Page 3

chapter

three

It’s early evening by the time I make my way home. I manoeuvre down the high street, dodging the inevitable tourists, some of whom move slower than Britain’s economic growth. The sun is low, bathing everything with its golden glow. The village looks beautiful with the windows and paintwork of the cottages gleaming and flowers spilling in colourful abundance over the baskets dotted everywhere.

I look around in appreciation. I know that living here can sometimes be a nightmare when the tourist hordes descend, but I love everything about the place. I was born and brought up in London, and when David brought me here, it seemed like another world.However, I quickly grew to love the gossipy closeness of the residents, the way the village seemed to be given back to us in the winter when the snow came, and the sense of being known here.

I pull my keys from my pocket as I approach my front door. My home is an eighteenth-century terraced cottage built of Cotswold stone, and it’s tiny.

Letting myself in, I throw my keys into the purple glass bowl on the side table. The lounge is shady and cool and scented by the pottery bowl of dried lavender on the coffee table. I look around in appreciation.

David bought the cottage on a whim when it came up for sale, and at first, he’d loved living in it with me and doing it up together. Then, like so much else in his life, it started to bore him. He grew tired of the decorating discussions, the villagers, and the tourism, and being so far from the bright lights of London. It came as a huge surprise to him that I disagreed with him. I was young, and I’d previously gone along with him over everything. But I loved this place passionately from the first moment I set foot in it. It felt in my tiny cottage that I’d finally found my place, and I refused to travel with him all the time. I wanted to stay put for the first time in my life.

I suppose it would have cost me my marriage eventually because the cottage was just the visual representation of how different we were. I’m a homebody and love cooking and reading. David thought he’d found a wild boy when he met me at the concert, but that’s far from who I really am. It’s redundant to theorise anyway because, in the end, I went the same way as the cottage in boring him.

I shake my head and dismiss the thoughts, climbing the steep winding stairs to my bedroom. This is a low-beamed room at the back of the house that looks over the garden. The big sleigh bed takes up most of the room, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d splurged on an expensive mattress and the nicest bed linen, and now it’s like sleeping on a cloud. I love lying in it covered by the soft duvet and reading my book.

A year after David died, I overhauled the cottage. I got rid of his decorating choices that centred around the colour navy and made my skin itch. Instead, everything is now decorated in warm, light colours and filled with well-stuffed furniture that welcomes weary bodies. There’s rather a lot of fairy lights draped around pictures, but I’m the only one living here, so who cares?

After showering, I dress in a pair of old black shorts that hang from me and highlight my unfortunately skinny legs. I pair them with one of Con’s old Leeds University T-shirts that I pinched years ago and pad downstairs barefoot. I made a frittata yesterday, and there’s enough for supper tonight.

I wander into the kitchen and pull out the food, only to pause and stare at it. For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe there’s something sad in having frittata leftovers. Isn’t it a dish best served fresh with a partner who’ll eat all of it and never leave leftovers? I wonder what Con and Tim are doing and quickly push the thought away, but my appetite has gone, and I shove the food back in the fridge.

I pour myself a glass of wine instead and open the kitchen door to walk out into the garden. This is the one area I haven’t done anything to. I know bugger all about gardening, so it’s a bit of a wilderness that Mr Fitzroy, one of my neighbours, tuts in disapproval about.

“Lucy Scrimshaw is going to go fucking batshit crazy,” I say out loud, startling a pigeon who takes off with a heavy flutter of wings.

The doorbell rings, and my heart picks up speed. Is it Con? I race for the door, stubbing my toe in the process. I’m still swearing when I open it and find the devil on my doorstep. Or Lucy Scrimshaw, chairwoman of the village committee if you want to be more precise.

“Lucy,” I say and then gape as she steps neatly past me and into the house. “Oh, do come in,” I say, but it’s lost on her as she walks through the lounge.

“You’ve done such a lovely job with the house,” she says admiringly before walking into the kitchen. “And this is wonderful, Frankie. I don’t mind admitting I was a bit concerned when David brought you home.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She waves a careless hand. “I’m not being rude.”

“Really?” I’d like to say I said that out loud, but she scares me, so I whisper it, and she continues undeterred.

“Yes, you’re such a flamboyant dresser. I thought you’d be painting the cottage purple. But you’ve proved to be a real asset to the village, and you certainly cheered Con up after the death of his parents and David.” She pauses, obviously realising that she’s crossed a line a few miles back. “Sorry,” she says. “Sore subject.”

“Not at all,” I say coolly. “Did you want something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Silly me. I’ve got a head like a one-day-old chick.” And the hide of a crocodile ,I think as she continues. “I wanted to see the garden.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say quickly, trying to step in front of her, but it’s too late, and she steps outside, and an appalled silence promptly falls.

“Oh, my goodness,” she breathes.

“Yes, I know it’s a bit wild.”

“A bit ? It’s like a set from Jumanji .”

That startles a laugh out of me, and I suddenly realise this might be my salvation. “It’s terrible ,” I say mournfully. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do the open garden thing, Lucy. I’d just let everyone down.” I look at the garden. “And possibly lose some of the tourists in the shrubbery.”

“Hopefully, it’s the same ones who I just found looking through my kitchen window,” a voice comes from behind us.

We both jump and spin around to find Con leaning against the doorjamb. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a Wedding Present T-shirt, and his hair is wet, showing the stark beauty of his tanned face.

“Con,” I gasp, folding my arms quickly over my T-shirt so he can’t spot it. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you,” he says. “You left your door open.”

“Yes, Lucy visited,” I say, leaving it vague in the hope he gets what happened and that the open door is so she doesn’t delay her departure. The twitch of his mouth shows he does.

“Hello, Con,” Lucy says, fluttering her eyelashes so hard I’m sure the breeze stirs the honeysuckle behind her. She pats his arm flirtatiously. “Goodness, you’re all muscles.”

“And occasional sarcasm,” I add.

Con laughs and then smiles at Lucy, who melts as usual. “I heard the words ‘open garden.’ Is it that time already, Lucy?”

“It does seem to come around with alarming regularity,” I say. I try to sidle past him in the hope of dashing upstairs and changing my shirt, but he puts out a foot and stops my progress. I glare at him, but he just gives me a lazy smile.

Lucy chuckles. “And are you still set on not taking part, Con?”

He winks. “Of course. The last time my garden was sorted out, it was the year we won the World Cup.”

“Well, of course, if that’s the way you feel, I completely understand.”

“Hang on. How come he gets away with saying no once, and you accept it?” I forget myself and say indignantly. “Meanwhile, I’ve said no in every possible connotation, and yet you’re still here inspecting my garden for the committee.”

“Oh, Frankie,” she says in a reproving voice. “You always say no, but you don’t mean it.”

“It’s got him in such a lot of trouble in the past,” Con says smoothly, and I shoot him a glare.

Lucy steps onto the lawn gingerly as if she thinks it’s going to suck her under. “It’s this weekend, Frankie. What on earth are you going to do?”

“Shut and lock the doors and windows,” I offer, but Con speaks over me.

“I’ll help him. We’ll soon get it knocked into shape.”

“You’ll do what ?” I gasp, and he looks at me.

“I’ve got to go to the garden centre anyway, so we might as well pick up some plants too. It won’t take that long.”

“Oh really? Are you putting hanging baskets in the middle of the thicket formerly known as your front lawn? Better watch it. That’s the first step towards being bitten by the gardening bug,” I say sweetly.

He grins. “How would you know? The last thing that bit you was that Chihuahua.”

“Mr Sparkles is vicious . I wish people could see past the sequinned coat and painted toenails. I’m afraid Mrs Thomas is harbouring a tiny canine thug in her handbag.”

We break off, realising that Lucy is watching us, her head cocked to one side like a nosy parrot.

“Yes?” I say, and she smiles.

“I just think it’s lovely how the two of you are friends. You know the new lady at number ten?”

“She’s lived here for five years,” I point out.

She waves a dismissive hand. “She thought you two were an item. Can you imagine ?”

She gives a trill of laughter, but her eyes are avid, looking between the two of us. Con shifts position, and she jumps. “Time for me to go,” she cries. “My husband will be wondering where I am.”

She moves into the kitchen without a backward glance. “I bet Mr Scrimshaw is making a break for freedom even as we speak,” I mutter.

We trail after her, and Con leans in. “I think I recognise that shirt,” he whispers, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh really?” I say airily. “I’m sure there are a lot of them about. The university shop must be full of them.”

“I never knew that you went to Leeds University too. I’m amazed I never met you.”

“You’re far too old to have met me,” I say sourly, and he gives a disgusting snort of amusement.

“It’s really astonishing, though, Frankie. Yours has even got the same tear in the hem that mine had.” He puts his hands to his face in mock astonishment. “What an amazing coincidence.”

I open my mouth to give him both barrels, but Lucy saves him as she stops at the door. “I’ll stop by after the summer hop and inspect your work, Frankie,” she says cheerfully. Well, as cheerful as a sergeant major can get.

The door shuts behind her, and I sigh. “Like she’s my fucking headmistress, and I haven’t done my homework.” Con laughs, and I turn to him, suddenly feeling awkward after the events of this morning.

“Where’s Tim?”

He shrugs. “Having a shower and then looking for takeaway options.”

“Well, you should be with him,” I say awkwardly. “I can do this myself.”

He examines my face, and I realise how close we’re standing in my lounge. The evening shadows play over his face, and I catch the woodsy scent of his cologne.

“I want to help,” he says, that stubborn edge to his voice.

“Well, at least it will make David’s mother happy. She made one of her royal visits yesterday and said how disappointed David would be with the garden.”

“The only use David had for a garden was somewhere to drink beer. Is she still sour with you?”

“The word ‘still’ implies there was a time in the mythical past when she wasn’t sour.”

He shakes his head. “I just wish she’d make a fucking effort to get to know you. She’d love you so much if she did.”

He stops and goes bright red, and I stare at him. “You alright?”

“Yes, fine. Why?” he snaps.

I raise my hands in surrender. “No reason. I suppose I console myself with the thought that if David had brought Brad Pitt home, she’d have still found fault. He’d have been too handsome, and the kids would definitely have been a stumbling block.”

He laughs, his eyes creased in humour, and I look at him standing in my lounge, so big and wonderful. “Garden centre, then? Seeing as you’re determined to reinvent yourself as Monty Don.”

“Hardly, and that’s going to be very evident when Lucy comes to inspect.”

“Oh, fuck her. I’ll do as I’m told, but she’ll have to put up with the garden as she finds it. Maybe she’ll fall into the buddleia and stop calling on me.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re rather passive-aggressive?”

“I really wish the aggressive side would come soon with Lucy. She just signed me up for a stand at the Christmas fair.”

I shake my head at his laughter.

An hour later, we stand in the huge garden centre outside Stow-on-the-Wold. It’s warm from the sun on the glass, and the air is heavily scented.

“So, what do you need?” he asks, leaning on his trolley as if he’s got all the time in the world.

I grimace. “Some big shrubs that I can throw myself into when Lucy comes a-calling.” He chuckles, and I smile at him. He’s incredibly dear to me and looks so warm and rumpled. I tear my eyes away and look around. “Let’s get very established shrubs and bushes. Then I can forget all about them until this time next year.”

“Okay.” He starts to wheel the trolley away, and I grab it. He looks at me enquiringly.

“Let’s make them scented. If I’m doing this for the village, the least I should get out of it is something nice to smell.”

“You and your addiction to nice smells,” he says, steering us down one of the aisles. Plants crowd over us like a green wall. “That’s one of the things I love most about your house. It always smells gorgeous. Like one of your candles.”

“You could have that in your own house,” I say pointedly. “You just have to put in some walls and doors first.” I pause. “And buy some furniture.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll get round to it eventually.”

I shoot him a soft look. Con lives in his parents’ old house that he inherited when they died. It was in a state of disrepair as they’d been doing it up, and although Con carries on the work, he does it in such a slow fashion that snails must envy him. It’s a way for him to keep them with him, the same way that he wears his father’s wedding ring.

“You are right, though,” I say. “I do love nice things. It’s silly, I know.”

He stops dead. “Why is that silly?”

I shrug. “Well, David always used to take the piss. Said I was a terrible homebody.”

“What’s terrible about liking your home?” He shakes his head. “It’s a sad fact that if he’d liked his home a bit more, he’d probably still be with us.”

I stare at him, imagining that scenario. But the truth is that I wouldn’t be comfortable living with David now. If I ever really was. I’ve grown far beyond the boy he knew.

“You alright?” Con asks, and I look at him, standing tall and golden amongst the flowers, the tattoos on his arms as familiar to me as a loved painting.

I’m comfortable with you , I think wistfully.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s pick some plants that Lucy will fucking hate.”

He chuckles, and we spend the next hour wandering the garden centre companionably.

It’s getting dark by the time he pulls up outside my house. I release my seat belt and look at him as a thought occurs to me. “You never got your plants, Con.”

He looks startled. “What plants?”

“The ones you were going to the garden centre to get.”

“Oh, those plants.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, it’s probably for the best. The weather will turn soon.”

“And what has been your excuse for all the other years?”

He grins at me. “I don’t have green fingers.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a hand left if you attempt to tackle the blackberry bushes around the back of your house. I’m pretty sure Princess Aurora is there and still waiting for her prince’s kiss.”

His eyes sparkle. “Oh, yes, and where is he?”

“He made one attempt and then gave up. He’s currently in witness protection to save him from Lucy Scrimshaw.”

He laughs out loud, and I jerk as he reaches out and brushes a loose strand of my hair back. “Con?” I ask.

The silence seems to spin out into a moment that thrums with sudden energy.

“Frankie, I need to tell you that?—”

We both jump as there’s a bang on the bonnet of his truck. When I look, I see a tall, good-looking man with shaggy dark hair grinning at us.

I lean out of the window and glare at my neighbour. “Can we help you, Max?”

“I thought I’d interrupt,” he says in his usual lazy drawl. “Courting couples die in hot cars, you know.”

Con scrubs his hand through his hair, glaring at Max, and I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure it’s dogs that do that, and I don’t think Con and I qualify as either canines or a courting couple.”

“You sure about that?” Max asks. He’s staring at Con, but when I turn, I can’t see why as Con is just watching Max with a smile now tugging at his full lips.

“Anyway,” Max continues. “I thought I’d see if you want to come for a drink?”

“Well, I will,” I say. “I’m not sure Con will be able to. He’s got a man at home waiting for him.”

“Oh, yes? I think I met him coming out of your drive, Con,” Max says. “He was muttering something about rose bushes and trouser fabric. He got in a taxi and drove off.” He looks at Con with his eyebrow raised. “I’d say you’ve got time for a drink, son.”

Con rolls his eyes and turns off the engine. “Just one,” he says warningly to Max.

Max holds his hand to his chest. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re directing that remark at me.”

“I do,” I say brightly, happiness running through me at the thought of more time with Con. “It’s because last time we went to the pub with you, Con did Knock and Run on Lucy Scrimshaw’s door.”

“Shit!” Con gasps, looking around frantically as Max laughs. “Don’t say that so fucking loudly, Frankie.”

I snort. “Pah! She’s not here.”

“She has spies everywhere.”

“Where were they when you banged on her door shouting that you were there to liberate Mr Scrimshaw and nothing was going to stop you this time.”

“There was no one around, and I was very glad of the fact.”

We climb out of the truck and fall into step beside Max.

I sneak a look at him. He’s been my neighbour for a few years now and is in direct contrast to Mr Fitzroy on the other side. Max is a retired war journalist and very famous. He’s equally determined not to be treated as such. He has a blithe, lazy air that completely covers up a razor-sharp mind.

“How’s Mrs Finch?” I ask, thinking of his dour housekeeper.

He shudders. “Don’t mention her name. She’s like Beetlejuice.”

“What have you done now?”

We come to the pub, and he holds the door open for us. “Nothing too dreadful. I spilt a tin of paint last night when I got back from the pub and then stood in it. It’s not my fault I didn’t realise and tracked it through the house.”

I laugh. “What did she say?”

“She said if I ever did it again, she would use the leftover paint to draw around my brutally murdered body to save the police the job.”

Con shakes his head. “One drink,” he insists again. “We’ve got gardening to do.”

“ You’ve got gardening to do? You and Frankie?” Con nods, and Max roars with laughter. “That’s brilliant,” he chuckles. “One of you has flowers that would give triffids cause for concern, and the other has a garden that was last attended to when Charles the First was on the throne.”

“One drink,” Con insists.

Two hours later, he sets his pint glass down on the table with the care that only the truly pissed can manage. The table is crowded with empties. “I think my night has gone slightly off the rails,” he observes, giving a hiccup.

Max leans forwards, trying to put his elbow on the table. It slips, and he narrowly avoids knocking himself out. Con and I prop him up, and he smiles his thanks before lifting his glass to his mouth.

“I saw David’s mother today,” he tells me.

I drain my wine and set the glass on the table. “Was she dancing in a circle and invoking my name?”

He laughs. “No. I opened the door of the bank to her. It appears she doesn’t like politeness because she glared at me like I’d farted in church.”

“She actually doesn’t like much of anything, but I’m definitely top of the list.”

“Surely she doesn’t hate you that much.”

“Oh, she does,” I say, and Con nods and then puts a hand to his head.

“Ouch,” he says plaintively. “How can I have a hangover when I haven’t even finished drinking yet?”

“It’s one of the seven wonders of the world,” Max says.

I flap my T-shirt, trying to get some air on my body. “Why is it so fucking hot?” I complain.

Max returns to his subject. “Why does she not like you, Frankie? You’re brilliant.”

“He is,” Con says loudly, grabbing me and hugging me. He’s hot and sweaty, and I want to climb him like a monkey, so I quickly disentangle myself.

“She blames me for David’s death,” I say, trying to pour some more wine and pouting when I discover that the bottle is empty.

“Frankie,” Con gasps. “What the fuck ?”

“Why?” Max asks. I can see why he was a journalist because he’s incurably nosy.

“Because if I hadn’t thrown him out of the house, he wouldn’t have been on the road at that time when a drunk driver hit him.”

Con gapes at me, and then anger clouds his face. “Is that true? She actually said that?” I nod. “That is absolute and utter bollocks,” he says.

I grab his pint glass and take a swig and then grimace. “I hate beer,” I say plaintively. “Where’s the other bottle of wine? There were two a while ago.”

“You drank both bottles,” Max slurs. “Why did you throw him out?”

“ Max ,” Con warns.

I pat his arm. “It’s fine, Con. It was a long time ago, and I’m well over it.” I turn back to Max. “He was having an affair. I found out and threw him out.”

“And you were right to do so,” Con insists loyally. “Stupid sod. I still can’t believe he was such a twat. He had you at home. Why the fuck would he look elsewhere? Why would anyone look elsewhere?”

His voice is impassioned, and I stare at him. Then I shake my head. “You should never have taken my side over that. It flabbergasted David.”

“I’d take your side over and over again, Frankie. Every single time.”

I smile at him. “I would stick up for you too,” I say expansively and then poke my face. “My cheeks are numb,” I say sadly. Max leans over and prods my face. “Ouch!” I say.

“Not that numb,” he says, settling back as Con slaps his hand away. “Would you have got back together with David?” he asks.

I study him, my mind slow with drink. “No,” I finally say. “Once he’d done that to me, I could never trust him again.” I hold up my finger. “But I’m pretty sure I’d have forgiven him in the end.”

“Really?” Con asks, and I smile.

“Yeah. It was really fucking hard to stay mad at David. He was like a small child. His mum never said no to him, and he expected life to follow suit. He wanted life to be fun and a laugh a minute and was so happy in pursuit of it. His apology would have been absolutely spectacular if he’d only had the chance.”

Con snorts. “Like the time he bought you that statue of Eros to apologise after you’d had a row. He put it in the lounge and then forgot and went to the pub.”

I groan. “I thought it was a fucking intruder. I hit it so hard with my Waterstones bag that I took its head clean off. David was not happy. However, it really reassured me about how I’d cope with a burglar.”

Con starts to laugh, and Max leans his head on his hand, staring at me in fascination. “You don’t seem mad about the affair?”

“Max, I am amazed that no one ever murdered you while you were a journalist,” Con observes, and I laugh.

“I’m not mad. Oh, I was mad and hurt at the time, but a part of me always knew that David wasn’t going to be my stopping place.”

“You’ve never said that before,” Con says, putting his glass down and staring at me as if I’ve suddenly become a stranger.

I shrug. “He wasn’t, and you know it, and so did he. He wanted variety. I didn’t fit into that, and I didn’t want to. We’d have split if he hadn’t died.” I lean forwards. “But we’d still have ended up friends. Maybe we should have stuck at that rather than marrying. We’d have been better off.”

“He loved you,” Con says solemnly.

“And I loved him, but it wasn’t a forever thing. I’ll always remember him as a wild part of my life. A man of a moment in my life rather than the whole thing. But he brought me here, and this is home.”

“I’ll always be grateful for that,” Con says in a low voice.

“And I’ve made a decision,” I say, waving my hands as if I’m conducting an orchestra.

“What’s that?” Max asks lazily.

“I’ve decided that it’s time for me to date.”

There’s a muffled curse from Con and the sound of a smash as his glass falls to the flagstone floor. “Sorry,” he says immediately as some of the locals give a muffled cheer and the landlord calls to him to kick the glass under his chair. Con immediately turns to me. “What did you say?”

“About what?” I say blankly. I have to think for a second as my mind is rather hazy. “Oh, I said it’s time for me to date.” I consider my words and nod for good measure. “I need to get my life back on track, Con. I did mourn David probably more as a friend than a husband, but I grieved either way. And for the last three years, I haven’t had time for men anyway because of the money problems. But they’re almost sorted now, and I know David would tell me to get on with it. I think it’s time to get back to being me again.”

I look anxiously at him to find him watching me, his brown eyes bleary. “I cannot believe your fucking timing,” he says slowly. Max laughs, but I don’t know what he finds so funny.

“Oh my god, you don’t approve, Con,” I gasp. “You think I should wear black and retire from public view and still put his clothes out every day.”

“I think that was Queen Victoria,” Max offers helpfully, but I ignore him.

“Con?” I say and gulp when he takes my hand. His eyes are glowing.

“I think it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever said, Frankie.”

I cock my head. “Are you sure because I’ve said some fairly stupendous things in the past.”

“I’m sure,” he says, and the finality of it makes me stop my flood of words. “Frankie, I—” He stops and runs his hands through his hair. Max is leaning forwards so far that he’s going to be in his pint glass soon.

“What?” I ask, biting my lip. Con opens his mouth to say something, but the light catches on his watch, and I jerk. “Shit, what about Tim?”

“Who?” Con asks blankly, and Max snorts.

I shake my head. “Your boyfriend, Con.”

“My what ?” he says. “Tim’s not?—”

“So here you are,” a voice snaps from behind us. We all spin to find Tim glaring at us with his hands on his hips. “I’ve been looking everywhere in this bloody village for you,” he says shrilly.

“You should have started with the pubs,” Max advises him, and I snort.

Tim’s nostrils flare. “Are you ready?” he says to Con.

“Ready for what?” he asks.

“To go home,” Tim snaps. “Where you’ve left me on my own all night.”

“Max said you’d gone off in a taxi,” Con says in a puzzled voice.

“I haven’t been anywhere.”

As one, we all turn to look at Max. “Oops,” he says cheerfully. “My fault. Now I come to think of it, it was Mrs Simpkins getting in the taxi. What a silly goose I am.”

He shrugs, but it sets his balance off, and he lists to the side. I put my hand out to steady him, and he gives me a bleary smile of thanks.

Tim inhales sharply. “Well, it’s time to go. Con?”

He holds out his hand for Con, and for a very long, uncomfortable few seconds, Con just stares at him. Then he looks at me and shrugs. “It isn’t the night to say things,” he says rather enigmatically. “Night,” he says, giving us a huge drunken smile.

We mumble goodnights and watch them walk out of the pub. It’s noticeable that they don’t hold hands or touch in any way.

“Hmm,” Max finally says as he gets up, and we walk out too. Con’s and Tim’s figures are already shadows in the distance.

“What does that mean?” I ask, taking out my keys as we come to my house. “Don’t you like Con’s man?”

“I like him very much, but that’s not what you mean.”

I blink in confusion. “What?”

“I mean that I’m looking at Con’s man right now.”

It takes me a few seconds, and then I get what he’s saying. I roll my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He goes for the pretty, arty types who like intense conversations about art and music. I’m the wine-drinking slob who has intense conversations about The Only Way is Essex. I’m about as close to being Con’s type as Bernard Cribbins.”

“Well, I’m not denying that Bernard is very attractive, but even he couldn’t get Con to take his eyes off you.”

I open my door, bracing myself on the doorjamb when everything tilts. “Shit,” I gasp. “We’re having an earthquake.”

“I’ll save you,” he says fervently, and I laugh.

“Thank you, my drunken knight in armour.”

“Con wants you, Frankie,” he says, suddenly serious. “He’s always wanted you. I needed to get the two of you together tonight.” He gives a petulant shrug. “It’s a lot harder to matchmake than it looks in the films.”

“So, let me get this straight. Your version of matchmaking was to talk about my dead husband’s infidelity?”

He bites his lip. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He gives me a wink and then forgets to open his eye fully again, so he’s now squinting. “But at least he now knows you’re looking to date again. You’re welcome .”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Yes, and probably will be again tomorrow, but it doesn’t stop me seeing what’s in front of me.”

“Con thinks of me as a friend.”

“Bollocks.”

“Oh really?” I judge that the ground has stopped moving and I can let go of the door. “I’m not sure about taking advice from someone who is still desperately in love with his ex and does nothing about it.”

“A fact that I think I regret telling you about.” He bops me on the nose, which sends his balance further off, and I watch as he staggers back a few steps. He does a sort of drunken pirouette and then falls face first into the huge flower basket that’s been set in front of the lamppost by my door.

“Shit,” he mutters.

I reach down and pat his head. “You alright down there, Max?”

“Spiffing.”

“Do you want the good news or the bad?”

“I think I’d like the good first,” he mutters into the flowers.

“The good news is that the flowers’ life span was coming to an end anyway.”

“What’s the bad news?” he slurs, sitting up with a lonely scarlet begonia stuck to his forehead.

“That basket is Lucy Scrimshaw’s entry for the Cotswolds in Bloom contest.” I give him an affectionate slap on the back and stagger off to bed.