Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

Genres: Family Life; Marriage & Divorce; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A heartwarming, feel-good novel from the author of New Beginnings at Rose Cottage. Perfect for fans of Sarah Morgan and Holly Martin.

One question can change everything.

Meet Carmen, Polly and Dana - all happy and successful women, with very different views on relationships.

Carmen has made a life with Elliot for the past eight years. She's ready for the next step but a proposal seems to be as far away as ever.

Polly is devoted to her family. But after her parents' bitter divorce, she's wary of marriage - even after sharing twenty years and one son with Fraser.

Single mother Dana longs for companionship, despite her dedication to raising her son Luke. Finding the right person to bring into their lives feels impossible - until a unique way to select a potential Mr Right comes along.

With 29th February fast approaching, will they each take the chance this Leap Year to take control of their fates?

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'Uplifting' Woman & Home

Don't miss New Beginnings at Rose Cottage from Erin Green in which three women who discover that it's never too late for a fresh start - or to change your life story.

And staycation in glorious Lerwick with From Shetland, With Love - a heartwarming and uplifting treat of a listen - out now!

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: January 23, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Friday 14 February – Valentine’s Day

Carmen

I tap in the security code to void the boutique’s alarm system, automatically flicking on the light switches as I stride through the room towards the red velvet curtain which hides our small kitchenette.

I fill the kettle, plug it in and wait.

It doesn’t take long, just enough time to remove my coat, grab three mugs from the draining board and spoon in the necessary coffee and sugars before the front door opens admitting the first arrival of the day.

‘Helllllllo, how are we?’ calls Trish, her cheery tone confirming my fears. Her slender frame nips around the curtain divide and it’s obvious – her husband, Terry, has come up with the goods again!

‘Bloody miserable,’ I moan, hating myself for allowing it to affect my mood. ‘And you, need I ask?’

‘Breakfast in bed, a bit of a cuddle and . . .’ Trish sucks in her pale cheeks and rolls the words around her mouth before continuing. She’s carefully selecting the next piece of information, knowing it could push my mood further along the ‘woe is me’ scale.

‘Go on,’ I urge, eager to get this conversation over and done with.

‘Thirty-six long-stemmed roses – one for each month we’ve been married.’

I perform my usual head tilt and sigh. I love her husband. Why can’t I have a man as attentive and as thoughtful as Terry?

‘Sorry, Carmen,’ says Trish, rubbing my forearm as I suddenly turn to busy myself with pouring boiling water and stirring mugs. ‘Dare I ask?’

‘Go ahead, ask away,’ I mutter, grabbing the milk from the mini fridge.

‘Hiya!’ calls Anna, sweeping aside the velvet curtain to join our conversation. ‘How are we this beautiful morning?’

Trish and I exchange a fleeting glance. Neither of us answers the teenager, whose cheeks are aglow, eyes sparkling like diamonds and bursting with delight.

‘Well?’ asks Anna, her asymmetric black fringe swinging as her head turns to each of us.

‘I received thirty-six beautiful red roses,’ repeats Trish, a coy smile brightening her delicate features. ‘You?’

‘A card from my ex . . . which is nice. My mum says I need to distance myself and not encourage him, but it’s still nice to receive a Valentine’s card.’ Anna turns to me, her expectant face eager to hear of my Valentine bounty.

‘Me? Oh, I got a card, the tiniest card ever produced and probably picked up from the local petrol station on his drive home last night and written whilst in the bathroom this morning, I imagine,’ I say, my voice monotone. Hearing it, I want to kick my own arse for being so miserable.

‘Ah never mind, maybe tonight . . .’

I interrupt her by raising my palm. ‘No! Please don’t make excuses for Elliot’s sorry effort by suggesting that a candle-lit meal for two, or a table booked at a swanky restaurant, or rose petals strewn across our bed awaits my arrival home . . . eh-eh! That’s not Elliot’s style.’

‘Yeah, but . . .’

Trish interrupts her this time. ‘Nah! He’s definitely lacking in the romance department . . . Carmen’s had this every year for . . . seven years?’

‘Eight,’ I correct her.

‘Eight years . . . She knows him well enough to know what to expect when she gets home.’ Trish gives her habitual knowing nod.

‘But this year might be the year when . . .’ mutters Anna.

‘No,’ we say in unison.

‘You’ll only make the day harder for me by suggesting that there are treats waiting for me at home. I know there aren’t, so let’s not pretend.’ I ignore my scalding coffee and swill the teaspoon under the tap, knowing that both my employees are watching my every move for fear of a delayed reaction.

‘Can I ask what you got him?’ asks Anna.

‘A card . . . from the petrol station . . . bought two nights ago,’ I mutter, drying my hands.

‘There you go then!’ exclaims Anna, about to put my relationship to rights.

‘I’ll leave Trish to explain why.’ I leave the kitchenette, safe in the knowledge that Trish will recall my disastrous Valentine of six years ago when I vowed to ‘see how he liked it’ and got him nothing but a cheap card. Elliot didn’t even notice and so, sadly, I’ve continued. And he’s never changed or learnt what I truly want. So how can I go back on my word?

The velvet curtain swishes into place separating me from their conversation and I begin my morning routine. I inhale the smell of the fresh rose petals that decorate our reception counter. I make a lap of the boutique, my eagle eyes searching for anything out of place. I briskly straighten the rails of cellophane-covered gowns, ensuring they look presentable for our first appointment at ten o’clock. I inspect the large gilt mirrors, strategically positioned to enable a wedding gown to be viewed from every angle, for smears or fingerprints. I titivate the tiara display, straightening each to ensure the overhead spotlights highlight each delicate bead or crystal droplet. I pick a thread of cotton from the burgundy chaise longue, on which a row of family and friends will perch, eager for a first glimpse of the chosen bridal gown. A box of tissues sits close at hand on the nearest table, ready to frantically dab at their tears of joy.

I check my own reflection in the nearest mirror: smart green suit, natural-looking russet-toned make-up and a mane of vibrant red hair, which I quickly tease into place.

Once I’m satisfied, I flick the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

Another day begins at The Wedding Boutique.

I love my tiny empire, situated near the upper end of the High Street, nestled between the travel agents and what was once the local department store – now empty. A pretty high street of honey-coloured stone buildings, each dominated by aged bay windows, and a cobbled walkway.

I love my job, which makes days like today so much harder to handle. I don’t resent Trish’s moment of loved-up joy – honestly, I don’t. I’m not asking for grand gestures, just slightly more than a garage forecourt card.

Staring out of the front window, between two mannequins adorned in ivory tulle and beaded satin, I watch the passers-by striding to work. I can’t help but pick out individuals and wonder.

I bet she received flowers.

I bet he sent a fancy Hallmark card.

I bet he received chocolates.

I bet even those schoolkids received a proper sturdy card and not a cheap, flimsy effort.

Valentine’s Day is a cruel, twisted reminder that I, Carmen Smith, am the owner of a successful bridal gown boutique and am unmarried despite being in a committed relationship for eight years. Every day I hear about beautiful plans for amazing weddings days. I don’t begrudge my brides their moment of joy, their detailed wedding plans, their dream day or even their handsome husbands. I simply want my very own slice of wedding happiness and a gold band, which I believe is overdue by approximately five years. I may seem self-centred, maybe a tad impatient, but in my world, when you commit, you commit properly.

We, Elliot and I, have acquired a joint mortgage. We have joint ownership of a border collie, Maisy, despite him never walking her. We have joint bank accounts, a king-size bed, matching toothbrushes, and the automatic alternate-year Christmas dinner at each other’s parents. We even have a couple of joint promises regarding godchildren, who we’ve vowed to raise in a morally correct manner should anything happen to our dear friends, which we share too.

We have everything apart from a shared surname and a wedding certificate.

The name situation is neither here nor there; I could rectify that quite easily, with one legal document, a swift signature and – bingo! – I could officially sign his name. It’s the certifi­cate I want. The commitment shown to me. I need to build the future I’ve dreamt of – a family home, children, the future I thought would automatically come my way, in the circle of life. I want finger paintings covering the fridge door, the dead goldfish drama and the frantic extra-curricular activity timetable. I wouldn’t mind him getting a man shed, the end of date nights because of no babysitter or even the growing old and pottering around together stage. But nothing can officially start without a commitment.

How do you get the man you love to propose to you? Without forcing the issue, creating a marriage minefield or patiently waiting while he gets his act together?

If, indeed, he ever does!

The boutique is empty and we’re busy steaming a delicate lace bridal train ready for collection when the door opens. We each hold our breath and pose like mannequins as the local florist struggles to get through the door carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet.

Trish looks at me, her eyes wide with excitement. I curtail any reaction, acting calm and serene whilst my heart pounds a little faster.

Really?

‘Flowers!’ cries Anna, glancing between us two older ladies. I say older because when you’re the tender age of eighteen, my thirty-nine years and Trish’s forty-one seem ancient. Anna will arrive at our age in a blink of an eye; she simply doesn’t know that yet.

‘Delivery for Anna Chaplin,’ announces the florist, her eager gaze switching from face to face to identify the lucky lady.

‘Mine?’ beams Anna, dropping her end of the lace train and dancing on the spot, her excitement overflowing, before dashing forwards to collect the bouquet. ‘A dozen long-stemmed roses!’

The florist leaves us open-mouthed and staring as Anna rips open the accompanying card.

‘Who from?’ I ask, knowing full well I’m being nosy. Eighteen, single and yet she receives roses – go figure!

‘That would be telling,’ she teases, tapping the side of her nose.

‘Oh no, missy . . . if you’re going to flaunt your Valentine spoils in the kitchenette’s sink all day and deflate me even more, you need to be prepared to share on the info front,’ I say, putting the steaming nozzle down. Trish releases the layers of delicate lace as we await the announcement.

‘Cody? That’s the guy from the bathroom store, isn’t it?’ she explains, her fingers pinching the simple card.

‘He’s cute . . . he walks past here most lunchtimes,’ says Trish, nodding in admiration.

‘I know. I’ve seen him round town in local pubs, we’ve chatted once or twice but this . . . wow!’

‘Who’s a lucky lady?’ I say, curbing my jealousy on seeing her delighted face.

‘I don’t know what to do . . . How do I thank him?’

‘Mmmm, believe me, if he’s forked out for roses on Valentine’s Day, he’ll be seeking you out tonight, so don’t worry,’ laughs Trish, lifting the next layer of lace so I can resume steaming the delicate train.

Dana

I read the website’s payment page. I’m hesitant to enter my debit card number and press the send button. It might be nerves but I suspect it’s the remnants of my dignity disappearing into the World Wide Web never to be seen again if I conform to society’s expectations and sign up for a dating site. I, Dana, vowed never to join a dating website, under any circumstances, regardless of my situation or lifestyle. I was never going to follow the lead of the other single chummy-mummies at the school gate and seek love via a dating app. I’m proud that I’ve confidently upheld that vow for five long years. Five busy years. Five devoted and yet lonely years, during which I frequently reminded all who’d listen – mainly at birthdays, New Year, Easter, midsummer’s parties, summer holiday fortnights, midwinter nativities and, finally, Christmas – that I would find a man the old-fashioned way. In the flesh. In real life. Someone tall, dark and handsome and in need of a decent, law-abiding yet slightly sassy – especially after wine consumption – loving woman. A loving woman with an adorable young son.

Sadly, I haven’t succeeded.

My computer screen flickers, flashes and somewhere inside my head I hear a million tiny padlocks open as the gated entrances to millions of warm, loving relationships are potentially flung wide if I enter my card number and press ‘send’.

Or, I could sign up and find it’s all an almighty scam, taking twenty-five pounds a month by direct payment and eons of my time should I ever attempt to cancel my membership. Much like a gym membership can do . . . once did, many moons ago in my previous life. And what for? So I can join the chummy-mummies complaining about meeting endless morons – who I’d never give the time of day to in real life but who I feel the need to converse with politely, should I be lucky enough to receive the offer of a date, just because I’ve paid for the privilege each month. Then, in time, I’ll also be a skint chummy-mummy, venting about the conniving, cheating bastards who lose my number once I’ve organised a costly babysitter, bribed the child to be good and curled my hair. Only to have to return home after being stood up.

I pause and check the computer clock: 9 p.m.

I listen to the silence, and see myself as others would, should they enter my house at this precise moment.

Suddenly, the prospect of being stood up by an internet nobody feels slightly more desirable than my current situation: a lonely single mum, wearing joggers and a messy bun, cradling her second glass of cheap wine, who, after a long day creating and delivering beautiful bouquets to excited customers, now relaxes by signing up to a dating service on Valentine’s night.

‘Bloody cheers!’

Such a fine achievement for a thirty-nine year old.

I instantly correct myself – my finest achievement is fast asleep upstairs in the front bedroom, dressed in his favourite Spider-Man pyjamas, minus his tiny glasses and clutching the raggedy ear of a toy elephant.

But I still really don’t want to sign up and pay hard-earned money for a dating app.

And that’s when I spot it, in the right-hand side panel, edged in a glimmering gold border.

Do you want experts to help you find true love?

Are you prepared to be honest, open and frank

about your future desires?

Would you participate in a social experiment

to identify ‘the one’?

If so, click here for further details . . .

I click. I wait and read the next screen, which introduces Channel 7’s new TV programme Taking a Chance on Love, and calls for the enrolment of singles who’d like to participate. I read with interest: the blurb offers qualified psychologists, psychometric testing, personality matching, feedback and support to the carefully selected few destined to find out whether true love can be scientifically engineered.

I’ve watched many reality shows – the big ones with voting lines and a huge public following – but this online advert suggests a small independent TV production, nothing too risky. I’m not sure I’m up for the public scrutiny of a major fly-on-the-wall documentary, but I doubt that a small independent programme will get a decent audience or a prime-time slot and I could do with the panel of experts and their various tests. Anything that will curtail the time-wasters, the two-timers, the players . . . need I carry on?

It takes me five minutes to answer a set of basic questions about me and my situation. Even less time to read the terms and conditions, and one click to submit my enrolment form.

I sit back. Now that feels better than the dating website. Enrolment in a social experiment conducted by professional people fills me with confidence. Plus it’s a free application, debit card not needed, so I can’t be scammed.

Some confidence.

A smidgen of confidence.

A wave of guilt flash-floods over me.

Am I being fair to Luke?

Fair to myself?

I really must stop doing this self-flagellation routine, having to justify myself every time I choose to chase a desire. Something for me. Something I want . . . need . . . would like . . . I beat myself up purely because I feel guilty for wanting something outside my relationship with my child.

My eyes well, the screen blurs. Who am I trying to kid? Thousands of people will see the very same advert, fill out the questionnaire and be selected ahead of me. Interesting people, with fabulous stories, overflowing with confidence . . . because, let’s face it – I never win anything.

An incredible urge to hug my son envelops me. I put my wine glass down.

As if in a re-enactment of the chummy-mummy one-­hundred-metre final frantic dash for a front-row space at the school railings, I take the staircase two at a time. Luke won’t wake, he never does.

I stand on the landing and stare at the sliver of shadow around his door, left slightly ajar because he’s scared of the dark. This allows the cute snuffles of my sleeping son to be heard on the quiet landing. I touch the door gently, knowing it’ll swing open freely without noise to reveal my sleeping child. He’s a pyjamaed lump of sprawling chubby limbs; his face is turned to the wall, a crumpled duvet kicked to the bottom of his bed. His elephant, snared by its right ear, stares back at me. His tiny blue glasses sit by his bed, awaiting a new day of fingerprints and smears.

I don’t need to see Luke’s face. I’ve examined his features every day, they’re committed to my memory for life: his stumpy button nose, slanting inquisitive eyes, and his indelible smile, freely available to everyone he greets.

My boy.

My baby.

My son.

Snuggled and dreaming in his own precious world, where elephants and Spider-Man fight for justice and peace for all by giving a little extra to this world. Just like Luke, who gives a little extra to everyone he meets.

Ensuring that I must do the same.

I lean against the door jamb, admiring the image as he noisily slaps his lips and snuffles into his pillow, unaware that this world, with its cruel reality and harsh society, does little to justify his good nature. One day, when he’s a little older, I’ll attempt to explain the chance meeting of human cells, the forging of a new being in a moment of love, even the strength and disposal of such love once issues arise. I know I’ll fail miserably, science will evade me. No doubt I’ll cry. No doubt he will too. How wrong that a child so loving, boisterous and bright – every quality I’d have chosen for my son – is destined to walk a slightly different path in life from his classmates, destined to have to give a little extra focus and effort to everything he achieves or desires in life. Ironically, his little extra is contained within chromosome twenty-one.

Polly

‘Is that it?’ sneers our son, pointing at our mantelpiece, as he watches the early evening news. ‘I know you’re a pair of old fogies, but even so, that’s pretty pathetic. Where’s the romance?’

‘Oy, cut it out, Cody! Since when have we ever done the whole Valentine’s Day guff? You shouldn’t need to be told when to tell someone you love them, worse still, do it en masse as a nation, all on the same day,’ I say, ironing his white shirt, which I should have done last night but forgot to – or rather couldn’t be bothered to when I did remember, given that it was quarter past ten. ‘Where’s the romance in that?’

‘You would say that though, wouldn’t you?’ grunts Cody from the sofa, feigning interest in our simple cards standing side by side. Fraser has signed his usual ‘Fraser X’. I’ve been slightly more extravagant with a simple message of ‘Love always, Polly xx’. Neither of us feels the need to declare undying love inside a Hallmark card, just because the calendar dictates we should. We’ve survived the sunshine and shadows of twenty-one years together, paid off a mortgage month by month, both worked around the clock to hold down full-time employment and raised the aforementioned son – though the fact that he can’t iron his own bloody shirt at nineteen years of age probably speaks volumes regarding the layer of cotton wool we’ve wrapped him in.

‘It’s a commercial ploy simply to line the pockets of florists and card manufacturers, you know that, don’t you? Over the years, I’ve saved your father a small fortune by refusing to allow him to buy me roses on Valentine’s Day. And believe me, he’s grateful. I’ve always said . . .’

‘I’m happy as long as I receive a nice card and a kiss,’ interrupts Cody, mimicking my voice, though I know I don’t sound half as whiney as he makes out. I sound genuine, I sound like a woman who is sure of her man and his affections, a woman who wants real day-to-day love, not some bullshit idea created by the admen.

‘I’m glad you’ve heard me say it. I know your father loves me, and he knows I love him. We don’t feel the need to be mushy or gaze adoringly at each other, unlike your aunty Helen and uncle Marc! How would you fancy having those two as your parents, bloody smooching and snogging all over the place?’ My older sister and her husband have never been any different. They’ve never matured from the arse-groping stage of a relationship, despite three years of courtship, twenty-five years of marriage plus two daughters.

Helen and I have always been close, although given our seven-year age gap, we were always at different stages. As teenagers, she and Marc used to scare the life out of me when I watched them through the crack of the kitchen door, terrified that they’d die of asphyxiation as they French kissed for a whole ten minutes, while our parents sat in frosty silence watching Tomorrow’s World in the front room. I’d squirm whilst peeking, like watching a David Attenborough nature programme but without the long lens, decorative ferns and billowing long grass – though the Moulinex mixer and a Sodastream were their camouflage backdrop. It probably explains why I’ve never been one for public displays of passionate affection. With my first boyfriend, I was content with hand-holding, pecks on the cheek and a cheeky arse-feel when a private moment arose, ‘There’s a time and place for everything’ being my favoured line. How I ever kept that first boyfriend and made him my live-in lover just three years later I’ll never know, but he didn’t complain. And now here we are, two decades later, and our beloved Cody, into whom we have ploughed all our hopes and energy, mocks our attempt at being romantic. As if he’s the bloody Casanova of Lansdowne Crescent!

‘Urgh, the very thought of it.’

‘Exactly, so be thankful for small mercies.’

‘Old people snogging – yuk!’

‘More importantly, wait until you see the price of twenty long-stemmed roses plus the delivery charge – then you’ll be hoping your future partner has my attitude. So don’t knock it, OK?’

‘They’re not that expensive. A dozen red roses delivered locally only costs . . .’ Cody’s words fade on seeing my stunned expression. I automatically lift the iron to ensure no burning.

‘How on earth would you know?’

‘Mmmm, wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Cody, have you . . . ?’ I daren’t finish my sentence. I want to, I am desperate to, but I can’t bring myself to ask for fear of the answer.

Iron held aloft, face still stunned, I take in the sprawling frame of my son. He might be six foot one, with size eleven feet and a collar size which matches his father’s but an invisible umbilical cord sits comfortably between us. Stretched as it might be at this current moment, still it is present and correct. They tried to convince me nearly twenty years ago that it had been physically cut, but I refuse to believe it. In my book, it gives me an innate right to ask my son questions, though Fraser tends to disagree with me about this on a fairly regular basis, usually in hushed tones behind a closed kitchen door. But, hey, what do the Y chromosomes in this house know? Not as much as the X chromosome does, that’s what I’ve learnt over the years.

‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t ripped off.’

I give a weak smile and resume ironing, my mind spinning faster than a weather vane in a tornado.

Bless him, he thinks I’m bothered about the cost. As I said, what does he know? Bugger the cost! I’m more bothered about who the recipient was and whether she’s actually worthy of the affections of my strapping lad! Or – and I really don’t want to venture down this line of thinking, but here we go, needs must – dare I ask if it was his ex-girlfriend, Lola?

Shall I?

Should I?

Surely not!

No, it really isn’t my business. It shouldn’t be my problem, but it feels like it could be. I shouldn’t ask. He’s entitled to a private life, away from his parents’ scrutinising gaze. At nineteen, I’d have hated my mother interfering in my love life, asking questions and prying, although maybe her quizzical stare over the rim of her glasses, her persistent tutting and her subtle ‘little chats’ did guide and influence my choice.

Oh dear, I’ve turned into my damned mother!

I continue with my ironing, his ironing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him watching the news.

Maybe I should ask purely to show interest? It isn’t being nosy. How many times do parents get slated in the media for not taking an interest and, boom, their kids end up taking drugs on the way to college, being arrested for illicit internet activity or fathering three babies in the space of two postcodes!

But what if he confirms the return of Lola? Who, whilst absent from our lives, has no doubt dated another ten men since she wrangled with our son, has perfected her repertoire of bad behaviour and now plans to make a grand comeback into our lives.

The last time I saw her she’d fallen over on the dance floor at my father’s sixty-fifth birthday bash, her legs akimbo, flashing her lime-green gusset whilst congratulating herself for holding aloft her oversized glass of cheap plonk, of which she hadn’t split a drop. Hoorah!

‘Cody, anyone I know?’

He looks at me surprised: there’s been a lengthy pause while my brain wrote a pros and cons list. I half expect him to ask what we are discussing.

‘Nah!’ He returns his attention to the TV as I finish ironing his shirt.

‘Praise be for small mercies,’ I chunter. My relief is instant, I can’t hide it. Such a glorious confirmation erases my fears – much like my reaction when he received his A-level results. Though given his current employment at a local bathroom showroom, he’s hardly made good use of the qualifications that took such graft to earn. One day I might wave him off to uni, here’s hoping it’s soon.

Not Lola anyway. Excellent. No fear of repeating the string of embarrassments endured purely by association then. The half-nakedness, her slovenly drunkenness, her nocturnal phone calls disturbing our sleep and the constant worry that our son is being drawn into a social vortex of her erratic lifestyle and make-believe.

So, someone new.

Someone lovely.

Someone I don’t know.

Bloody great! So the allowance which his dad and I provide him with in order to top up his low-paid job has been blown on a dozen roses and a delivery charge! I congratulate myself on completing seven hours of overtime last week at the travel agents purely to provide an unknown girl with a doorstep delivery and a rush of teenage pheromones. I hope she enjoys my gift and fully appreciates the care and consideration I showed towards her. Whereas I happily settle for a solitary card with a simple sentiment and single kiss.

‘Here . . . here’s your sodding shirt.’ I fling it in his direction, narked that the realities of motherhood frequently bite me on the arse, and his carefully ironed shirt crumples into his lap.

‘Cheers.’

Chapter Two

Friday 21 February

Polly

‘Mum . . . I’ve been thinking,’ says Cody, entering the kitchen as I dash about; juggling burnt toast and boiling kettles is the norm at breakfast time in our home.

‘Sound ominous,’ offers Fraser, nabbing the least blackened piece of toast from the bread board and settling at the breakfast table to consume it alongside his morning coffee.

I stop in mid-action, butter knife held aloft, with two burnt pieces awaiting camouflage. I sense what Cody’s about to say before he even says it and I will want to bloody scream if it’s what I think.

‘Go on,’ I say calmly, knowing full well that my ordinary working day at the travel agents is up the swanny if I’m right.

Cody stands beside me at the countertop, nodding at the burnt toast as an indication that he’s waiting. I slowly resume my task, aware that his casual manner is hiding something.

‘You’re right . . . for once,’ he says, watching my hand busily buttering. ‘Having a party for my twentieth would be pretty neat – given that I didn’t get an eighteenth party.’

He can’t look me in the eye.

‘I bloody knew it! Why didn’t you say before now? I asked you back in October . . . that’s four months ago. But oh no, Mum’s making a bloody big fuss about nothing and now . . . now with –’ I glance at the kitchen calendar for confirmation – ‘eight days to go, you decide I had a good idea.’

Cody snatches a piece of toast from beneath my knife and drifts towards his father, crunching.

‘Just saying, that’s all . . . nothing posh, but somewhere decent with music, drinks and a few laughs – but not the old scout hut like my mate Josh had . . . that wasn’t a great night.’

‘Well, that narrows it down, Cody,’ I say. ‘How about a back room in a local pub?’

‘A classy pub?’

‘Such as?’

‘The Red Lion is pretty decent but not the Welfare Club.’

I stare open-mouthed at Fraser, who comically lifts his e