Fiona Gibson 3 Book Bundle. Fiona Gibson

your number now and get back to you if anyone drops out, if that’s okay.’

      ‘Oh.’ There’s a small silence as, still gripping her phone, Kerry coaxes Mia and Freddie out of the bath and into the pyjamas that have been warming on the radiator. It’s not entirely true that she can’t squeeze in another pupil. Yet right now, after being quizzed about scans and babies, she can’t rouse the enthusiasm to make arrangements. She doesn’t even know where her diary is.

      ‘I’ve spent weeks trying to track you down,’ Harvey adds. ‘The newsagent had taken your card off the noticeboard and didn’t have your contact details. Then a friend of my flatmate’s mentioned that her daughter’s started coming to you – Chloe Watson?’

      ‘Yes, she’s had a couple of lessons …’ In Freddie’s room now, with Buddy sniffing about at her side, she surveys the explosion of books and toys on the floor.

      ‘When she said it was a Kerry, I knew it must be you. I hope that doesn’t sound too bizarre,’ Harvey adds with a self-conscious laugh. ‘It’s just, I’d had a really shitty day doing, er, some work things. I was sitting in my car, having a moment to myself, when this tiny piece of paper – like a bit of napkin or something – blew onto my windscreen with your name on it.’

      ‘That is weird.’ Kerry motions for Freddie not to wear his wellies tonight, but they’re already being pulled on amidst sniggers as he tumbles into bed. ‘So it was sort of like a sign?’ she adds with a weary smile.

      ‘I don’t know. Yes, maybe it was.’

      Wandering through to Mia’s room now, Kerry takes the brush from her dressing table and works through her daughter’s wavy caramel hair in sweeping strokes. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘maybe I could fit you in on Saturdays, if that’s good for you.’

      ‘Er, that’s my busiest day unfortunately.’

      ‘What’s your job, Harvey?’

      ‘I, er … sort of organise events. Parties, conferences – that kind of thing.’

      Nice, friendly voice, she decides. There’s a trace of a northern accent, although not one she can entirely place. ‘Right. Well, I’m sorry but that’s the best I can do. I’m pretty full up during the week.’

      ‘Okay,’ he says firmly. ‘Saturdays would be good – I’m sure I can sort something out.’

      ‘Would you want lessons at your house or could you come here?’

      ‘Oh, my flat’s not suitable,’ he says quickly. ‘I’ll come to you, if that’s okay.’

      ‘Of course it is. Most pupils do. D’you live in Shorling?’

      ‘Yes, up by the golf course.’ Kerry puts down the brush and motions for her daughter to choose a story book. Mia chooses to tip out her vast collection of Sylvanian Families animals out of their battered shoebox instead.

      ‘So, what I’d normally do,’ Kerry continues, still clutching her phone as she helps her to line up the badgers and bears, ‘is suggest that you come round for a chat before we arrange your first lesson. I don’t charge for that, obviously. It’s just so we can talk about the kinds of music you like, and whether you’d prefer to follow a structured course, and work towards exams, or have a more relaxed, free-form approach. It’s also,’ she adds, absent-mindedly tickling Buddy’s ears as he nuzzles against her, ‘so you can be certain that I’m the right teacher for you.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure you will be.’

      Kerry can’t help smiling at his childlike eagerness. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

      ‘So when could I do that?’ Harvey asks.

      ‘Um …’ She frowns. ‘I’m teaching all day tomorrow, then on Thursday I have a meeting for a show I work for. Friday’s a bit hectic so maybe next weekend, if that suits you?’

      ‘Oh.’ His disappointment is palpable. ‘I don’t suppose tonight would be okay?’

      Kerry pauses, carefully placing Mia’s favourite rabbit at the helm of the large toy narrowboat which she’s extracted from under her bed. God, he’s keen – perhaps too keen. What kind of person spends weeks trying to track down a name from a soggy piece of paper when Shorling is awash with music tutors? If you wanted your child to learn the marimba, there’d be someone local to teach them. Kerry fears that, since the split with Rob, and her mainly fruitless attempts to befriend Emily, Lara and the rest of the school-gate clique, she’s lost her ability to suss out whether someone is a decent person or not. Yet she’s also … intrigued.

      ‘Mummy!’ Freddie yells from his room. ‘Hurry up and do my story. I’ve been waiting hours.’

      ‘In a minute, hon,’ she calls back. ‘Er, okay,’ she tells Harvey. ‘It’s 82 Ocean Drive, the white house at the end. The one with the scruffy front garden that’s probably going to wreck Shorling’s chance of winning Britain’s Prettiest Seaside Town this year. You’ll easily spot it.’

      ‘Right,’ he chuckles. ‘See you in half an hour then?’

      ‘Could you make it an hour? I’m just about to launch into the bedtime story routine.’

      ‘Oh. Um, yeah. Okay.’ He sounds rather perturbed as Freddie bursts into song in the background. It’s more of a taunt, actually, bellowed out to the tune of Stop the bus, I need a wee-wee, but with substitute lyrics: Daaaa-ddy’s baby is a bo-ooy …

      ‘See you at half-eight,’ she says quickly before ending the call.

      Such musical talent at five years old, Kerry reflects, snatching a random picture book from the buckling shelf in Mia’s room. She could be one of those mothers who’s forever boasting about her gifted children – if it didn’t make her want to squash a pillow over her head and cry.

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Buddy’s urgent barking announces Harvey’s arrival. While Kerry is slightly regretting arranging to see him tonight, at least someone is keen to spend time with her around here. It’s come to something when, apart from being ridiculously grateful for seeing Brigid once or twice a week, Kerry has become reliant on pupils for adult company. She has even found herself looking forward to Jasmine arriving in a cloud of expensive perfume on Thursday afternoons, despite the fact that piano lessons are merely filling a gap until yoga starts up again.

      ‘Hi.’ Harvey’s face breaks into a grin as Kerry welcomes him in. ‘Thanks for making time to see me.’

      ‘That’s okay,’ she says, taken aback by the fact that his phone voice and appearance don’t entirely match. She’d figured mid-twenties tops, gangly and puppy-like, but the man who stands before her in her cluttered kitchen is towering above her, a proper strong-looking man with dark, almost black wavy hair, playful deep blue eyes and a hint of stubble. Buddy is now sitting obediently on his cushion in the corner of the kitchen, as if in readiness for being judged.

      ‘Nice dog,’ Harvey offers. ‘Loves people, obviously.’

      ‘We’ve only had him a few weeks,’ Kerry explains. ‘We’re still new to the whole dog business.’

      He smiles, casting Buddy a fond glance. ‘Nothing to it, not once you tune into what they’re all about.’

      ‘You’re a dog person then?’

      Harvey nods. ‘Always had them, until about a year ago when my flatmate moved in. He’s allergic, unfortunately.’

      ‘That’s a pity.’

      ‘So how’s he settled with you?’

      Kerry pauses, tempted to gloss over Buddy’s quirks, but decides there’s something about Harvey that compels her to be honest. ‘He’s brilliant with us, loves being off the lead