other than life in central London, living in a small flat, catching the tube to school every day. This isn’t the life I want for him though. I want him to grow up in a small town, in a close community. Somewhere with scenery and fields with real grass, away from the pollution and commuting to school on busy trains, overflowing with unfriendly people.

I love my city and I’m proud of my roots, but after living here for all of my thirty-one years on this planet so far, now just feels like the right time to leave and try somewhere new.

I’ve always liked the idea of a fresh start. When I was much younger I would look forward to New Year’s Eve because to me, starting a new year felt like starting a new chapter of my life. I used to start each year with a brand-new notebook, a diary of my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I did that though, what with taking on more and more work as the years have ticked away – and being a single mum doesn’t exactly allow for much free time. That’s all going to change now though.

As well as the self-help book I’ve been reading to help me prepare, I also have a new Moleskine notebook ready for me to document my journey in just like I used to. I might not have my usual backdrop of fireworks and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to thrust me into my new beginning, but as the journey up north progresses, the concrete jungle we’re so used to has slowly but surely transitioned to fields of green and wide open space, and it is exactly the breath of fresh air I’ve been gasping for.

I’m too busy taking in the scenery to remember to change gear at a junction so the car stalls, giving us a jolt strong enough to wake Frankie up.

‘Mum,’ he whines sleepily.

I glance at him in my rear-view mirror and watch him rub his tired eyes.

‘Sorry, kiddo,’ I say. ‘Your mum isn’t used to driving a manual.’

Frankie doesn’t need me to tell him that; this isn’t the first time I’ve messed up with the gears today. Well, living in the city centre, I’ve never needed a car, so I haven’t driven one in years. The only car I have driven occasionally – my mum’s – is an automatic. Still, it was so nice of my bosses to give me a company branded VW Beetle to drive up here in and use as a run-around, even if it is an offensive shade of lime green. They’ve also rented us a cottage that looked positively picturesque in the photos they showed me. It feels weird, moving here without having visited, but everything happened so quickly. I’m sure there was time to do things properly, to come and scope the place out and make sure it was everything I hoped it would be, but I just really wanted to get out of town so that Frankie could start the new school year with everyone else – well, that’s what I told them, at least.

‘Are we there yet?’ Frankie asks for the first time. I’m proud of him, for being so well behaved. Most kids would go bananas during a long car journey but my boy has only started to grow impatient in the last thirty minutes.

‘We are,’ I tell him excitedly, although I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t seem as pumped as I am. ‘You excited?’

‘I guess,’ he replies. ‘It’s gonna be weird.’

‘It’s gonna be amazing,’ I remind him. ‘I know you’ll miss your school and your friends, but you’re going to make new friends, you’re going to go to a much better school. We’re going to live in a big house and there will be fields where you can play, and we can walk to the beach – every day, if you’d like.’

‘There’s no McDonald’s,’ he tells me in a smart tone, as though he’s sure I already knew that. In truth, I did already know that there wasn’t going to be a McDonald’s nearby, and that we were going to have to travel thirty miles to get my son a fix of his favourite chicken nuggets. Apparently, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t make them as ‘good’ as McDonald’s can.

‘There is a McDonald’s just a short drive away,’ I tell him. It might not be the same as London, where there’s a Maccies on every corner, but it’s going to be fine. ‘You’re going to have everything you had in London, plus more.’

‘Sam said he’s been before to visit his nan and granddad, and he said it was boring,’ Frankie informs me.

‘Where?’ I ask curiously, although I’m pretty sure his fourth favourite friend from school isn’t the right person to be taking this kind of advice from.

‘The north,’ he replies.

I can’t help but laugh.

‘The north is pretty big, kiddo. And maybe it was boring because he was visiting his grandparents’ house – grandparents are boring.’

‘Viv isn’t boring,’ Frankie insists.

‘No, she certainly isn’t,’ I reply.

My mum, Vivien, isn’t at all grandma-ish – she won’t even let Frankie call her Gran, she says she looks too young, and, in her defence, she does. She’s always been conscious of showing her age, insisting I call her Viv instead of Mum. She puts her all into being a cool grandparent and, to be fair, she’s great at it. She was a cool mum too, much to my embarrassment. It’s going to be weird, not being just a short train ride away from her.

After driving through nothing but green fields and dry stone walls for a while, Marram Bay is suddenly visible in the distance.

There are two ways we can go; one of them seems the right way, but the satnav insists we go the other, so I stick to what the map tells me and head for the town centre.

‘We’re here, kiddo,’ I announce.

‘It looks boring,’ Frankie says with a sigh.

At the start of the trip he seemed excited. In fact, I think we spent the first hour of the journey singing along to the radio.

To try and distract my son, I flick the radio back on.

‘…and I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear that Rufus the Labrador is safely back at home now. And that completes today’s breaking news,’ a voice on the radio says. I make eye contact with Frankie in my rear-view mirror. He looks just as confused as I do.

‘We’ll be finishing the show earlier today, to join in with the festivities on the front. Tune in tomorrow to hear all about it. Ta-ra.’

‘So I’m guessing that’s the local radio station,’ I laugh. ‘Wanna go check out the festivities?’

Frankie sighs.

‘OK.’

Marram Bay is such a beautiful town. It’s small – even smaller than I expected. The town is cute, like something fresh out of a romantic movie – with ivy creeping up the walls and around the sweet little windows of the houses sitting at the top of perfectly tended gardens. Few houses look the same here, which I like. Everywhere has so much individuality and character.

It takes us no time to go from green, open space, to farmhouses, to cottages, and finally to the seafront with its cute, quirky little shops.

‘Erm…’ I can’t help but say, catching sight of the bizarre festivities on the seafront.

‘Where are we?’ Frankie asks.

‘When are we?’ I laugh to myself.

Upon closer inspection the town doesn’t just look old-fashioned – it looks like the setting for a Second World War book. The windows are covered with white tape, everyone is dressed in out-of-date clothing and the place is overrun with soldiers and army vehicles.

As we crawl along the road running alongside the seafront, we catch the attention of a woman in her late thirties. She’s wearing a blue and white polka dot tea dress teamed with navy gloves, complemented by her brown hair that is neatly pinned into victory rolls. I stop the car at the side of the road, just as our eyes meet.

‘Are we in the past?’ Frankie asks.

Of course, I know that we’re not – that we couldn’t possibly be, unless we’ve wandered into some sort of Goodnight Sweetheart portal – but I don’t really have an answer for him.

I smile at the pinup girl at the side of the road, only for her to cock her head in puzzlement. Why is she confused? I’m the one suddenly in the past. She calls over her friends – a land girl and an apparent member of the WRAF – who join her in staring over at us, chatting amongst themselves.

‘Maybe we should go,’ I say, but as I go to drive away, I – of course – stall my car again. Come to think of it, the lime-green, company-branded Beetle is probably the reason everyone is staring at us.

After another judder, it occurs to me that my loud (both in volume and colour), German car is probably ruining the war-era aesthetic of the festivities.

‘Ship, ship, ship,’ I say repeatedly, until I finally get the car moving and drive off.

‘Swears!’ Frankie chastises me.

‘I said “ship”,’ I point out. ‘Remind me who is the kid and who is the mum?’

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replies.

Frankie is smart for an 8-year-old, however, as a by-product of this intellect, he thinks he is much smarter than he is. I know that I should probably be the one keeping Frankie in check but he’s no bother at all…which is probably why he ends up keeping me in check instead.

‘Let’s go see the house,’ I say cheerily. ‘We’ll meet the locals some other time.’

Like, I don’t know, maybe this decade instead.

After spending the past few weeks – and a chunk of our journey here – trying to convince my son that we would be moving somewhere wonderful, I’ve driven him straight into some kind of weird place that seems to be literally stuck in the past. But in two minutes we’ll be at the beautifully titled Apple Blossom Cottage.

I glance quickly between my satnav and the road until we approach our destination. I spot the cottage of my dreams, hiding away behind a wall of leafy trees. Through the green leaves, the stone bungalow almost looks like part of the landscape. I’m so used to living in London, surrounded by either ugly old office blocks or new, ultra-modern, sky-grazing skyscrapers. Outside the garden walls, Apple Blossom Cottage is enclosed by nothing but fields – this change of scenery is exactly what I need.

It’s a small, but gorgeous little cottage, just perfect for the two of us. The stone walls are covered with all different kinds of climbing plants, from ivy to roses, giving it a uniquely colourful beauty that I haven’t seen before. The white-framed windows are small, peeping out from behind the plants. The frames look like perhaps they need replacing – not that I’m an expert, they just look a little tired. Then again, I imagine that’s what you’d think if you looked at me at the moment, courtesy of the bout of stress I’m suffering. I’m hoping that as soon as we get our things moved in, I can finally let go of my stress and relax into country life.

The place reminds me so much of a smaller version of Kate Winslet’s cottage from The Holiday (only with a far superior garden), and while I’d always thought of myself as more of a Cameron Diaz type, I feel like this is the place for me.

I step out of the car and take a photo on my phone. I want to remember my first glimpse of our new home for the rest of my life. I don’t just feel like I’ve arrived – I’ve arrived. I’m here, outside this perfect house, in a gorgeous small coastal town, about to start my dream job with my healthy, intelligent son by my side. Maybe it is possible to have it all…at least, that’s what How to Have It All, another of my hastily bought self-help books, has been trying to tell me. Packing up and starting your life again is a big deal, so I wanted to do some reading, make sure I was prepared for anything and everything. This job is so important to me, but Frankie is even more important. I just want to be a good mum – preferably one of those ones you see on Instagram with an adorable baby in one arm, and a wooden spoon in the other, standing in their immaculate kitchen (bigger than all the rooms in my London flat added together), posing in a way that makes them look like a Victoria’s Secret model.

My proportions are more Victoria sponge cake, than Victoria’s Secret model. Sure, we’re a society who celebrates the ‘dad bod’ (Leonardo DiCaprio is like a fine wine, only growing more devastatingly gorgeous by the moment) but they won’t be putting my ‘mum bod’ on any catwalks in barely there underwear anytime soon. But each stretchmark and varicose vein maps the journey I went on to come back with my son, and I’d take that over a Victoria’s Secret model body any day – even if it would significantly increase my chances with the aforementioned Mr DiCaprio.

I chase my son, who is currently part-boy, part-aeroplane, in the back garden.

‘Wow.’ My jaw drops.

It is suddenly apparent where Apple Blossom Cottage gets its name from: the army of apple trees surrounding the garden, and the apple blossom plants scattered amongst the greenery and brightly coloured flowers, that I’m not even going to pretend I can identify. I don’t know much about apple trees, but I’m guessing early September is when these beauties are at their best, because there are apples everywhere.

Frankie runs over to me with an apple in each hand.

‘Can we eat them?’ he asks.

‘We have to wash them first, but yes,’ I reply, delighted that my chicken nugget-craving son is suddenly thrilled at the thought of an endless supply of apples. ‘We could even bake an apple pie, would you like that?’

Frankie nods.

‘Better than the ones at McDonald’s,’ I tell him, instantly regretting mentioning the ‘M’ word, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Baking is not something that I’m good at, but I’m sure it still counts if we buy readymade pastry and simply assemble the pie, right?

I stroll over to the large pond at the end of the garden and lean over, looking at my reflection in the water. Maybe I can earn strong, single-woman, pie-baking, yummy-mummy status here – wouldn’t that be nice?

‘Can I unlock the door?’ Frankie asks excitedly.

‘Carefully,’ I tell him, handing him the keys from my bag. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

Inside my bag, in the hidden pocket usually reserved for ‘women’s things’ and the rape alarm I always felt an uneasy need to keep on me at all times in central London, the corner of a postcard pokes out. I quickly push it back inside and zip it up. I’ll worry about that later.

Frankie flies off towards the front door excitedly as I try to keep up with him in my heels. I’m just walking around the corner when I hear his voice.

‘Er…Mum,’ he shouts, and I don’t like the sound of it at all.

Chapter 2

When my bosses showed me photos of Apple Blossom Cottage, I was so in awe of its beautiful exterior and ready for my fresh start that it didn’t even occur to me to ask for photos of the inside. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine my bosses saw photos of the interior either, because I feel like I’ve just walked into a nightmare, and there’s no way my bosses would knowingly send me to this.

‘Where’s all the stuff?’ Frankie asks.

‘I was just wondering that,’ I reply, strolling around, taking in my surroundings.

An overly minimalist kitchen (what you’d call it if you were being kind) sits at the back of an open-plan living/dining area.

The kitchen boasts a worktop, a small fridge freezer and what I’d guess is a gas cooker and oven. There’s a dining table with exactly three chairs, all of which have seen better days, and a living area that consists of a truly Eighties-style plush, grey three-seater sofa with a wood-and-brass trim, sitting across from a retro looking wooden TV cabinet (TV not included).

To the left are three doors, which I’m guessing are the two bedrooms and the bathroom – please, God, let one of the rooms be a bathroom. I don’t think I noticed an outhouse in the garden, but I don’t think I’d be at all surprised to learn the place didn’t have any plumbing. Thankfully, there is one.

A quick scout of all rooms confirms they are as minimal as the rest of the place but, worst of all, everything is so dusty. If this were an Airbnb rental, they would surely be getting an overly generous one-star rating from me – probably from Frankie too, who is currently coming down from his garden high as he tries to wrap his head around the indoor TV aerial. He extends the silver rods one at a time before quickly and carefully putting it down, just in case it’s something scary.

I cast my mind back to what Eric, one of my bosses, told me about the cottage. He said it was an ex holiday home, and that it was furnished. I suppose it is furnished, technically, but I didn’t expect something so retro.

Wow, did I just get catfished by a house? Now that I think about it, despite the cute, rural look of the outside of the cottage, perhaps the ivy might be the only thing holding the place together. This is a new low for me. I can’t wait to write this in my new diary.

‘This place sucks,’ Frankie says frankly.

Any other day, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but my fresh-start enthusiasm is still surging through my veins. ‘It’s all easily fixable, kiddo. We’ll fill it with our own things, we’ll clean the place up, we’ll buy the things we don’t have. It’s going to be great. This way, we get to put even more of our own spin on the place and really make it our own.’

Our moving van won’t be here until tomorrow, so for now we only have the essentials with us. But once we have all our own things, I’m sure we can make this place feel just like home.

Frankie pulls a face. I don’t think he’s buying it. I believe what I’m saying though. I’ll bring our stuff in, we can go out for some food, I’ll buy some cleaning products and everything will be great. I just need to keep telling myself that. Everything will be great.

Chapter 3

I knew that Marram Bay was small, but it’s only now that I’m here, in it, that I can feel just how small it is.

I felt that, given my little scene earlier, it was best we stay away from, well, whatever it was that was going down on the seafront. But, it turns out the main street is on the seafront, so we’re not having much luck finding somewhere to get dinner further inland. As you travel into Marram Bay, first you pass the farms, then you enter the residential area. If you keep going you’ll wind up in the touristy bit, where the seafront is, but trying to find somewhere to eat that isn’t in the heart of the town is proving difficult.

It seemed like Clara’s, a little café sitting between a row of cottages and a small park in the residential area, might be our saviour, but despite their opening hours including Sunday afternoons, the door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside.

‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Frankie says, tugging on the bottom of my jacket as I peer through the glass door, my face pressed as close to the glass as I can get it.

‘Can I help you?’ a man’s voice asks from behind us.

I turn around quickly to see a couple, maybe in their sixties, standing at the gate, at the bottom of the café’s little front garden. We’re on the main road into town but I didn’t hear them coming, which means they must have walked here – something that becomes more apparent when I realise the man is struggling to catch his breath. The man is wearing some kind of soldier outfit, just like I saw many people at the seafront wearing, and the woman is wearing a red dress teamed with red pumps, a white cardigan and a fox fur scarf that I so hope isn’t real. As they walk up the path I get a better look at the fox, which still has its face, its tail – even its claws. It’s not just an eerie sight, seeing its little face upsets me and makes me uncomfortable. The smiling faces of the couple make me feel more at ease.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally finding the words. ‘We just moved here and we were looking for somewhere to eat.’

‘We’re closed today,’ the man informs us. ‘Been down at the Forties Weekend.’

‘Oh, the Forties Weekend,’ I echo. ‘We wondered what was going on, didn’t we, kiddo?’

Frankie clings to my leg, silently.

‘Yeah, once a year we all get dressed up in our Forties best and we have a big celebration. We remember the war, raise money for charity – and, well, everyone goes so no point opening up today.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you.’

I usher Frankie along the path a little, only for the lady to gently place her hand on my forearm. I turn to face her, making eye contact with her fox for a moment, before shifting my glance to her eyes.

‘Don’t worry, my love, it’s not real. I got it from a fancy dress shop,’ she explains with a warm smile. ‘Come in, we can open up for Marram Bay’s newest family.’

‘Oh, no, please,’ I insist.

‘Mum,’ Frankie whispers. ‘I’m hungry.’

The lady smiles at me and there’s this warmth in her eyes…before I have a chance to think too much about it, I accept their generous offer.

Inside, Clara’s is exactly as you’d expect a country café to be. It’s cosy and kitsch, with no two pieces of crockery, cutlery, furniture of soft furnishings the same – even the windows have different curtains around them.

As the man ushers us towards one of the wooden tables, the woman fetches some menus and places them down in front of us.

‘I’m Clara,’ she says. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’

Henry gives us a nod as he takes a seat at the table next to us. He extends one leg out straight, which reminds me that I noticed he had a limp.

‘I’m Lily,’ I say. ‘And this is my son, Frankie. It’s so nice to meet you both.’

I glance over the menu.

‘So what can I get you?’ Clara asks as she removes her fox and fastens her apron.

‘What’s your poison, lad?’ Henry asks Frankie, lightly bumping his shoulder with a fist.

Frankie stares at me.

‘He’s asking what you want to drink,’ I assure him with a smile. ‘Juice?’

He nods. I reach across the table and brush his wild, curly brown hair away from his eyes. I am quite pale, with natural golden blonde hair – not that you can tell, because I have peroxide highlights – and green eyes, but Frankie takes after his dad. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slight natural tan. He’s so cute, with his little button nose and his cheeky little dimples. I still can’t believe I made him.

‘And to eat?’ Clara asks.

‘I only like McNuggets,’ Frankie informs them.

‘Is that right?’ Henry replies. ‘What if I told you that Clara makes chicken nuggets even better than McDonald’s, would you try them?’

‘Oh, no, please, we’ll just have sandwiches, don’t start cooking,’ I insist, but Clara is having none of it.

‘Nonsense,’ she replies with a bat of her hand. ‘Chicken nuggets for the boy, what about for Mum?’

‘Scrambled eggs on toast would be great, please,’ I reply, ordering from their all-day brunch menu.

‘Coming right up,’ she replies as she trots off to the kitchen in her kitten heels. ‘Talk amongst yourself, I’ll be able to chat from the kitchen.’

Clara disappears through a multi-coloured strip curtain before remerging behind a serving hatch.

‘Londoners?’ Henry asks.

‘Guilty,’ I reply with an awkward smile.

‘And you say you’ve just moved here?’ Clara quizzes.

‘Yes,’ I say. I feel like I’m being grilled, but I have nothing to hide. ‘We’re renting Apple Blossom Cottage.’

‘Oh, lovely place,’ she replies. ‘Just stunning.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, but my little white lie prickles my throat. I cough to clear it.

‘You not like it?’ Henry asks.

‘It’s so beautiful from the outside – Frankie has never seen anything like it…the inside is just a little sparse and it needs a good spring clean,’ I explain. ‘And there’s not really too much in it.’

‘It was the Nicholsons’ holiday home – they had it for years, but since it’s just been sat empty. I suspect they took all their mod cons with them.’

‘It seems that way,’ I reply.

Henry picks up a newspaper and begins to flick through the pages. The East Coast Chronicle looks like an interesting read. The front cover is an appeal for help to find Rufus the chocolate Labrador, who never came home after taking himself for his usual walk to the seafront. I’m guessing this is the dog we heard all about on the radio and it warms my heart to know that he’s back home safe. It also amuses me to see that this is front-page news here, rather than yet another story about gangs or tube strikes – further proof, if it were needed, that moving here was a great decision.

‘Well, I’m sure we can survive without a TV tonight.’ I look at Frankie, who swallows hard. I don’t think he’s convinced, but I’m sure he can go a night without playing Nintendo. ‘We definitely need to clean though, it’s far too dusty to sleep in. Is there a Co-op or a Tesco Express or something nearby?’

Henry scoffs.

‘We have a local shop but they’ll be closed,’ he replies.

‘Oh,’ I say, wondering if I can get the job done with hand sanitiser and toilet roll.

‘I can give you some cleaning products,’ Clara says as she places my food down in front of me. ‘Just a few more minutes for yours, my love.’

Frankie smiles politely. I’m proud of him for being a sweet kid with such great manners, but he’s got that unfiltered honesty that all kids have, and I’m worried about how he’s going to react to the not-McChicken nuggets that Clara is making him. The last time I tried to make him some – promising him they would be just as good – he told me they tasted like poison.

‘You’ve been so kind to us already,’ I insist, taken aback by the kindness these complete strangers are showing us. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘We’re neighbours now, think nothing of this,’ Clara says as she places Frankie’s dinner in front of him. ‘There you go, my love. My famous chicken nuggets.’

Frankie glances down at the plate of chicken nuggets, proper, thick-cut chips, peas and a large dollop of ketchup. Frankie loves ketchup, but – like most kids – he hates peas.

I raise my eyebrows at him, silently communicating for him to say thank you.

‘Thank you,’ he chimes politely.

‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, ruffling his hair. ‘I’ll go get you some drinks.’

With Clara in the kitchen and Henry distracted by his paper, I lean over to my son and whisper into his ear: ‘If you try it – or at least pretend you’re eating it – I’ll buy you a TV for your room.’

I think every good mum has bribed her child at some point. I know that I probably shouldn’t, but Clara and Henry have been so good to us, I don’t want to offend them.

Frankie nods, sighs and picks up his cutlery.

I finally tuck into my own food which is not only much needed after a long day, but absolutely delicious.

Clara places two glasses of apple juice down in front of us.

‘They’re from local trees,’ she tells us. ‘But let me know if you want anything else, or a nice cup of tea.’

‘Again – thank you so much,’ I say, starting to sound like a broken record, but I really can’t thank them enough.

I watch Frankie theatrically pretend to eat his food – it’s kind of cute – until he accidentally drops his knife, which makes a loud noise on the floor.

‘Not to worry,’ Henry says, pulling himself to his feet. He grabs a clean knife from another table, hobbles over to Frankie and begins to cut his food (which up until now had only been pushed around his plate) for him.

‘Try this,’ he says, stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork, offering it to Frankie.

Frankie looks over at me. I purse my lips and plead at him with my eyes once more.

I watch as my son takes the chicken, chews it and swallows with a much more convincing enthusiasm than before.

‘Try it with the peas, it tastes much better,’ Henry insists, stabbing another piece, this time making sure to get some peas with it.

Frankie looks back over at me, but he knows what he needs to do. With Nintendo on his mind, he takes the food down in one bite.

‘Good lad,’ Henry says, handing Frankie the cutlery back. As he does so, I notice Frankie staring at Henry’s hand. Upon closer inspection, I realise that he’s quite badly scarred from something.

Henry notices Frankie staring.

‘I got blown up,’ he tells him, before turning to me. ‘Falklands.’

As Henry hobbles past me he places a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear: ‘I have kids who didn’t used to eat their greens either.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Just heading to the little boys’ room.’

Clara, still wearing her Forties outfit under her apron, places a bag of cleaning supplies down next to me before taking a seat at the table next to us. She cradles her cup of tea in her hand as she chats.

‘Just the two of you moved here?’ she asks. She sounds friendly enough, but you’d be amazed at the variety of easy-to-read physical reactions you get from people when they find out you’re a 31-year-old single mum.

First there’s the unabashed judgemental response. You can practically see the mental mathematics going on behind their eyes, as they try and work out if a 31-year-old has an 8-year-old, how old was she when she irresponsibly got knocked up? For some it’s done with the ease of Will Hunting whereas you can see others itching to use their fingers. Twenty-two – that’s not so bad, is it? I see them wonder. These people will almost always decide that, yes, it probably is bad. Some people just think that kids should be born into loving, conventional family units and there’s nothing you can say that will change their minds.

Next up are the people who feel sorry for me, who think about how awful it must have been for me to find myself pregnant and alone, just 22 years old with my entire life ahead of me. You see their pity in turn of their mouth and the weight of their eyelids, and while it comes from a good place, it never makes me feel good.

Worst of all though, of the varying reactions to my ‘situation’ I’ve endured over the years, it’s the ones I receive from single men that bother me the most, because they don’t judge me, nor do they feel sorry for me. Instead they look at things from an entirely selfish point of view, quickly writing me off as ‘damaged goods’ because while I’m sure there are men out there who have taken, or would take on another man’s child, none of them have been any of the (four) men I have been on dates with since Frankie was born.

‘Yep, just us,’ I reply. ‘Always has been.’

I look over at my son fondly, only to see him wolfing down his food.

‘Frankie,’ I squeak. ‘Are you enjoying that?’

‘Yes,’ he says almost reluctantly, looking at his plate as he responds. He’s always maintained that he would never find a chicken nugget to rival his beloved McDonald’s, but he has insisted even harder that he would never enjoy a vegetable of any description – obviously, excluding chips and the occasional roast potato. I’ve tried covering his broccoli in cheese, hiding carrots in his pasta sauce, and even roasting parsnips and trying to convince him they were chips, but my tricks have always failed me. And yet here he is, consciously and contently eating peas.

‘He doesn’t usually like vegetables,’ I tell Clara, unable to hide my happiness.

‘I cook them with bacon and a bit of honey,’ she explains. ‘I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love my peas.’

‘Well you’ve definitely got yourself some new, regular customers,’ I laugh.

‘You’re not customers today,’ she says. ‘Consider this our “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift to you.’

‘Clara, you’ve done so much for us!’

‘You’re our neighbour now,’ she points out. ‘Think nothing of it.’

I pick up my apple juice and take a sip – it’s delicious. I can’t wait to get to see what I can do with the ones in my garden…not that I’m an especially good cook. I’m just excited to try. Things maybe have got off to a bumpy start but I really do feel like we’re going to be happy here.

‘So, what brings you here then?’ Clara asks. ‘Just a fresh start?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, although that’s not strictly true.

Nervously, I take a long drink from my glass and, thankfully, by the time I come out of hiding from behind my apple juice, Clara has shifted her attention to Frankie, asking him questions about his hobbies.

Now isn’t the time to tell a woman I’ve just met about what I’m hiding from.

Chapter 4

I run a hand over the perfectly clean kitchen worktop, marvelling at my own handiwork. I’ve never really been a Good Housekeeping kind of woman. My cooking skills are pretty basic, my cleaning abilities are adequate and as for all the helpful extras, like being able to sew – well, I’ve never really had time for that.

This kitchen though, it’s spotless. From the floor, to the surfaces, to the windows (which, truth be told, I don’t even remember cleaning), everything looks great.

What really catches my attention though, is the man in the back garden. I didn’t know this place had a gardener, but I suppose it makes sense, with all the beautiful plants, the neatly trimmed lawns and the pond to take care of.

The shirtless gardener is reaching up and plucking apples from the tree. I can’t help but stare at his bulging biceps, watching them flex as he extends his arm to grab an apple, before tossing it into the basket on the ground.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped outside the backdoor and called out to him.

‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.

The man turns around and if he wasn’t picking apples in my back garden, in the arse-end of nowhere, I would swear it was Daniel Craig, with his chiselled good looks, his blond hair and his buff Bond-worthy body.

The man doesn’t reply. He reaches up, plucks a bright red apple from the tree and tosses it over to me, which I catch with an unusual ease. I’m not usually this coordinated…or confident, for that matter.

I raise the apple to my mouth to take a bite, stopping just before it touches my lips. Bizarrely, it doesn’t smell like I was expecting it to; in fact, it smells like lemons. I take another big whiff, only to wake up suddenly, in my new bed, with my Marigold-clad hands wrapped around a can of lemon Pledge. So not only did I fall asleep cleaning, but I dreamt the whole sexy gardener thing! I suppose it all makes sense now. I don’t approach men or have a perfectly tidy kitchen, and, now that I think about it, Daniel Craig trimming my bushes in his iconic blue swimming trunks doesn’t sound all that realistic.

Disappointed, I place the Pledge and the gloves down on my (half-polished) bedside table and stretch out my neck and my back before unplugging my phone. I’m just about to mindlessly scroll social networks for a few minutes, like I do every morning, when I see the time. Shit! I’ve overslept! And not only am I going to be late for my first day on the job, but Frankie is going to be late for his first day of school.

I dash to the kitchen and, although it is clean, it’s not as sparkling as it was in my dream and stupidly I can’t help but feel a little disheartened. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with milk from the fridge before charging into Frankie’s room. He’s sleeping so peacefully, I almost don’t want to wake him up. I hope it’s because the bed is comfortable and not because I blitzed his room with too many cleaning products before I put him to bed last night.

‘Wake up, kiddo, we’re late,’ I babble as I place the milk down next to him. ‘Drink milk, brush teeth, put clothes on and meet me in the kitchen.’

‘What?’ Frankie asks, rubbing his eyes.

‘We’re going to be late,’ I tell him. ‘Quick, quick.’

‘Fine,’ he says, sounding a little too much like a moody teenager for my liking.

I dash back into the kitchen, grab his lunchbox and quickly fill it with a ham and cheese bagel, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and one of those little Freddo chocolate bars – his favourite three things, to make him feel as comfortable as possible on his first day. Frankie has never been through anything like this before and I can tell he’s nervous because he’s been asking me a lot of questions about his new school since he found out he was going there.

Next, I dash into my bedroom, hurry off yesterday’s clothes and quickly wipe off as much of yesterday’s make-up as I need to, before carefully applying copious amounts of all the things that make me look awake and alive. Then I hop into the white shirt and the black pencil skirt that I’m so glad I set out ready for myself last night, step into a pair of heels and hurry on some accessories before heading back to the kitchen, where a sleepy-looking Frankie is waiting.

‘Aw, look at you,’ I can’t help but pause to say. ‘But where’s your tie?’

‘I don’t wanna wear it, Mum,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t have to wear a tie at my old school.’

‘Kiddo, they didn’t care if you wore trousers at your last school – remember that day Sam turned up in his Minion swimming shorts?’

‘Yeah,’ Frankie cracks up. ‘That was funny.’

‘Bring me your tie, I’ll fasten it for you,’ I tell him.

My son reluctantly does as he is told.

‘OK, so we just wrap this bit around a couple of times, pull it through and…there we go. My God, you look cute.’

‘I look stupid,’ he corrects me.

‘Stand by the fireplace, I want to take your picture,’ I insist.

‘Mum,’ he whines.

‘Please?’

Oh God, I’m that mum.

Frankie, knowing that sometimes it’s better to just do as I ask than to fight it, slowly walks over to the fireplace and stands, sort of slumped, with a glum look on his face.

‘Smile.’

Frankie forces a big, dumb smile.

‘When you turn 21 I’m going to put this picture on your birthday cake, and you’ll regret pulling that face,’ I laugh as I look at it on my phone.

I dash back to the kitchen and grab my handbag, Frankie’s lunchbox and a variety pack-sized box of Frosties before hurrying for the door. I hand Frankie the lunchbox and the Frosties.

‘Go wait by the car, I’ll just lock the door,’ I instruct.

I pause for a split second before I lock up. I’m pretty sure everything is turned off that should be turned off, and everything that should be locked is locked. Back home, I had my morning routine down. In fact, I just did most stuff on autopilot, like locking doors and turning appliances off, but here everything is strange and new. Still, we weren’t up long enough to turn things on, so I’m sure everything is fine.

I fasten Frankie into the back of the car, climb into the front seat and set the destination on my phone. Acorn School isn’t too far away but I don’t know the area yet, so better to be sure of where we’re going than to explore and hope we find it.

Marram Bay is a strange combination of coastal town and countryside. The seafront is the touristy part, with the pretty views and the cute little shops. Then, as you travel further inland, you approach the homes where the locals live. Finally, you reach the part of Marram Bay that is mostly farmland and fields, with the occasional cottage or school dotted in the middle of nowhere.

At the end of the road where our cottage sits, is a huge, contemporary house. I glance at the sign outside which reads ‘Westwood Farm’, though it doesn’t look much like any farm I’ve ever seen.

‘Whoa,’ Frankie says. ‘That’s a cool house.’

‘It is,’ I reply, a pinch of salt in my words, given our current living situation. Obviously the closest thing we’ve got to a next-door neighbour lives in a house that was most likely on Grand Designs. ‘We can’t stop and stare though, kiddo, we’re late. Make sure you eat your breakfast.’

‘Yes, crisps,’ he chirps.

‘Oi, no, eat your cereal, not your lunch,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Did you brush your teeth?’

‘Oops,’ Frankie says. I can’t really blame him today, we were running so late. Running my tongue across my own teeth reminds me that brushing my teeth was something I forgot to do too.

I stop the car and glance around, looking for something that isn’t a field.

‘Oh, there we go,’ I say, pointing ahead.

Acorn School is an old Victorian stone building with a slate roof and sash windows. It even has a little tower – I’ll bet this was some house back in the day. But while it has the grandeur and proportions of an amazing Victorian era house, as far as schools go it’s positively tiny. Acorn School is the only school for kids Frankie’s age for miles, but it didn’t bother me too much when I enrolled him because the school has a glowing track record and rave reviews. I suppose, because it’s so small, there are much fewer students and therefore each kid can get much more attention and support.

I hurry Frankie out of the car, through the heavy metal gate and up the stone steps into the playground.

‘This way,’ I instruct, pointing towards the main door.

We must be extremely late, because there’s no sign of any kids – or even any parents on their way out.

There is no way I could have known the large wooden door led straight into their (little) main hall, and that assembly would be well underway. No more than forty kids are sitting on the floor, singing along to ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, which is being played on a piano at the front of the room by a person who is far too short for me to see over the top of the instrument. Leading the assembly is a woman, maybe in her fifties, conducting the children with her hands. She’s quite tall, and on the broad side, which makes her appear intimidatingly large next to the little kids, although I imagine if I were to stand alongside her in my four-inch heels, she probably wouldn’t seem like such a giant. She’s kind of old-fashioned, and a little on the drab side, wearing navy blue trousers, a white shirt and a navy Aran cardigan. She has a pair of glasses hanging around her neck on a chain – something I didn’t realise people did in real life, I assumed this was a look reserved for librarians in movies. She has an especially short auburn bob, just skimming her ears, which only adds to her stern, harsh appearance.

As she glances over at us, it confirms one thing, that no matter how old I get, I will always recognise one look: the look from a teacher that lets you know you’re in trouble.

As we wait for the song to end, I place an arm around Frankie protectively – or maybe I’m just hoping she’ll go easier on me if I use my child as a shield. What is it about teachers and the slightly terrifying air of authority they give off? I can feel it from across the room.

‘Well, children, first of all Ms Berry is going to talk to you about all the wonderful things we have in store for you this term. I need to go and welcome our new – slightly late – pupil,’ the teacher says, gesturing towards us.

Everyone turns around to look at us so I give an awkward wave.

‘Miss Holmes, I presume,’ she says as she approaches us.

‘Hello, yes, I’m so sorry we’re late,’ I babble as she ushers us into a classroom. ‘We only arrived yesterday and we had a late night sorting the cottage out, didn’t we?’

I hear a weird crunching sound, which I quickly realise is coming from my son, who is finally eating his Frosties. I die inside.

‘Hello, Frankie,’ the teacher says, crouching down next in front of him. ‘My name is Mrs Snowball, I’m the headteacher here at Acorn School. I’m also going to be your teacher.’

Mrs Snowball? Really? I couldn’t think of a more cutesy name for a teacher if I tried.

Frankie nods in acknowledgement as he crunches his dry cereal.

‘Is that your breakfast?’ she asks him, returning to my level without waiting for an answer. ‘Is that his breakfast?’

‘Yes, we were in such a hurry this morning,’ I explain. ‘He did have the milk before we left.’

Mrs Snowball scrunches up her face.

‘I’ll get you some nice fruit once Mum has gone,’ she tells Frankie.

Good luck with that, darling.

‘I can’t apologise enough for being late,’ I say again, not that I think it’s doing me much good.

‘Well, I was hoping to show you both around, but I’m not sure there’s time now,’ Mrs Snowball says. ‘How about I go get Frankie a real breakfast and show him the ropes. And then, when you come to collect him after school, I’ll show you around.’

‘OK, sure,’ I reply. ‘That OK, kiddo?’

‘Come on now, Mum, he’s not a baby. You’re fine, aren’t you, Frankie? What’s Frankie short for?’ she asks me.

‘Probably because he’s only 8,’ I quip, laughing at my own joke, but I’m getting nothing from my audience. Mrs Snowball clearly has a different sense of humour to me, I must remember that when I do what I always do and fill awkward encounters with terrible gags.

‘I meant his name,’ she says, not at all amused by me.

‘Sorry, just a joke. Frankie is his name.’

‘Exotic,’ she replies.

‘Well, be a good boy,’ I say, because I feel like that’s a parent-y thing to say. ‘And you know that if you need me, Mrs Snowball has my number.’

‘He’s not going to need you,’ she laughs, ushering Frankie away from me. ‘We’ll see you at three.’

Back in my car, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror. Why did you have to be late today, Lily? Why? Of all the days, it just had to be Frankie’s first day of school and my first day of work.

Speaking of which, I am now twenty minutes late to meet the site manager at the deli.

My first job, after I had Frankie, was working behind the counter in a YumYum deli. Back then there were only three branches, all in London, but now they’re popping up all over England as the business rapidly expands.

No one grows up with big dreams of working in the deli business, do they? I can’t say it had ever crossed my mind. I only (reluctantly) took the job because I was a single mum and it was close to home, but it turned out to be a perfect fit for me in many ways.

I’ve always had a passion for food – a fact my thighs will attest to – and working in the deli, I got to share this passion with the customers, giving them recommendations on what to buy and making suggestions for their lunch. I loved the work, I loved the customers and most importantly I loved all the delicious food.

While I was working there I got to know the bosses, Eric and Amanda, a married couple who had no idea that, when they opened their first deli, they would one day be sitting in a swanky central London office, with a thriving deli chain. I think the fact that they didn’t expect their success is why they’re probably still so humble and generous. Eric and Amanda saw my passion for the products we sold and promoted me, giving me a job in their head office, where I would source new products to stock and make decisions about what we sold in each branch. Sure, I missed the customer-facing work, but I loved looking for new and exciting foods to sell.

I often fantasise about running my own deli one day, but know I’d never be able to afford it. So when, out of the blue, Eric and Amanda said they were opening a new branch in a tourist town up north, and needed someone who knew the business well to go and oversee the important opening and then run the branch, I jumped at the chance. Not only is this my chance to get as close to running my own deli as possible, the fresh start couldn’t have come at a better time.

I pull up outside a little stone building and it’s just perfect. Exactly what I had in my head when I conjured up my dream deli. It’s a small, standalone building that looks like it perhaps used to be a cottage. I’m guessing the stone walls have been sandblasted, because it looks almost like new, and unlike weather-beaten Apple Blossom Cottage, you can see all the different coloured stones that were used when it was built. There is a small, paved section out front, perfect for a few tables and chairs to be put out when we’re ready to open, and the walls are adorned with large, absolutely gorgeous hanging baskets. The only thing missing is the sign, which reminds me that it is my job to find a name for this place. The owners don’t want their delis to seem like chains, even though they technically are, because each deli is unique and deserves a unique name.

I quickly search my bag for some chewing gum. It’s weird how, when you forget to brush your teeth, you feel fine up until the point you realise you haven’t brushed your teeth, and suddenly they feel alien in your mouth. I spot a packet with a couple of pieces in that, truthfully, I don’t remember buying, but it’s not like I plan on swallowing it, is it?

Once again, I see the corner of the postcard poking out of my bag, the postcard I’m trying so hard to keep out of my mind.

As I chew the stale chewing gum, I glance over at the deli again. I’m just thinking about how perfect it is when I notice something propped up outside – it looks like a cardboard sign.

I step out of the car – which I always forget is lime green when I’m in it – and walk cautiously towards the sign.

It reads: ‘You’re making a misteak’ in large red letters. The spelling mistake stands out a mile in bright red letters but that isn’t enough to take away from the intimidating message. Is this meant for me? It can’t be…

I pick the sign up and look at the other side.

‘Burger off!’

This can’t be good…

Chapter 5

When my bosses offered me this job they were keen to mention that it needed someone with both business and shop floor experience. They said that Marram Bay was a hugely popular coastal town, overflowing with tourists who would lap up a YumYum deli. I don’t think they would have sent me here if they didn’t think I was up to the job, but they did neglect to mention one small detail…

‘What do you mean no one wants us here?’ I ask Mike, the site manager.

‘No one wants us here,’ he repeats himself, just in case saying the exact same thing twice provides a little more clarity.

I blink.

‘The locals,’ he says in a strong cockney accent that makes me feel both comforted and homesick.

At YumYum we have an in-house team of fitters responsible for decking out the delis with everything they need. Mike is their manager and today he’s supposed to be showing me around, except there’s just this one little problem.

‘I saw the sign outside,’ I tell him. ‘Are you telling me one of the locals left that there?’

‘No, no. They left it in here, I just put it out there, ready to go in the skip. They had a protest, everyone had their little signs. That one was the butcher’s.’

That explains the terrible pun.

‘Why were they protesting?’ I ask.

Mike takes a battered looking iPhone from the pocket of his paint splattered jeans and taps the screen a few times before handing it to me. I notice that he’s calling Eric, one of the big bosses, so I hold the phone to my ear.

‘All right Mike, what’s the problem now?’ he asks, and it sounds like there’s been a lot of problems so far.

‘Eric, hello, it’s Lily,’ I say as brightly as I can manage.

‘Lily,’ he says, sounding a little sheepish. ‘You made it there OK then? You all settled in?’

‘Erm, it’s not exactly what I had in mind,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. I decide that now is not the time to mention the state of the cottage – I’m dealing with it anyway – so instead I get straight to the point about the deli. ‘Mike says no one wants us here?’

‘No,’ he replies.

‘No?’ I echo, staring to feel like a parrot.

Eric sighs deeply.

‘OK, so the locals have a bit of a problem with a chain opening, they want to preserve the town, not make it a clone of every other high street out there…so they put in a lot of objections with the council,’ he explains.

‘But, all the delis have different names and identities, so it’s not going to look like a clone. And the foods we sell, they’re from all over, and it’s not like we’re opening a butcher’s to compete with the existing one.’

‘I know, that’s why the council gave us the go-ahead to open,’ he assures me.

‘But?’

‘But the locals still aren’t happy. They think the deli is going to destroy the independent shops that define the community and that we’re going to damage local businesses. They say we’re targeting transient custom, people without roots in the community who don’t care about whether or not they enrich local economy over us, who they see as “the man”,’ he says with a bit of a chuckle. They might be a chain, but they’re not exactly ruthless business people.

‘So, what now?’ I ask.

‘So now it’s your job to convince them that a YumYum deli belongs in Marram Bay,’ he tells me. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry about it, to have this hanging over your head. If anyone can make this place a success, it’s you. You’re a hard-working single mum, not some ruthless businesswoman. Let people get to know the real you, tell them about how we operate, change their minds.’

‘And if I don’t succeed?’ I ask.

‘Well, at the moment they’re trying to prevent us getting our liquor licence,’ he tells me. ‘But don’t worry about it, OK? Just do your best. Amanda and I have faith in you.’

I feel my face crumple with stress.

‘OK, sure,’ I reply.

‘That’s our girl,’ Eric replies. ‘Call me anytime if you need me.’

‘OK, I will. Thank you,’ I say, hanging up and handing Mike his phone back.

‘Not great, right?’ Mike says.

‘No,’ I reply.

‘Anyway…show you around?’

‘Sure,’ I reply.

So far my dream life in a new place has turned out to be anything but what I expected. I can’t believe the locals don’t want us here, YumYum delis are such amazing places, with a great choice of international food – why would they not want us?

What I’m not going to do is panic or, worse, get upset, because Eric is right. I’ve got this. This is my chance to show the people of Marram Bay exactly what YumYum delis are all about, and to show the world exactly what Lily Holmes can do. I want to prove to my bosses that I can do it and, even more importantly, I want to prove to myself that I can do this. Well, it would have been boring if it were easy, right?

Chapter 6

After a long day of hurdle after hurdle at the deli, I pull up outside the school to find that, yet again, there’s no one to be seen. I know there aren’t many kids who go here, but shouldn’t there be parents around?

I hurry up the steps as carefully as I can in my heels, only to see Frankie standing in the playground on his own.

‘Hey, kiddo, where is everyone?’

‘They went home at three,’ he says, not sounding his usual self.

‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, realising it was his previous school where he finished at 3.20 p.m.

‘Swears,’ he ticks me off.

‘Sugar, sorry,’ I apologise, forgetting that, in this family, we substitute our swear words with similar sounding, inoffensive words. I’d say it was our compromise, but it’s actually just the only realistic way for me not to swear in front of my kid. Frankie is always telling me off for swearing, but it doesn’t seem like his heart is in it today.

‘You OK, kiddo? You don’t seem yourself.’

‘Yeah, I just wanna go home,’ he replies.

‘OK, sure,’ I say, ushering him towards the car. I suppose I’ve missed my tour slot, being late again.

As we make the short journey home, I look at him the rear-view mirror. He’s looking down at his feet with a glum look on his face.

‘How was your first day then?’ I ask.

‘OK,’ Frankie replies, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.

‘Are you sure?’ I persist.

‘Yes.’

I’m not sure I believe him, but I don’t want to push him. Maybe once we get home he’ll open up a little.

I unlock the door and watch Frankie walk inside, excited for his reaction when he realises he can play video games, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

‘I set everything up for you,’ I point out, not that he couldn’t have noticed. ‘Do you want to play some games and just let me know when you want dinner?’

‘Can we have it now please?’ he asks.

‘Erm, yeah, sure. You hungry now?’

He nods.

‘OK, go play, I’ll make us some food. What do you fancy?’

Frankie shrugs.

‘Beans on toast?’ I suggest, knowing that one of his favourite dishes is bound to put a smile on his face.

He nods.

I pull a face as I head towards the kitchen and, while I prepare dinner, I watch him like a hawk. He’s far too young to be starting the moody teenager act. I wonder what’s wrong with him.

It’s off, for Frankie to be so quiet at home. Sure, he can be shy around new people, but when it’s just us, he’s usually anything but quiet.

‘So there was a bit of a hitch with the deli,’ I tell him, not that he’s going to be all that interested. I don’t have anyone else to tell about my day though. I didn’t have any proper friends in London, not really. My uni friends were all out living young people’s lives, while I was at home with my baby, and all the people I met through work, well, they already had full lives, with partners and friends. Maybe I isolate myself sometimes – I’m not sure if it’s because I always put Frankie first or because of my trust issues.

I chat out loud about the deli, unconcerned with whether or not he is listening – I imagine having a husband is a little bit like this, if what you see on TV is anything to go by. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really had a man around.

When I found out I was pregnant with Frankie, I knew that I was going to have to raise him alone but I knew that I was up to the job, that if I gave it my everything I could do it alone, just like my mum did. I don’t know who had it worse, me or my mum, because I might have done the whole thing without a man while my mum had my dad for the first year of my life, but he died when his bike was hit by a car. My mum had to cope with a baby and a bereavement, when she was a little over twenty, and I just knew that if my mum was made of such strong stuff, then I was too.

As I carry two plates of beans on toast over to the table, I notice that my son has his head in his hands.

‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I ask him.

‘It’s been a bad day,’ he says as he skulks over to the table.

‘You’re eight,’ I remind him. ‘You’re too young to have bad days.’

Frankie sits at the table and begins wolfing down his food.

‘Steady on, kid,’ I say, worried he might choke if he doesn’t slow down. ‘You gonna tell me what’s wrong?’

‘No one likes me,’ he solemnly.

‘It’s your first day,’ I assure him. ‘No one knows you yet.’

‘They do,’ he says. ‘They know who you are too. They said you’re evil.’

‘What?’ I squeak, laughing nervously. ‘I’m evil?’

‘Because of the shop,’ he tells me. ‘It’s gonna close all the other shops.’

‘Sweetheart.’ I grab his hand. ‘It isn’t, I promise you. And their parents will realise that. They’re kids, they don’t know what they’re talking about. They’ve just heard their mums and dads saying things. Did Mrs Snowball not help you make friends?’

‘She doesn’t like me either,’ he says, eating a quarter slice of toast practically in one bite.

‘Of course she does,’ I insist. ‘She’s the headteacher, she likes all the kids.’

‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunch,’ he tells me.

‘She what?’ I ask angrily.

‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunchbox.’

‘Why the truck not?’ I ask, remembering to edit my outburst this time.

Frankie shrugs.

‘Is this why you’re so hungry?’

He nods.

Oh, my poor little baby, why on earth wouldn’t she let him eat his lunch?

‘Everything is going to be better tomorrow,’ I promise him.

After we finish up our food Frankie gets back to his game. I retrieve his lunchbox from the floor by the front door, and look inside, just to make sure. Sure enough, there’s his lunch, untouched.

I grab the chocolate and toss it to him.

‘Here you go, kiddo,’ I say.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, without the usual enthusiasm you expect from kids on the receiving end of chocolate.

I make myself a cup of tea, grab my laptop and take a seat on the sofa. I connect my laptop to my phone, because there’s no Wi-Fi here yet, and begin researching the area, trying to work out some kind of plan to get the locals on board. I can’t get Mrs Snowball out of my mind. Why did she think it would be OK to tell my son that he couldn’t eat his lunch? And the fact that the kids wouldn’t talk to him today, because of me…

I grab my phone and set an alarm for the morning, to make sure that I arrive at school early enough to have a word with Mrs Snowball. No one messes with my kid.

Chapter 7

Sitting outside the headteacher’s office is not something I ever thought I’d be doing again, not with Frankie being such a little angel.

Back in my school days, my mum would often find herself sitting outside the headteacher’s office with me, waiting to find out what I’d done now. I wasn’t a bad kid, I was just a bit of a rebel.

Looking at me today, you wouldn’t believe what I used to look like. I’m five foot eight, which I’ve always known was tall for a woman, but I only recently learned that my height puts me four inches above the national average, and four inches is a lot – in this context at least. I’m a good shape, I think. Things could be smoother or tighter, but I think everyone thinks that and, anyway, I think my curves complement the girly-girl (creeping into high-maintenance) look I have these days. I like to look good, with my highlighted hair, manicured nails and nice outfits.

Back when I was a teenager though, I was so thin that I looked unhealthy, being so tall. My natural dirty blonde locks were dyed a multitude of colours, sometimes all at once, and my face was a mess of too much eyeliner and plum lipstick, finished off with a nose ring – fake, of course, because for some reason my young, hip, liberal mum wouldn’t let me make holes in my face, and for that I’m extremely thankful now.

I was a young rebel, an activist, a bit of a hippy…I thought I was going to change the world, one small protest at a time. Of course, I was never going to change the world by fighting to make the school kitchen use free range eggs, or switch the floodlit school sign off at night to save electricity, but it felt important for me to make a difference, so I tried. Anytime I was in trouble and my mum was called in, it wasn’t because I was a bad kid, it was usually just because I’d kicked up a fuss about them cutting down a tree in the car park, or because I’d used a black glitter gel pen to draw the anarchy symbol on the back of my hand. Of course, there was that one time 15-year-old me called our geography teacher, Mr Adler, a bastard because he brought a real ivory pen in to show the class – a story which I mistakenly told Frankie, because now he jokes that, so long as he never does anything worse than that, he can never really be in trouble with me.

Sitting here before school starts, waiting for Mrs Snowball to see us, gives me major flashbacks, except this time I’m not in trouble, she is. I still can’t believe she didn’t let my son eat his lunch and the longer I sit out here waiting to speak to Mrs Snowball, the angrier I get.

‘Good morning, Holmes family,’ she says brightly as she opens her office door.

‘Good morning,’ I say politely. ‘I was hoping to have a word about yesterday.’

‘Not a problem,’ Mrs Snowball replies, before turning to her secretary. ‘Tilly, why don’t you take Frankie and get him some breakfast.’

I bite my tongue. Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation without Frankie around.

‘Miss Holmes, step into my office, take a seat,’ Mrs Snowball instructs. ‘It is Miss, isn’t it?’

‘Call me Lily,’ I insist.

‘Lily,’ she says softly, taking a seat behind her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

I glance around Mrs Snowball’s office as I take a seat opposite her. Her office isn’t what I expected, with not a single scrap of paperwork anywhere – everything must be neatly filed. Instead, the desk, cabinets and shelves are all covered with tiny ornamental cottages, each one unique, and with such intricate detail.

Mrs Snowball catches me staring.

‘Do you like my Lilliput Lane collection?’ she asks. ‘Each cottage is a replica of real cottages and scenery in England and Wales. I’ve been collecting them since the Eighties – they stopped making them in 2016, you know, so they mean even more to me now. They bring me such joy.’

I contemplate for a moment exactly how these tiny cottages bring Mrs Snowball so much joy, and I wonder if maybe sometimes she lays them all out on the floor and walks around, pretending to be a giant. I watch as she lightly brushes the rooftop of the snow-covered cottage that sits on her desk with her fingertip. I’m not sure if she’s dusting it or petting it, but it knocks any thoughts of Mrs Snowball playing Gulliver’s Travels out of my head.

‘I wanted to see you, just to see if you could shed any light on what happened yesterday,’ I start. ‘Frankie was starving when he got home from school and, it turns out he hadn’t had any lunch. I asked him why not and, well, he said you wouldn’t let him. I figured it must be a misunderstanding but—’

‘No, that is correct. I confiscated his lunchbox,’ she says firmly.

I can’t help but cock my head.

‘You—’

‘I confiscated his lunch,’ she says again, a little slower this time.

‘Why?’ I ask, absolutely bewildered.

‘He had a bagel.’

I snort with laughter, until I realise she’s being serious.

‘Yeah…so…sorry, I’m so confused. It’s a bagel, not a bomb.’

‘A bagel is the equivalent of three slices of bread, Lily,’ she replies seriously.

‘So is a glass of wine, but he knocks them back, no problem.’

Mrs Snowball scowls at my joke. Jokes are how I deal with confrontation, awkwardness and disagreements, and this situation is all three.

‘And there was chocolate, and crisps.’

‘Oh my gosh, crisps!’ I mock. ‘Not crisps.’

‘Lily, with respect, his lunch was unhealthy and I couldn’t sit by and watch him eat it. I have a moral and legal obligation—’

‘To stop kids eating bagels?’ I interrupt. ‘Look, it was his first day, he was nervous, I just wanted to pack him something nice to cheer him up at lunchtime. Something familiar that would make him happy.’

‘He’s a big boy, Lily. He doesn’t need coddling.’

‘No, he needs feeding,’ I tell her. ‘You really thought it would be better for him not to have anything?’

‘Of course not,’ she replies. ‘I got him a bowl of vegetable soup.’

‘Eight-year-olds don’t eat soup,’ I point out.

‘No, they eat the equivalent of three slices of bread, a few grams of saturated fats and a bar of chocolate, shaped like a frog.’

‘What’s wrong with Freddo?’ I ask, defensively. Freddo is iconic – he was a part of my childhood too. I won’t have a word said against him.

‘They give junk food pretty packages and cute characters to appeal to children and it’s not right,’ she rants. ‘Do you really think this chocolate would appeal to him as much, were it not in the shape of a frog?’

I don’t point out to her that, last Christmas, someone bought him a poop emoji shaped chocolate, which we both gleefully ate as we watched Home Alone and Home Alone 2 back to back in our pyjamas.

‘It was his first day,’ I point out. ‘He also mentioned that none of the other kids would play with him, he said they knew who he was…’

‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Snowball removes her glasses from her nose, allowing them to hang on their chain, around her neck. ‘It would seem that the locals are familiar with your agenda in our town, and no one is happy. Children’s brains are like sponges, if they hear their parents talking about the new family that’s moved in to threaten jobs, well, they’re going to pick up on that.’

‘Mrs Snowball, that is not what is going to happen,’ I insist. ‘He said the kids are saying I’m evil. Don’t you think that’s extreme?’

‘Simon Dawson’s dad is our local butcher,’ she points out. ‘Ella Carr’s dad is the baker.’

‘Whose dad makes the candlesticks?’ I quip. Gosh, I really need to quit cracking these jokes.

‘Bart and Bernadette’s parents are responsible for all of our milk, cheese and yogurt.’

Wow, they sound like cool parents. Not.

‘I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but I haven’t come here to take over from these people. I run a deli. We don’t sell four pints of milk, we sell speciality products, make sandwiches with them…’

‘There’s a lovely old lady called Clara who runs a café – how do you think she’ll feel about you selling sandwiches?’

The thought of upsetting Clara, after she was so lovely to me, breaks my heart a little.

‘We’re living in a tourist town,’ I point out. ‘There’s more than enough room for all of us.’

‘Well.’ Mrs Snowball claps her hand as she stands up. ‘I’m just the messenger. And I’ll try and help Frankie to make some friends today.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And, if you could let him eat his lunch…’

‘Is there a bagel in there?’

No, just a couple of lines of coke and a Stanley knife for playtime.

‘No bagel today,’ I reply. ‘Just two slices of bread.’

‘Well, OK then. Work today, is it?’ she asks, ushering me towards the door.

‘Yes,’ I reply, glancing at my watch. ‘Actually, I’d better get a move on, or I’m going to be late.’

‘Oh yes,’ she laughs. ‘Punctuality doesn’t seem to be your strong suit, does it?’

Nope. Making awkward jokes and killing my child with carbs is my thing.

I smile and say goodbye, before I’m tempted to play Godzilla with her little village.

I walk out of the school gates, passing a few mums on my way. I pass a gaggle of four of them, only to feel their eyes burning holes into my back. I turn around and smile, only to see them hurry inside the building. I’m guessing they’ve heard of me.

Oh, I so hope Frankie makes some friends today. It seems so unfair, that just because of my job, no one is being nice to him.

Life in Marram Bay is proving to be much harder than I thought it would be. Still, we’re better off here than we were in London. Safer too, given recent events.

Chapter 8

I pull the sleeve of my black jumper dress down over my hand before placing it over my nose. I’ve never been great with strong smells, least of all the smell currently coming from the deli bathroom. Sadly, it’s not a very thick dress – it is still summer after all – so it’s not doing much to disguise the pong.

‘It’s the drains,’ Mike insists. ‘Someone flushed the lav today, not knowing about the drain problems we’ve been having.’

‘So when is it getting fixed?’ I ask from behind my hand.

‘Well, that’s the problem, darling. No one wants to fix it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

Mike, clearly unfazed by the smell, grabs a doughnut from a box on the side and chomps down on it as we chat.

Mike, who is in his forties, has got that rough and ready workman look and charm, only made even friendlier by his jolly apples-and-pears accent. His dimpled cheeks give him this cheeky glimmer than makes you instantly warm to him, even when he’s giving you news you don’t want to hear.

‘We’re having a bit of bother with local tradesmen,’ he explains. ‘None of them want to help us out.’

‘I mean…they know they’ll get paid, right?’

‘’Course,’ Mike replies. ‘Even tried offering them extra.’

‘So they’re turning work down because they protest the deli?’

He nods.

Well, isn’t that just a special kind of stupid? These people are so worried that the deli will harm local businesses, they’re actively turning down business – which is harming local businesses. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

‘The gaffer thought it might help sweeten up the locals, to hire some of them for work, but they ain’t having it,’ Mike says, reaching for a second doughnut. I suppose doing a job like his burns a lot of calories – maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. Still, I’m not about to go and dabble in the drains.

‘OK, well, I guess you’ll have to hire the tradesmen you need from outside the town,’ I say plainly.

‘Do you think they’ll like that?’ he chuckles.

‘Probably not, but we don’t have much choice. Perhaps it will show them that we’re serious about staying here. And at least it will keep work ticking along until I think of a real way to get everyone on board.’

‘You’re the boss,’ he says with a cheeky smile. ‘I’ll get on it.’

Left alone at the counter I glance at the plans laid out in front of me. It really is a shame the locals are set against this place, it is going to be so amazing, and I’m not just saying that because I feel like it’s my baby.

I can see the doughnuts out of the corner of my eye, but my usual inclination to eat one just isn’t there. It’s this horrible sewage smell, filling the room, that’s proving to be an excellent appetite suppressor. I’m sure we could make a lot of money with it, were this the location of a SkinnyKwick Club meeting, but we’re a deli and we want people to buy food.

‘Lily,’ I hear Mike calling as he heads back in. ‘I’m on with a plumber, he says he can do it, but he wants his travel expenses covering. He’s coming pretty far.’

‘OK, sure,’ I say reluctantly. Well, it’s not exactly my own money I’m throwing around, is it? My bosses have given me an impossible job to do, and I’m doing the best I can. ‘The sooner he can come, the better.’

‘He says he’ll be right over,’ Mike replies.

‘Great,’ I reply, semi-sarcastically. Well, it’s not great that we have to fork out for plumbers from afar, but it will be a lot easier to get some work done here once the smell is gone.

‘I’m going to go outside and scope out the area,’ I say.

‘OK, sure. You get some fresh air,’ Mike laughs. I think he’s onto me, but I can’t think straight around this smell.

I step out of the main door and onto the paved area out front where I finally take in the view for the first time. We might not be on the seafront, but we’re right at the top of the main street that leads down to it, which means that, for the customers who sit outside the deli to eat their lunch, they’ll be able to see the sea. It’s still quite warm and sunny for early September, so I take my oversized sunglasses from my bag and put them on to get a better view.

Before moving here, I knew that there was an island just off the coast but I had no idea just how close it was, or how big. It’s a bizarre and beautiful sight that makes the islands we’re used to seeing on the Thames pale in comparison. I really should take Frankie sometime, maybe at the weekend to celebrate his first week at school.

I set off down the cobbled main street, extra carefully in my heels. While I may be blonde, I’m not ditzy…that said, I’m not sure why it never crossed my mind to swap out my stylish heels for some more sensible ones. I supposed I assumed the north was paved.

The main street is not only cobbled, it’s steep too. If I were to fall, which is something I’m prone to doing from time to time, it would not be one of my more graceful tumbles. Not on this hill, in these shoes, wearing this dress that doesn’t quite reach my knee.

My most graceful fall to date happened two years ago while Frankie and I were ice-skating at the Natural History Museum outdoor ice rink. Frankie was having a blast, zipping around on the ice whereas I carefully clung to the edge and moved just a few inches at a time.

‘Come on, Mum, it’s easy,’ he assured me. He was only six at the time and I figured, if a six-year-old can do it, then so can I. I was wrong. Holding Frankie’s hand, I left the comfort of the outside edge and skated into the middle of the rink, to get a closer look at the big Christmas tree that sits in the centre.

‘You did it, you did it,’ he chirped, bursting with pride, sort of like I did when he took his first steps.

The only problem was, Frankie figured I’d be fine after that, so he skated off on his own again. That’s when the fear kicked in. I think half my problem with ice-skating was a confidence thing, and without Frankie to hold on to, I was too scared to move. Kids and adults were zipping past me with ease so, after psyching myself up for a few minutes, I made my move, skating out, taking it a few inches at a time, and I was doing it, I was really doing it…and then I got too confident, I forgot to be careful, and I lost control. It felt like I was flailing around, completely out of control for a long time, but I don’t suppose it was more than a few seconds. By some miracle I managed to not only stay upright, but glide into the arms of a tall, blond, handsome man, and for someone who struggled to meet men – let alone introduce herself – this was almost too good to be true.

‘Hi,’ I blurted.

‘Hey,’ he replied.

‘Do women always fall at your feet or am I the first?’ I joked awkwardly, like I do.

‘Erm, just my wife,’ he replied, nodding to the leggy brunette to his left.

The flirting might not have been great, but the fall – and the recovery – were excellent.

My least graceful fall to date was six months ago, in Tesco, where I literally slipped on a banana skin and ploughed into a display of toilet rolls. The landing was soft, at least.

The main street has a real mixture of shops, from quirky little gift shops to a shop, hilariously called Fruitopia, that appears to sell nothing but jam.

There’s a shop that sells women’s clothing, but if the mannequins in the window are anything to go by, it’s probably not to my taste. The next shop along, though, is a cool gallery cum bookshop that looks like it might have some interesting stuff inside.

I step inside the large white room to the murmur of a classical music tune that I recognise, but couldn’t name. It feels lovely in here, with the cool air blowing down on me as I browse the photographs and paintings on the walls. It seems like most of them were taken or painted locally, which is cute. The books all seem to be similar in theme too – perhaps I could pick up something to give me an insight into the local area.

‘Hello,’ I say brightly to the man sitting behind a desk in the centre of the room.

‘Hello,’ he replies, taking off his glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was after a book about the local area.’

‘We have lots of them,’ he replies straight-faced.

‘Yeah.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘I was hoping you could maybe recommend a specific one. Whichever is your favourite.’

‘Oh, sure,’ he replies.

He casts an eye over a table of books before picking one up and handing it to me.

‘This one should do it. It’s all about the history of the area, places for tourists to visit, local customs, etcetera.’

‘Brilliant,’ I reply. ‘I’ll take it.’

The man, an awkward thirty-something who, for some bizarre reason, is wearing a beanie hat on a sunny day, scans the book.

‘Can I interest you in some postcards featuring stunning local scenes for the folks back home?’ he asks, loosening up a little, as he points to a rack of cards to his left.

I glance at them.

‘No thanks,’ I reply, my smile dropping.

I can’t help but think about the postcard in my bag, the one from someone back home, and if there’s one thing I don’t wish, it’s that he were here.

Chapter 9

Standing in the playground, waiting for Frankie to finish school, I fantasise about taking my shoes off, and maybe soaking them in the bath for a couple of hours before dinner. It’s been a long day at the deli, making sure that everything is going to be ready in time, but at least the plumber turned up and fixed whatever problem was causing the smell. I damn near gave him one of my kidneys and he left, pound signs rolling in his eyes as he counted his money (which included his travel bonus). This only reminds me that I would never, ever, in a million years be able to afford to open my own deli, because even if I could gather some money together, you never know when you’re going to have to pay a big plumbing bill – if this really were my place, I probably would have had to give him a kidney. It’s all good though, because tomorrow when I turn up for work, it’s going to smell glorious, like fresh wooden counters, and it’s going to remind me that, even though we’re running into problems, I’m solving them.

I notice the gaggle of women from this morning, staring at me once again. They’re probably just curious, wondering who I am. If it were up to me I’d stay here, at the opposite side of the playground, hiding behind my sunglasses, but I know that I have a lot of work to do here, and it would probably be good for the business if I go over and introduce myself, show them that I’m a normal mum, just like them, and not at all ‘evil’.

By the time I walk over there are just three women left, all standing in a line, facing me, anticipating my introduction.

‘Hello, ladies,’ I say, wearing the biggest smile my face can accommodate. ‘My name is Lily Holmes, I’m Frankie’s mum. We’ve just moved into Apple Blossom Cottage and, erm, I’ll be running the new deli on Main Street.’

I continue to smile as I wait for their reply.

‘We know who you are,’ the woman in the middle says. It’s funny she should say that, she looks familiar to me too. ‘We knew you were coming, we just didn’t know who you were. Now we can put a face to the person who is trying to ruin this town.’

And, here we go. It’s so funny, the way she describes my arrival, like it’s some prophecy you hear at the start of a horror film before the monster turns up.

‘Listen, I know there’s a lot of animosity towards the deli—’ and me, apparently ‘—but I’m not here to make trouble. There’s nothing even close to a YumYum Deli in town, and there are lots of hungry tourists. There’s room for all of us. I promise, I am no threat to your or your families’ livelihoods.’

I feel my face fall into a more relaxed smile, happy with my response.

‘Do you know who I am?’ the woman in the middle asks.

If she’s asking, I must know her from somewhere.

To her left is a short, plump woman with a mess of black curls on her head. She’s wearing a beautiful pair of tortoiseshell Gregory Peck-style glasses that I would love if I didn’t wear contact lenses most of the time. I’d ask her where she got them from, although I suspect a compliment right now would seem insincere.

The mum to the other side is tall and skinny, with her mousey brown hair in two plaits that go down almost all the way to her waist. With her make-up-free face and her plaid shirt and jeans combo, she looks fresh off the farm.

And then, in the middle, there’s the ringleader of the three angry stooges. I stare at her for a moment when it hits me – I have seen her before. She looks a little different, without her Forties dress and her victory rolls, but it’s her all right. The woman from the seafront, who was staring at us the day we arrived. Oh, and these two must have been the women standing either side of her that day. Wow, I wonder if they always have to stand in the right order, like Ant and Dec do.

I’m just about to tell her where I recognise her from when she speaks again.

‘This is Jessica,’ she says, nodding to her short friend. ‘Jessica Dawson, as in Dawson’s Butchers, that she and her husband own.’

‘Oh, “burger me”,’ I blurt giddily. ‘I found one of your husband’s signs outside the deli. He’s a very pun-ny man.’

‘This is Mary-Ann,’ she continues, unamused, nodding towards her tall friend. ‘She and her husband run the dairy farm.’

I nod in acknowledgement. She looks like the kind of woman who would name her kids Bernadette and Bart.

‘Is your husband the baker by any chance?’ I ask. What is it with the women in this town? Other than the females working in the school, it’s like they’re all defined by their husbands’ jobs.

‘No, I’m Avril Newman, wife of Bradley Newman – the local plumber.’

Oh carp.

‘I passed the deli today,’ she tells me, as though I don’t know how this one is going to end. ‘There was a plumber’s van parked outside. A plumber from a town fifteen miles away.’

‘We did call your husband,’ I tell her. ‘He didn’t want the job.’

‘Well, of course he didn’t,’ she replies. ‘We don’t want to be seen supporting a business that the locals don’t want here. But you giving the work to another plumber, from out of town, well, that’s taking food off our table, out of our little Jacques’ mouth.’

I laugh inside my head at her paradoxical argument. She’s upset at me for giving a job to someone other than her husband after her husband said no. So, I should be giving them my business, but they don’t want it, so…I’m not really sure what she wants from me.

‘Avril, I wanted to give your husband the job. I don’t want to take food from Jack’s mouth – in fact, it would be so nice if Frankie and Jack could be friends. I think he’s having a bit of trouble settling in,’ I confess.

‘Jacques,’ she corrects me.

‘Sorry, what did I say?’

‘Jack.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s Jacques,’ she says again.

Of course it is.

‘Maybe your family just isn’t supposed to be here, Lily. We’re a tight-knit community and you only need to look over the Marram Bay Facebook group page to see that you’re just not wanted.’

‘Can I join this group?’ I ask, undefeated.

‘Well, it’s for locals only,’ she says quickly.

‘I’m local now,’ I point out with a smile.

Avril thinks for a moment.

‘I’ll have to ask the group. Apple Blossom Cottage sits just outside the main town, and the group is for the main town only. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ I reply.

‘Perhaps it’s best to bow out now, before more upset is caused. You said it yourself, your son isn’t fitting in. And, well, our children are smart. They can tell we’re upset and if they know you’re to blame, your poor son is going to be collateral damage. Perhaps you need to put your son first – we always put our children first, it’s so important.’

I purse my lips, lest a ‘go duck yourself’ escapes from between them.

Right on cue, the school bell goes and all the little acorns come charging out of the door.

‘See you around, ladies,’ I say, before walking off to meet Frankie.

After the horde of kids, my own finally appears, all alone, without the gleeful smile or the urgency the others showed. Oh no, it must have been a bad day again.

‘Hey, kiddo,’ I say brightly. ‘She try to starve you to death today or did my threats work?’

Frankie laughs, just a little.

‘Good day?’

He shrugs.

I usher him towards the car and strap him in.

‘I know we’re off to a bit of a rocky start, and that it feels like we’re not fitting in, but we’ve only been here two days,’ I assure him. ‘Things will get better.’

‘No one likes us,’ he says, sounding dejected.

‘No one knows us,’ I remind him. ‘Let’s just give it a bit longer, OK? I will if you will.’

Frankie nods. He really is an amazing little man, which is probably why this is making me so mad. He should be so happy here and it’s not fair that the Mumsnet brigade are making him ‘collateral damage’ – well, I won’t have it. We will be happy here, and they will accept us. I’ll make sure of it.

Out of nowhere a quad bike flies past us at a junction. I stop my car and breathe for a second. First the locals ask us to leave, now it’s like they’re literally trying to drive us out of town. Well, they’re going to have to try harder than that.

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