The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please

the light bulbs.’

      ‘You got a great eye for design. You could give me some tips once the en suites are finished. Greg wants to put seagull wallpaper in one and ducks in the other. No, don’t laugh, he’s perfectly serious. Even I can see that’s naff. I only ever do white and cream with lots of gold accents. It doesn’t look the same over here though. Not like it did in Spain. More duller. Must be the lack of sunshine,’ Jess said.

      ‘Well, the Met Office says we are in for a BBQ summer,’ I said.

      ‘Really?’ Jess looked hopeful. Her blue eyes gazed at me, lash extensions fluttering.

      ‘They’re usually wrong so don’t get your hopes up just yet.’ I held out a platter of vol-au-vents and Jess reeled away as though I was offering her strychnine.

      ‘Oh dear, no thanks, I mustn’t. I get a bit funny about carbs after seven o’clock,’ she said, patting her non-existent tummy. She fished about on the plate for a celery baton and nibbled it, shoulders hunched. Her expression of robust enjoyment was one I usually reserved for cake but I suppose we can’t all be the same.

      ‘So when are you planning to rent out Holly Cottage again?’ I said.

      Jess spoke through stretched lips this time, as though she was putting on lipstick. ‘Oh I don’t know. I’m still not sure what I want to do. I did think of selling it. Anyway. See how we go. A couple of months, maybe?’

      ‘You mustn’t let me get in the way of that,’ I said.

      ‘Lottie, I’m just grateful you’ve taken this off my hands. It’s no good asking Greg’s men to do it, they would just slap up some lining paper, paint it with whatever was left over from another job, shove in some off cuts of carpet and it would look rubbish in no time and I’d be back to square one. Look, I’d better go. I’ve got heaps to do here. Greg should be arriving with you soon anyway and – um – Bryn’s not about, is he?’

      ‘No, I haven’t seen him for a while. I don’t know where he is. There’s someone called Bonnie here though.’

      ‘Bonnie? Why the…Oh, of course, I remember – Bryn’s gone to Chelsea. Just as well.’

      I frowned. ‘Why?’

      ‘Oh nothing. Look, I’ll shoot off now, there’s someone at the door. And whatever you do, don’t give Greg any cake!’

      Jess ended the call, leaving me more than a bit confused. Bryn and Greg were brothers, weren’t they? So why should it be good that Bryn wasn’t there? And he’d gone to Chelsea? What was he doing in Chelsea? He didn’t look like a footballer. Did he?

      Twenty minutes later I heard the unfamiliar sound of a vehicle driving up the lane and stopping. I peered through the sitting-room window, holding my breath. The view down towards the village was glorious; especially now the local farmer had cut back the hedges. I could see all the way to the church and the sunlight was glinting off the gold-painted weather vane on the top. But even after all this time I still felt the same plunge of dread when the phone rang or people came to the house unexpectedly. Today there was nothing to worry about; it was just Greg in his white van. I sighed with relief and went to open the front door.

      ‘Princess!’ he called. ‘How’s it goin’?’ He was quite casually dressed in head to toe Ralph Lauren. Well, casual for him anyway.

      ‘Great.’ I went out onto the drive and watched as he unlocked the back of the vehicle. Inside I could see a load of decorating stuff. Paintbrushes, huge tubs of paint, and folded-up dustsheets. Beyond that there were some familiar-looking boxes and bags containing the rest of my clothes and other things I had managed to salvage before the house was sold.

      I felt an unexpected pang of irritation. Whatever was in those bags I had managed without perfectly well. Perhaps I was having a change of heart? Maybe it was the shock? I was beginning to enjoy having less clutter. That would make a change after decades of hoarding and wanting stuff. Perhaps now I would learn to embrace clear worktops, sweeping expanses of bare white walls with just one artistic twig in a glass frame. In years to come I would ask people to take off their shoes before they walked on my white carpets and I would talk knowledgeably about the liberation of minimalism.

      On the other hand I could see my television and numerous wooden cases saved from Ian’s extensive wine collection and my spirits rose several notches. Now that was the best thing I had seen for ages. Well, apart from Bryn with his shirt off but I suppose that shouldn’t really count.

      Greg came to envelop me in a friendly hug. He smelled of expensive aftershave and cigarettes and I tried to think how long it had been since a man had actually touched me with affection. It must have been months. I also tried to remember when I had smoked my last cigarette. At nearly ten quid a packet I definitely couldn’t afford them. Perhaps giving up would be the one good thing to come out of this mess.

      ‘All OK?’ he said.

      ‘Yes, fine, really.’

      Greg jerked his chin at Ivy Cottage. ‘He’s not in then?’

      ‘Bryn? No, he’s been away for a few—’

      ‘Good, good. Well I’ll get this lot unloaded and then we’ll have a cuppa, eh? Stick the kettle on, there’s a good girl.’

      ‘Can’t I help you?’ I hovered around him, hands flapping. For one thing I feared for his crisp blue and white striped shirt.

      ‘Nah, piece of cake, won’t take me a sec. Jess says you’ve got some junk for me to take.’

      ‘Stuff I’ve pulled out from the garden; an old bike, some rotten wood and of course there’s a wet carpet. It stinks.’

      ‘Nice one.’ Greg turned back to the van and clambered inside.

      ‘Why don’t you want to see Bryn?’ I blurted out.

      I don’t think Greg heard me because he didn’t answer. He jumped down and walked towards me holding a bundle of canvas dustsheets.

      ‘I’ll put all this in the garage, shall I? Talking about pieces of cake, I don’t suppose you’ve got any? Cake? Or I wouldn’t mind a biscuit if there was one going. Her Majesty’s got me on low carbs. I told you she would. I’d kill for a chocolate digestive.’

      ‘Jess said I wasn’t to give you any cake.’

      ‘Miserable cow. But she didn’t actually say biscuits?’

      ‘No, but—’

      ‘Well, there you are then. Just leave them out and I’ll nick a couple when you’re not looking.’

      I laughed and went to put the kettle on.

      I didn’t have room for everything in the house so Greg put all my stuff away in the garage, even the expensive clothes zipped into their dry-cleaning bags. I couldn’t face looking at them. A silk, beaded evening dress, an Armani suit, a Vivienne Westwood jacket, linen trousers and cashmere cardigans. None of it seemed to have a place in my newly small and unimportant life. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing white trousers or silk negligées ever again. Greg gave me a few funny looks and then hung the clothes from a metal tool rack.

      ‘Up to you, you could always flog ’em on eBay,’ he said.

      ‘Perhaps I will,’ I said.

      Or I could take them to a charity shop.

      I imagined myself sneaking into Stokeley or Okehampton very early one morning, dropping the bags off in a doorway under a sign saying ‘No donations to be left here’. Would the helpers be pleased to get such garments or exasperated? I had no idea. What if someone saw me and made me take them back? I shuddered at the thought.

      I pulled out a tray, made a pot of tea and found two packets of biscuits. Bourbons and Custard Creams. Greg fell on them with an expression I could only describe as ecstasy.

      He crammed in a Bourbon biscuit and munched. ‘So,