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‘Is it a competition?’

‘Not officially.’

‘You mean it’s just a dance?’

‘Oh, Olivia, it’s never just a dance.’ She twirls and flicks her grey bob, for what it’s worth. ‘Just call me Ginger.’

I chuckle. ‘And is George your Fred?’

She sighs, exasperated. ‘God bless him, he tries, but the man has two left feet.’

‘Give him a break. The poor bloke is in his late seventies!’

‘I’m no spring chicken, but I can still bump and grind with the best of ’em.’

My brow wrinkles. ‘Bump and what?’

Her legs bend until she’s squatting a little, and then she starts thrusting her old h*ps forward. ‘Bump,’ she says, before changing direction and swivelling her h*ps around, ‘and grind.’

‘Nan!’ I laugh, watching as she alternates between thrusting and swivelling. She looks crafty as she increases her pace, leaving me in a helpless fit of giggles on the couch, holding my aching stomach. ‘Stop it!’

‘I might audition for Beyoncé’s next music video. Think I’ll rock it?’ She winks and takes a seat next to me, wrapping me in her arms. I get my laughter under control and sigh into her bosom, embracing her tight clinch. ‘Nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing those beautiful eyes sparkle when you laugh, my darling girl.’

My amusement subsides and appreciation takes over – appreciation for this wonderful old woman who I’m so lucky to call my grandmother. She’s worked tirelessly to fill the gaping hole that my mother left and has succeeded to a certain extent. And now she’s adopting the same tactic for the absence of another person in my life. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

‘For what?’

I shrug a little. ‘Just for being you.’

‘A nosy old bat?’

‘I never mean it when I say that.’

‘Yes, you do.’ She laughs and pulls me from her bust, cupping my cheeks in her wrinkled hands and smothering me with her marshmallow lips. ‘My beautiful, beautiful girl. Dig deep to find that sass, Olivia. Not too much, but just a little. It’ll serve you well.’

My lips tip. She means not as much as my mother.

‘Darling girl, take life by the balls and twist them.’

I laugh, and she laughs, too, falling back on the sofa and taking me with her. ‘I’ll try.’

‘And while you’re at it, twist the balls of any arseholes you encounter, too.’ She hasn’t said it directly, but I know who she’s talking about. Who else?

The house phone rings, pulling us both up.

‘I’ll get it,’ I say, giving Nan a quick kiss on the cheek and heading into the hall, where the cordless device sits in its cradle on the old-fashioned telephone table. In a sad fit of excitement, my eyes light up when I see the bistro’s landline number displayed on the screen, and I hope I know why. ‘Del!’ I greet, all cheery and way too enthusiastic.

‘Hi, Livy.’ His strong cockney accent is a pleasure to hear. ‘I tried your mobile, but it was dead.’

‘Yeah, it’s broken.’ I need to get a new phone pronto, but I’m also quite enjoying the benefit of seclusion that not having one is bringing.

‘Oh good. Now, I know you’re not keen on evenings . . .’

‘I’ll do it!’ I blurt, taking the stairs fast. Distraction, distraction, distraction.

‘Oh?’

‘You want me to waitress?’ I fall into the bathroom, sadly excited at the thought of a perfect opportunity to escape the risk of falling back into mental torment, now that Nan’s antics have expired for the day.

‘Yes, at the Pavilion. Damn agency workers are so unreliable.’

‘No prob—’ I halt mid-sentence and fall against the bathroom door, suddenly thinking of something that could blow my plan of distraction out of the water. ‘Can I ask what the occasion is?’

I can see Del frown in my mind’s eye. ‘Uh, yeah, annual gala for a bunch of judges and barristers.’

My whole being relaxes. Miller is not a judge, nor is he a barrister. I’m safe.

‘Should I wear black?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ He sounds confused. ‘Seven o’clock start.’

‘Great. I’ll see you there.’ I hang up and throw myself in the shower.

I hurry into the staff entrance of the Pavilion and immediately find Del and Sylvie pouring champagne. ‘I’m here!’ I shrug off my denim jacket and ditch my satchel. ‘What should I do?’

Del smiles, then looks to Sylvie, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them at my unusual cheery mood. ‘Finish pouring, you sweet thing,’ he says, handing me a bottle and leaving me with Sylvie to finish up.

‘You okay?’ I ask Sylvie, commencing pouring duties.

Her black bob sways as she shakes her head on a smile. ‘You look . . . chirpy.’

I swiftly brush off her observation, refusing to let the smile fall from my face. ‘Life goes on,’ I say quickly before going for subject change. ‘How many posh people have we got to feed and water this evening?’

‘About three hundred. The reception is from eight until nine before they’ll all be pushed into the ballroom for dinner. We’ll pick up again at tennish when they’re done and the band starts.’ She places the empty bottle of champagne down. ‘Done. Let’s go.’

Despite my enthusiasm to distract myself with work, I don’t feel comfortable this evening. I’m gliding through the crowds, delivering canapés and champagne, but I feel uneasy. I don’t like it.