Every day since Emma and Jake’s engagement Gloria had felt snippets of her former snarky-self seeping through the puncture wounds left by Whispers Wood’s specialist chosen ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish’ subject.

Emma was her boss and her friend and the thought of ruining that friendship or losing the job she’d come to love over being driven mad because everything was bloody ‘weddings’ this and bloody ‘weddings’ that …

Admittedly not from Emma and Jake, which, okay, was a little weird but, hey, there was a secret comfort in the fact that if the very people who were engaged weren’t talking openly about when they were getting married, maybe that meant they wouldn’t actually get around to getting married. Which would definitely cover the whole, Why Would You Even Want To/Need To feels that Gloria had discovered she was experiencing in spades.

Ugh.

The Feels.

All the things she’d done to cauterize them and now they popped back up to the surface again?

Startling her, annoying her.

Scaring her.

‘This can’t be my last session,’ Gloria stated carefully, focusing her attention on the large hammered silver bowl sat politely in the centre of the pale wood coffee table between the neutral grey sofa and bland beige chair.

‘Why can’t it?’ Fortuna asked. ‘You’ve reached the goals you set out for yourself when you came here.’

‘But I’m not fixed yet.’ The words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush as if embarrassed at having to be spoken. Reaching out, she plucked one of the stress balls from the bowl she’d been staring at. ‘Only this morning I told my boss that her engagement ring – which naturally, turned out to be a family heirloom – looked like a dehydrated blueberry.’

‘I see.’ Fortuna looked very much like she was trying not to smile, but Gloria was almost certain she wouldn’t have been smiling if it was her engagement ring that was being dismissed. ‘Did something happen for you to feel you needed to express that particular opinion?’

Gloria’s mouth turned down as she remembered Emma showing off her ring to harmless Betty Blunkett and Betty then going on and on and on about her own emerald ring which she’d now had on her finger for fifty-five years.

Tossing the stress ball up in the air, Gloria caught it in her other hand and squeezed it hard. ‘Nothing happened,’ she answered. ‘I said it because I could. Because it’s what I do, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

Gloria’s gaze flicked to Fortuna defiantly before dropping to her left hand and noticing once more that there wasn’t even an indent left to show she’d once been married.

The cold shame she’d felt after insulting Emma’s taste, and by association, Jake’s entire family, washed over her once again.

Was that what all this was about?

She was suffering from petty jealousy?

For something she wanted no part of ever again?

Where was her perspective?

Why couldn’t she just let all the endless wedding talk float over her head?

‘Gloria?’ Fortuna prompted. ‘Is a quick quip still your first defence mechanism? Because I believe you might have more than that in your arsenal, these days?’

‘But killing people with kindness isn’t as much fun,’ Gloria responded with a pout.

Fortuna did smile this time. ‘So what happened afterwards?’

‘I apologised.’ She hadn’t needed to see the flicker of hurt in Emma’s eyes for the sorry to be immediate. She’d been mortified that in another unguarded moment, this time she’d managed to upset the actual bride-to-be.

You see? It just wasn’t right, was it? Getting so pernickety over an institution that people could enter freely into and did, day after day, the world over. There was no need whatsoever to be feeling this … this burning need to save Emma and Jake from going through the rigmarole of a big special day only to end up a modern-day statistic.

Not that all marriages came to an end.

She wasn’t stupid.

She was just …

Jaded.

A look which so didn’t mesh with her metamorphosis.

She breathed out slowly.

‘Why the sigh? Wasn’t your apology accepted?’ Fortuna asked.

‘It was, although if I was Emma, I guarantee I wouldn’t have let myself off that lightly. I swear it’s like I’ve somehow managed to get the nicest person on the planet to like me.’

‘And that baffles you?’ Fortuna surmised.

It did.

She didn’t have a great track-record in the friendship department. She’d spent most of her childhood deliberately making it difficult for anyone to like her and as an adult the few friends she’d cultivated had scarpered as soon as Bob had left.

She swapped the stress ball back to her other hand. ‘How can simply apologising every time I let my tongue get away from me be enough? How is that progress?’

‘Keep practising all the techniques we’ve been working on.’ Fortuna leant forward in her chair, her hands folded neatly over the top of her notebook. ‘You’re not going to let yourself down.’

‘Can I have that in writing, please?’

Fortuna smiled again. ‘You’re still using your apps?’

Gloria rolled her eyes but then nodded her head. ‘You do realise you’re going to be out of a job now that the whole world and his dog is into mindfulness. I lose count of the number of people posting how many times a day they meditate, which kind of defeats the object in my humble opinion, but I guess, what do I know?’

‘I really wouldn’t focus on what everyone else is doing. If it works for you, use it. If it doesn’t, ditch it. How’s the art coming along?’

‘I suck at it.’

‘But is that the point though?’

‘No,’ she grudgingly admitted. The point of it was to relax her. Distract her. Give her some breathing space.

‘So …?’

‘I’m no Banksy,’ she said, although that wasn’t to say she hadn’t sometimes thought of painting the whole village with murals. ‘For the purposes of your notes though, I’ll admit I’m enjoying it. I used to draw when I was younger. I’m not sure why I stopped.’ Well, she did, but that story was for another time she liked to call ‘Never’.

It had taken weeks of gentle suggestion followed by a confronting ‘What exactly are you afraid of?’ from Fortuna for Gloria to sign up to the notion that using drawing as a form of self-care might not be a truly awful concept. Even then, she’d walked past the art supply shop twice before making herself go in, muttering under her breath about how stupidly indulgent it would be to buy a sketchbook and set of pencils. But as soon as her fingers had stroked over the graphite she’d smiled and got that warm fuzzy feeling in her heart that was usually reserved for things Persephone did.

‘Well, again, I’d say if you enjoy it and it’s working for you, keep doing it. It’s important to have something you enjoy just for the sake of it.’

Gloria tried to quieten the panic in her chest as Fortuna closed her notebook and then started rearranging the stack of papers underneath. ‘You’re rustling those papers there like this is really it – I’m out on my own.’

‘You’re not on your own. You have friends.’

Gloria blinked.

She guessed she did.

Emma Danes, the Jane Austen-loving mixologist, had taken the biggest gamble going to bat for her working at Cocktails & Chai. A huge deal seeing as the moment it became the latest business to open up inside the clock house it also became the new headquarters for Whispers Wood’s gossip mill. Emma’s unswerving friendship had even (okay, nearly) convinced her that the tearoom/bar would still have customers if she wasn’t part of the wallpaper for customers to ogle and discuss.

Then there was award-winning garden designer, Jake Knightley, the only one of six siblings with the passion and vision to take over the running of their ancestral home, Knightley Hall, which stood on the edge of the village. At least, she was going to claim they were friends. He was quite succinct was Jake, so she was pretty sure he’d have simply stopped talking to her altogether if he was still pissed at her publically pointing out last year what an idiot he’d been being over Emma.

She thought – hoped – she was making progress with hairdresser, Juliet Brown, owner of Hair @ The Clock House. Super-chic and sweet Juliet who, because of the nature of her job, had a lifetime’s experience seeing and hearing too much but, thankfully, was way too nice to comment on any of it.

Even no-nonsense Kate Somersby, owner of the day spa Beauty @ The Clock House, and perhaps the hardest to win over, given her need to make sure the clock house businesses succeeded, now liked her enough to spend more than the agreed budget on Secret Santa presents. Who else could be responsible for giving her the impressively coffee-table-sized: How to Stop Swearing and Other Bollocks Ways to Improve Your Manners book, last Christmas?

And obviously there was Old Man Isaac. Like she’d said, he was her Gandalph. Her Obi-Wan. Or, if you wanted to get less ‘mentor’ and more ‘friend’, the way he insisted she had a lot of potential, the Pretty Woman Vivian to her Kit De Luca.

Oh, and then there was Seth.

Seth Knightley. Jake’s younger brother.

A claxon sounded inside her head.

Everyone kept joking about the ‘magic’ chandelier at the clock house and the ridiculous fairytale about how it brought single people together. Joking like she and Seth weren’t friends … so much as its next victims.

Which was fine, she reminded herself, relaxing her jaw, because they weren’t.

She didn’t believe in magic and fairytale endings.

And you didn’t have to be a Strictly super-fan to know it took two to tango.

Plus, she shouldn’t forget that she was on a strict tangoing break.

She didn’t need to worry about Seth.

Seth was …

She fumbled for a proper definition – a label – anything helpful at all to stick on what they were and feel okay about it.

She came up blank.

Back to five friends then.

She thought of the Famous Five books.

Five Friend Gloria Pavey.

Bloody hell.

She supposed it was a start.

‘You really think I don’t need to keep coming to see you?’ she checked.

‘I really don’t.’

Bloody hell, again.

Fortuna obviously favoured the brave.

Gloria released a sigh and stood up. ‘Okay. Well, I guess Thank You for all your patience with me.’

‘Not at all, you’re the one who’s done the hard work.’

Gloria tried to be honest with herself.

And brave.

Even in those early hours before dawn she was now able to poke and prod at all the Before-She’d-Married-Bob stuff and all the After-She’d-Married-Bob stuff and feel less governed, less defined and less stigmatised by it all.

She did feel more even-tempered. More balanced. Less worried about all the wedding talk.

Sort of.

That insidious worry that had been flirting so maddeningly with her started up its banter proper.

‘Nope,’ she announced, promptly sitting back down, ‘I can’t have you signing off on me when I’m still able to feel that anger.’

‘That’s not anger you’re feeling,’ Fortuna promised. ‘It’s a little anxiety, maybe.’

‘Do all your patients come in with one thing and leave with another?’

‘It’s only natural to be feeling anxious. We all do when things come to an end.’

‘Well, on the grounds that I’m better attuned to others’ feelings these days, how about I come back next week. I wouldn’t want you to have to feel anxious about our relationship coming to an end.’

Fortuna laughed. ‘Keep on being brave, Gloria.’

‘I don’t feel very brave.’ The words came out small, hoarse and reluctantly.

‘It was brave to admit to being worried about repeating old behaviours and ruining new friendships. It’s brave to change how you react to things. If you persevere it will become habit-forming and some of the anxiety you’re going to revert to previous behaviours will ease.’

‘So, this is really it, then?’

‘You know where I am if you need me, but for now I think it’s time to simply: Go Forth and Be Yourself.’

You, do you – that’s what she was being told, here? Well, she supposed it was better than being told she needed to try forest bathing because she’d been walking through the woods of Whispers Wood for years and had still ended up needing therapy.

Be herself.

Herself without blowing up at a little wedding talk.

It was said with such simple belief that Gloria rose to her feet, slightly shocked to discover the stress ball had been simply sitting in her hand unclenched for the last ten minutes. With a smile, she held out the ball and said, ‘I’m taking this with me,’ and after a moment’s hesitation, she reached into the bowl she’d been staring at for twelve weeks and took a second ball and said, ‘this one too.’

For luck, she thought walking out into the sunshine.

Chapter 3
The ‘F’ Word

Gloria

Pulling up outside the school gates where her daughter was about to finish summer Day Camp for the day, she switched off the engine and glanced at her watch. She was early so she’d sit in her car for a while.

Breathe in the quiet.

This was the first year Persephone had asked to join in the events the school put on in the holidays and it meant being able to work whatever hours Emma needed without having to worry about childcare.

Not for the first time she hoped Persephone had suggested Day Camp for herself and not because she didn’t want to curtail her mum having fun at work. Lately it was easy to worry about how set Persephone was on pleasing others – something she got from Bob, rather than her, obviously.

At ten years old and considering having to get used to seeing her father with a man as opposed to a new woman, Persephone was a remarkably well-adjusted, happy, energetic, pretty well-behaved child.

She was also attached at the hip to Melody Matthews. It had been that way since the first day of pre-school and Gloria had to admit she looked on their friendship with awe. Melody had lost her mum at age four but recently had had to get used to seeing her dad, Oscar Matthews, with the owner of Hair @ The Clock House, Juliet Brown, and, like Persephone, Melody seemed happy. In fact the two girls’ mission seemed to be to champion each other through life. It was a magical connection and quite impossible to remain cynical in the face of.

She’d never had a best friend when she was Persephone’s age.

Sisters were different, she accepted, thinking of her own. The way Persephone and Melody connected, she knew they thought they were like true sisters.

But they weren’t.

Best friends could keep secrets sure.

But sisters who shared the same environment didn’t even need to be told something was a secret. It was an intrinsic part of protecting the family.

While you still lived together at any rate.

She felt her shoulders rise with tension and reminded herself she’d given these spare few moments over to the supremely simple act of sitting here and breathing in the quiet, not taking a drive down Memory Lane.

She and Bob may not have given Persephone a brother or a sister and Gloria might sometimes wish their daughter had lots of friends instead of putting all her eggs into one BFF basket, but at least Persephone had had someone fiercely loyal standing by her side when her dad came out. Someone she could talk with, cry with, hug with, forget about it all with. Someone to tell her it wasn’t so bad, that he was still her dad, that he still loved her.

She breathed in slowly, breathed out slower and felt her shoulders relax.

With an automatic glance to the windscreen mirror when she heard a car pull in behind her, she recognised Juliet’s classic Beetle, recently painted with the clock house business logo.

It would probably be polite to get out of the car when Juliet did. The awkwardness between them was much better since she’d apologised for telling Juliet if she wasn’t careful she’d end up the spinster Cat Lady of Whispers Wood.

Yep, talk about not reading her copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People.

But one of the reasons she’d come to like Juliet so much was that instead of cowering at the insult until the cats came home, Juliet had made the decision to push out of her comfort zone and make her life about something other than adopting stray cats and helping her mum run her mobile hair-dressing service.

Armed with a plan and a set of postcards, Juliet had managed to get her cousin Kate Somersby to come back to Whispers Wood and together they’d set about trying to buy Old Man Isaac’s clock house and open it as the day spa Kate had once dreamed of opening before her twin, Bea, had died.

Juliet changing her life had made Oscar Matthews finally view her in a whole new light and then suddenly, Kate and newcomer, Daniel Westlake, couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other either.

Gloria didn’t understand why Emma and Jake couldn’t just be like Juliet and Oscar and Kate and Daniel … simply too busy to think about ruining everything with a wedding.

When Juliet didn’t get out of her car, Gloria frowned. Usually Juliet was the first one at the gates, determined to cement her position as step-mum of the year.

Maybe she should go and check on her?

Or not.

As if Juliet would want her poking her nose in.

And yet … there was something almost too poised about the way Juliet simply sat staring straight ahead that had her giving into impulse and getting out of her car and walking up to Juliet’s to tap on the window.

Juliet jumped so high, Gloria was pretty sure her bum actually left the ancient burgundy leather upholstery of the seat. She’d been in a world of her own, hadn’t she, and Gloria swore quietly to herself as she watched her take a nanosecond to wipe at her cheeks before pressing the button to open the window.

‘Why are you crying?’ Gloria asked, forgoing any kind of greeting as the window rolled down.

‘I’m absolutely not crying,’ Juliet shot back.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She waited for the shimmer of tears to swim back into Juliet’s eyes but when she got a measured stare back, Gloria realised the taunt hadn’t actually left her mouth and was quite pleased with herself.

Obviously on a roll, she decided she couldn’t let the crying go and taking the plunge, said, ‘Look, as a,’ she took a deep breath and forced out the ‘F’ word, ‘friend – can I just mention then that even though you say you were absolutely not crying, it would appear your mascara is woefully non-water-resistant.’

‘What? Oh no.’ Juliet slid her hand into the bag on the seat next to her, withdrew a mother-of-pearl mosaic-studded compact that Gloria just knew Juliet had made herself, and whipping it open, stared at her reflection, gave a whimper of dismay and then dived into her bag again. This time she withdrew a home-made and perfectly hand-stitched pouch in black velvet with little embroidered bees all over it and Gloria stared, wondering how the hell, in Juliet’s hands, all these mismatched, second-hand, home-made things could always all go together. Withdrawing a pack of face-wipes from the pouch, Juliet rubbed at her cheeks and muttered, ‘Thanks.’

‘So …?’ Gloria prodded, leaning down to rest her hands on the open car door frame so that Juliet couldn’t close the window and ignore her.

‘So?’

Gloria fought the need to roll her eyes. ‘Are you okay?’ God, this ‘F’ word thing was tricky.

‘Absolutely.’

Gloria tipped her head to the side, increasing the intensity of her narrowed gaze. ‘Why are you lying? Should I phone Oscar? Get Kate for you?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ They’d certainly be better at taking the bruised expression out of her eyes than she was going to be.

‘I’m completely sure, thank you.’

‘Looks like you’re stuck with me, then.’ She studied Juliet as her nervous hands slipped her compact and face-wipes back in her bag and she sucked in her bottom lip, presumably to stop it wobbling. Making a keep talking motion with her hand Gloria advised, ‘Just tell me quickly. You’ll feel better and have time to pull yourself together before Melody comes out because I know you don’t want her seeing you like this.’

Juliet sighed. ‘You’re not going to stop until I tell you, are you?’

Gloria flashed a smile. ‘I always knew those Ditsy prints you insist on wearing didn’t fully reflect your personality.’

Being potentially called ditzy earned her an arched eyebrow before Juliet shook her head slightly, and said, ‘Look, it’s just bad period pains, okay.’

‘So pop a couple of painkillers and be done with it … oh!’ Her brain caught up with her mouth.

Juliet wasn’t pregnant then.

Again.

Still.

Yet.

Nothing slowed down the passage of time quite like not being pregnant. Gloria remembered that from before Persephone had come along.

A lump formed in her chest. At Christmas last year, you’d only had to look at Juliet to think she was pregnant.

She’d had that glow about her.

Coupled with the tiredness and the meepyness it was a natural conclusion.

And wrong.

It had turned out to be overwork and excitement about opening up The Clock House.

But eight months later and Juliet still wasn’t pregnant?

A fact which made the vintage-chic hairdresser’s usually bright button eyes dull and defeated.

Gloria rubbed at her chest. She should never have got out of the car. Juliet needed someone with an A* in friendship, and she only had a C-. Okay, maybe a C+ on a good day.

‘Yep. “Oh”,’ Juliet replied and then dragged in a shaky breath and pasted on a smile. ‘I’ll get over it though and be absolutely fine in a jiffy.’

Liar, liar. ‘Look,’ Gloria said, searching for a way to make it better. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you that the way you parent Melody is—’

‘Don’t,’ Juliet whispered, cutting her off. ‘Don’t be nice to me.’

Oops. Gloria actually got that because she absolutely hated it when she was upset and someone tried to be nice to her. Still. With the ‘F’ word to take into consideration, maybe a less obvious approach was needed. ‘How about I take Melody home with me and Perse this afternoon? You know the two never turn down the option to extend their day together. I can give her tea and you can – I don’t know – take a little time out to howl at the moon or something?’

‘You’re being nice,’ Juliet sniffed. ‘And Melody will be out any minute and like you said, I don’t want her to see me upset.’

Gloria was pleased about that. The last thing kids needed when the world was already so bewildering was to realise that parents hardly ever had their shit together.

When Bob had first left she hadn’t been able to cry at all and then one night, she’d checked her daughter was asleep before creeping out the back door and picking her way down to the bottom of the garden to finally give in to a crying jag. She’d repeated that pattern for a while and maybe all those tears rolling into the soil was why the flowers always bloomed better there, although as a method of growing award-winning roses, she thought she’d give suggesting it to garden designer, Jake, the swerve. Nobody ever needed to know she cried like an actual human.

Chewing down on her tongue to stop anything unhelpfully nice from coming out of her mouth, the irony that lately it was usually the other way around, wasn’t lost on her and then she was sending up a silent prayer of thanks as Juliet’s phone chirped. She stared pointedly at the phone sitting on the passenger seat. ‘Honestly, only you could have some sort of saccharine-Cinderella-sounding bird-cheeping as your ringtone.’

Juliet picked up her phone. ‘It’s a text from Emma. She wants us all to pop into Cocktails & Chai ASAP.’

Gloria tried not to sigh at the timing. Her shift didn’t start for two hours but maybe she could get Bob to take Persephone a couple of hours early.

As if realising what she was thinking, Juliet said, ‘We can take the girls with us. Afterwards, I’ll take Persephone back to mine until Bob’s ready to pick her up, or I can drop her off at Bob’s for you?’

‘Well aren’t you just begging for a distraction,’ Gloria surmised.

‘Going to help me out? It would help take my mind off …’

‘Stalking storks?’

Juliet laughed a little and Gloria felt the lump in her chest dissolve. Surely she got points for at least not making Juliet feel worse. Maybe Fortuna was right. Maybe there was enough ‘nice’ inside of her now.

‘So why do you think we’ve been summoned to Cocktails & Chai?’ she asked. ‘Do you think Emma’s finished the screenplay?’

Emma had never shown regret about declining her big break in Hollywood to stay and manage Cocktails & Chai. Privately Gloria thought that was probably more to do with falling in love with Jake Knightley than running the village tearoom and bar. Then Jake had mentioned her getting back into the writing she used to love before acting. One off-the-cuff suggestion she write a screenplay about his Knightley Hall ancestors, George and Lilly, and the next thing they all knew, Emma was buying How to Write A Screenplay for Dummies and talking a lot about storyboarding, which to Gloria sounded about as much fun as waterboarding, but each to their own. Emma’s un-waning passion for writing this screenplay at least stopped her talking about weddings, so Gloria was all for it.

Now she watched Juliet perk up at the thought of celebrating Emma finishing her screenplay and Gloria worried it wouldn’t come out right if she offered Juliet some words about taking the time to acknowledge she was upset about not being pregnant, instead of filling her world with distraction after distraction. ‘Heads-up,’ she ended up saying, ‘here come the adorable little monsters, now.’

‘Gloria?’

Gloria turned to look back at Juliet. ‘Hmm?’

Juliet smiled up at her. ‘Thanks for – well, just, thanks.’

Gloria looked back at the two girls running full-pelt towards them. ‘Don’t go mushy on me,’ she muttered out of the side of her mouth, ‘you know it brings me out in hives.’

As the girls greeted them Gloria kept a close eye on Juliet, who she thought did an excellent impression of a sponge, soaking up the distraction of the girls’ running commentary about a girl called Arabella Jones getting chosen to dance in the local production of The Nutcracker at Christmas.

It was barely August.

What happened to the long hazy summer days where the most taxing thing you had to decide was whether you wanted to go swimming in the river at Whispers Ford or spend the day under the tree on the village green making daisy chains?

Not that she’d ever done either of those when she was ten.

The summer she’d turned ten she’d taken the bus into town every day to visit her dad in hospital.

Taking a leaf out of Juliet’s rapt expression she tuned back in to hear the kids launch into a ringing endorsement of the ballet ‘taster’ session they’d signed up for, followed by a whine on why they’d been ‘allowed’ to simply give up on their ballet dreams years ago?

Gloria was compelled to remind them of the presentation they’d delivered charmingly titled ‘Basic Human Rights’ which had turned out to be a thinly disguised rail against the way Madame Benoit, who was about as French as Poirot, thought one hundred pliés in first position constituted a term’s worth of lessons.

As the girls looked at each other and then immediately launched into a speech about how they were prepared to forego some of their basic human rights if it meant they got to dance like Arabella Jones, she couldn’t help wondering why on earth Juliet would want to add to her family.

The negotiation was pretty much full-on, twenty-four-seven three-six-five.

But as she looked at her daughter and felt a happiness she was afraid might manifest itself on the outside like the sort of sparkle Edward Cullen came out in when the sun hit him at, well, any angle, she knew why.

Becoming a mum was the best thing that had ever happened to Gloria.

It was why she was determined to change for the better.

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