Chapter One

Catapulted from sleep by what he slowly remembered was the ancient boiler firing up, David Adams checked his alarm and then, ‘Dammit,’ threw back the duvet and shot along the landing. Poised to press down the handle on his son’s bedroom door, he debated, and then knocked and waited. ‘Jake, clock’s ticking,’ he called. ‘Time to get up.’

Shivering in only his boxers, David curbed his impatience and wondered again what had possessed him to rent an Edwardian townhouse in a tiny village, which retained many of its charming period features, including an antiquated plumbing system he’d come to hate over the two days he’d been here. There was the ‘spectacular’ view, of course, which the estate agent had assured him people would die for. Blowing out an icy breath, David glanced through the high sashed landing window to where the distant peaks of the majestic Malvern Hills were eclipsed by a charcoal grey mist, and concluded that if they’d viewed it from where he was standing, they very probably would die – of hypothermia.

Jake was right. The place was a dump. And David was deluded, thinking he might do a better job of parenting here than he had in Oxford. So, why were they here? For his son’s sake, David reminded himself, that’s why he’d made the decision to take the position at Hibberton Health Centre. So he could start afresh. Work locally, while Jake attended the nearby school; and try to rebuild his relationship with his son.

‘Jake,’ he called again, not really expecting an answer. The most Jake had offered by way of communication since he’d picked him up from his aunt’s yesterday was the odd monosyllabic grunt, much as he’d done every time David had visited him there. He couldn’t blame him. If he were Jake, he wouldn’t have much to say to someone who hadn’t been much of a father either.

Swallowing back the bitter taste of regret, David tried again. ‘Jake, come on. Get showered and dressed, please, or we’ll be late.’

No response.

Despairing, David squeaked the door open. ‘Jake?’

Apparently determined to ignore him, Jake remained mute, moodily stuffing his feet into his trainers, his hair tousled from a fitful night’s sleep.

Awake most of the night himself, thanks to rattling pipes and creaking floorboards, David had heard Jake tossing and turning. ‘Come on, small fry, move it. Don’t want to get a black mark on your first day, do you?’ he said, trying to cajole him.

That worked. Eye contact nil, the boy bent to scoop his T-shirt from the floor and then attempted to push past David to the landing. ‘Jake!’

Standing his ground, David tried to inject some authority into his voice, but his ten-year-old son’s reply was an impudent, ‘What?’

Noting Jake’s now openly mutinous scowl, David sighed and stood aside.

‘Go and get washed,’ he said, an argument on the boy’s first day at a new school being the last thing he wanted. Thanks to a mix up with the keys to the house, Jake was already starting partway through the week, also midterm, which wasn’t ideal. With his aunt about to embark on a new career, though, David really didn’t have any choice. She’d already put her life on hold for the best part of a year to look after Jake until he’d sorted himself out, and leaving him home alone while he orientated himself with the surgery before starting next week just wasn’t an option. ‘You’ll need a clean shirt,’ he suggested as Jake shuffled grudgingly onwards.

‘Don’t have none,’ Jake retorted, without a backward glance.

‘Any, Jake. And there are plenty of clean shirts in the dresser. I put them there last night. I’d like you to put one on, please.’

‘And I like this one,’ Jake imparted, before disappearing into the bathroom to slam the door shut behind him.

Great. David raked a hand through his hair. Jake was testing him, he knew. Wearing his insolence like a suit of armour, all his emotions stuffed safely inside.

‘You have to wear a white button front shirt, Jake. You know you do. And shoes, not trainers!’ David called after him, and then sighed, frustrated. He wished he knew what to say that didn’t incite the very argument he was trying to avoid, wished he knew how to reach him. Being there for him might be a start, he decided, steeling his resolve to make that his first, and only, priority: one-on-one quality time with his son. If only he could get to the place where Jake actually wanted to spend time with him, doing whatever ten-year-old kids … David’s thoughts screeched to a halt as a reality check hit him head on.

He didn’t know what Jake did.

Due to his own inexcusable behaviour, he and his wife had been separated before Michelle’s accident and after her death he’d agreed it would be better for her sister, Becky, to move into his home and look after Jake until he’d got her estate in order and sorted out his own affairs. Becky was between jobs and, although grieving the loss of her sister, she was happy to take care of Jake. What with selling the family home, then with house and job hunting high on the agenda, his visits to his son had become sporadic over the last few months, and now, almost a year later … he had absolutely no idea what Jake was currently into, he realised. Yes, he knew what films he liked, the cinema being the safest bet when he had seen him. But what music or computer games were cool, David had no clue. And, other than Big Macs or popcorn, he didn’t even know what food his son enjoyed. He needed to bridge the gap somehow.

Maybe he should get him a dog? Jake had wanted one, been desperate for one, before … before his world had been blown apart. What must be going through his mind? David wondered. If his own nights were filled with waking nightmares, what demons must be haunting Jake’s dreams?

Curbing his thoughts before they ventured too far down that dark road, David sucked in a breath and attempted to focus on the here and now. He couldn’t realistically fit in walking a dog, though, could he? Training it. With Jake to look after and with a new job to start, he was going to be pushed for time as it was.

Feeling defeated before he’d even got started, David headed back to his own room, wondering what he should make Jake for breakfast. He’d barely touched the pasta he’d offered him last night.

Burger and chips, maybe?

Still pondering, David reached for the curtains hanging precariously in the huge bay window. The agent had laughingly referred to these depressing brown and tangerine floral things as retro. He needed to get new ones. The place needed cheering up. The natural wood flooring could hopefully stay, but the ’60s nylon carpet had to go.

‘Grrreat!’ David closed his eyes and silently counted to five as the ‘retro’ curtains pooled at his feet, complete with rail.

Oops. Andrea pulled her gaze away from the semi-naked male torso in the bedroom window opposite. Quite a tasty torso, too. Pity the window ledge interrupted the view. Hiding a smile, she stepped quickly away from her own window in order to spare her new neighbour’s blushes, who was now gathering up armfuls of curtains. Oh, dear. Well, it was comforting to know hers wasn’t the only household where pandemonium reigned in the mornings.

‘Problem?’ she asked as she turned, noting her partner’s obvious exasperation with her lack of skill in the sock sorting department.

‘No, not really.’ Blowing out an elongated sigh, Jonathan tugged on his mismatching socks. ‘It’s just … I don’t understand your desire to take off in another direction. I mean, selling second-hand clothes is hardly an entrepreneurial business idea, Andrea, is it?’

‘I am not selling second-hand clothes.’ Miffed, Andrea ignored his dishevelled Colin Firth-ish appearance and headed for the en suite. The damp tendrils of hair tickling his forehead looked the part, but the open shirt didn’t really work with striped boxers – and odd socks. ‘They’re second-chance designer, for your information.’

‘Well, that’ll make all the difference, won’t it? Move over, Victoria Beckham. Make way for Hibberton’s very own high-flying supplier of designer.’

‘Hah, hah. Sarcasm, Jonathan, is the lowest form of wit.’

‘Look, Andy,’ Jonathan paused, and groaned, probably realising his normally precision pressed trousers weren’t, due to a slight malfunction in the trouser press caused by a misplaced doll’s head, which was beautifully pressed. ‘I’m not being sarcastic. I’m being realistic. You’re not superwoman. You can’t single-handedly set up a shop selling used clothing, designer or not, and expect it to take off.’

Damn. Andrea went cross-eyed in the bathroom mirror. And there was me about to slip into my sparkly skirt and cape. ‘Not single-handedly, Jonathan.’ One eye on the clock, Andrea dragged a face-wipe down her face, careless of wrinkles. ‘Eva Bunting owns the property I’m looking to rent, and—’

‘I know,’ Jonathan cut in, now sounding irritated. ‘I am her investment adviser, Andrea. She’s absolutely loaded.’

Andrea poked her head around the bathroom door. ‘What, serious money, you mean?’

‘A fair whack. Her great-grandfather made a fortune setting up one of Malvern’s first water cure clinics. He was raking it in. Eva benefitted from the lot, lucky old bat.’

‘Ah, well, that would explain why she’s letting me have it at a low rent, initially anyway. Oh, that reminds me, she said you forgot to ring her. She needs to release the funds from her investment with you to get the renovation work underway, apparently. Could you do it today, do you think?’ Andrea skidded from the bathroom to the wardrobe.

‘Hell,’ Jonathan cursed and sighed. ‘Sorry. Slipped my mind. I’ll do it later.’

‘She’s going to be renting the top floors out as living accommodation,’ Andrea went on, not quite able to contain her excitement now her dream seemed to be coming to fruition, ‘but she’s offered me the shopfront for peanuts. It’s ideally placed, opposite the Cup Cake Café. You know, next to Tiny Tots, the bespoke babywear shop? And I’m not just thinking designer, by the way. I’m thinking vintage: wedding dresses, evening wear; anything retro, which is currently cool.’

Flipping quickly through coat hangers in hope of inspiration, Andrea turned from the wardrobe, dubiously eyeing her camel coloured harem pants, which were definitely retro, but possibly not cool. Ah, well, teamed with her new wedge ankle boots and with her camel cape coat over, they’d just have to do.

‘Sally has some to-die-for sixties and seventies stuff for me,’ she continued, grabbing the opportunity to share her plans while she had Jonathan’s attention, ‘plus a vintage Harvey Nichols ball gown, which is totally divine. Ooh, and an absolutely fabulous Mary Quant dress. And Nita has a real treasure trove of Victorian hair accessories. You should see the burlesque feather adornments she has. They’re amazing.’

‘Yes, well, I still don’t understand,’ Jonathan muttered moodily. ‘Why on earth would you want to get involved in what is basically going to be a cottage industry when you’ve already got so much on your plate?’

‘It is not going to be a cottage industry.’ Andrea twanged a shirt-style blouse from its hanger. ‘It’s an attempt at doing something different, more fulfilling. And I know it’s going to take up a little more of my time initially, but …’

Oh, what was the point? Jonathan seemed determined to be dead set against it. But she so needed a change of direction. Personal satisfaction aside, work-life balance dictated she needed to make changes. With three children, two of whom were throwing themselves heartily into the truculent teenager phase and one into everything toddler, and a mother who would try the patience of a saint lately, there was no balance. Her ‘plates’ were skew-whiff and her balls were dropping all over the place. Andrea knew she might never replace her income from her teaching job. But then, didn’t she pay a good portion of her salary out on childcare for Chloe anyway?

‘Typical,’ Jonathan muttered, glancing despairingly down at his shirt. ‘Missing button.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time to …’ he trailed off as Andrea cast him a withering look.

‘Of course,’ she said, her brow knitted pseudo-sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you whip the shirt off and I’ll sew one on while I’m feeding Chloe and loading the dishwasher?’

‘Uh-oh, move over, Dougal.’ Jonathan glanced up sheepishly. ‘Make room for me in the doghouse.’

There followed a timely, frenzied yap yapping, which ritually accompanied siblings at war in the mornings.

‘You might be in luck. I think Dougal may be about to vacate it in favour of the rescue centre.’ Andrea’s mouth twitched into a smile. Why were they arguing, she wondered. Now of all times, when, after living together for four years, and producing a child, they’d finally decided to seal their relationship? She didn’t want to fight with him, despite his presumption she’d popped out of the womb wielding a needle. It was just so … pointless.

‘I don’t blame him. We’ll just have to stick a sign outside saying “Beware of the Kids” instead. That should make intruders think twice,’ Jonathan replied with a smile back and Andrea remembered that was what she’d first loved about him, his easy smile. The twinkle in his eye when he’d laughed. The way those liquid brown eyes had darkened with desire the first time they’d kissed.

He’d made their first intimate touch easy, unhurried and unselfish. But that was Jonathan, so amicable and laid-back she’d almost fallen over him on the way to the bedroom. Where had that Jonathan gone, Andrea wondered. Their lovemaking seemed perfunctory lately, almost as if the honeymoon was already over.

He was tired, she supposed, working as hard as he did. They both were, but Andrea couldn’t help thinking there might be more to Jonathan’s moodiness than he was letting on. Could it be that he was running scared of change? The transition from footloose and fancy-free to full-time father of three must be daunting.

‘Mum!’ Sophie bawled along the landing, right on cue. ‘He’s done it again!’

‘What?’ was her brother’s innocent reply. ‘I only brushed the dog’s fur.’

‘Yes! With my hairbrush,’ Sophie pointed out loudly. ‘Give it back, retard! Mum, tell him!’

‘Give it back, Ryan,’ Andrea shouted. ‘Now. And stop teasing the dog!’ She paid lip service to her lipstick, twisted her own tangle of unruly hair up in a topknot, and tried to get her mind into teaching mode.

‘Yeah, give it back, derbrain,’ Sophie yelled, ‘or I’ll thump you.’

‘Ooh, save me. She’s gonna kick ass,’ Ryan drawled wittily.

‘You two have one second to retreat to your corners and get ready, or I’ll bang heads together,’ Andrea threatened.

‘Huh, wouldn’t make any difference to dumbum. He hasn’t got a brain,’ Sophie muttered, padding back to her bedroom to close the door with a resounding bang.

‘Kids, hey?’ Jonathan sighed. ‘Who’d have ’em?’

‘Um, us?’ Andrea suggested, nodding towards their bed. ‘The lump under the duvet is yours, I believe.’

‘For my sins.’ Jonathan glanced at the toddler-shaped lump, then his watch. ‘Er, I don’t suppose …’

‘… I could drop her off at the nursery on my way in? Don’t tell me, you’ve got an early appointment.’ Andrea tugged back the duvet to reveal a tangle of sausage arms and legs and a headless Igglepiggle.

‘Yes, sorry. Key client.’ Jonathan shrugged apologetically as Andrea heaved her bleary-eyed lastborn into her arms. ‘And sorry about … Well, not understanding. It’s just that I don’t know why you want to take something else on board when you’ve already got your hands full.’

‘Ten out of ten for observation, Jonathan. Come on, sweetie.’ Andrea kissed the top of Chloe’s soft downy head and breathed in pure fragrance of baby. ‘Let’s put your CBeebies DVD on while Mummy makes breakfast, shall we?’

‘Curl flies,’ Chloe mumbled sleepily into her shoulder.

Andrea smiled. Ooh, how she loved this little body. She’d never imagined having another child. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine life without her. ‘We’re all out of curly fries, darling. How about big, fat Marmite soldiers, hmm?’

‘You’ve already got a full-time job. A proper nine-to-five job with a decent income.’ Jonathan followed Andrea to the landing. ‘Why do you want to faff about—’

‘Because I need to, Jonathan.’ Andrea scooped Sophie’s discarded leggings from the landing floor and headed for the stairs, hands fuller.

Jonathan trailed down the stairs after her, hands free. ‘Why?’

Andrea eyed him despairingly over her shoulder. ‘Fle-xi-bi-li-ty, Jonathan.’ She felt inclined to spell it out. ‘As for income, childcare is extortionate, as you very well know. And day care for Mum is almost non-existent. I don’t have any leeway at the moment and I need some.’

‘So being your own boss is going to allow you to be flexible?’ Jonathan laughed wryly behind her. ‘I don’t think so.’

Andrea stepped over Ryan’s Reeboks and a backpack illegally parked on the hall floor. ‘Well, I do. Mum can stay with me during the day for a start, which will give her a sense of purpose, rather than patronising her by doing things for her because she’s a bit—’

‘—nuts,’ Jonathan finished bluntly.

‘Forgetful.’ Andrea scowled. ‘And Chloe can go to nursery part-time rather than full-time. It can work,’ she insisted as Jonathan continued to look sceptical. ‘I’m going to work at making it work … after I’ve sewed your buttons on and knitted you a new pair of socks, of course.’

‘Andrea, you’ve got three kids.’ Jonathan splayed his hands in despair.

‘Oh, Mu-um,’ Sophie whined from upstairs. ‘Gran’s locked herself in the bathroom again.’

‘Gosh, three? I wondered where all the little voices were coming from.’ Andrea puffed out a sigh and deposited Chloe guiltily on her playmat in the lounge, along with the entire soft toy cast of In the Night Garden.

‘Pants! She’s going to make me late, again.’ Sophie stomped back to her bedroom, making sure to slam the door behind her once again.

‘And a mother,’ Jonathan reminded Andrea of the cause of Sophie’s distress.

‘This, Jonathan, I am aware of, funnily enough. Do you think now you’ve done a body count and realised how full my hands are, you could help out a little, possibly?’

Giving Jonathan a weary glance, Andrea marched on to the kitchen, where Ryan greeted her cheerily, ‘Morning, Mother dearest. And how are we this bright new day?’

‘Morning, Ry— Oh.’ Andrea eyed the chaos where once was a kitchen, skirted around a pair of Sophie’s platform shoes, narrowly missed the dog dish plonked mid-floor, and trod on the dog instead. ‘Hell! Sorry, Dougal.’ She winced as the little Yorkie emitted a startled yelp and then skidded for the safety of his basket.

‘Oh, that good, then?’ Ryan gave her an all-too-knowing look. ‘Come on, little guy.’ He plucked up the dog to nuzzle him cheek-to-cheek. ‘I’ll help you type a letter to the RSPCA. Nasty Mummy.’

‘He’s a Yorkshire Terrier, Ryan, not a child,’ Andrea reminded him as her macho seventeen-year-old son, who wouldn’t be seen dead kissing his mum, proceeded to snog the dog. ‘And stop kissing him, for goodness sake. You’ll catch something.’

‘I know he’s a Yorkshire Terrier, Mother. This is why he’s too short to reach the keyboard, aren’t you, Dougal? I take it you two are having a nice civilised conversation again, then?’ Ryan observed drolly, casting an inscrutable glance at a retreating Jonathan as he did.

‘Ryan, get breakfast and get gone, please,’ Andrea answered her son evasively.

‘Definitely arguing,’ Ryan surmised, plopping the dog down, and heading across the kitchen in search of sustenance.

‘No, we are not. We’re talking.’ Andrea cuffed her son’s lopsided coiffure as he waited for the contents of the fridge to speak to him. ‘And before you make any smart remarks about my deficient domestic goddess gene—’

‘Toast.’ Ryan sighed. ‘Again.’

‘Correct. Top of the class. And put an extra slice on for Chloe, please.’

‘Aw, Mum, why me?’

‘Funny that,’ Andrea mused, wearing her best mystified expression, ‘I ask myself that every day – while I’m cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing …’

‘Because you’re a mother, Mother,’ Ryan supplied helpfully. ‘It’s in the job description.’

‘Such a wit. Don’t strain anything buttering the toast, will you? I’m off to sort Gran out.’ Andrea gave him a no-nonsense look as she groped in the cutlery drawer for the means to vacate the bathroom.

‘Scary.’ Ryan arched an eyebrow as Andrea walked purposely towards the stairs, carving knife in hand.

Jonathan also looked rather alarmed as he emerged from the cloakroom to grab his car keys from the top of the hall cupboard. ‘Bit drastic, isn’t it?’ he commented, nodding at her lethal weapon.

Andrea blinked, attempting amused, but probably looking demented. ‘Golly, another comedian. I’m so glad you all find living in a madhouse so hilarious. Don’t you strain anything either, will you, running for the getaway car?’

‘I’ll try not to.’ Jonathan smiled wanly. ‘Er, I’d better go.’ He slid desperate eyes towards the door.

‘Yes, you’d better had, before I do.’ Andrea trooped on up the stairs, bracing herself outside the bathroom, before tapping on the door. ‘Mum, could you undo the bolt, please?’

‘Bye,’ Jonathan called from the hall.

‘Mum!’ Andrea hammered. ‘Will you please open the door!’

‘Bye, darling. Have a nice day. See you at the restaurant at eight for our date night. Love you,’ Jonathan answered himself, and closed the front door quietly behind him.

Lord, please give me strength. Andrea eyed the ceiling and then squatted to slide the knife between door and frame. ‘Mum, do you think you could turn the lock anticlockwise for me?’ she asked patiently.

‘Have,’ came the short reply from inside.

‘Well, try ag— No, Mum, anti … Thank you.’ Andrea addressed Dee’s odd slippered feet.

‘Fangled.’ Dee narrowed accusing eyes at the door. ‘Can’t be doing with newfangled things.’ She bustled past as Andrea crawled up the bath. ‘And you know I can’t see a thing without my glasses.’

‘Mum, your glasses are on your … ’ Head, Andrea would have said, had her mother’s bustle not turned to a miraculous near sprint. How was it, she wondered, that a woman with arthritic knees could skip so lithely downstairs when it suited?

Andrea sighed tolerantly. Her mum would rather be in her own little riverside cottage, she knew, free to use her own bathroom and come and go as she pleased. If only her comings and goings hadn’t become forgetful meanderings, worryingly so with the water only yards from her front door. Poor Dee. She’d been devastated when it had been sold back to British Waterways for renovation. She so missed her independence. Andrea reined in her impatience and trudged down after her mother, to meet Ryan looking weak and willowy as he sloped from the kitchen.

‘I’ve made the toast,’ he informed her, his shoulders in droopy abused child mode. ‘I’m off to college now, before I’m too worn out to do any work.’ He paused to wipe a theatrical hand across his brow, then peered panicky into the hall mirror lest his uber-cool emo cut had a single hair out of place.

Andrea cocked her head to one side as, hair crisis averted, Ryan turned relieved to the front door. ‘Ryan,’ she started cautiously, not wanting to damage his delicate teen ego, ‘you do realise you’re showing an awful lot of, um, bum?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Ryan swaggered onwards, an abundance of underpants on show above his belt. ‘It’s called fashion sense.’

No sense, more like. Rolling her eyes heavenwards, Andrea started back to the kitchen and then almost had a heart attack as Ryan poked his head back around the doorframe. ‘Um, talking of fashion sense, thought you should know Gran’s out front in her wellies and nightie.’