Page 1 of Sweet Dreams at the Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane (The Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane #2)

‘The only thing nicer than a custard slice for breakfast,’ Nora Bunting announced, picking the gooey treat up with two fingers and lifting it to her mouth. ‘Are two custard slices.’ She took a huge bite and closed her eyes in bliss.

‘You could never eat two? ’ Lori cried, aghast.

‘I could,’ Nora replied, ‘but I won’t. And do you know why?’

The youngest member of the hair salon shook her head mutely, bug-eyed with wonder at her boss’s prowess when it came to custard slice consumption.

‘Because there’s only one in the box!’ Nora chortled.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Kendra, the senior stylist, advised. ‘Nora’s always pulling our legs. She’d never eat two for breakfast. Lunch, maybe, but not breakfast!’ She slapped her black-trousered thigh and nudged Nora with a playful elbow.

‘Careful,’ Nora admonished. ‘I nearly dropped my slice.’ She finished it in a couple of mouthfuls, then proceeded to try to lick the incredibly sticky icing from her fingers, before resorting to washing her hands in one of the three basins.

‘Right, I suppose we’d better get this show on the road,’ she said, taking a gulp of frothy coffee. ‘Who’ve we got this morning?’ She turned to Kendra, who opened the appointments book to today’s date.

‘A full head of foils for Stacey Heron, a restyle, a root touch up, two cut and blow dries, and Mrs Blake’s regular wash and set. I think she’ll need a trim as well, because her hair was getting a bit bushy last week.’

Nora asked, ‘Who’s first?’

‘The foils and one of the cuts.’

‘Can you remember what we need to do for the foils?’ Nora asked Lori.

‘Um… put a gown on the client?’

Nora loved training the next generation of hairstylists and she was never without a student, but this one was harder work than most. The seventeen-year-old was eager to learn, bless her, but the girl’s lack of common sense sometimes amazed her.

‘We put gowns on all our clients,’ Nora reminded her gently. She tried again. ‘What equipment do we need?’

A lightbulb came on. ‘ Oh , foil strips!’

‘That’s right. What else?’

‘Bowls for the colour and brushes to apply it?’

‘Correct. And we also need the customer’s record card, so I know what was discussed when she came in for her consultation.

Do you think you could get all that ready for me?

And when you’ve finished, you’ll need to stock up the towel shelf and make sure all the shampoos and conditioners are topped up.

But before you get started, please could you make me another coffee?

’ She yawned. ‘This flippin’ menopause is a pain in the bum.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night for a wee and then I can’t get back to sleep. ’

‘What did the doctor say?’ Kendra asked.

‘I’ve got to wait for the results of the blood test first, before he’ll give me HRT. At least I’m not suffering from hot flushes yet.’ Nora grasped the neckline of her top and pulled it away from her chest, fanning herself. ‘Although, now I come to think of it, I am rather hot.’

‘It’s really warm out,’ Kendra said. ‘The forecast reckons it’ll be twenty-five degrees today.’

Nora loved the summer, but preferably when she was lying on a beach with a cocktail in her hand: she didn’t want to have to work in it. Even this early in the day, she could feel sweat gathering between her ample breasts and creating damp patches under her arms.

Lori brought her another coffee and Nora gulped it thirstily.

She would send the girl out to the shop for a bottle of something cold in a bit.

She loved her coffee, but if it was going to be as warm as Kendra claimed, she’d need a cold drink, and preferably one with caffeine in it to keep her awake.

She hoped the doctor would prescribe HRT, because the sooner she got started on it the better. Being tired all the time was getting her down.

The door opened and Stacey Heron, a regular and the salon’s first client of the day, came in and soon Nora and her team were immersed in washing, cutting, curling and styling.

As Picklewick’s only hairdresser, the salon was always busy, and despite being rushed off her feet, Nora loved it.

Ever since her college days, she’d wanted to own her own place, and she’d built the business from scratch.

Very proud of it she was too, and although she joked and laughed with clients and staff alike, she had high standards and ran a tight ship.

Even as she concentrated on wrapping lengths of foil around strands of colour-daubed hair, she kept a close eye on what everyone else was doing, at the same time maintaining a steady stream of chatter with her client.

The current topic of conversation was plans for the weekend.

The woman in the chair was saying, ‘If the weather holds up, I’d quite like to have some friends around for a barbeque. We’ve got one of those inflatable pools, so the kids can play in that while the grownups enjoy a couple of beers. Or in my case, wine.’

‘I like a nice cold glass of Pimm’s,’ Nora said. ‘Or a pina colada with loads of ice. A barbeque sounds good – as long as I’m not expected to cook it!’

‘God, no! I leave that to my husband. What is it with men and barbeques? If I asked him to shove a burger under the grill in the kitchen, he’d make a right song and dance about it, but ask him to stick a sausage on the barbie and he’s there!

He’s even got a stupid apron that he wears.

’ Stacey rolled her eyes indulgently. ‘I swear a barbeque brings out the caveman in them.’

Nora laughed. She’d witnessed that very thing with her friends’ husbands and partners.

Stacey asked, ‘What are you doing on the weekend? Something more exciting than eating a burnt burger in the garden surrounded by screaming kids, I bet.’

‘I’ll be in the salon until two on Saturday, but I’m going to that new tapas bar in Thornbury in the evening, and I’m hoping to have a long lie in on Sunday, followed by lunch at The Black Horse.’

Stacey sighed. ‘I envy you. I’d sell my youngest for a lie in. He’s seven now, but he still gets me up at six in the morning.’

‘Just wait until he’s seventeen,’ Kendra warned, as she placed a rubber cape around her client’s neck prior to re-styling the woman’s shoulder length hair.

‘He’ll sleep in, all right, but you’ll still be exhausted because you won’t be able to drop off until he gets home.

It was gone one o’clock before mine got in last night.

And he’s got college this morning. I had hell’s job to get him out of bed.

’ All the time she was talking, Kendra was running her fingers through the client’s wet hair, checking its length before she took the scissors to it.

Nora joined in, ‘And by then you’ll probably be menopausal as well, so your sleep will be disturbed anyway!’

‘I’m coming back as a bloke next time,’ Stacey declared adamantly. ‘They don’t have problems like periods, or childbirth, or the blasted menopause. I’m not looking forward to that, I can tell you.’

It definitely wasn’t a barrel of laughs, Nora thought. ‘Right, that’s your foils done. I’ll put the timer on for thirty minutes, and we’ll see how it goes. You might need a bit longer. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee? A magazine?’

After instructing Lori to make the client a drink, Nora retreated to the back room for a quick swig of the cold cola the girl had fetched for her, and one of the muffins Kendra had brought in for their elevenses.

Okay, so what if it was only ten o’clock?

She was hungry: the custard slice hadn’t touched the sides.

Sinking into the battered office chair to eat it, she was glad to take the weight off her feet.

Only another seven hours and she could go home and have a nap.

This really was getting ridiculous. She was only forty-seven, yet lately she felt more like seventy -seven.

Stacey was right, men had it easy when it came to hormones.

Sighing loudly, Nora tucked into the muffin, and she’d just finished washing it down with another swig of fizzy pop when her mobile rang.

It was the surgery.

Yay! The result of her blood test must be in – HRT at last!

‘Miss Bunting? It’s Dr Watts. I’d like you to make an appointment to see me. It’s about your results.’ He sounded more sombre than a confirmation that she was well on the way to menopause warranted, and a chill shivered down her spine.

‘Sooner rather than later, if you can manage it,’ he added, and the chill became an artic blast of dread.

‘Oh, no, you can’t do this to me. I need to know now , not in a week’s time or whenever I can get an appointment. Is it…?’ She couldn’t get the word out, but she was fearing the worst.

‘The menopause? Well, yes, your hormone levels do indicate that you’re in perimenopause, but I’m more concerned with your HbA1c level.’

‘My what? ’

‘I’m sorry to say but your blood glucose is sixty-six.’ He paused before uttering the words that would change her life forever. ‘You have diabetes.’

Elijah Grant slid the final tray of lemon crumble muffins into the industrial sized oven, set the timer, then limped slowly over to a high-backed stool beside the work prep table, and eased himself onto it with a wince.

His leg ached abominably, but then, he had been on his feet since five-thirty this morning, so even with the boot for support, it was going to hurt.

He hoped the hospital would tell him he could take it off when he went for his appointment at the clinic later today.

On the other hand, at least it was a boot and not a plaster cast, so he counted himself lucky he hadn’t completely fractured his tibia.

A stress fracture, they called it, where the bone was weakened by excessive training or overpronation of the foot whilst running.

The first was his own fault – the second could partly be compensated for by the correct footwear.