Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson

won’t sink in that she’s gone. I keep thinking it’s all been a bad dream and that, any moment, my phone will ring and it’ll be her, wanting to know if I’d prefer chicken or beef for the big Sunday lunch she always makes for us, and laughing about some TV show she’s been watching.

      I suppose I’ve been in denial ever since that terrible day when I had to say my final goodbyes.

      The woman looks up from amending the booking with a big smile.

      ‘I’m sure your mum will still enjoy her birthday treat. Even if it is just a little bit late …’

      *

      Afterwards, I walk straight to the nearest pub, go up to the bar and order a double brandy. I don’t drink much as a rule. A glass or two of wine at the weekend is all. I don’t even particularly like pubs. But numbing the raw pain with alcohol suddenly seems like a very good idea.

      It’s mid-afternoon and the pub is fairly deserted, which I’m thankful for. It means I can sit at my table in a shadowy corner for as long as I like, with no curious eyes looking over, wondering about the identity of the sad person sitting all alone, drinking double after double.

      All I want is to feel numb. I want to reach that stage of intoxication where you’re wrapped in a warm glow and anaesthetised against reality.

      But unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be working.

      No matter how much brandy I down, thoughts of Mum – and how I’m going to manage without her – continue to march relentlessly through my exhausted brain.

      If only Mum hadn’t had a fear of doctors and hospitals, she might still be here. But she’d ignored the tiny lump in her breast, not even telling me about it because she knew I’d march her straight along to the GP. She kept telling herself it was nothing and, by the time she eventually decided she should probably get it checked out, it was already too late.

      Sitting there, all alone with just my drink for company, frustration and anger at Mum for not going to the doctor sooner mingles queasily with my grief.

       I need to go!

      I stand up – whoa! – then promptly sink back down again. I feel like I’m on a whirling merry-go-round. I appear to have lost control of my legs, which is not good. Not good at all.

       How will I get home?

      Toby.

      It’s after seven so he’ll probably be finishing up for the day.

      My boyfriend is a busy fund manager at Clements & Barbour, based in the City – just around the corner from here, in fact. A lift would be perfect. (The idea of trying to board the correct bus in my helpless state – climb on any bus, for that matter – is not an appealing one.)

      I scramble in my bag for my phone and start panicking, convinced I’ve lost it, before realising it’s right there on the table in front of me. I stab at his name.

      It rings for ages but, finally, he answers.

      ‘You’re there!’ Relief floods through me at the sound of his voice. ‘It’s Daisy. Could you – could pick me up, please, Toby? I’m in The Seven Bells and I’m – er – a little bit squiffy.’ A loud hiccup escapes. ‘Oops. Sorry.’

      There’s a brief silence. I can hear papers rustling on his desk.

      ‘Can’t you get the bus?’ he asks at last, and my heart sinks. Tears spring to my eyes from nowhere. I hate being a bother. Especially when Toby works so hard and such long hours.

      I swallow hard. ‘It’s just I’ve had the worst day and the alcohol has gone straight to my head.’ And I really want you to scoop me up and take me home and tell me everything is going to be all right!

      ‘Okay. Well, if you give me five minutes, okay? Five minutes.’

      ‘Five minutes,’ I repeat, but he’s already hung up.

      I sink back in the seat, feeling wretched and guilty, like a teenager who’s sneaked out on a school night and is now in the doghouse waiting to be picked up.

      I glance expectantly at the door every time it opens. But forty minutes later, Toby still hasn’t arrived. Some emergency must have come up, delaying him …

      People are giving me funny looks. I need to get out of here.

      Then I think of Rosalind, Toby’s mum. She lives just a short walk from here.

      Somehow I manage to make it across two main roads in one piece, and then I’m knocking on Rosalind’s door. I can hear screaming and wailing from inside and I nod, reassured. Definitely the right door. It’s just a normal day in the life of the chaotic but lovable Carter family.

      Toby doesn’t know how lucky he is to be part of such a large brood.

      Rosalind takes one look at me and pulls me against her large, pillow-like bosom, almost squashing the breath out of me. ‘Oh, you poor love. What’s happened?’ she murmurs into my hair.

      Her familiar warmth is too much, and the tears I’ve been trying to suppress all day start leaking out.

      ‘Come on in.’ She pulls me over the threshold.

      ‘It’s Daisy!’ yells one of Toby’s ten-year-old twin brothers and the screaming suddenly stops. Several pairs of small feet thunder along the corridor to greet me. I’m called upon to admire a model of a jet aeroplane, and a paper bag of sticky red sweets is thrust under my nose from another direction.

      ‘Let me talk to Daisy, you lot,’ commands Rosalind, shooing the kids away good-humouredly and ushering me into the kitchen. ‘Honestly, what’s this place like? A total madhouse!’

      I breathe in the smell of home baking and feel my shoulders relax.

      ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, sinking down at Rosalind’s scrubbed wooden table with a sigh.

       CHAPTER TWO

      I first met Toby when we bumped into each other – quite literally – in the centre of Manchester one day.

      I noticed this dark-haired man hurrying in my direction, engrossed in his phone, and I prepared to step aside to avoid a collision. But he looked up, saw me and swerved the same way, which resulted in us doing the awkward ‘dancing’ thing, shifting one way then the other. We apologised and laughed – and I noticed he had the most startlingly blue eyes.

      The encounter was all over in a few seconds, but as I watched him striding off, I suddenly realised he’d dropped something. A book. I picked it up. It was a slim volume entitled Mergers & Acquisitions.

      I started hurrying after him, eventually catching up at the entrance to a large, glass-fronted building with a plaque announcing, ‘Clements & Barbour Financial Analysts’.

      ‘Excuse me.’

      He was about to go through the swing doors but he turned.

      ‘I think you dropped this.’

      He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. Then recognition flared as he saw what I held.

      ‘Hey, thanks.’ He looked genuinely delighted to be reunited with his book. ‘It was really nice of you to come after me.’

      ‘No problem. It was on my way,’ I lied with a casual shrug. ‘The book looks – erm – interesting.’

      His eyes widened. ‘You think so? Most people glaze over at stuff like this.’

      I shrugged. ‘It’s always nice to learn about something new.’ Especially if your teacher is handsome and intelligent to boot!

      He nodded. ‘Listen, I’ve got to dash