The Saturday Morning Park Run
Jules Wake

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Jules Wake 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover illustration © Joanna Kerr/Meiklejohn

Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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

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

Source ISBN: 9780008323653

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008323646

Version: 2020-07-30

Contents

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by Jules Wake

One more chapter...

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to my Great Aunt Hilda who at 105 is an inspiration to us all

Chapter One

I picked up my pace, clutching my travel mug of coffee – there was no way I could start the day without a hit of caffeine – my heels click clicking like runaway castanets as I joined the midweek tide of people pouring along the path with ant-like efficiency, all headed towards Churchstone station and the daily commute to Leeds.

I listened to the sharp, staccato beat of my shoes. To me they said, quick, precise and well-organised. And just because I wore high, sexy designer shoes (Russell and Bromley thank you; who can afford Jimmy Choos?!) I wasn’t like all the bitch bosses in romcoms. They were high but not super high, and made from supple, polished black leather. As sexy shoes, went they were workmanlike but expensive. I think shoes say a lot about you. I wanted people to know that I, Claire Harrison, had got where I was through hard work and intelligence but I still had class and style. Shoes have nuances and with this pair, I’d nailed it. Just like the meeting I was headed to. I’d worked all weekend to get this presentation to within an inch of perfection.

Mentally, I ticked off my list. Presentation done. Boardroom booked. Team briefed. The truth was, I’d been working for weeks on this meeting and had clocked up many a sleepless night. Reorganising the audit team was a huge responsibility and I was just praying I’d got it right and wasn’t creating an opening for a couple of redundancies. My promotion to partner depended on this and surely by now I’d jumped through enough hoops. Unfortunately, they just kept piling more on my plate, as if to test at what point I’d give in. They’d have a long wait.

On the personal front, I’d texted my sister an ambiguous ‘maybe’ in response to repeated pleas to help her this weekend, booked a long-overdue dental appointment and seriously considered phoning the doctor to arrange a smear test. All in all, my to-do list was nicely full of ticks and just as I was congratulating myself, everything came to a sudden halt. With a start, I slapped a hand over the top of my coffee cup and stopped abruptly because an older woman with a dandelion clock of white hair wearing a sunshine-yellow tracksuit, Day-glo pink trainers, and a silver lamé messenger bag slung across her chest darted out of the lane on the right, cutting across the main path only to disappear down the opposite track. Thankfully, despite slopping wildly, my coffee stayed put and hadn’t dripped all over my brand-new kingfisher-blue suit, worn with a crisp white shirt designed to say I’m chic, stylish and extremely competent. Or at least that’s what I hoped it said to my bosses. Phew no spillage. Near disaster averted.

Unfortunately, even as I was congratulating myself, it seemed the woman’s sudden appearance had startled several wood pigeons pecking desultorily on the grass verge and with a cacophony of outraged squawks and a flurry of feathers, they clumsily took flight, heedless of the commuters hell-bent on reaching the station for the seven-twenty train.

The man in front of me stopped dead and then, in order to avoid the pigeons, the stupid idiot took a step back doing a Matrix-style back-bend manoeuvre, sending the tails of his fine wool suit flying. In some sort of slow-motion panic, I registered this as he tried to dodge one of the birds, adding a twist at the last minute that brought him face to face with me, or rather, coffee cup to coffee cup.

The refillable cups collided, a spout of brown liquid shooting up into the air. And what goes up must come down. We both glanced up with quick, horrified fascination and then there was no time to dodge the inevitable downflow of hot, wet coffee.

The splash hit my beautiful white shirt dead centre, right above my cleavage, liquid seeping through and puddling in between my boobs. Brown stains blossomed with inexorable progress, bleeding out over my chest across the front of my white shirt. Shit. Shit. Shit. I did not need this today of all days.

‘Oh my God!’ I cried and glared up at him. ‘You idiot.’ Why the hell hadn’t he had the presence of mind to hang on to his bloody coffee?

He was trying to stroke the coffee away from his own white shirt, completely oblivious to what he’d done, and then he glanced up at me, his eyes zeroing in on my damp chest.

‘Idiot? Me? Why weren’t you looking where you were going?’

‘Me?’ I asked, now rummaging one handed in my shoulder bag. I had some travel tissues in there somewhere.

‘You went into the back of me. In a car, it would be your fault.’

What? He had to be flipping joking. ‘You reversed into me. Look at the state of my shirt.’ I let out a ‘Grrr’ noise out of sheer frustration. My shirt was absolutely ruined. And why was he glaring at me as if this was my fault.

Wow, he has unusual eyes, a kind of golden green.

Who cares about his effing eyes, Claire? What is the matter with you?

Given the circumstances, that was a completely inappropriate observation. Since when did I go around checking out men’s eyes? I gave up on that sort of thing a long time ago. A girl can only suffer so many disappointments. My career was enough for me; besides, lots of men couldn’t hack it. Couldn’t handle that I was more successful than them.

‘Shit. I’ve got a meeting with the board in an hour’s time. Look what you’ve done.’ I glanced down at my coffee-stained shirt.

He pulled a hanky out of his pocket and began rubbing ineffectually at his chest, which made me bite back a quick smile of amusement. Couldn’t he see that his shirt, like mine, was toast? ‘And I’ve got a meeting with the Vice President of Commercial Banking in an hour’s time,’ he snapped back, those unusual eyes flashing with fury.

‘And I’m presenting to the CEO who is coming up from London,’ I retorted as I shook out a tissue to mop up the worst of the liquid, now cooling and pooling with an uncomfortable tickle between my breasts.

‘Good for him. Are you attempting to play my-job-is-bigger-than-yours? Because I can assure you, my meeting is pretty important.’

‘Just like a man to assume his meeting must be more important than a woman’s.’

Oh God, I’ve been down this road so many times.

‘Not at all.’ His eyes narrowed as he said a touch snootily, ‘I’m just observing that my meeting is very important and that I’m now going to be on the backfoot if I go in looking like this.’ With surprisingly expressive hands, he flicked them downward to make his point.

‘I’ve been preparing for this meeting for weeks,’ I snapped back, my heart starting to thud with the realisation that this really was a disaster. This meeting was supposed to show the big wigs that I was the ultimate professional, totally in control, and knew exactly what I was doing. The swan gliding without effort and not the puddle duck swimming for her life.

For a brief moment, we both stood examining ourselves and each other, surveying the damage, horribly aware of the curious looks of the other commuters and then we both carried on our pre-programmed trajectory towards the station, mopping ourselves as we went. He with a large hanky and me with a succession of tissues.

I winced as we fell into step together. At least I’d got off lightly. Only my shirt was ruined, perhaps thanks to the small shelf of my boobs – useful for once – which had taken the brunt of the coffee downpour. Unfortunately for him, there was a stain right down his crotch. That stain wouldn’t be coming out any time soon. That really was a disaster.

‘Where do you work?’ I asked.

‘What?’ he asked shortly with an angry glance my way, as if to ask what the hell did that have to do with anything.

‘Where do you work?’ I asked again, even more irritated. I was trying to be helpful.

‘Beechwood Harrington,’ he snapped out.

‘No,’ I said a little more gently. ‘I meant the location. Is there a shop near where you work, like an M&S or something?’ I nodded to his trousers. ‘You could buy an emergency…’ My voice trailed off as he looked down and his eyes widened in horror. He muttered an epithet under his breath.

‘This is a six-hundred-pound Armani,’ he snarled. ‘Marks & Spencer doesn’t cut it in my line of work.’ He checked his watch and I could see him doing the same rapid calculation I’d just done. Was there time to go home and change?

‘It’s better than nothing,’ I returned. ‘I was trying to help. Find a solution. Have you got time to go back home and change? Or you could phone someone?’

‘Phone someone?’ He didn’t need to look quite so incredulous.

‘Yes, like in your office. I’m going to phone my PA – she comes in later than me – and ask if I can borrow another shirt or something.’ Ros, my fantastically reliable and awesome assistant, lived in the city and absolutely refused point blank to arrive at work a second before she had to – she had school-aged children that had to be dropped off – but was a trojan for every second she was at work.

‘What?’ He looked at me as if I were completely mad.

‘It’s a solution.’ I was big on solutions; in fact, most of the time that was my job.

He gave a short mirthless laugh. ‘Hmm, I can just see myself in Chas’s suit. I’m a thirty-two waist. He’s at least a forty. Oh, let me see, Gav, he’s five foot ten. Half-mast trousers are all the rage in my office.’

I looked down at his legs, and up and up and up. He must have been at least six two. He had long legs, really long legs, a slim waist, broad chest, and wide shoulders. My mouth went a little dry. If he hadn’t been so grumpy, he’d have been seriously hot. Especially with those gorgeous eyes against his dark skin, which were now studying me with a slight hint of amused condescension. I think I might have been ogling. Feeling a blush streak my cheeks, I hurriedly said, ‘Have you got hand driers in the loos? Maybe you could rinse your shirt out… dry it off in the gents.’

With a glower he shook his head. ‘Any more bright suggestions?’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ I said with an indifferent shrug. It was his problem after all.

‘It would have helped a lot more if you’d been looking where you were going.’

God, he was like a dog with a bone. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re being childish. What’s the point of going over old ground? What’s done is done and now you need to find a solution. If you’re not interested in my very sensible suggestions, that’s your loss.’

I was pleased to see my words shut him up rather neatly. As we hit the edge of the park and the familiar station sign loomed into view on the other side of the road, I pulled out my phone.

‘Hi Ros, it’s Claire. Sorry to bother you so early. Yes. I’m on my way. Can I ask a huge favour? I’ve had a bit of disaster. A spillage… yes… coffee everywhere. Please can I borrow a clean shirt? White?’ I asked with more hope than belief. ‘Okay. I didn’t think you would.’ I laughed out loud at the very thought of it. ‘Do you have a colour that anyone might describe as pale?’ Ros favoured patterns and bright colours. ‘I know,’ I responded to Ros’s snort and observation that her impressive double-D accommodating shirts would drown me. I’m a comfortably average thirty-four B. ‘But I’m desperate.’

‘Thank you, I owe you… not that much.’ I laughed at her suggestion that she was given the rest of the week off. Ros was nothing if not forthright and ballsy.

‘Handy to have such an accommodating PA,’ observed the man rolling his eyes.

‘Jealous?’ I asked sweetly, now that salvation was at hand. He ought to be; Ros was worth her weight in gold, and the rest. She was a diamond among PAs and my absolute rock.

‘It’s just a question of hiring the right sort of people.’

The man snorted rudely. I shrugged again. For God’s sake, I’d tried to help him but if he was just going to be sarcastic he could sort himself out.

‘I have an excellent PA,’ he retorted, ‘but I don’t think my legs will do justice to one of her Reiss skirts.’

We flashed our travel passes and headed down to the platform in perfect synchronicity, my quick strides matching those long legs.

As usual at that time, it was crowded. He came to a stop in the one clear area and I was buggered if he was going to have it all to himself, so I stopped there too. There was room for us both despite his scowl at my proximity. Ignoring him, I began to scroll through my messages on my phone.

Damn, my sister wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Don’t give me that I’m working crap. It’s Saturday. Even Wonder Woman gets a day off. Tell me you’ve got something better to do.

My sister Alice was not one for subtlety. I sighed. I was knackered. The last thing I wanted to do was spend a Saturday trimming her sodding hedge. It was horribly overgrown, took up two sides of her garden and I really needed to go into the office. Maybe I could fob her off to the following Saturday. I was so behind, having been given yet another project to sort out. That was the by-product of being good at your job and good at finding those pesky solutions. You ended up with everyone else’s problems and had to solve them when someone else threw in the towel with the deadline imminent. Going into the office at the weekend meant I could get loads done. Gritting my teeth, I wondered if I ought to offer her the money to pay for a man to come in but I’d already paid for my nieces’ school dinners and their summer uniforms this month. Not that I minded, but every now and then Alice would get on her high horse and accuse me of throwing my money around to ‘buy people’.

Thankfully, the arrival of the train dispelled my thoughts on the best solution for Alice’s hedge and I realised that my new friend and I had boarded the same carriage, snagging the last available seats which were, as bad fortune would have it, bang opposite each other. He plugged himself into his phone and I pulled out the sheets of my presentation to go over my points one last time, making sure I had committed all the figures to memory, absently tugging at my clammy shirt to pull it away from my chest. Damn. It was guaranteed that my best M&S Rosie for Autograph bra was ruined and, to add insult to injury, I’d bought four pairs of matching knickers, at a ridiculously expensive price.

With a shake and a rattle, the train pulled out of the traditional Victorian station with its painted white wrought-iron and pretty hanging baskets, sliding away from the view of industrial yards and workshops into open countryside in a matter of minutes.

I sneaked a few glances at the man across the way. If he weren’t such an arrogant git and didn’t have such a pissed-off expression on his face, I might have thought him quite good looking with his almost golden skin and the unusual coloured eyes, which were heavily fringed with lashes most girls would envy. The severe haircut didn’t suit his thick black glossy hair but I liked those dark heavy eyebrows that framed a very attractive face with a square, almost movie-star, chiselled jawline.

As if he felt the silent study, he glanced up and glared at me. I dropped my eyes to his crotch; that dark stain across the waistband and down his mid-grey trousers really was quite unfortunate. I shot him a small smirk. Okay, so I wasn’t being very nice but all my attempts to be helpful earlier had been rudely rebuffed.

His lips hardened and he stared at me. A hard stare. Shades of Paddington. Well, two could play at that game. I would stare back at him until he dropped his gaze. Unfortunately, he was made of sterner stuff and held my gaze without a trace of self-consciousness or any sign of backing down. I stiffened and sat a little taller, which made his lips curve very slightly with a touch of derision, as if this were some small sign of weakness. I took this as a direct challenge and lifted my chin. I raised an eyebrow, which gave me what I knew was a haughty air. Ros had told me off on more than one occasion for using this, saying it made me appear horribly superior, which I thought wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

He raised one of his eyebrows as if to say, is that the best you’ve got? It was almost cute. He was almost cute. A little ping of recognition went off in my chest. I very nearly caved and smiled at his sheer arrogance and self-confidence. He was gorgeous and he knew it, but… no; I forced my mouth to firm into a straight, uncompromising line. He really did have the most amazing eyes and at the moment I had carte blanche to study them. It was rather liberating. The colour was almost sea green but with a touch of whisky. Now his cockiness had been replaced with sheer determination. Again, I nearly crumbled. I could almost see the testosterone boiling up. He was hell bent on winning this challenge. Well, so was I. I quirked my lips in an answering satisfied smirk, as if I knew something he didn’t. As I did, I was aware of the older man sitting next to him putting down his paper and tuning in to the show. It was like a domino effect, and now, in my peripheral vision, I could see the other commuters one by one turning to watch the silent battle of wills.

Oh dear God. What have we started?

There was a heavy, charged atmosphere in the carriage and my skin prickled in awareness of the glances flicking back and forth between me and this random stranger. I felt the flush heating my cheeks which made the cocky git smile, his wide mouth curving up to reveal a flash of white teeth. Nice mouth.

Oh yes, go the whole hog Claire. Imagine what it would be like to kiss him because that’s really going to help.

Yes, very nice mouth. His lower lip is full, sort of biteable…

Seriously. I’d really said that in my head. I was really thinking that. I sank my teeth into my own lips, imaging it a little too vividly.

From the sudden flicker of his eyes, I must have given myself away. He was a hunter. The sort that thrived on the chase. My heart fluttered, an honest-to-God flutter, and almost as if he sensed it, his eyes narrowed.

Oh heck, what is he thinking now? Does he know?

Does he know that I’m imagining bad things, inappropriate things? Wholly-inappropriate-on-a-packed-train things. Like taking that white shirt off.

I sat up smartly. This was not train behaviour. It wasn’t normal behaviour. Certainly not my normal. Despite all this weird stuff going on in my brain, I held his gaze.

It hadn’t been too difficult at all at the beginning to see exactly what he was thinking.

I’m going to win. I’m going to beat you. I’m going to grind you to dust under my superior staring skills.

Now he was warier and – I was pleased to see – a little bit impressed.

Yeah, sunshine. Not so arrogant now, are you?

He does have lovely eyes though…

The train pulled in to the next station and new people crowded into the carriage. One man was even grabbed and held back by a passenger to prevent him standing in front of us. Everyone was watching us, craning their necks to keep us in their eyeline. Oh God, we were the star attraction on board. There was no way either of us could give way now.

And the cockiness was back – he’d also realised that we were the centre of attention. I was conscious of the bated breaths around us against the backdrop of the noisy rattle of the train.

God, he’s sure of himself.

His eyes bored into mine and there it was again, the tiny trip in my pulse. This was quite sexy. A power of wills. I parted my lips and just touched my upper lip with the tip of my tongue. I saw the answering glimmer in his eyes, a fractional movement of his muscles. He’d noticed all right. I shot him a sultry smile which did more harm than good because his eyes widened ever so slightly, and if I hadn’t been staring so intently at him I wouldn’t have seen it.

Bad move.

This man was not backing down from a challenge and now I’d ramped it up. No, he wasn’t going to give way, not now I’d added sex into the mix. His brows rose again and he gave me a mocking smile, with enough kilowatts of sexiness to knock me back into my seat.

Whoops, big mistake. Huge.

But a thrill of adrenaline burst through me; I felt edgy and alive. Aware of my body. Aware of the sexual buzz that thrummed through my veins.

With a sudden jolt, the train came to an abrupt halt, sending the people hanging onto the rails pitching forward. A woman in a lightweight pale blue mac lost her handhold and tumbled forward, almost landing in his lap. Instinctively he glanced her way, his hands moving to steady her.

Ha! He’d lost. He looked away first. When he turned back to me, I gave him a small grin of triumph and with a lift of my brows, shuffled my papers and made much of going back to my presentation as if he was no longer worthy of my time. I was dying to sneak a peek at him but the challenge had been won. There wasn’t going to be a rematch. I ignored the voice in my head, all for being fair and honest, arguing the case that my victory was by default.

A few minutes later, after the train lurched forward again, it slowed into Leeds City station. Standing up, startled a little by a burst of regret, I waited until he raised his head and met my eyes.

‘Good luck with your meeting,’ I said with a victor’s smile and sauntered off the train.

I’d never noticed him before on my morning commute in the last six months of walking across the park to the station. Churchstone was a relatively small place, with a population I was sure I’d read somewhere of only thirteen thousand people – a hell of a lot smaller than I was used to, given the nearly half a million that lived in Leeds, where I’d spent the previous six years.

Part of me wanted to turn back and see where he was but I resisted. Would I ever bump into him again? Although, I could do without the ‘bump’ part. I glanced down at my coffee-stained chest and groaned inwardly.

Halfway down the platform, I felt a prickling down my back and a second later he pulled level. My heart leaped at the sight of his dark, handsome face.

‘I’d have won if it hadn’t been for the interruption,’ he said.

‘Ha, you’d like to think so.’ I felt a burst of pleasure. ‘Only losers look for excuses.’

‘Excuses?’ he all but spluttered. ‘She fell into my lap.’

I shrugged, biting back a grin, as if to say, not my problem.

‘Are you always this contrary?’ he asked as we mounted the stairs.

‘I’m not contrary,’ I said indignantly. ‘Most people think I’m lovely.’

Surprising me, his mouth curved into a sudden grin which did the whole clichéd transform-his-face thing, but it really did. Those eyes really were something and he had the most perfect teeth, except the bottom ones crossed each other very slightly.

‘Okay, prove it.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ I asked.

Like a magician with a quick sleight of hand, he produced a business card between his fingers and pushed it into the top pocket of my suit with an arrogant grin, that did something to my insides. Either there were fledgling butterflies in there or I’d got a bad case of indigestion.

‘Come out for a drink with me. A week on Friday. Here’s my card. Text me.’

Chapter Two

Ashwin Laghari,

Financial Director

When I got to the office I’d flipped the card backwards and forwards over my hand. It had been ages since I’d had so much as a sniff of a date. All work and no play made Claire very dull. And I didn’t want to be dull. He’d sparked something that had lit a little glow of excitement in what was otherwise a fairly barren landscape. While sitting at my desk, something had made me send a distinctly out-of-character, playful text to Ashwin Laghari, of the sexy long legs and unusual, piercing eyes. He wasn’t having things all his own way and besides, on Friday nights I tended to stay late in the office and get as much done as I could before heading home. My reply had been:

Dinner, a week on Saturday. 8pm. The Beech House. Coffee Girl. x

I swallowed as a twinge of nerves flashed in the pit of my stomach. Ashwin Laghari. After a whole day of radio silence, he’d finally responded to my text.

You strike a hard bargain. Saturday it is. See you there.

Despite its brevity, I must have read it dozens of times over the last ten days and now here I was on Saturday afternoon, less than three hours to lift off. I’d kept my eyes peeled for him on my daily walk across the park to the train station but hadn’t seen him once. Maybe he didn’t live around here. What if he’d been on his way to work after a one-night stand? What if he was a complete womaniser?

And what if he was? I was overdue some fun. I didn’t get the impression he was a ‘for keeps’ sort of guy. Far too full of himself, but there’d been that definite sexual frisson.

Ashwin Laghari. I kept twisting his name around my tongue. I liked the sound of it. His full name had a melodic feel to it. I wondered if he had any middle names and how they’d fit. I’d have to ask him tonight. And then my sensible gene reared its prudent, forthright self.

For goodness’ sake, Claire, what is the matter with you? He’s a player. You challenged him. He waited a whole day to respond to your text. This is a game. You might have won that round insisting on Saturday instead of Friday but he wants round two. That’s all.

But less-sensible me, who seemed to be determined by my hormones, suggested that maybe he had also felt that sexual frisson and was keen to explore it too.

Armed with his name, I’d done a little bit of research. No more than you’d do before meeting a new business colleague. Not full-on stalking. A bit of LinkedIn, a quick trawl of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Okay, I might have done a search on Google images. Just to remind myself what he looked like, in case after intensively staring at his face for those fifteen minutes I’d forgotten some aspect of his features. He cropped up in all his gorgeousness a couple of times, always in a suit shaking the hand of some important guy. LinkedIn had given me plenty of information. Graduate from Leeds with a first in Mechanical Engineering. Two years with First Direct and then a move to London and stellar promotions ever since and then back north. Clearly, he was a smart cookie.

Why, oh why, had I chosen The Beech House? Intimate, quiet, with perfect ambient lighting. Ideal for a romantic date. I should have selected somewhere swankier, more contemporary and more show off-y where the staff squinted at you as if you were beneath contempt and everything was far too much trouble for them.

The fussy, friendly maître d’ greeted me with a smile of pleasure, briefly dousing my shimmering nerves, which had been making themselves felt ever since I raced into my flat from my sister Alice’s to get ready. I’d managed to fob her off last Saturday but couldn’t avoid it today. An afternoon’s hedge trimming had left me a sweaty, bug-infested mess and now the butterflies in my stomach were manically trying to beat their way out. Why was I so damn nervous?

‘I’ve booked a table for two.’ I paused, wiping my slightly damp palms on my favourite black trousers.

‘The name?’ he asked.

Playing it cool, I hadn’t responded to the last text when he’d asked for my name. Ashwin Laghari only knew me as Coffee Girl. I said it, maintaining eye contact with the man as if this was a perfectly acceptable name and there was nothing out of the ordinary with it.

‘Certainly, madam.’ He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Allow me. The gentleman has already arrived.’

I followed him, weaving through cosy candlelit tables, towards the back of the restaurant, wishing he’d slow down a little. My legs felt a little unsteady and my tongue had already glued itself to the roof of my mouth. This was ridiculous. I’d met and conversed easily with people from all over the world, talked to conference audiences over a thousand strong and presented to chief executives and board directors all the time and never betrayed a flicker of what I was feeling.

Stiffening my spine and tilting my chin, I sucked in a breath and two seconds later I was at the table and the waiter melted away.

Ashwin Laghari was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered and so was the slightly mocking smile. He stood up.

‘You came,’ he said, his voice deeper and more mellow than I had recalled.

‘I did,’ I said, sliding onto the chair opposite him.

He suddenly grinned. ‘Busy on Friday, were you?’

‘No,’ I paused for a minute before giving him a catlike smile; he didn’t need to know that I’d been at work until nine, ‘but I wanted to put you in your place.’

‘Why didn’t I guess as much?’ Those fascinating eyes twinkled at me. ‘Am I allowed to know your name?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure it’s been worth waiting for. Do you have any middle names, Ashwin Laghari?’

‘I’m always Ash to my friends.’ His eyes dipped to my mouth. ‘Although I like the way you say my name.’

‘I like it too,’ I said, feeling flirtatious and mysterious but not quite enough to dare to say it again.

‘No middle names.’

‘Good,’ I said. I didn’t like the thought of them disturbing the melodic symmetry of his name.

‘When you search for Coffee Girl on LinkedIn, it’s not that informative.’

‘Leeds. First. Mechanical Engineering. Currently at Beechwood Harrington,’ I quipped.

‘Unfair advantage.’

‘Claire Harrison. Manchester. First. Currently at Cunningham, Wilding and Taylor.’ I paused and, unable to help myself, gave him a direct, sultry look and lowered my voice to say, ‘Now we’re equal.’

If only that were true. He was clearly self-possessed and brilliant whereas for the last couple of weeks, no matter how hard I worked, I felt like I was sinking into quicksand. There never seemed to be enough time in the day to do anything.

He smiled back, his voice laden with darkness and said, ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be equal.’ The knowing look did something to my pulse. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine.’ He gave me another look.

‘What, no champagne?’ I said as he lifted the bottle of very, very expensive red wine.

‘You don’t strike me as a champagne girl. That would be too much of a cliché. I chose something deeper, darker, and smoother.’

I raised an eyebrow at this blatant smooth-talking bollocks.

His face creased into a grin. ‘And it’s a bloody nice wine. Usually the champagne they have in these places isn’t the best. Would you like to try some? I gambled on you drinking red, but if you don’t, I can order something else.’

‘Lucky punt,’ I said, lifting my glass and letting him pour a mouthful for me to try. I lifted the glass, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. ‘Nice, very nice.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a lift of one eyebrow.

God, he was one cocky git but I couldn’t help liking his sheer arrogant confidence. Somehow it was reassuring that he was so in command of himself and – I couldn’t believe I was thinking it – quite sexy.

We lifted our glasses in a toast. ‘Cheers,’ I said.

‘To ill-advised meetings,’ he said.

I stared at the rich ruby colour, suddenly a little shy. That almost sounded like… as if he were taking this seriously. I wasn’t expecting this to go anywhere. Gorgeous as he was, I’d pigeon-holed him in the laddish box. For him, this whole date was a challenge. Yes, there’d been sexual chemistry and I suspected he might use it to try and talk me into bed, but he was a work-hard, play-hard city-type. I didn’t expect to see him again after tonight and, to be honest, did I even have the time?

‘How did your meeting go? With the board and the CEO from London.’

I glanced up at him, surprised he’d remembered. He actually appeared interested. Okay, now that was smooth.

‘It went well, thanks.’ In fact, it was ancient history. I was already preparing for the next big meeting. ‘How about yours?’

‘Given that I was wearing a Marks & Spencer suit, very well. Good tip by the way. Thank you. I got my PA to postpone the meeting for half an hour and I was the first customer into the store that morning. Fastest purchase ever, I reckon.’

‘I’m impressed… that you followed my advice.’

‘I think I might have thought of it myself.’

‘Yes,’ I paused, ‘but you might have resisted out of sheer pig-headedness.’ There was another of our direct eye-meets and my lips twitched as he laughed, twinkly-eyed and appreciative.

‘Was I that ungrateful? Sorry, I was a bit stressed that morning. Stupid eh? I can barely remember what the meeting was about now.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if about to impart a great secret, ‘And do you know what?’

I shook my head. He peered covertly around the restaurant before whispering. ‘No one noticed it wasn’t designer.’ Widening his eyes to emphasise the point, he added, still in a whisper, ‘I’ve worn it all week.’

I burst out laughing. ‘So you’re a convert now?’

‘Too right. I’ve been a mug, spending ridiculous sums of money on suits when no other bugger can tell the damn difference. I even asked Gav what he thought of my new suit. And he thought it was a Hugo Boss.’ He grinned at me and I smiled back, our eyes meeting with a flash of warmth. ‘What about you?’

‘My PA brought in the most hideous shirt in mint green with this huge bow on the front. Remember Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served?’

Those sexy eyebrows rose. ‘Wasn’t she the one with the naughty pussy?’

I almost choked on the wine. Although his face was deadpan, his eyes danced with devilment.

Trying to keep it cool, I ignored his words. ‘It clashed horribly with my suit. It almost drowned me as well. I must have looked ridiculous.’

‘I can’t imagine that.’ He eyed my outfit, which was insanely expensive but totally understated. ‘I imagine you’re always immaculate.’ I liked the way his gaze didn’t linger on my cleavage. His voice softened and, to my surprise, he said, ‘You look lovely.’

He nodded his head towards my soft black jersey top with tiny specks of silver woven into the fabric, which I’d chosen deliberately to hide my gardening wounds. I was covered in scratches from that bloody hedge I’d trimmed for Alice. As a result, it hadn’t been my first choice. I’d wanted to wear a sleeveless black vest which I’d initially thought would be far sexier but now I realised from his appreciative expression that this was more subtle. The soft fabric clinging to my skin hinted at what was underneath rather than blatantly displaying everything for show. Maybe I had something to thank Alice for after all.

It was, however, a little warm and without thinking, perhaps because I’d relaxed after his unexpected compliments and sudden seriousness, I pushed back my sleeves and rested my arms on the table.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked, reaching out to touch my arms. ‘Are you okay?’ There was genuine concern in his eyes.

I smiled back at him, my voice a little breathless. ‘I’m fine. Just a run-in with a hedge.’

‘You challenged it to unarmed combat?’

‘Yes, I’m a regular garden ninja.’

Despite a soak in the bath, my arms were worse now because I’d had some kind of allergic reaction. Ash reached over the table and touched one of the many welts on my forearm. His barely-there touch sparked a tingle on my skin. I glanced up sharply and his eyes were kind rather than mocking. ‘You probably want some Savlon on those.’

I gave my arm a rueful rub and rolled my shoulders. ‘Every bit of me seems to be aching.’ Why was I telling him that? Oh God, would he think I was sending out invitations to give me an all-over massage?

‘Do you do a lot of gardening?’

‘No, I’ve moved recently and the previous owners, Lord love them, thankfully created a very low-maintenance garden. Keeping a basil plant alive is the sum total of my green-fingered accomplishments. These scars came from my sister needing help with her garden.’

‘And you can’t say no to sisters.’

‘Sadly no,’ I sighed.

‘I get it too. My sister calls on my services a lot. I’ve no idea why. Do I look like a DIY expert to you?’ He held up artistic hands with long, elegant fingers.

It gave me the opportunity to take stock of him, instead of the surreptitious checking out I’d been doing since I arrived. He wore a grey V-neck T-shirt, which fitted rather well, the soft jersey moulding to a broad chest, the dip of the vee revealing a few crisp, dark hairs.

No, he didn’t look like a DIY expert; he looked flipping gorgeous. Absolutely edible, and I wanted to peel that T-shirt right off him, touch his golden skin, smooth a hand over that chest and run my fingers across the firm biceps beneath his T-shirt sleeves. I wanted… His mesmerising eyes darkened, the pupils wide.

My breath caught in my throat. The pause in the conversation stretched out as we stared at each other, the same fizz of sexual tension in the air that I’d sensed the first time we met.

I knew then that I was going to throw all caution to the wind. I was going to sleep with Ashwin Laghari. I was going to revel in touching every inch of his skin, stare into those delicious eyes and enjoy every minute of exploring that hot body.

And he wasn’t going to be saying no. His hand was on my forearm again, stroking my wrist, his eyes holding mine.

His smile was gentle rather than triumphant; it felt like the gamesmanship had died. Somehow, both of us had relaxed – and more – into the evening.

I’m not sure how long we’d have enjoyed that sexually-charged silence but it was interrupted by the waiter coming to take our orders. Of course, we hadn’t so much as glanced at the menu. Suddenly I really wasn’t that hungry and food seemed an obstacle in the way of the evening.

‘So you have a sister,’ I said.

‘And a brother. And my sister seems to think DIY is part of my DNA. She’s a brain surgeon, for God’s sake. She’s licensed to use a scalpel.’

‘A surgeon.’ I was impressed.

‘Of course.’ In the candlelight, his skin glowed like warm honey and he smiled. ‘My sister’s a surgeon. My brother’s a barrister.’ At this he grinned cheerfully. ‘My mum is a real tiger mum. She’s white. Dad’s a doctor, born here; his dad is Indian, came over from Uganda just before Idi Amin kicked the Asian population out in the seventies. What about you? Brothers, sisters?’

‘Just one. Alice. Single mum. I have two nieces.’

‘You close?’

I sputtered out a laugh. ‘Not especially. Alice prefers a more alternative lifestyle. She doesn’t really approve of corporates.’

‘She’d hate me.’

I wrinkled my nose and nodded. ‘Yeah, probably.’

‘Good job you don’t give a toss about what she thinks then,’ he said with an arrogant laugh.

‘Are you always this sure of yourself?’ I asked.

‘Pretty much. What’s the point otherwise?’ His eyes met mine, guileless and direct. ‘You could spend a lifetime worrying about what others think of you and where would that get you? Would you rather I lie to you and pretend to be modest?’

‘No,’ I laughed. I rather like his unashamed arrogance. ‘So what do you do when you’re not spraying coffee over unsuspecting commuters or working?’

‘The usual. Gym. See friends. You know… the job’s pretty all encompassing.’

Gym. Friends. It didn’t sound like much. And if he were like me, I knew the type of friends he meant. People you drank with after work. The others tended to drift away when you cancelled things once too often. I nodded in sympathy. ‘Don’t I know it.’

‘But if you enjoy it then none of that really matters.’ Ash’s gaze was steady but I caught the question buried in the words.

‘Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?’ The words came out before I was ready for them and I was halfway to thinking of a way to retract the comment when I realised Ash was considering my words quite carefully.

‘Yes.’ He rested his chin on his hand. In the clipped, unencumbered word, I felt a ripple of unease that mirrored my own.

‘Succinct.’

‘I was trying to think of the best way to put it into words. There’s a fear, isn’t there? Deep rooted, submerged, but it’s there. What if it isn’t worth it? What if the hours we put in aren’t worth the stress? What’s left?’

For a moment we held each other’s gazes as if the other was some kind of lifeline, holding fast against the emptiness of the answer. One that neither of us really wanted to visit. What drove us? Was it fear or lack of courage? The moment of honesty shimmered between us and I felt as if we’d taken a step below the surface. We were more alike than we’d realised.

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It scares me sometimes. Maybe that’s why I keep working so hard, to fill the void. Because without work, I’m not sure… I’m not sure what I’d have.’

Or who I was? In the office I was the invincible go-getter, a role model, and the epitome of success. I avoided thinking about life outside of work and luckily there wasn’t too much of it because my job was all consuming.

‘Which is why there’s a lot to be said for job satisfaction,’ I said, feeling the need for firmer ground. For a moment I’d strayed into quicksand that had no place in my life. Those sorts of thoughts belonged to dead-of-night insomniac moments, when a person questioned life, the universe, and everything, not just the unremitting pressure of their job. Pressure came with the territory. ‘Not everyone has that. Imagine being in a job that you hate.’

‘Can’t.’ He gave a mock shudder which immediately lifted the shadow that had touched our conversation. ‘I guess we are both lucky in that way. I love my job.’

‘Me too. Although it’s been a busy week and I’m absolutely knackered.’ I deliberately lightened my tone, signalling that we’d left that line of philosophical enquiry behind but I was aware – and so, I could tell from his steady regard, was he – of that moment of connection between us.

‘Do you always get the early train?’ Ash didn’t comment on my uncharacteristic admission of weakness for which I was fervently grateful. Like me, he probably despised weakness. ‘How come I’ve never seen you before?’

‘Because you weren’t looking,’ I responded with a twisted, cool smile, feeling a little more myself.

He gave me an equally cool look and we were back to being sparring partners again. ‘I’d have noticed you… the attitude at the very least. You walk like a power house.’

‘That sounds… not attractive.’ But I rather liked it all the same. Anything else might have been a cliché.

‘With purpose, determination. Like you know exactly where you’re going and why. In my book, that’s very attractive.’

He said it without the flirtatious smirk and that made the compliment all the sweeter.

‘I like a woman who knows herself.’

‘That’s good then. A lot of men are intimidated by that.’

‘You’ve just had poor taste in men.’

‘Did I say they were relationships?’

‘You didn’t need to.’

‘Arrogant, much?’

‘Yeah. I reckon I’ve earned it. And so have you.’

‘Arrogant is all right for a man. Women tend to get called big headed, up herself, too big for her boots.’

Ash shrugged. ‘There aren’t many women where I work. And sadly, I agree. They don’t get treated equally, despite all the HR policies that say otherwise.’

‘Which is why I have to work five times as hard to prove I’m “suitable for partnership”. Hence where we came in. Is it worth it?’

‘I guess it will be when you make partner. Is it likely?’

‘I bloody hope so. I feel like I’m jumping through enough flaming hoops. That morning… my presentation was supposed to nail it but they want me to complete another project, naturally with impossible deadlines, which of course I will deliver because I always do.’ I said it blithely, as if impossible deadlines and leaping over burning skyscrapers were all in a day’s work, but actually this latest project was giving me sleepless nights. This time the deadlines really were impossible but I’d never missed a deadline in my life and I wasn’t about to start now.

After the meal we finished coffee, followed by flaming sambucas, which prolonged the evening. The sky was deepening to a purple hue when we came out of the restaurant and my nerves kicked in again.

I had a first-date rule: don’t sleep with him.

‘I’ll walk you home.’ We’d already identified during dinner that we both lived on the south side of the park. It was a purely practical suggestion. I was not going to sleep with him. ‘Are you happy to walk through the park?’

‘Yes.’ Victoria Park was the jewel in the crown of Churchstone, a proper municipal park with regimented borders bursting with colour in every season, well-lit with traditional iron curlicued lamps that guarded the wide paths like benign sentries.

I gave him a considering appraisal, enjoying taking another look at his body. My libido purred into life and I had to force my hands down by my sides and fight against the sudden urge to smooth my fingers over the jersey fabric covering his chest.

‘I bet you could fight off any marauding teenagers. I wouldn’t normally walk through there at this time of night.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.’ To my surprise, he took my hand and squeezed it in an old-fashioned sort of gesture. And he didn’t let go. He laced his fingers between mine and we began to walk, hand in hand, towards the park.

Those wretched butterflies had taken flight again and were getting in a right old tizzy at the touch of his warm skin on mine and the way our forearms bumped as we walked. When we entered the cool seclusion of the park, lit by the pools of lamplight, cedar scenting the air with its distinctive pencil-shaving smell, it felt as if there were magic in the air. An almost-full moon painted the trees silver and bathed the shrubs in a soft light. Conscious of our solitude, the slow pace of his footsteps in tandem with mine, and the warm caress of his hand, my mind went into overdrive. What if he invited me back for coffee? I didn’t want the evening to end. I’d want to say yes, but everyone knew what that meant. But if I said yes but didn’t plan to sleep with him, should I say so at the outset? Then there’d be no confusion. No expectation.

‘I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to sleep with you,’ I mused out loud. We’d been honest with each other throughout dinner and I wanted it out there, up for discussion.

‘I wasn’t aware I’d asked you to,’ he responded, his voice deep and smooth.

‘No, I know, but we’re both thinking about it.’

He’d stopped under one of the lamps, the light casting shadows over his face. Amusement danced in his eyes.

‘Does that mean you want to?’ he asked, with a lift of that eyebrow again. He was a cocky sod.

‘Yes, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea or not.’ Thank goodness in the monochrome light, he couldn’t see my blush because, as forthright as I sounded, I was only being like this because I really did fancy him and since the first day I met him there’d been that innate, if somewhat combative, honesty between us. ‘I’m still trying to work out if you’re a… womaniser,’ I paused to select the word. I also wanted to know whether he habitually slept around. He was certainly good-looking and confident enough to. I bet he had plenty of offers.

Over dinner there’d been no mention of previous relationships and I hadn’t wanted to probe. Was it because I didn’t want to be disappointed in him? Because I wanted to preserve the mystery about Ashwin Laghari? No one could deny he was gorgeous but he did seem to take it for granted. His arrogance was based on self-confidence and ability rather than vanity.

‘What do you think?’ he asked without any nuance in his voice. I knew he wanted honesty as much as I did.

‘I’d like to think not but… the good-looks fairy certainly spent a lot of time in your department and with the city-boy lifestyle there’s a certain reputation.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t have time for one relationship let alone more than one. Or were you asking if I’m predilected towards one-night stands?’

‘I guess, yes. I was also trying to determine when you last slept with someone? Last night? Last week? Last month? Last year?’

An unexpected stab of jealousy pricked at the thought of him in bed with someone else.

‘Ah. You want to know if I sleep around.’ His eyes narrowed and a smile danced around his lips. ‘Do you?’

‘No. I pride myself on this thing called self-respect but…’ I gave him a superior look. ‘If I want to sleep with someone, I’m not ashamed of it.’

‘Good for you. I don’t sleep around,’ he smirked. ‘Not so sure about the self-respect. I’m fussy.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m very choosy about who I sleep with. I don’t like going back to strange places. Unknown quantities. I like places to be clean and tidy. And I don’t like taking people back to my place.’

‘Clean bedsheets,’ I quipped. ‘No hair in the shower.’

He gave me a sharp glance, as if I were taking the piss. I held up my hands. ‘I’m serious. I’m a neat freak and I like things to be clean, especially bed sheets.’ I shuddered. ‘I shared a flat with a girl at university who didn’t wash her sheets for the whole term.’

‘That,’ said Ash. ‘Exactly that.’ He shot me an evil grin. ‘Sounds like we might be a match.’ There was unmistakable challenge in his words. ‘And to answer your question. At least six months ago. Can I ask you a question?’

‘Over a year ago,’ I said. ‘I’m choosy too.’ There, right back at you.

His lips quirked. ‘That wasn’t my question.’ For about the second time in ten minutes, I blushed scarlet to the very tips of my ears. I wasn’t anywhere near as sophisticated in the sexual-relationships department as I wanted to sound. That was the problem when you put everything into your career. Your sex life took the hit. Competent and confident in the boardroom, inexperienced and a bit daunted in the bedroom.

He took a step forward and put both hands on my waist, holding me gently, his eyes roving over my face, suddenly soft. ‘I was going to ask if I could kiss you?’

For all his arrogance, Ash completely had me with his softly voiced question. The bottom of my stomach fell away and all those pesky butterflies took flight, a cloud around me, brushing my skin with tingles of excited awareness.

His eyes held mine as I nodded, just the once, too fizzy to utter a word. My heart pitter pattered like a crazy thing in my chest but outside everything seemed to freeze and stand still when his lips touched mine. I hardly dared breathe for fear of spoiling the perfect moment. It was a kiss so perfect, I knew I’d remember this moment in the pooling lamplight. Every second would be burned into my memory banks, sealed into its own little vault. Our noses didn’t bump. His teeth didn’t knock mine. His mouth wasn’t hard, pushing against mine. Featherlight, his lips skimmed in a barely-there kiss. Our skin brushed lightly. I slid my arms around his neck, wanting to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.

Then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine and he gave me a smile of such sweetness it completely tugged at my heart strings. I lifted my mouth to his and kissed him, feeling the hitch of his breath as my lips skated over his in gentle exploration, savouring the exquisite sensation of skin on skin. With a gentle exhalation, his fingers on my waist tightened and he pulled me closer, chest to chest, deepening the kiss.

After a while, we both pulled apart. I felt a little dazed.

‘That was quite a kiss, Coffee Girl.’

‘You’re quite a kisser, Ashwin Laghari.’

He laughed and squeezed my waist. ‘No one ever calls me that, you know, but I rather like it when you do. You make me sound like some sexy magician.’

With those beguiling kisses he definitely had a touch of magic about him.

‘Would you like to come back to my place? I promise my sheets are clean.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not because I was hoping to score tonight… I thought you might be too much of a ballbreaker.’

‘Charming. What changed your mind?’

‘Because inside, I think we have a lot more in common than either of us would like to admit. And, just for the record, I always do my laundry on Saturday.’

Chapter Three

‘Claire, can I have a word? It’s urgent. My office in ten.’

My heart sank at Alastair’s words. It was five to eight on Monday morning and I’d literally just walked through the door – in fact, almost walked into the door frame I was so tired and my eyesight was a little blurry. Stay calm, Claire. You got the report done. It’s all cool. I heaved out a sigh, punch drunk with fatigue. I’d pulled an all-nighter to get the damned thing done.

‘Morning, Claire. Good weekend?’ Karen, the HR director, grinned at me as she ducked her head into my office.

‘It was actually.’ I grinned back, suddenly boosted by the memory of waking up in Ash’s bed on Sunday morning.

‘Anything you want to share?’

‘Not just now.’ I gave her a mischievous smile. ‘Maybe over a glass of prosecco, one night.’

‘Just let me know when.’

‘Might not be this week.’ I winced. As she walked off with a cheery wave over her shoulder, I let myself take an indulgent dip into the memories of Saturday night and Sunday morning.

I’d woken late on Sunday. Sadly, the delicious lassitude of my muscles had long since dissipated but thinking about Ash’s body moving over mine, the breathless sighs of both of us and the delicious intimacy we’d shared, warmed me as I sat down at my desk. God, he’d been lovely. A considerate, passionate, thoughtful and, I thought with a sudden naughty smile, very inventive lover. That competitive streak in both of us had pushed us to challenge each other well beyond limits that I suspected normally bound us. I almost groaned out loud at the deliciousness of his shuddering uncontrolled orgasm and the sheer feminine satisfaction that I, Claire, had been able to bring a man to this. Not that he’d been without his own power. I’d never had sex like it and was still a little surprised by my own loss of control and the way I’d begged him, gasping, ‘please, please, please’ over and over again.

Even now I was getting a little hot and bothered at the recollection of the way our bodies had moved together.

I’d woken up on Sunday immediately aware of where I was and smiling at the weight of Ash’s arm draped over my back and the sun streaming in through the window. We’d been in far too much haste to bother with things like closing curtains. That smile vanished quickly when I realised the time. I’d felt a little sick when I saw it was half past nine.

‘I’m sorry, Ash, I’ve got to go.’ I pulled off the sheets but he tugged me back.

‘Not even a good morning kiss,’ he teased, pulling me down onto his warm body. He was impossible to resist but eventually I forced myself to sit up. ‘I really have to go. I have so much to do. I’ve got this big report to hand in on Monday and I’m…’ My stomach had turned over at just how much I had to do and how much time I’d lost helping my sister yesterday. Alice and her bloody hedge. If it weren’t for her, I might have been able to give in to the temptation of slow Sunday-morning sex. I was beginning to recognise the familiar signs of stress creeping through my body.

‘Hey, don’t look so worried. I get it. My laptop’s calling me too.’

‘And the boy gets the prize,’ I quipped with a grateful smile. He really did understand.

‘I’m with you, Claire. I completely understand.’

I kissed him smartly on the nose, wishing like crazy I could kiss that lush mouth and go back for round two. It was possibly my biggest regret for a very long time. I hated having to drag myself away.

At the front door, Ash gave me a long, heated kiss that had us both breathing heavily.

‘Who needs exercise? This is definitely pushing up my heart rate,’ said Ash, pushing my hair back over my shoulder.

‘I wish I could stay.’

‘Don’t worry.’

He kissed me again and it was another minute before I came up for air. ‘I really do have to go.’

‘I know.’ He bent and teased my lips again. I felt my resolve weakening but fear raised its ugly head. There was a chance I might not get the report done in time.

‘I’ve got to go.’ I pulled away and put a good metre between us so I wouldn’t be tempted again.

‘I’ll text you tomorrow. Dinner Friday?’

I grinned at him. ‘Or Saturday.’

He raised a cocky eyebrow in response. ‘You don’t need to play hard to get now. I’ve already had you.’

‘Or I had you.’ I tilted my head with a superior smile and turned and walked away, wishing with every step that I could have stayed.

Even now, on Monday morning, I was still rather pleased with that quip and the accompanying smile carried me all the way to Alastair’s office. Just outside, my phone beeped and I paused. Normally I’d have ignored my phone but a slew of distracting texts yesterday had reprogrammed my response to the text alert.

Morning, sexy girl. Hope you slept well. Looking forward to Friday. x

I glanced at Alastair’s closed door.

Morning, Ashwin Laghari. Could have sworn we said Saturday. x

Before I could even put my phone back in my pocket, the message came back.

How about we compromise… and do both. xxx

I smiled and, inside my chest, my heart did a funny little bunny hop of happiness.

‘There you are, Claire.’ Alastair, a man of few words, waved me in. ‘The Ashdown Report—’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all done. I just need to get Ros to print off a dozen copies, bind, and distribute them.’

‘Ah, that’s why I wanted to see you. The client’s had a change of heart. They’ve decided that they’d like to look at a different sector of the construction industry, education rather than retail. I’m afraid we’re going to have to start again.’

That would be the royal we, would it?

‘And I know education isn’t your area of expertise but you’re a quick study and we’ve got all the stats and data on the market.’

Yes we did but they weren’t at one’s finger tips. We would take some time digging them up.

‘Won’t take someone like you that long to get up to speed.’

No, not more than a day or so.

‘Obviously we’ll bill them for your hours to date, so it’s not a problem.’ His smile was optimistic. ‘You know how it is. What the client wants, the client gets.’

I kept a bland smile on my face. Not a problem? No, not for you mate. That flaming report had taken hours and hours. I’d worked all last night, finishing at four and waking at six. I’d had two hours of pretty shitty, restless sleep. Linking my fingers, I twisted them together wondering what he might say if I slammed both hands on the desk and told him what he could do with his ‘what the client wants’ line.

‘They want it by the end of the week. Not going to be a problem, is it?’

Of course, it wasn’t; it never was, but bloody Alastair was already looking at his computer screen. Dismissed, I turned and walked out, every step weary. I’d only walked a few paces when I realised something odd was happening to me. My throat was doing a strange convulsing thing and I couldn’t seem to control the odd hiccoughing in my diaphragm. No! I was not, not, not going to cry.

Oh God, I’m going to cry.

Picking up my pace, I darted to the ladies’ loo, praying there were no other eager beavers in this morning. Slamming one of the doors and fumbling with the lock, I dropped onto the loo seat and sank my head in my hands. The Ashdown report had taken over a week to perfect. Pulling a whole new report together by Friday on top of everything else I needed to do this week… shit. The sob bubbled in my throat and I gasped, trying to fight against it. I did not cry at work. Never. I sucked in a deep breath. Held on to it. Breathed out slowly.

Breathe, Claire. Breathe.

Even with the slow, careful breathing, it took a whole ten minutes before I felt as if I could even stand up. It was just extreme tiredness. Two hours of sleep did that to a body. I had this. I could do the report. It would just take a lot of hours.

I finally emerged from the ladies, fifteen long, panicky minutes later and strode to my office, rolling up my metaphorical sleeves as I went. I could do this.

When I finally allowed myself the treat of checking my messages at half past six, hoping there might be a few texts from Ash, my spirits nose-dived when I realised there hadn’t been anything since the first ones this morning. I read them again, a little sunshine dancing in my heart. He’d obviously had as busy a day as me. The thought gave me a sense of solidarity. Me and Ash hard at work, both bossing it. We were so similar above and below the surface.

There was a text from my mother.

Hi darling, can we change the time tomorrow? Could you make it 6pm instead of 7.30? See you soon xxx

I closed my eyes. Damn, I’d completely forgotten. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone.

‘Hi Mum, it’s Claire.’

‘Hi, darling. Did you get my text?’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m ringing. I’m not going to be able—’

‘Claire, don’t you dare say you’re not coming.’

‘Mum, I can’t. I’ve just been given—’

‘But darling, it’s the last time we’ll see you before we go.’

‘I know, Mum—’

‘We’ll be gone for four months.’

To be fair, with Mum and Dad’s imminent departure on a four-month cruise, tomorrow’s date had been reserved for two weeks. It was a measure of my state of mind that I’d forgotten. I normally kept a pretty good handle on my diary.

‘Okay, Mum. But let’s stick to seven-thirty.’ That would allow a couple of additional hours in the office.

‘But then it’s late for the girls and Alice wants to leave at a reasonable hour because she has a yoga class in the morning.’

Alice had a yoga class! I rubbed at my forehead trying to ease the tightening bands of headache gathering there. Bully for bloody, bendy Alice.

‘Well, she should have thought about that, earlier. We said seven-thirty two weeks ago.’

‘Claire, please,’ sighed my mother in her familiar referee voice. ‘Your Dad and I really want to see you before we go. And you work far too hard, darling. Take a night off.’

If it weren’t for the fact that this really was the only chance I’d see them for four months, I might have stood my ground.

‘I’ll see you at six, then,’ I said with finality and hung up, annoyed at myself for being annoyed at Alice for derailing the evening.

That was her default. Derailing things. At sixteen she announced she was pregnant, on the morning of my first A-level exam. You try concentrating after that bombshell. Conscious that she was missing the best years of her life, my parents became surrogate parents themselves rather than grandparents. A huge mistake, in my opinion. Somehow Alice managed to get pregnant a second time with Ava, just four years after Poppy.

In recent years, my parents had bought her a small terraced house in Churchstone. It was pure chance I’d moved to the same small market town six months ago. The gorgeous perfection of the house more than made up for its proximity to my sister.

Amazingly, on first viewing, it had ticked every box on my extremely detailed – I overhead the estate agent use the word ‘demanding’ – list and instantly I knew it was my Instagram perfect I’ve-made-it home. Or rather, it would be when I got round to finding the right workmen to do the renovations and chose some decent furniture. Bizarrely, it had been the one and only time I’d gone with my gut and it had been the biggest purchase of my life.

I winced and woke up my computer. The last thing I had time for right now was daydreaming how my house might look one day. If I didn’t get this blasted report done, I could kiss goodbye to a partnership and then buying the house would have been a complete waste of time.

But I did have one thing to do. I picked up my phone, smiling again at Ash’s earlier text and sent one back.

I have been known to compromise but don’t get used to it. x

Chapter Four

I checked my emails and my palms turned clammy. Twelve already and it was only ten past nine. I studied the busy receptionist and prayed that the doctor was running to time. I was going to be an hour late into work. If the festering wound on my arm from trimming Alice’s hedge hadn’t started leaking greenish stuff I probably would have cancelled today’s appointment.

I typed a couple of quick responses to my emails, although it was like a game of whack-a-mole. No sooner had I answered five, another six had popped up.

With a heavy sigh, out of habit rather than any real hope, I checked my text messages.

Nothing. The familiar lump in my throat rose. Not one text from Ashwin Laghari in over two weeks.

Whatever had happened with him had burned fast and furious and like a firework. It had clearly been a one-time-only deal but it still left this odd, hollow pain in my chest.

I reread, for what must have been the hundred millionth time, the last text he’d sent. What had made him change his mind?

Hadn’t that brief, sizzling connection meant anything to him? I’d shared with him a glimpse of my fears because I’d thought he understood. The rejection hit hard. I’d even cried again at work one day but that had probably had as much to do with realising I was going to miss the Ashdown report deadline. It was the one and only deadline I’d ever missed and it felt like a huge great blot on my career. And the more I worried about it, the more I struggled to meet the next deadline and the one after that. It was as if I was caught upside down in some whirlwind and I couldn’t right myself.

‘Let’s have a look then,’ said Dr Boulter with a kind smile.

I rolled up my sleeve to show him the gash – thanks, Alice’s hedge – which had not healed properly and had been looking decidedly manky for weeks and this morning had reached a whole new level of manky. Around the wound my skin was red and inflamed and had acquired a furnace-level heat. My whole forearm was now tender to the touch.

‘Ouch.’ With gentle gloved fingers he prodded my arm and a glistening gob of greenish yellow pus welled up and oozed from the jagged edges. I flinched.

‘This is nasty. How long has it been like that?’

‘Er… a couple of weeks,’ I admitted, shamefaced.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why haven’t you been to see me before now? You’ve got a nasty infection. This needs antibiotics.’

For some stupid reason, tears filled my eyes and I had to swallow back the lump that had, if I was honest, taken up permanent residence in my throat.

‘Claire?’

That was the problem when your GP was an old golf buddy of your dad’s and had known you from when you were in ankle socks. No, I certainly didn’t come to see him about women’s things, instead opting for one of the female doctors in the practice, but I did come for minor things like stupid, flipping scratches that refused to heal.

Ashwin Laghari – bugger his gorgeous, indifferent soul – had probably been right about the Savlon but in that glorious immediate-post-date haze I’d completely forgotten about applying antibiotic cream. Yeah, I was holding him personally responsible for my infected arm. The bastard.

‘Claire?’ Dr Boulter’s voice broke into my thoughts. Damn, he was being kind. I didn’t want kind. I wanted brusque and curt.

‘Claire?’ he asked again gently as I struggled to stem the rising flood of tears. Shit, this was embarrassing. But it was no good. They were on a roll, and I knew I’d lost it when the sob burst free.

Suddenly I was in floods of tears and I had no idea why, and he was handing over tissues from the box on his desk. Snuffly and snotty, I grabbed them like a life belt but as fast as I mopped up, a fresh burst of sobs thrust their way out

Finally I was able to stutter, ‘Oh God, I’m… I don’t know w-what’s w-wrong with m-me.’

He gave me a kind but stern look. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s… nothing. Just… ev-everything. Just a lot on at work. It’s quite full-on at the moment.’ I found myself taking the step off the cliff. ‘I’ve got this horrible feeling that something bad is going to happen all the time and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Last night?’

I pulled a face as I acknowledged the truth. ‘Well, actually, I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’m just so tired.’ Since missing my deadline, my confidence seemed to have crumbled. My anxiety levels were through the roof and I didn’t seem to be able to get them under control. Making the slightest decision at work suddenly had me tied up in knots. It terrified me. I’d always known what to do.

‘Are you eating properly?’ He eyed my face and I knew he was taking in the dark shadows under my eyes and the gaunt hollows under my cheekbones.

The gallic shrug didn’t fool him.

Five minutes later, while I was still feeling light-headed from the aftermath of the emotional outburst, he weighed me, took my blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes and asked lots of searching questions, especially about work.

After releasing the cuff on my arm, he sat heavily in his chair and pulled the lid from his fountain pen, holding it poised over a white pad he’d pulled out from the top drawer of his desk.

‘I think you’re suffering from stress, Claire. Your blood pressure is 180/100.’

I shrugged. ‘Everyone gets stressed at work. It’s okay, I just need to catch up on some sleep.’

‘No, Claire.’ Now Dr Boulter was brusque and curt. ‘You need to take a complete break.’

I laughed defensively. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve got far too much to do.’

He studied me through narrowed eyes and then began writing on the pad. ‘I’m going to sign you off from work for a month and give you some medication to reduce your blood pressure.’

‘What? No. I’m… I’m not that stressed. I mean, I’m a bit on edge and over-tired.’

He sat back in his chair, lifted his chin and then pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. ‘Do you have one of those?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly, so please extend me the professional courtesy of knowing what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job.’ His serious tones shocked me. I’d never heard him speak like that before.

I stared at him for a moment before finding the words and it was only fear that gave them a voice.

‘But a month? That’s a long time. I can’t be off for a month. Can’t I just have the medication for my blood pressure? I’ll try to take it a bit easier.’

Didn’t he understand that if I took a month off my career could be over? People at my level didn’t take time off for stress.

‘If I believed you for a minute, I might consider it. This has been a long time coming, Claire. The last time you came to see me, I gave you the benefit of the doubt because you said it had been a particularly busy month. I can’t overlook it again. You need to look at your whole lifestyle. Start eating properly. Taking more exercise. And in the short term taking some time away from work.’

‘But—’

He held up a hand. ‘If I said you had a broken leg and couldn’t walk on it for a month, what would you do?’

I stared mutinously at him.

‘Your mind needs a rest. The work will be still be there. In fact, you need to talk to your HR people about your workload. You’ve said yourself that the department is a person down. They need to sort that out.’

Well of course they did, but complaining about such things was below my paygrade. I was the capable, efficient one. People like me did not get signed off with stress.

Apparently I was wrong. They did. Starting with immediate effect.

Feeling as if I was having an out of body experience, I left the doctor’s surgery and went home via the post office, standing for a full five minutes in front of the post box before I finally committed the toxic sick note to its open mouth so that it could wing its way to the HR department. Then I had to make the embarrassing phone call to my boss, Alastair, during which I had to admit the shameful truth. Me, Claire Harrison, rising star, had been mown down by stress. It was all I could do not to cry down the phone. He was surprisingly sympathetic and actually said he’d been a little worried about me and to take as much time off as I felt I needed since I was a valued member of staff. A small part of me wanted to say, ‘so why the bloody hell haven’t you done more about recruiting the missing body,’ but it wasn’t the sort of thing you said to your boss, no matter how understanding he sounded.

And now I was left, swollen eyed and lost, wondering what on earth I was going to do with myself. I couldn’t even phone Mum and invite myself into one of her soothing hugs because she was presently bobbing on a large boat probably somewhere in the Atlantic. She and Dad had left Southampton over a week ago.

‘Claire?’ The voice made me lift my head. I realised I must have looked a right idiot standing in the middle of the street, my mobile in my hand, with a vacant expression on my face. ‘Claire? What are you doing?’

My sister peered suspiciously at me. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? Greasing the wheels of industry and making sackfuls of money?’

‘I’ve been to the doctor.’ Already I felt as if I was skiving.

‘Oh God, you’re not ill, are you?’ She peered at my saggy, red eyes. ‘Is it serious?’

And once again, completely against my control, tears flowed like tea from a leaky teapot.

‘It’s not cancer, is it?’

How like Alice to immediately jump to the worst conclusion.

‘No. I’ve…’ I could hardly bring myself to say it. In fact, she was the last person I wanted to admit it to. Our relationship was such that she’d probably say it was karma or something but I didn’t have the wherewithal to lie; I felt too battered, as if I’d just been rescued from a shipwreck. All that crying, probably, and so I said it: ‘I’ve been signed off with stress.’

‘Oh,’ she said with a slight air of disappointment as if to say, is that all?. Then her eyes brightened with sudden beady avarice. ‘Do you want to go to The Friendly Bean for a coffee?’

Even as listless and drained as I felt, like the last lone piece of spaghetti abandoned in the pan, some small part of my brain thought, that’s odd. Her response was quite un-Alice-like but I allowed myself to be steered down the street and across the road into the park, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

The Friendly Bean, though it was situated in the middle of Victoria Park, was the place to go in Churchstone. It was a funky café run by Sascha, a statuesque young woman with wild, thick blonde curls piled up on top of her head, secured by a succession of paisley scarves that changed with the seasons. The old Victorian pavilion was eclectically furnished with a mix of church pews, softened by plump velvet cushions, old-fashioned school desks, stools made from tractor seats which were more comfortable than they appeared, and worn sofas that welcomed you into their lumpy embrace. It was always teeming with customers. This morning was no exception but Alice made a beeline for an empty corner with a battered leather chesterfield armchair and a padded stool, plumping for the armchair and calling over her shoulder, ‘Mine’s a cappuccino.’

Having a clear purpose stirred me from my fug, with the quick observation that Alice had neatly manoeuvred me into paying. I should have realised that altruism had little to do with her quick invitation.

I handed her the coffee and sat down on the stool next to her, taking a grateful sip of my own Americano. The noise and bustle of The Friendly Bean with its yummy mummies and smattering of people working at laptops made me feel more grounded and a bit more normal, although a headache was digging in, its tight bands of pain circling my skull.

‘So. Signed off. Stress. How long for?’ Alice’s sharp interest was palpable as she studied me, her nose almost quivering like a squirrel’s.

I sighed, not quite believing it. Nothing seemed real at the moment. It was as if I were floating through fog. ‘A month.’ A whole month. What on earth was I going to do with myself? The thought of it was causing me more anxiety than going to work had been doing for the last… longer than a week, I realised, at last facing up to the truth. I’d had this about-to-step-off-a-cliff feeling for the last two… go on then, three months. In my usual overachieving way, I’d been successful at masking it.

‘A month. Will they pay you?’

‘I guess so.’ I hadn’t even thought about it. Sick pay wasn’t something I’d ever had to consider before.

‘Well that’s good. You can still enjoy yourself then.’

‘Mmm.’ I nodded while thinking, enjoy myself? Doing what?

‘So what are you going to do with yourself?’

Why did she have to ask that? My stomach knotted itself like crazy macramé. What indeed? But I’d only just walked out of the surgery; I think I was still in shock.

‘I know.’ She straightened as if the thought had just light-bulbed its way into her head, at which point I knew her invitation to coffee had had an agenda.

‘You can look after the girls and I can go to India.’ Her beam was brilliant, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and delight. ‘That will give you something to do.’

Funny how Alice managed to make it sound as if she were doing me a huge favour.

‘I can, can I?’ I raised a sarcastic eyebrow feeling a little more like myself. This was so typical of Alice.

‘Yes. It’s perfect.’

I stared at her, noting the heightened colour on her cheeks as she clapped her hands together. ‘Serendipity. It was meant to happen.’

‘And how do you figure that?’ Sometimes I did think she was barking mad, although more often than not, she was just manipulative.

‘You being signed off at exactly the time I’m supposed to go to India. It’s karma. You’ve got to say yes, Claire. I’ll never get this chance again. Jon will let me have all my board and lodgings for free. And it’s only for a week, so you’ll still have three whole weeks of holiday. And the girls will love it. And I’ve always, always wanted to go to India. I might have to get you to lend me the money for the flight, though.’

‘Whoa, whoa!’ I held up my hand. ‘Slow down. What are you talking about?’

‘India,’ she said with exasperation as if I were completely stupid. ‘I’ve been invited to go. I only have to pay for my flights.’

‘Alice, you can’t just go to India. You need jabs and things.

‘Poo, don’t be silly. Of course, I can. I’m not you. Don’t even think about being a mean, old stiff and making me turn down this amazing opportunity. It’s been my dream to go to India forever.’

Translated as, since she met Jon at Yoga class six months ago.

‘But what about the girls? You can’t take them with you. Don’t they have school?’

‘Of course I’m not taking them. Don’t be silly.’

‘Well who’s going to look after them?’

‘You are, of course. It makes perfect sense. It’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do.’ She folded her arms and gave me a bright look of triumph. ‘You were complaining you never saw them.’

‘I think what I actually said was that you don’t ask me to babysit anymore. It was an observation rather than a complaint. Not quite the same thing.’

‘Well, here’s your chance. You can babysit every night for a week.’

‘Gosh, how kind of you. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that I have my own life, thank you very much.’

‘Yeah and how’s that going right now?’ Alice’s eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘All those friends of yours queuing up to see you, are they?’

I bit my lip and kept my expression bland even though she’d touched a raw nerve. Friends were few and far between. With the unexpected precision of a well-targeted dart, I remembered my conversation with Ashwin Laghari. I’d lost some good friends over the years, sacrificed on the altar of my job. They tend to give up when you repeatedly turn down invitations, but when you’re snowed under it doesn’t seem to matter. You only realise the loss when it’s too late.

‘I’ve got plenty of things to do. A whole house to decorate, actually.’ There, that’s what I would do. As soon as I’d finished my coffee I’d go and buy some magazines, Ideal Home or something. And a BBC Good Food Magazine. I’d start cooking, so that I ate properly. And I’d take some of those exercise classes. Get really fit. I’d alternate between Pilates and HIIT classes. Go running every morning. Dave, a colleague, had been badgering me to join the company team to do a charity 5k run. I could use the time to train. Or I might even learn a language.

‘Claire, are you listening to me?’

She waved a hand across my face and I realised with a wry smile that I hadn’t heard a word.

‘Alice, you can’t go to India. Not without planning it properly. Why don’t you wait until the school holidays when Mum and Dad are back? The girls are used to staying with them.’

‘Don’t you understand? If I don’t go now I’ll never be able to go. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This place is booked up years in advance. I’d never be able to afford it. Please, Claire. I’m suffocating. I’ve been with the children night and day for the last ten years. I deserve some time off for good behaviour. They can spend some quality time with their favourite auntie.’

‘I’m their only auntie.’ My dry sarcasm was wasted on her.

‘And they’ll be at school most of the time, so you’ll have the days to yourself.’

‘Alice, I can’t have the girls.’

‘Why not? Give me one good reason. It’s only for a week.’

I opened my mouth, about to tell her all the reasons why, but then it struck me that perhaps I might enjoy getting to know my nieces. After all, it would only be for a week and I had four to fill.

Chapter Five

‘Claire, you’ll have to sort this out. I just haven’t had time.’ Alice lugged an overflowing laundry basket down the stairs leaving a trail of broken wicker twigs in her wake. ‘It’s the girls’ uniforms. They’ll need them for Monday.’

Somehow, Alice, who was incapable of finding and affording a man to sort her hedge out, had managed to book and pay for a flight to India, get a few injections and pack bulging bin bags of belongings for each of her children.

It was Friday evening, a mere five days since I’d bumped into my sister in the street, and I’d arrived to collect Ava and Poppy as Alice was leaving at crazy o’clock the next morning.

‘And what about school? What time do they have to be there? And what time do they finish? Does the school know I’m looking after them? What are their teachers called?’ There was so much I didn’t know and faced with the bin bags – which were really bothering me; surely Alice had some proper holdalls or something? – and not much else, I felt woefully underprepared. Surely I needed lists of where they needed to be and when, along with names and telephone numbers.

‘Don’t fuss, Claire. Poppy will be able to tell you everything. And don’t let her boss Ava about all the time.’

‘I’m hardly fussing.’ Looking after two children was a big responsibility. ‘I’m just asking for basic information. Like food. What do they like to eat?’

Alice rolled her eyes. ‘Food? They’re children not some strange species. Fish fingers, spaghetti hoops, chicken nuggets. That sort of thing. Honestly Claire, you need to come down off that pedestal of yours and live in the real world.’

‘And you need to stop being so rude. I’m doing you a massive favour here.’

Alice blinked at me. She wasn’t used to people standing up to her. My parents went to endless lengths to keep the peace. They always had done. I wasn’t so forgiving.

‘I’m hoping they like pizza,’ I said to thin air. Alice had ducked under the stairs and was scrabbling about looking for something. Ignore and avoid – her usual policy when there were things she didn’t want to hear or face.

She emerged with one little girl’s shoe. ‘You might have to go shopping. Poppy keeps moaning that her toes are at the end… again.’

‘I can do that. Anything else?’

‘No.’

I followed her into the untidy lounge where my eldest niece, ten-year-old Poppy, had sprawled her lanky length along the sofa and was watching television. She was all arms and legs at the moment, as if they’d grown ahead of the rest of her. Her clothes looked as if they were racing to keep up as well although at least, unlike Ava’s, they were clean. Six-year-old Ava had a magnetic ability to attract every sort of dirt known to man and always appeared to have been dragged through the proverbial hedge backwards, forwards, and upside down. A cloud of tangles circled her chubby face, dimples pierced her knees and elbows, and there was a long bloom of orange juice all down her white aertex school shirt.

‘Okay, babes. Time to go. Auntie Claire is here.’

Ava began scooping up the collection of toys surrounding her which spilled over her arms as she dropped one as soon as she’d picked up another.

‘But Alice, this hasn’t finished yet,’ said Poppy, not even turning from the television. Clearly now she was ten, she was too cool to give me a hug or call my sister ‘Mum’. I could never be sure whether Alice encouraged it or not.

Once upon a time, when she was younger and I babysat more often, we’d been pals.

‘Auntie Claire has a television.’ Alice paused. ‘Oh God, you do, don’t you? It wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t.’

I gave her a withering look. ‘Funnily enough, yes. Flat screen and everything.’

‘Well of course you do, Miss Moneybags. Not everyone has the cash to splash.’ Her mouth pursed into an angry pout.

Tough. Maybe I shouldn’t have dissed her ancient chunky television but every now and then one of her needles hit home and I couldn’t help retaliating.

‘Does it have cartoons?’ asked Ava suddenly glancing up from her toys.

‘Er, I think so.’

‘You mean DVDs, stupid,’ snapped Poppy.

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Yes you are.’

Ava went over and pulled one of Poppy’s plaits with a sharp tug and threw one of her toys at her head. Poppy seized it and hurled it back, hitting Ava square in the face.

Ava immediately began to wail, indignation giving her lungs a certain power.

‘Poppy!’ snapped Alice rushing over to scoop Ava into her arms. ‘It’s okay, baby. Poppy Harrison, apologise to your sister this minute.’

I frowned. Hardly fair. Ava had clearly started it, but unfortunately the scenario was horribly familiar.

Poppy pursed her small mouth and glared at her sister. ‘Soz’, she said with begrudging defiance.

Alice rocked Ava for a minute until the overloud noisy sobs abated. ‘Poppy, you’re the oldest; you’re supposed to be nice to your little sister.’

Old patterns, I thought.

Look after Alice, she’s only little. Remember, Alice is the youngest.

‘What about the house?’ I asked. ‘Bills etc. Anything need sorting out?’

Alice shrugged. ‘Dad takes care of all that. Everything’s on direct debit.’

Dad really did take care of everything. At our farewell dinner he’d taken me aside and asked me to keep an eye on Alice while he and Mum were away with the words, ‘Seriously, I’d like to wring the neck of the guy she got in to do the hedge. It cost me £150 and you should see the state of it. She needs a bit of support with that sort of thing. I think they see her coming.’

I absentmindedly rubbed at the scratch on my arm, which was finally healing thanks to the course of antibiotics. ‘Anything else?’

Alice shrugged. ‘Don’t think so.’

She stood on the doorstep to see us off, both girls waving madly from the car.

‘Who wants to make pizza when we get in?’ I asked, determined that for the next seven days I was going to be ‘fun Auntie Claire’ and that they would have such a good time they wouldn’t miss their mum too much.

‘Me, me!’ yelled Ava from the back.

‘That sounds cool,’ said Poppy with an approving nod as she sat next to me in the front seat.

I nodded back. They were both good kids; there was no reason that this week shouldn’t be a breeze. All I had to do was entertain them over the weekend, get them to school each day next week and feed them each evening. My stomach started to knot at the thought of all that that entailed. What if I couldn’t do it all? What did I know about children?

Chapter Six

Oh my God, I was dying. Already, Monday morning was a train wreck. I wished I was in the office where I knew exactly what I was doing. Who knew getting two children up, dressed, fed, and ready for school could be such hard work? I was making enough of a hash of my own life at the moment, how did I think I could manage the lives of two little girls as well?

Despite doing several Everest-sized mounds of washing – I think Alice had been saving it all up – I’d missed Poppy’s school shirts and she’d thrown a teenager-in-training strop when I’d suggested she wear one of last week’s.

‘You can’t be serious,’ she’d yelled. ‘That will ruin my life.’

‘I hardly think so,’ I said, almost laughing at the drama, except it wasn’t funny, and I went into the utility room to rummage in the pile. I found a Poppy-sized white short-sleeved shirt with the school logo and gave it a quick shake. It seemed clean enough.

‘Look, here you go. This will do and I’ll wash the rest today.’

‘No,’ she wailed.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. ‘Poppy, just for today, please wear this shirt.’

‘No! You’re being mean and horrid.’ She snatched it from my hand. Bright tears shone in her eyes and then she left the kitchen, slamming the door with enough force that all the dishes on the draining board rattled.

‘I haven’t done my homework,’ announced Ava placidly from the kitchen table where she was toying with her toast as Poppy’s feet thundered up the stairs.

‘I think that, under the circumstances, your teacher won’t mind,’ I said calmly. Why hadn’t she said anything last night?

‘Do you think?’ asked Ava. ‘She gets really, really cross.’ She began pulling things out of her book bag, endless bits of paper which dragged in the bacon grease on her plate, a couple of reading books, and assorted bits of artwork as there was another almighty crash of a door slamming upstairs. ‘Do you like my lantern?’ She held up a bedraggled bit of paper Sellotaped together into a tube with long slashes down the side. ‘Here,’ she produced a yellow exercise book.

‘What were you supposed to do?’ I looked up at the ceiling wondering whether I should go after Poppy.

‘Spellings.’

‘Maybe we can practise them on the way to school.’

But she’d already opened the book and with her lip between her teeth had begun copying the list of ten words.

‘You need to go and get dressed Ava.’ My voice was firm, even though inside I felt a slight sense of panic.

‘But…’

‘There isn’t time.’

‘Pleeease, Auntie Claire.’ Her eyes started to brim with tears. ‘I’ll b-be b-bottom again. I’m always bottom an’ Lucy Chambers always gets ten out of ten.’

I winced. The girls had been so good all weekend and quite brave about their mother going away without them. Alice had made it sound as if she was going to have the jolliest adventure and she would bring them back something lovely. I had my doubts about that. The retreat she was going to was in the foothills of the Himalayas and was an hour’s domestic flight from Delhi. It looked very beautiful but also very remote.

‘Okay, two minutes. Let’s have a look.’

Where had I got the foolish notion that getting two children up and ready for school would take only an hour and a half and that we could leave at eight-thirty and be at school in plenty of time?

And now it seemed I couldn’t even run and breathe at the same time. I was back from my first school run and attempting a gentle jog. Bent double, I tried to suck in another breath. Definitely dying.

With a wheeze I straightened. This was supposed to be the start of my new keep-fit regime. Unable to help myself – it was a legitimate reason for contacting work – I’d emailed Dave and volunteered to join the 5k team. I might also have asked how things were going in the office.

With disgust I glanced back down the leafy path. I hadn’t even run that far.

There was only one thing for it: coffee. And thank God for The Friendly Bean, which was within staggering in distance. Urging my protesting wobbly thighs back into action, I walked to the café, grateful for the emergency fiver tucked into my phone case.

With coffee in hand, too self-conscious and aware of my beet-red face and underarm circles to stay inside, I limped out to the small enclosed area a little way beyond the café. Circled by shrubs and bushes, it had a small paved area with a pair of benches at right angles to each other bookmarked on either end by an abundant flower bed. It was filled with blousy peonies in shades of pale pink and dark rhubarb red, like big pom-poms surrounded by fans of dark green leaves. I stared at them for a moment, struck by the colours. When was the last time I’d actually noticed flowers? Or even had time to sit and look at them. Or to smell them. Everything had been grey for so long. Without thinking, I leaned over to take a deep sniff.

‘Gorgeous, aren’t they?’ said a voice.

Startled, I looked up to see an elderly lady with a fine frizz of soft white hair around her head, like a snowy aura, marching towards me. Something rattled at the back of my brain; she seemed awfully familiar.

She plonked herself down on my bench, almost spilling the coffee I’d put down next to me.

‘Lovely morning. You carry on with your communing with nature, dear. Don’t mind me.’

Feeling a little caught-on-the-hop, I gave her a weak smile. I didn’t normally ‘commune with nature’ as she’d put it. I probably looked a bit strange. Oh, to be in one of my smart suits like a normal person. I wanted to tell her that actually I had a very responsible job and was a ‘someone’ in real life. I closed my eyes as if doing so would shut her out and I could ignore her. I didn’t want to be that person who was desperate to talk to someone because it might be the only adult conversation I had all day. Maybe I could phone Ros and see how things were in the office. I winced thinking of all the things I should be doing there. The list started to snowball and I had to force myself to open my eyes.

The cheek! I looked into twinkling blue eyes peering at me over the top of… my takeaway coffee cup.

‘Help yourself, why don’t you?’ I said, taken aback but trying to gain the upper hand. My withering sarcasm failed to make so much as a dent in her cheery smile.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Without a care, she lifted my coffee in toast and took another slurp. ‘Oh, that hits the spot. I do adore a good cup of coffee. That’s one of the things I do miss.’

For a moment I stared at her, completely thrown by her blithe disregard of my indignation.

‘It’s not good for me,’ she said. ‘Bad for the old ticker, apparently. Why is it all the good stuff is so terribly bad for you? I mean, Brussels sprouts, they taste bloody awful and do dreadful things to your digestive system. I remember my Great Uncle Vincent – that man could clear a room… Why aren’t they bad for you? Swede, another disgusting, tasteless vegetable; why couldn’t that be terribly bad for you instead of chocolate and wine? I do love a good glass of Malbec. And the health police constantly on at you. I keep telling them I’m too old to care but… they insist on serving bloody decaffeinated rubbish. Instant at that. I ask you. I mean, what do you think about decaffeinated anything… a crime against human nature, I think. Stands to reason. God put caffeine in for a good reason. Not that I’m awfully matey with him up there right now. Guess I might decide to become better acquainted when I get closer to shuffling off the old mortal coil. You find that they all become God-botherers when they get older. I call it hedging your bets. Not me. If he doesn’t like me the way I am, tough cookies.’ She held out the coffee cup. ‘Here you go, dear. Don’t worry, I drank out of this side and I’ve got nothing worth mentioning. Not that I can recall anyway.’ Her brow furrowed as if she were giving it serious thought.

My lips twitched and much as I wanted to maintain a dignified distance and ignore her unwanted presence, I was intrigued and, to be honest, entertained by her. I rather liked her forthright untarnished views. She said it as she saw it and it was very refreshing.

I could see exactly which side she’d drunk from by the ring of fuchsia-pink lipstick lining the cup, so I took a sip of my coffee from the other side. It must be hell to have to go without coffee.

‘I’m Hilda.’

‘Claire.’

‘So what are you doing here?’ She eyed my shoes. ‘Running?’ She lifted her own feet and regarded her Day-glo trainers with satisfaction.

I laughed. ‘That was my intention. I’m a bit out of practice. Today was more about shuffling. I didn’t get very far.’

‘You’ll get better. I’ve not seen you here before. It’s very good for you. Running, that is. A bit every day and you’ll soon be up and… running.’ With a chortle at her pun, she poked me in the thighs. ‘Gets the endorphins going. Do you work in an office?’

I nodded, not wanting to admit that I was on temporary hiatus. It would be too embarrassing explaining why. She might think I was taking the easy way out, time off when there was nothing really wrong with me. I clenched my fists under my thighs. And she’d be right. Dr Boulter had overreacted. I could probably go back next week once I’d caught up on a bit of sleep.

‘You don’t want to get an office bottom, do you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Office bottom, also known as spreading arse. Too much sitting down.’

‘Ah, no. I don’t.’

‘So, a bit further every day and before you know it you’ll be running a marathon,’ she said with an air of complacency. ‘I can tell we’re going to get on famously. What did you say your name was again? That’s the downside to being old: butterfly brain. By the time you get to my age, it’s so full of stuff, I lose things in there.’

I smiled, rather charmed by her description that shied away from forgetfulness.

‘I’m Claire.’

‘Pleased to meet you Claire and welcome to Command Centre.’

‘Command Centre?’ This woman veered from sensible and stately to completely whacky in nought to sixty. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

‘Yes, this is my little spot. I know everything that goes on in this park.’ She patted the plump pink peony heads at the end of the bench on which we were sitting as if they were pet dogs, thereby loosening a few drops of rain. ‘It’s my personal fiefdom, if you like. I’ve lived around here off and on for sixty years.’ She pointed to the rather smart Regency houses that just peeped over the trees to the south of the park. ‘I used to live in one of those when my son was small. He used to want to come to the park a lot then. Play on the swings. Feed the ducks. Children,’ she sighed, ‘they grow up so quickly. One minute they’re clinging to your hands, the next minute they’re packing you off to a home. Of course, he hasn’t been here for years. Do you have children?’

‘Er… no.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘I’m looking after my nieces for a week while their mother is away and I’ve just taken them to school.’

‘Ah, that must be fun. How old are they?’

Mmm, the jury was out on the fun bit. This morning had been a bit of a nightmare. ‘Poppy’s ten and Ava’s six’

‘Lovely ages. Shame they have to grow up really. My son’s turned into a pompous twerp.’

‘How old is he?’ I bit back a smile at her weary dismissal.

‘Forty-five going on ninety-five.’ She shook her head and pursed her walnut-wrinkled mouth. ‘Don’t ever let anyone dump you in a home. I come here every day, just to get out of that dreary place.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Dreary place, weren’t you listening?’ She gave me a mischievous grin. ‘Also known as The Sunnyside Memorial Home for the half-dead and totally bewildered. My son insisted. I had a bit of a fall and broke my hip. He was all for putting me in a care home on the south coast. I’m old but I’m not senile.’ She gave me a wicked grin. ‘So I started running again, just to annoy him.’

‘How does that annoy him? I’d have thought he’d be rather proud of you running at your…’ my voice petered out.

‘Oh Lord girl, don’t be shy. At my great age. It’s all right, you can say it. With these wrinkles, I’m in no position to be getting coy about how old I am. If I’m still running every day, there’s no way he’ll get a doctor to say I’m not fit enough to live independently. I run around the park, just one loop, every single day. Rain or shine. And no one’s going to stop me.’

‘I remember you,’ I blurted out. ‘Sunshine-yellow tracksuit.’ Startler of pigeons. Harbinger of coffee disasters.

‘That’s my particular favourite. So good of you to notice it. I have a rather lovely emerald green one as well. Which reminds me, I haven’t done my stretches and at my age, they’re a must.’

She stood up and began doing a series of lunges. I watched in amusement as she bounced around the small area with more enthusiasm than skill.

Finally, jogging on the spot, she waved a hand at me. ‘Right, toodle-pip. Same time tomorrow.’

I shrugged. Today’s attempt at running had been woeful. Maybe I’d been a bit hasty emailing Dave about the 5k. The treadmill in the gym always seemed so much easier. Maybe I’d get the train into Leeds and visit the gym instead.

With a sniff, she turned and began to jog away down the path to join the main drag through the park.

I watched her retreating figure. At least it had been nice to have some company; she was a character and she’d made me smile quite a few times. In fact, my face felt positively mobile for once instead of having that stretched, clenched-teeth feeling that, now I thought about it, had been around for a lot longer than a few weeks. When was the last time I’d felt anything other than an insidious sense of doom and that everything was about to go wrong?

Chapter Seven

The kitchen looked as if a small tornado had swept through it. Spilled milk on the table, dried cornflakes in the bowls, which had acquired superglue-like properties, and abandoned toast crusts – apparently Ava’s hair was curly enough – as well as a pool of sticky orange juice that had been tramped across the floor, down the hall, and there was one tacky footprint on the cream lounge carpet. Breathe, Claire. It was okay. I could do this. I’d got the girls to school… and only five minutes late. I didn’t dare look at the bedroom where I knew there’d be a pile of abandoned school uniform items. Who knew children could generate so many dirty clothes? Little Ava could attract food, mud, and paint to her clothes, skin, and hair in equal quantities. There were even red paint and orange juice stains on her white ankle socks – although grey would have been a better description; they hadn’t been white for a long time.

The mess set all my tidy-senses tingling, bringing with them that familiar on-edge something-bad-was-going-to-happen feeling. As soon as I’d cleaned the juice from the floor by the fridge, I realised that underneath the fridge was filthy. So I pulled that out. Then I attacked the dust behind it. But the sides of the kitchen cupboards beside it were disgusting, so I cleaned off the sheen of grease, only to find that the extractor fan was also covered in a film of the same grease. With each bowl of hot soapy water I filled, I felt like the sorcerer’s apprentice. Each time I pulled out or moved something, there was more to do. The tiles behind the cooker were food-stained. The ceiling needed painting. The flooring was marked.

I stopped, realising that my breath was coming in shallow pants. This was ridiculous.

But even though my brain registered the onset of panic, I was still taking the shelves out of the oven to scrub them.

This was crazy. I should be at work, not doing this. Work, where I knew what needed to be done. Knew what I had to do. Where I had a million things to do. There were reports to be written. Data to be analysed. By now a gazillion emails to be responded to.

I also missed the routine of going to work. Getting up at six. Leaving at six forty-five. Wearing a smart suit. Being someone. Being recognised in the office. People there knew who I was: a senior manager. I missed having things to do.

Oh God, I needed something to take my mind off things.

I grabbed the BBC Good Food Magazine, almost in desperation. Cooking. That would give me something to do. And I was not going to think of the meeting that I should have been at in Bradford this morning. Who was taking it instead of me? Would they be presenting my work? Would the client know where I was? Surely the company wouldn’t tell them I was off with stress. Please no. And would they have found the additional notes I’d made?

I put down the magazine in despair. I looked at my watch as I spotted the cobweb in the corner of the room. Should I phone Ros and tell her where to find the notes? She could email them over. I could almost feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it all.

‘Hi Ros, it’s me,’ I said at the same time as reaching up the wall with a duster.

‘Claire, how are you feeling?’

‘I feel fine,’ I snapped, immediately irritated and frustrated because I’d spotted another bloody cobweb. ‘I’m not ill.’

‘No, dear. Now, if you’re phoning about work, I’m not to speak to you. If you want me to tell you that TJ got an A in his biology exam, I can do that. And Rissa was in a dance show last week and Ty took a catch in his cricket match.’

‘But I just need you to tell the team that I—’

‘Claire. You are signed off. I’m telling you, you’re not my boss at the moment. So I get to boss you around. And I’m telling you: clear your head. Work will carry on, just fine. I’m going to miss you but you have to give yourself some time.’

‘But there’s nothing—’

‘I’m no doctor but even I could tell you haven’t been right these past months.’

‘What? That’s rubbish.’ Even as I said it, I could feel a slight trembling of my hands.

‘Claire. You’ve been running on empty for a long time. Now, make the most of this time. Learn to dance, enjoy the sunshine, and smell the flowers. Do the things you enjoy instead of being cooped up in this stuffy place. It’s just a job, honey.’

I reached for the cobweb and noticed my hands really were shaking. Do things I enjoy? What things? I enjoyed work. I wanted to be there.

It had never ever been just a job. I was a career woman. On track to make partner.

My stomach lurched with the horror of realisation.

They wouldn’t give a partnership to someone who’d been signed off with stress. My career was toast. And my kitchen was a mess. Just look at the state of it. I couldn’t even manage to get that straight, so how the hell could I hope to salvage my career?

The panic that, like a malignant shadow, had been dogging me all morning with the frantic cleaning, suddenly engulfed me. My throat closed up and my breath stuttered in my chest.

I put my head down on the kitchen table and wept.

The bout of crying left me feeling worn out and lethargic, too tired to do more than raise my head from the table and glare around at the kitchen with all the half-finished jobs. I was as wobbly as a new-born giraffe and didn’t trust my legs to stand up yet.

For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps Dr Boulter had a point and that I should think about taking better care of myself. I was clearly run-down. I scowled at the tatty kitchen floor which looked no better for my manic scrubbing and the hideous red and orange wallpaper on the ‘feature’ wall. This was supposed to be my grown-up, Instagram-perfect, I’ve-made-it home. It was laughable; I couldn’t even get my house straight let alone do my job. An epic fail on both counts.

Oh God, I had to sort myself out. Prove to them back at work that I was fine. Dr Boulter might be right about my need to be healthier but he was wrong about the stress. I snatched up the BBC Good Food Magazine. In the next three weeks, I was going to cook. Proper nutritious meals. Get myself back on track. Proper exercise, proper meals, just like the doctor had ordered. But would it help?

I didn’t know any of the mums in the playground and felt just as self-conscious waiting outside Ava’s classroom as I had that morning. Poppy, apparently, was old enough to be released into the wild by herself and was allowed to come and find me. Alice had had to give approval for me to collect the girls and this morning yesterday I’d had to check in with the teacher, Miss Parr – a smiley, fresh-faced girl of at least twelve – whom Ava clearly adored.

Keeping my head down, I focused on my phone to avoid the other mums’ speculative looks. Had Alice told them what had happened? I was embarrassed that they might know about my health issues and that I wasn’t currently working.

I’d managed to fill the rest of my day by doing some cooking and tidying up the bedroom Ava and Poppy were sharing. Neither were thrilled about having to share the big double bed, and I didn’t blame them, but I hadn’t got around to furnishing the third or fourth bedrooms since moving from my two-bedroom flat in Headingly. Ava’s rumpled side of the bed had looked as if rampaging squirrels had run amok in her sheets overnight, scattering the pile of soft toys she’d insisted she had to bring. Nine in all, each of which had a name and a reason as to why it had to accompany her. And at bedtime, every last one had to be given a goodnight kiss and cuddle before Ava would climb into bed. In contrast, Poppy hopped straight in and opened up her book. She was currently reading something called Skulduggery Pleasant with a slightly macabre front cover. On her side of the bed, the covers had been neatly pulled up and her pyjamas were folded on top of the pillow. Ava’s PJ bottoms hung from the shade on the bedside light and the top dangled from the bed post at the end of the bed.

After bringing order to Ava’s side of the room, I’d been relieved to find that it was nearly three and time to collect the girls and that somehow I’d managed to fill my first non-working day.

When Ava’s teacher, Miss Parr, beckoned me over with a stern expression, I immediately began to worry that I’d forgotten something this morning.

She gave me a tight smile. ‘It would be really good if you could do some reading with Ava this evening. We do encourage children to read every day, if possible.’

I glanced down at Ava at her side and winced. Ava’s hair was an astonishing bird’s nest that had long-ago escaped from this morning’s plaits. Clearly, I also needed to do better on the hairdressing front. ‘And if you could practise spellings with her too, well…’ She paused and gave me one of those non smiles that contained a definite touch of admonishment, ‘that would really help her.’

‘Of course,’ I said a little too eagerly, wanting to be the perfect mother-substitute in Alice’s absence. Ava’s hand snuck into mine and I remembered her tears and her woeful cry that she was always bottom.

It was something I had intended to ask Alice about when she called but my sister hadn’t been in touch at all since she’d left last Friday which made me feel faintly uneasy. I had to remind myself that this was typical Alice. Trying to curb my irritation, I decided to send her a chatty text telling her the girls were great and suggesting that she video-chatted with them this evening.

Surely they had Wi-Fi at the retreat? Even Mum had sent an email from the middle of the ocean. She was thrilled that Alice had managed to get a holiday and I got kudos for being such a good sister.

‘Did you bring a snack?’ asked Ava as we crossed the playground, Poppy skipping towards us.

‘No but you can have something when we get in.’

‘But I’m starving,’ she wailed. ‘Can we get some sweeties from the shop?’

‘Why don’t you wait until we get home? I’ve bought some nice grapes and bananas.’

A pout appeared on her face. ‘Hello Poppy,’ I turned with relief to my elder niece.

‘Hello, Auntie Claire. I’ve got a letter about a school trip. Can I go?’

‘I got letters too,’ announced Ava, lifting her plump arm and waving her book bag at me.

‘Let’s get home and then we can look at the letters,’ I said with a sudden surge of pleasure at being needed and having something to do. Letters I could do. This was something I could deal with and be efficient-Claire again. The Claire I was at work. ‘And who likes spaghetti Bolognese?’

‘Me, me,’ cried Ava dancing around my feet.

‘My favourite,’ said Poppy with quieter enthusiasm. ‘Did you make it or is it a packet one? You know they’re full of trans-fatty acids.’ Her small pink mouth pursed in disapproval.

‘I made it,’ I said. ‘Well, the sauce.’

‘By yourself?’ Ava’s saucer-eyed admiration and Poppy’s approving nod made me grin at them both. Feeling like a hero was something I could get used. After my ridiculous meltdown earlier, this was balm to my soul. It had been a long time since I’d felt such a sense of achievement. Although, if homemade spaghetti Bolognese brought me superhero status, it showed just how far I’d fallen.

Listening to their happy chatter about their days – what they’d eaten, how brilliant super-speller Lucy Chambers was at maths and how the five-a-day fruit and veg maxim should really be ten-a-day and a host of other nutritional facts that Poppy had absorbed in Science – took us from the playground to the edge of the park. The same park I was striding through not that long ago, feeling like I could take on the world. How quickly things had changed.

‘Can I go on the swings? Can I? Can I?’ asked Ava, her chubby legs already deviating from the main path that cut through the park to my house towards the enclosed playground area.

‘That all right with you, Poppy?’ I asked, giving my watch a quick glance. We had plenty of time and nowhere to be. Unlike Ros’s kids who had Cubs, ballet, trampolining, and football to be ferried to, Alice’s children didn’t appear to have any after-school activities.

She looked surprised and shrugged. ‘I guess. I’ve got my book with me.’

I’d noticed that Ava got her own way an awful lot. Alice always deferred to her while poor old Poppy often had to play the sensible older sister. It was a role I remembered well.

We diverted to the small play area which had a couple of swings, a roundabout, a rope walk, and several one-seater rocking animals on large springs for which Ava made a beeline. Poppy chose a swing and before long was flying high, her long spindly legs earnestly propelling her backwards and forwards.

Ava, with her butterfly attention, zig zagged from ride to ride, calling for me to watch, catch, and chat to her before I escorted her to the slide where she directed me from her Nelson’s Column position at the top of the steps. Her bossiness with her precise instructions, no there, not there, was quite comical, although I caught Poppy rolling her eyes from where she now sat on one of the benches by the fence with a book.

A few minutes later I heard a snuffling noise and when I looked behind me, I saw a scruffy grey and white lurcher loitering by the fence. The next time I glanced over he’d poked his nose through a gap and I watched as Poppy put out a tentative hand to stroke the top of its head. I heard her crooning gently to the dog as it tipped his head to one side as if paying careful attention to her. The dog was just like her: all skinny legs and big brown eyes.

‘Look! Doggy! Doggy!’ cried Ava leaping from the end of the slide and barrelling over towards Poppy with her sturdy body. ‘Doggy!’ she screeched even more loudly, climbing on the fence and leaning over, waving her arms like a whirling dervish towards the dog. The dog, which had been quietly making friends with Poppy, immediately began bouncing about, its back legs springing from side to side, barking in a high pitch which was growing ever more hysterical.

‘Stop it, Ava,’ snapped Poppy. ‘You’re winding it up.’

‘Not,’ said Ava as she withdrew, not quite so confident now. The dog jumped up and startled Ava who fell backwards and started to cry.

‘Serves you right,’ said Poppy crossly.

Ava wailed. The dog barked and Poppy glowered.

I scooped Ava up and sat down on the bench, ignoring the dog. ‘What have you done? Where does it hurt?’

‘My b-bottom,’ sniffed Ava, rubbing at the damaged area, pulling up her skirt and exposing her knickers with gay, exhibitionist disregard. Surreptitiously I tugged the skirt down.

‘Ava, you frightened the dog,’ I said sternly. ‘And I don’t think you’re hurt, just a bit shocked. I’m sure you’ll be fine. See, Poppy’s just sitting quietly and letting the dog come to her.’

She gazed up at me, her tears drying instantly at my no-nonsense lack of sympathy.

Now that Ava had calmed down, the dog had quietened too and was pressing up against the fence, sticking its head through the metal bars again. Poppy edged forwards and scratched its head. ‘He likes this. You just made him all over excited, Ava. See, he’s lovely. Like a hairy carpet.’ He certainly seemed to enjoy her attentions and was now sitting on the other side of the fence, his dark eyes watchful, grey tufty ears twitching and lifting as if he were following our conversation.

‘Mmm,’ I said, wondering whether I should encourage Ava to approach the dog slowly so she wouldn’t be frightened in the future.

‘There now, he’s calmed down.’ Poppy continued to stroke him. ‘I wonder where his owners are. He doesn’t have a collar on.’

‘Maybe he slipped his lead.’ I said, looking at the scruffy animal.

‘Do you think we ought to take him home with us?’

‘No, I’m sure he’ll find his – or her – way home,’ I said firmly. The last thing I wanted was an extra addition to the household. I wasn’t sure what I was doing with two small humans; I certainly wasn’t about to throw a dog into the mix.

‘Please, Auntie Claire.’ Ava had jumped off my lap and was now trying to angle her head through the railings to get closer to the dog. She was so that sort of child that would get stuck. I could see it now and I’d be having to call the fire brigade if she didn’t stop.

‘Ava, be careful.’ I grabbed the collar of her coat and tugged her back. ‘We ought to be going home. I thought you were hungry.’

‘Yes, but I’m chocolate-biscuit kind of hungry,’ she said, her eyes ever hopeful.

‘Let’s go home and see what we can find.’ I gave in, knowing that I had bought a secret bag of bite-sized chocolate treats and a packet of chocolate digestives.

Of course the dog wanted to follow us and bounded around our legs with playful hopefulness.

‘Home, boy,’ said Poppy with more authority than I’d have given her credit for.

‘See, he wants to come home with us,’ said Ava tugging on my hand, looking up at me with angelic pleading.

‘Well, he’s not.’ It was all I could do not to smile at her cupid-bow mouth quivering in distress and her mercurial change of heart.

‘I think he’s probably run away from home because his owners were mean,’ she announced.

‘It is odd he hasn’t got a collar on,’ said Poppy, ever thoughtful.

‘And it isn’t our problem,’ I said firmly. ‘Just ignore him. Don’t pay him any attention and he’ll soon get bored.’ For some reason, we’d all assigned the dog as male.

Ava gave me a mutinous stare from under the snarled tangle of curls masquerading as a fringe, her bottom lip standing proud. Any second she was going to dig her heels in and refuse to abandon the dog.

‘Home,’ I said, firmly. ‘Biscuits. Chocolate.’ As if she were the dog.

‘Okay, then,’ she said and reluctantly followed me. Poppy eyed me with disapproval but trailed after us, throwing backward glances at the dog, who had now got the message and stood whining, its head down and its tail between its legs. It really, really wasn’t my problem but I did wonder for a fleeting second if dogs ate Bolognese sauce. No, I told myself, adorable and needy as he was, I could not add any more into the mix.

‘Come on, its owners will probably be searching for him. If we take him home, they won’t be able to find him, will they?’

‘I spose not,’ said Poppy, dragging her feet.

There was plenty of Bolognese sauce; perhaps if I washed the sauce off the mince it would be all right? But then the thought became moot because with a joyful bark, the dog pricked up his ears at the sound of another dog in the distance and ran off.

Ava was already asking what sort of biscuits I had.

‘Why don’t you have a dog, Auntie Claire?’ asked Poppy as I opened the front door, ushering the two of them in and the three of us, the habit already formed, headed towards the kitchen.

‘I…’ To be honest, I’d never thought about it before. ‘Well, I’m out at work all the time and it wouldn’t be fair to have a dog if I’m not here. They need company; they get lonely if they’re left on their own all day.’

‘Oh, yes. Mummy says you have a very important job.’ I could hear the weight of disapproval in her words. ‘And that you have lots of money.’

‘I don’t know about lots of money,’ I said with a half laugh. How did you measure riches? I certainly didn’t have to worry about paying the bills but I wouldn’t be buying a Ferrari anytime soon. ‘But I do earn enough to buy mini-Crunchies.’

‘Crunchies!’ squealed Ava. ‘My favourite.’

‘No, they’re not,’ said Poppy, her voice full of elder-sister scorn. ‘You said it was Caramel last week. You’re just a piglet.’

‘Am not.’ Ava thrust her pink face forward, quivering with indignation. With her riot of pigtail curls, round face, and shrill cry she was rather reminiscent of a sturdy piglet.

‘No one will get anything if you carry on bickering,’ I said firmly and they both cast baleful looks my way but they did stop. ‘You need to be nice to each other.’

‘I got a picture for you.’ Ava dug through her book bag spilling pieces of paper all over the floor. ‘It’s for your fridge.’ She waved a paint-splodged picture painted on the reverse of a piece of wall paper at me. ‘It’s a caterpillar. We’re doing insects. It’s a hungry caterpillar, like me. You can have it. Mummy has lots already. When is she coming home?’ Ava’s lower lip quivered for real this time.

Surreptitiously I checked my phone, hoping for a text from Alice. Still no word. What was she playing at?

‘Hey there, she’ll be home soon. On Friday. Why don’t we try to Facetime her after tea?’

Ava’s face crumpled and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘Four more sleeps,’ said Poppy patting her sister on the shoulder. ‘That’s all.’

I gave her a grateful smile, realising that Ava’s concept and understanding of time had yet to develop.

‘Yes, four more sleeps. Now where shall I put this picture? I don’t have any fridge magnets.’

Ava, her attention thankfully diverted, looked around the room wrinkling her nose.

‘You need to get some more pictures. It’s not very pretty in here.’

‘Ava,’ hissed Poppy. ‘You’re being rude. Remember, Mum says sometimes you’re not supposed to tell people the truth.’

That sounded so typical of Alice. Why tell the truth when you could get away with the lie? Like telling Dad she’d used his money to pay for a gardener the other day.

Ava gave a disgruntled huff and put her pudgy, little hands on her hips in a housewifely fashion that had me hiding a smile. ‘Honestly, how am I supposed to know when to tell the truth and when to tell a lie?’

Poppy shrugged.

‘Why don’t I put it here?’ I said loudly, drawing both girls’ attention back to the picture and propping the gaudily splashed painting on the windowsill next to the lone, newly purchased basil plant.

Ava gave a regal nod of acknowledgement and Poppy shot me a brief smile, grateful to be spared further embarrassment from her sister. I poured them both a glass of juice and unearthed the mini-Crunchie bars from my secret hiding place. They looked so good I had to have one too.

While they were busy chomping their chocolate, I scooped up all the folded bits of paper, which turned out to be letters from the school about missing library books, overdue dinner money, a second request for money for a school trip to Harewood Bird Garden and a reminder about parent-teacher consultation appointments.

‘Have you got letters too, Poppy?’ I asked as the three of us sat at the kitchen table.

She nodded, shamefaced, and handed over a sheaf of more of the same. I quickly sorted them into piles of things I could do something about and things that could wait until Alice got back next week, and ones that were very overdue demands for money. I then sat and wrote a bunch of cheques while the girls drank juice and ate their Crunchies. Then I went through Ava’s book bag, which was full of rubbish and one letter dated three weeks earlier asking Alice to make an appointment to discuss Ava’s progress. I put that on the pile for Alice, making a mental note to bring it to her attention as soon as she got back.

What I needed was a to-do list. Once I’d started, everything seemed a lot clearer. I could do this.

 Read with Ava

 Spellings with Ava

‘Have you got any homework, Poppy?’ I asked, prompted by my list.

‘Yes, Maths.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s hard.’

‘Do you want some help with it?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Mummy always says it’s my homework and I have to do it.’

‘Yes, but a little help will make it less hard,’ I suggested.

Her sudden beam warmed me. ‘That would be awesome, if you could.’

I added it to my list. ‘What other things do you need this week? PE kits? Library books? Anything else.’

‘PE is on Monday and Friday for me,’ said Poppy.

Predictably, Ava didn’t have a clue but luckily it was written in her planner.

I added everything to my growing list.

‘And it’s Stationery Club day on Friday, so I need fifty pence to buy a new ruler.’

‘An’ me. I need a new pencil sharpener and a pencil and a pen,’ added Ava.

By the time it was teatime, I’d put together a comprehensive list and timetable for the rest of the week. When I looked at it, I immediately felt calmer. See, I could do this. I just needed to be organised.

Over the next four days, I would work through the list and everything would run like clockwork. We would eat nutritious, homemade meals, the girls would have everything they needed for school, and I would get them there on time every morning. If I could just manage all this, I could show myself that I was getting back on track. Getting back to the smart, efficient, super-employee I once was.

Now, if only Alice would phone.

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