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

he popped out to patch me up. They do say you shouldn’t mix champagne and tools, don’t they?’

      I don’t know how he managed to make this sentence sound suggestive, but he did.

      ‘How awful,’ I said, trying not to laugh. I shuffled some patient record cards into alphabetical order. ‘I bet that hurt.’

      ‘A bit of blood, just a nick on the side of my hand, that’s all.’ He winked at me again. ‘Still, it got me out of doing anything else, so not all bad. Jess is a bit of a madam in the kitchen. She likes things done her way and I’m not very biddable.’

      To my relief Dr Hawkins’ surgery door opened and his patient hobbled out after him, her ankle heavily strapped up.

      ‘Feet up for a few days, Jill,’ Dr Hawkins bellowed at her, ‘let Sidney get the meals and feed the chickens. Ah, Greg!’ The two men shook hands; smiles all round. ‘How’s the hand?’

      Dr Hawkins ushered Greg into his surgery and the door closed behind them. I dealt with Mrs Guthrie and made her a review appointment for next week. All the time I could hear loud male laughter from behind the closed door I was aware of someone fixing me with a basilisk stare from across the waiting room.

      ‘I was next,’ an old man grumbled from under his bobble hat. ‘I’ve got my leg here. I was definitely next. Who’s he to go in when I was next?’

      ‘I met your new bf Greg Palmer at the practice this morning,’ I said when I got back at lunchtime. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my handbag on the kitchen table. Ian was still in his dressing gown nursing a Friday night hangover, reading emails at the other end of the table. He raised an enquiring eyebrow like a young Roger Moore.

      ‘Bf?’

      ‘Best friend. He said you’d invited him and his wife to a party here on New Year’s Eve.’

      ‘Ah yes, I did.’

      ‘What bloody party? Don’t you think you should invite me first?’ I said.

      ‘Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you, but strike while the iron’s hot, eh? We were at the golf club and got talking. He sounded very pleased indeed. Friendly, wanted to bring some champagne. That’s the sort of party guest I like.’

      Ian held out an arm, I went to kiss him and then put the milk into the fridge.

      ‘Well, Jess is nice. We’ve had lunch quite a few times—’

      ‘You didn’t tell me!’

      ‘You didn’t ask. You’ve been so wrapped up in work recently. She’s fun. A bit loud, very friendly, lots of flashy jewellery, but Greg’s a bit of a sleaze ball, isn’t he?’

      Ian’s head came up, indignant. ‘He’s not! Why would you say that?’

      ‘Too much aftershave, gold man bracelet.’

      ‘No, he’s not, Lottie. He could be very important to us right at this minute if only you realised it. He’s just bought one of those huge hybrids. A Mitsubishi something. I pretended I wanted to know about mpg. I went and looked it up in What Car.’ He gave me a look filled with meaning. ‘He must be loaded. He’s sold his business in Spain for a fair old sum by the sounds of it and he’s looking to invest in property development over here. We could do very well out of him. If he wanted us to shove in a couple of the new Windermere kitchens I was telling you about it would be a godsend. He’s blue-sky thinking.’

      ‘Huh?’

      This was not the sort of thing Ian usually said.

      ‘He’s thinking outside the box.’

      And nor was that. It seemed Greg was having quite an influence already.

      Ian opened another email and began to read it.

      ‘What box?’ I said, wondering if he knew.

      Ian didn’t answer for a moment. He stabbed at the keys of his laptop and frowned.

      ‘Look, I’ll explain another time. I need to fire off a few emails this morning. There’s been a bit of a hiccup.’

      ‘Oh, not work?’

      ‘Isn’t it always?’ Ian pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be in the study.’

      I looked at the clock, which incorrectly said twenty-seven minutes past eight. I couldn’t reach it and I’d been waiting for Ian to get it down and change the battery for weeks.

      ‘Give me half an hour and I’ll sort out some lunch,’ I said.

      I looked over at him. He looked rather pale and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his upper lip.

      ‘Are you OK, darling?’

      ‘Yes, yes fine.’

      He didn’t look fine.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      He hesitated in the doorway, tapping his phone against his thigh.

      ‘Nothing, nothing. Bloody hell, you do go on sometimes.’

      Well, that wasn’t fair.

      He went off towards his study and I heard him close the door behind him.

      I made some vegetable soup and heated up some pitta bread to go with the hummus in the fridge – always Ian’s favourite lunch. I heard him go off upstairs after a few minutes and then heard the rumble of the pump as he turned on the water in the wet room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Usually he sang in the shower, snatches of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if he was feeling particularly cheerful. Today there was silence.

      I went back to stirring the soup and flicked another, pointless look at the clock. Perhaps I should get the stepladder out and change the battery myself?

      Ian came down after a few minutes, dressed in chinos and a dazzlingly white polo shirt. He wasn’t going into work then. His hair was wet and rumpled from the shower, showing up the thinning bald spot he was usually so careful to disguise. His face was grim. He went to stand at the sink, looking out across the frosty garden.

      I bit back the obvious question; what was the matter? I knew it would provoke an outburst of some sort. It must be something to do with his company. I knew business had been bad over the last few months with the economic downturn. These days, not many people seemed to want the hand-built kitchens Ian’s firm provided.

      ‘Lunch is ready, darling, come and sit down. We were busy in the practice this morning. Nothing too interesting but…’

      Ian turned on his heel and stamped past me. ‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t want any fucking lunch, I’m going out.’

      He grabbed his coat from the hallstand and slung it on, one arm struggling down a sleeve.

      I followed him into the hallway. ‘Honestly, who rattled the bars of your cage?’

      Ian patted his pockets for his car keys and didn’t answer.

      ‘Why not have something to eat first? It wouldn’t take a minute,’ I said.

      ‘I’ve got things to do.’

      I put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s the matter, darling? Can I help?’

      He shook me off. ‘No, you fucking can’t help.’

      ‘Ian! There must be—’

      ‘Just shut up, Lottie,’ he yelled.

      ‘Don’t be so bloody rude!’

      ‘Leave me alone. This isn’t anything you can help with; you’ve done enough already. Spending like it’s going out of fashion. Holidays. New car. Shoes. God knows how many handbags. Grow up! What did you think would happen?’

      ‘What?’ I staggered back in astonishment. This was not like Ian at all.