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  ‘Good, now go home or to the gym or something.’

  Jo turned the radio on, then off. She wanted silence, just her and her thoughts, as she headed south on the motorway. It was sixteen years since she’d met Abi at university. God, she missed those days. The education side of it was almost secondary: an annoying interruption to a lifestyle otherwise dedicated to fun.

  Not that everything about student life had been great: the wet towels in the bathroom, the kitchen sink always full of dirty dishes, and the daily cry from someone of, ‘Who’s stolen my milk?’ Jo smiled at the memories. On second thoughts, she wouldn’t want to go back to that; she loved her own space and privacy. Most of the time.

  Abi and Fréd had been the first of her friends to get married. But now the floodgates had opened. It was only January and she’d already had three save the date cards for the summer addressed to ‘Jo plus one’. She sighed; the cards should read find a date in her case. A tiny voice in the back of Jo’s head reminded her that if she dated commitment-shy men, what did she expect? She’d even been reduced to taking her mother with her to one wedding last year; she could still remember the look of pity on her old schoolfriends’ faces as she and Mum took their seats at the table.

  She lowered the window an inch and lit her second cigarette of the day; an icy draught filled the car and ruffled her hair. Sod the gym, she’d call in and see her parents.

  Bob Gold opened the front door of the large split-level bungalow and beamed with obvious delight at his only child.

  ‘It’s my favourite daughter! Come here and let me give you a hug!’

  Jo laughed and allowed herself to be enveloped by his strong arms.

  He frowned suddenly and checked his watch.

  ‘You’re knocking off early. What’s the matter?’

  She stared at him; surely he can’t have forgotten where she had been?

  ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ she tutted. ‘Except I’m freezing because you haven’t invited me in.’

  She followed him through the house into the kitchen.

  ‘Once in a while won’t hurt, I suppose,’ he muttered, raking a hand through his thick silver hair. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  He eyed the kitchen cabinets as if they were trying to catch him out.

  Jo rolled her eyes behind his back. He had forgotten. Next he’d be giving her the ‘Setting a good example to your staff’ lecture.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Upstairs getting herself dolled up. We’re off out shortly to play bridge with the golf crowd.’

  Her father opened several doors in an attempt to locate coffee and a mug. She leaned up against the Aga, relishing the warmth in the small of her back. It dominated the kitchen and had always been her favourite spot in the house. A place to share her news with her mum and pinch cakes straight from the cooling rack. Not that any of Teresa’s domestic skills had rubbed off on her.

  It was odd watching her father in the kitchen. She had barely seen him during term time when she was growing up; he had put in long hours at Gold’s, struggling to keep up with demand during the eighties’ boom. What a contrast to today’s market.

  ‘Summer stock in yet? What’s the order book like?’

  Jo groaned inwardly. He was off, firing his usual round of questions at her. Hurry up, Mum.

  ‘Not yet and fine.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t want sugar.’

  Jo’s mum stood in the doorway, hands on hips, elegant in a navy wrap dress and mid-heeled leather Gold’s boots. They were from two seasons ago, Jo recalled. Available in tan, black and charcoal. Teresa held out her arms to her daughter.

  ‘She gave it up for Lent when she was nine. Hello, darling, this is a nice surprise.’

  Jo relaxed instantly, squeezed her mum tight and caught the familiar delicate scent of her perfume. ‘Shalimar?’ she said.

  ‘I know, I’m boring but … Oh gosh!’ Teresa took a step back, still holding Jo’s hands and registered the black outfit. ‘The funeral! How did it go? How’s poor Abi?’

  ‘Devastated. Lost. Overshadowed by a bossy mother-in-law.’ Jo caught her father’s expression and saw the light bulb going on in his brain.

  ‘Ah, of course.’ Bob cleared his throat sheepishly and set Jo’s coffee down on the pine table. ‘Better to have loved and lost, et cetera.’

  Really? Jo flashed him a cynical look. That was not what he’d been drumming into her since boys started sniffing round when she was sixteen. His message had always been that business comes first. Once she allowed love to get in the way, he had warned, that would be it; her career would be over and where would that leave Gold’s?

  ‘Your father’s right,’ said Teresa, putting a coaster under the mug and pointing at a chair. Jo sat and her parents joined her. ‘You work too hard.’

  ‘Mum.’ Jo tutted from behind her mug. Where had that come from? She thought they were talking about Abi.

  Bob folded his arms and frowned. ‘There’s no such thing, Tess. I’ve every faith in Jo’s ability to run the firm. But that comes at a price. Husbands, babies and business don’t mix. Josephine understands that, don’t you?’

  Jo opened her mouth to speak but her mother got there first.

  ‘Oh, Bob, shut up! Darling, you’re all work and no play. It’s not healthy. It’s time to think about yourself.’ Her mother’s brow furrowed, full of concern. ‘We’re not getting any younger. Tell her, Bob.’

  ‘Your mother’s getting old.’ Bob’s lips twitched and Teresa swiped at him with a tea towel.

  It was always the same with these two: Mum dropping two-tonne hints about wanting grandchildren and Dad warning her off. Jo couldn’t win.

  ‘Were there any nice men at the funeral?’ asked Teresa.

  Jo raised an eyebrow. ‘Inappropriate, even for you.’

  An image of the vicar popped into her head but she kept quiet; her mother would have a field day with that. She couldn’t stay long and anyway they were on their way out, so she finished her coffee and her parents walked her to the door.

  Bob took his daughter’s face in his hands before kissing her cheek. ‘Do you know how many small businesses have folded in the last ten years? Thousands.’

  Jo looked into his vivid blue eyes and sighed. ‘I know, but I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.’

  And it was a long, lonely tunnel.

  ‘You’re trading your way through it. Hang on in there and Gold’s will survive. I’m proud of you.’

  The magic words. Jo managed a half-smile.

  ‘There you go, Mum,’ she said, wrapping her arms round her mum for a hug. ‘I haven’t got time for a social life; I’m too busy saving the British economy.’

  ‘Did I tell you Anna next door is having to have IVF?’ said Teresa. ‘She’s worried she might have left it too late for a family. You can’t ignore the ticking of your body clock, you know.’

  Jo did know; she could hear it, loud and clear. She waved, climbed into the car and headed back to her empty flat.

  Sarah bowed her head, shivered inside her coat and ran down the hill from the village hall. She raised a hand as a silver Lexus streaked past her, tooting its horn.

  Nice car. She had a feeling Jo would be a very good contact to keep in touch with. Ambitious, successful … she might even be a potential client. But Carrie was an odd one. No job, no kids – what did she do all day? Sarah relished being financially independent, she was almost evangelical about it; she couldn’t imagine being a housewife. She chided herself for being judgemental; who knew what Carrie’s story was? She could be ill, or loaded, or anything.

  The row of three little red-brick cottages, nestling between the church and the old schoolhouse, was already in sight. Despite the cold, the picture-postcard beauty of home gave her a warm glow and she hurried up the path towards the end cottage.

  Last year Rose Cottage had cast a spell on her and Dave as soon as they set eyes on it. They had take
n one look at its log-burning fire, stripped oak beams, stable door into a postage-stamp garden and withdrawn their offer on the three-bed semi closer to town that had been their first choice. Sarah had felt a bit bad about messing people around, but she was adamant that a village address had more prestige – important for when she made it on to the board at work. Besides, Woodby was an idyllic location in which to bring up a family.

  Nearly a year on, Sarah loved it just as much, although she now wished the walls were made of elastic. The cottage had been quaint and cosy when they moved in. Since the arrival of Zac, it was perhaps a little too cosy. Her head was full of extension plans to build an extra room upstairs and down. But not yet. Not while money was such an issue between them.

  She put her key into the lock and hesitated. Please, please, please be tidy.

  Sarah chided herself: Cherish every moment, remember? Think of Abi going home to an empty house. She took a deep breath and pushed open the front door.

  ‘Hello, boys!’ she called, hanging her coat on the bulging coat hook. It was lovely to be home, all she had to do was close her eyes to the state of it and she’d be fine. She collected three large trainers from the floor and stacked them on to the overflowing shoe rack. One fell off and she booted it underneath.

  ‘In here,’ Dave shouted from the living room.

  Sarah couldn’t wait to get her hands on Zac and see his little face light up. She tried and failed to squeeze past the pushchair blocking the hall and spent a tense couple of minutes stripping it of its bags and folding its bulk against the wall. Sodding thing. How could one small person need such a huge contraption?

  At last she pushed open the living-room door. The fairy lights entwined around the mirror twinkled, two scented candles burned on the mantelpiece and flames danced in the fire.

  It was magical and her heart flooded with warmth. It might be as messy as predicted, but it was home.

  Dave was kneeling in front of the fireplace. Her big bear of a husband; kind, caring, a bit scruffy but very handsome. And full of life. She dropped a kiss on his head and then knelt down on Zac’s activity mat. She picked up her son, covered his face in kisses and blew a raspberry on his tummy, breathing in his yeasty baby smell. Her heart twisted with love.

  ‘Hello, my gorgeous boy. Mummy’s missed you today.’

  Zac kicked his legs and gurgled with delight.

  ‘Oi! What about me? How come I only get one kiss?’ said Dave. He poked the fire, carefully added more wood and closed the door of the log burner.

  She settled Zac back down on his mat and crawled over to Dave. Reaching her arms round his neck, she cuddled him, feeling the rough wool of his jumper on her cheek.

  ‘You can have more kisses later.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  He twisted round to face her and she smiled at the suspicion on his face. That was the thing with new babies: your partner suddenly took second place. They were both guilty of it. She was going to make more effort. Starting now.

  She nodded and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. Dave wound one of her curls round his finger, released it and then tucked it behind her ear.

  ‘I haven’t started dinner.’ He looked at her warily.

  Two dirty mugs on the hearth caught her eye. She bit back the retort that rose automatically to her lips and shrugged. In the grand scheme of things, what did it matter?

  She smiled. ‘That’s OK, what do you want to do: bath or cook?’

  He looked relieved and even more suspicious.

  ‘Cook. Definitely. Boyo had a severe explosion after lunch and I’m still suffering flashbacks. He prefers it when you do his bath anyway.’

  Sarah laughed. Dave had been really squeamish with Zac’s nappies in the early days and even now occasionally went very pale. She could just imagine the look on his face while he sorted out a multi-layered leak.

  ‘OK. But after I’ve had a cup of tea, I’m freezing.’ She leaned across, handed Zac the teething ring that he was struggling to reach and stood up.

  ‘Get a move on, then,’ said Dave with a wink. ‘I’m on a promise tonight.’

  A couple of hours later, Sarah tucked a sleepy Zac into his cot and stroked his peachy skin.

  ‘Night night, little one.’ She wound up the musical mobile above the cot and closed the door softly.

  Dave was in the kitchen pouring a beer.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ said Sarah, brandishing the silent baby monitor. She poured herself a glass of water and turned her back on the old butler sink full of lunchtime washing-up. Ignore it, Sarah, he’s doing his best.

  ‘So how was the funeral?’

  What could she say? She shook her head, searching for the right words.

  Abi and Fréd had been just like them: married, young family, just starting out in a new home. What must it have been like, living with cancer, knowing that his days were numbered? And now, Abi was left to bring up Tom alone, all their plans and dreams shattered.

  ‘We’re so lucky, Dave.’ She wrapped her arms round his waist and he turned to hug her. ‘However tired I am, if I’ve had a bad day at work, or been up all night with Zac, I’ve still got you. We’ve still got each other.’

  She closed her eyes, laid her head on his chest and reached a hand up to the back of his head. His hair reminded her of Action Man’s. Soft and bristly.

  ‘I missed you. At the funeral. I was lonely on my own.’

  He kissed her and she inhaled the faint smell of his aftershave and tasted the beer on his lips. She wasn’t telling the whole truth and a flush of shame niggled at her. In some ways she’d been glad he wasn’t there. The ‘What do you do for a living, Dave?’ conversation still felt awkward.

  He was getting used to being a stay-at-home dad and had a tendency to go a bit prickly when people asked questions. It was hard for him sometimes, she knew, but it wasn’t that easy for her either.

  In bed later on, Sarah put down her book and turned off her bedside lamp.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ She looked across at Dave. He had pulled the duvet up over his face to block the light and his breathing was slow. He found it tiring, looking after a baby all day. Bedtime was ten o’clock these days, in an attempt to get eight hours in before Zac woke at six. Every moment counted.

  ‘Nearly.’ He rolled towards her and opened one eye.

  ‘I met two women at the funeral.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Dave didn’t sound particularly interested. An image of their faces when she’d expressed milk over the shrubbery popped into her mind. She giggled; she’d been mortified. And she’d have to sew another button on that shirt.

  ‘What?’ he mumbled

  ‘Oh nothing.’ It was difficult enough to try to be sexy and feminine for her husband; she wasn’t going to share that little episode. ‘They were really nice. We’re going to meet up again.’

  ‘From Woodby?’

  ‘One was. Carrie Radley.’

  ‘I’m asleep now.’

  Sarah snuggled down and reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his. Despite her reservations, maybe Carrie was right, maybe she should start making a wish list because life was precious and she didn’t want to waste a moment.

  Balancing a crate of assorted crockery on her hip, Carrie let herself in to Fern House. She was exhausted. It had taken her over two hours to clear the hall once everyone had finally left. She could have asked for help, but Alex had popped back to work – Cavendish Hall was only in the next village – and everyone else was so busy that she didn’t like to bother them.

  The lamp was lit in the hall and Carrie’s heart lifted at the golden glow of the daffodils she had piled into a vase earlier. New beginnings – that was what daffodils symbolized, which was very fitting given her meeting with Jo and Sarah. She felt a frisson of nervous excitement; her life had become more and more isolated over the last few years and today … well, today she felt a glimmer of hope.

  The television was on low in the sitting room and her heart fluttered. What would A
lex’s verdict on the food at the funeral be? Impressed, hopefully, or at least not disappointed. As long as she hadn’t embarrassed him, that was the main thing.

  She plonked the crate on the kitchen table and stowed the milk in the fridge. Abi could have some of the leftovers; Carrie would pop round later once she’d seen to Alex. She hung her coat up in the cloakroom and caught her reflection in the tiny mirror. A tired pale face with a smudge of jam on one cheek stared back at her.

  Urgh, it served her right for looking, she thought, brushing at her face.

  Alex was in his favourite armchair, feet stretched out in front of the fire, his thick shock of dark hair, silver at the temples, just visible over the Telegraph. This was Carrie’s favourite room; nice square proportions, French doors leading to her beloved garden and the lovely stone fireplace.

  ‘Hello, petal.’ Alex lowered the corner of his newspaper, smiled and looked pointedly at the clock. ‘Thought you’d run off.’

  As if. Who was she likely to run off with? She wasn’t exactly much of a catch. If anyone was likely to run off in this relationship it was him; she was punching far above her weight.

  ‘I had offers, of course,’ said Carrie, plumping up a floral cushion and dropping gratefully on to the sofa. ‘But then I remembered I’d still got the Game of Thrones boxset to watch so I decided to come home.’

  ‘You looked like you were having fun with those two women,’ he said, turning the page and flapping at the paper to make it lie flat.

  Oh, how awful! Had everyone thought that? The shame of having fun at Fréd’s funeral made her feel queasy. She shifted awkwardly. She had embarrassed him. Again. Why did he put up with her? She had so enjoyed meeting Jo and Sarah, though.

  ‘It was a celebration of Frédéric’s life,’ she countered. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted everyone to be miserable.’

  He didn’t answer; his head was back in his newspaper. She watched him in silence for a few moments and willed him to compliment her on her cooking.

  ‘What did you think of the buffet?’ she said finally, unable to wait any longer.

  Alex closed his paper, creased it in half and very deliberately laid it on the arm of his chair. Oh dear. He was pulling his schoolteacher face.