The Happy Home for Ladies. Michele Gorman

of numbering them. That must have been a nightmare for the postie.

      We all call it the Happy Home for Ladies though. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It was Max who made his mother drop the Happy, in case anyone ever sued us for false or misleading advertising. It’s not, though, because the residents are happy. Plus, they’re women. Max was just being his usual miserable self.

      ‘He’s here,’ June calls out, speaking of the devil as she glances out the window. ‘Everyone, act normal. It’s not like he’s about to do a headcount.’

      But this is the biggest kerfuffle the residents have seen since Dot fell out her bedroom window. They’re all gathered in the dining room making plans for Laney’s rescue, wherever she may be. Fat chance of acting normal.

      ‘Has anyone checked the greenhouse?’ Nick wonders. ‘I could go look.’

      Nick is the only one who ever goes in there, and then only to get out the lawnmower. I can’t see Laney suddenly wanting to become a garden expert, but you never know with her. Any throwaway comment can send her mind skittering off on some obscure trail. Then, down the rabbit hole she goes.

      ‘Let me go with you,’ I tell Nick. ‘I mean, if she’s there, she could be hurt. There should be two of us.’

      That sends the residents into another flap. I should know better than to mention getting hurt to residents in a care home. Now I feel bad for upsetting them for my own selfish ends.

      And they are totally selfish. I’ll latch onto any excuse to be with Nick, even if it’s only in a draughty old greenhouse that stinks of fertiliser.

      I’m sure my feelings would be easier to ignore if we didn’t have so much fun together. If only he’d get grumpy once in a while, or develop an annoying habit or at least a bad case of halitosis. But he remains stubbornly fanciable. There isn’t even any hint now of the awful weirdness that almost ruined our friendship. Those were terrible weeks, but at least if they’d gone on then I wouldn’t still be pining for him. Maybe I’d be satisfied with never sharing anything more than a friendly laugh in the shed together.

      When Sophie puts her arm around Dot’s bony shoulders, I say, ‘I’m sorry, Dot, I’m sure she’s not hurt!’

      If Sophie is a sturdy barn owl then Dot is a sparrow, reed-thin and restless. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d say boo to a goose.

      She waves away my protest, sending her bracelets tinkling merrily. ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to fuss over me.’

      How thoughtless can I be, when Dot’s only been off crutches for a few weeks?

      We thought we’d lost her a few months ago. And I do mean that in the scary sense of the phrase.

      Thank goodness for the rhododendrons that cushioned Dot’s landing when she tumbled from her window. Otherwise she might have broken a lot more than her leg and her arm.

      I still don’t know what made her think she should try washing her own windows. Granted, we’ve had storms lately and they’re not as crystal clear as they might be. But she could have asked for someone to give them a wipe. Nick would have been the first one up that ladder.

      Dot’s independent streak is a mile wide, though. Plus, she’s super polite and hates to put anybody out. Which was why she climbed out her window with a roll of kitchen towel and a squirty bottle of Windolene.

      ‘I didn’t think anything of it,’ she’d said, once the plaster casts had set and she was safely back from A&E, resting at ground level in one of the wing-backed chairs in the lounge. ‘I’ve always washed my own windows. Though I did live in a bungalow then.’

      She bought that bungalow herself by saving every bit possible from her teacher’s salary – whatever was left over after paying the rent and the bills and single-handedly raising her two sons.

      This place is full of very capable women like Dot, there’s no doubt about that. But some aren’t as agile as they once were. If Dot – who’s got all her marbles and then some – thinks nothing of freestyle window cleaning, then I’m afraid to think where Laney might be right now.

      ‘I’m sure Laney’s not hurt!’ I tell everyone again.

      ‘We’ll just check the greenhouse,’ Nick adds, flashing me a smile that sends my downstairs aflutter. ‘Meanwhile, maybe someone could check out front? Look at that sun. She might have put her bikini on to work on her tan.’

      This launches the women into hysterics, but Nick manages to keep a straight face. That’s more than I can say for myself. I’m such an easy audience.

      ‘That’ll keep them occupied for a few minutes,’ he says as the entire room clears. He holds open one of the French doors leading off the lounge. ‘After you,’ he says as I step onto the wide patio that runs along the entire back of the house.

      It’s a big house, with nearly thirty bedrooms. Proper Downton Abbey proportions. It rambles off on both sides from a three-storey central building where the grand entrance, dining room and lounges are. There’s even room in the middle of the entrance hall for a pedestal table with a giant urn of lilies or sunflowers or that curly bamboo. A wide oak staircase winds up one side of the hall to the bedrooms upstairs and further on into the eaves, where the staff would have lived in olden times. More bedrooms pack the wing on one side, with my kitchen on the ground floor of the other and bedrooms above.

      Max, our boss, didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth, despite living in this place. His father, Terrible Terence, worked in accounting and his mum, Mrs Greene, was the town’s librarian. It was her family who passed down the house from days of yore, but she moved herself, Max and Terence out to the cottage at the back – which is still the size of a normal house – when she opened the care home.

      That was nearly two decades ago. June says that applications have been pretty sporadic these past few years, and that’s got Max worried. He has tried advertising outside the area but, unless their parents are like Terence, most people want to keep their family nearby.

      I glance over at Terence’s cottage as Nick and I walk towards the greenhouse. There’s no sign of him. Good. The residents are worried enough without him stirring the pot.

      Nick is walking slightly ahead of me. Not because he’s rude. He’s just worried about Laney being out here, though I doubt she is. Laney might be daft most of the time, but she knows what she likes, and she likes her creature comforts. She wouldn’t sit in a draughty greenhouse full of spiders. She’s in the house. Somewhere.

      Nick’s keenness gives me the chance to watch him as he strides across the lawn. I haven’t passed up that chance once since he started work here six months ago. You’d think I’d have him memorised by now.

      Who am I kidding? I do.

      I’m still amazed that Nick is working here. June would normally handle all our hiring, but Max was the one who found Nick for us. Our old occupational therapist left when her husband got sent to Germany for work. Unsurprisingly, June didn’t get a huge queue of candidates looking to work for a care home in a little market town in Suffolk.

      That’s where we are, in Framlingham. We’re not that far from Norwich or Ipswich, but it feels a million miles away. It’s pretty and it’s home, but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘career opportunity’ to many people.

      Also, because Max never passes up the chance to stretch his staff’s duties where he can, the job wasn’t strictly related to occupational therapy. You should have seen the brief June had to work with. The job description read like a holiday camp brochure. Our boss reasoned that OT wasn’t miles different from physical therapy (it is), and physical therapy includes exercising and stretching – which may as well be aerobics and yoga – as well as brain-sharpening activities. Scrabble uses the brain, so he wanted his new hire to run games nights too.

      June didn’t waste any time ringing Nick for an interview when Max gave her his CV.

      ‘Wow, he’s fit,’