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  ‘Don’t do that,’ he’d say, wincing. ‘You’ll ruin your shoes, for God’s sake. You can’t just leave them there, haven’t you got any shoetrees?’

  The shoes rest on their side on the floor, daring me to look at the scuff marks I just made, so I kick them under the bed and pull on some flat boots, sighing with relief at being able to stomp around again, and run out the door.

  I pause briefly at the entrance to the kitchen, tempted to grab something from the fridge, a quick snack, but of course I am going to Lucy’s, and there is no better cook in London than Lucy, so why ruin a delicious pre-dinner snack with a piece of stale pitta from my own fridge?

  ‘Hello, Max. It looks like you’ve been eating something yummy.’ Max stands in the doorway, blocking my path, looking at me as if I’m about to start selling him dusters and dishcloths, a mixture of disdain and pity, which is quite extraordinary, bearing in mind he’s three years old and half his face is covered in chocolate.

  I’m not, as you may have gathered, a natural with children. In fact I’d go so far as to say that when God created me, he seemed to have forgotten all about my maternal instinct.

  That first time Si and I pitched up to see Lucy in hospital, the day after Max was born, Lucy sat up in bed, looking tired but radiant as usual, and gestured to this tiny, tiny, little baby, eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep in her arms.

  ‘He’s divine,’ whispered Si in awe. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, ‘look at those tiny hands, tiny feet. God, have you ever seen fingernails that small?’ Si held his hands, his feet, while I lurked in the background, smiling awkwardly.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, Cath,’ Lucy smiled, gesturing me forward with a nod of her head. ‘Here,’ and she offered the bundle in her arms to me, ‘have a cuddle.’

  Well, what could I say? I couldn’t refuse, so I took Max in my arms, hoping that I’d suddenly feel all warm and gooey, but I didn’t feel anything other than uncomfortable, and, just as I was about to start praying that the baby would keep quiet, Max opened his eyes.

  He opened his eyes, looked at me and screamed. But screamed. His face was bright red, his eyes scrunched up, and he was screaming as if he’d seen the devil. I practically threw him back to Lucy, and of course the minute he was in her arms he shut up. I haven’t picked up a baby since.

  Si thought this was hysterical. For a good few weeks afterwards he was calling me Scary Cathy, and whenever I touched him – laid a hand on his arm, gave him a hug – he’d screw up his eyes and start wailing, collapsing in giggles every time.

  It made me laugh at first, but after the forty-seventh time he did it, I started to get ever so slightly pissed off. Even Lucy told him off, which was most uncharacteristic of her, although she didn’t actually mean it.

  ‘Oh, Si,’ she’d playfully berate him. ‘Don’t be so mean. Poor Cath. It wasn’t her fault. Maxy’s just nervous of strangers, aren’t you, Maxy?’

  Si would then have to prove her wrong by smugly taking Max from her arms and making faces at him or bouncing him up and down while he gurgled with delight.

  And now, at three years old, Max still makes me feel as uncomfortable as he did when a newborn baby. But now, instead of screaming, he just has this habit of looking at me, and I find myself trying to befriend him, being extra-specially nice to make him change his opinion of me.

  ‘If you’re a good boy, Cath will give you a present. Would you like that?’ I feel ridiculous, saying these things to him, but I don’t know how else to talk to a three-year-old.

  I’ve watched Si with envy, because Si doesn’t treat Max like a child, he treats him like an adult. Si sits and has in-depth chats with Max about work. I know. Ridiculous. But it’s true. I’ve actually seen Si walk in, sit down next to Max and say, ‘God, what a terrible day. Do you want to hear about my day?’ And Max will nod very seriously, as Si proceeds to talk at him about film rushes and editing, and things being left on the cutting-room floor.

  But what’s even more ridiculous, is that Max loves it. Adores it. He cannot take his eyes off Si during these conversations.

  And then there was one time when Si sat down wearily next to Max, as Josh grabbed Lucy and enfolded her in his arms, covering her neck with kisses while she giggled and tried to push him away, and said, ‘I wish I could find someone who loved me like that.’

  Do you know what Max did? He put his hand in Si’s and squeezed it, then very solemnly gave him a kiss on the cheek. Si said he nearly burst into tears.

  But no matter what I say to Max, how large my bribes, he never seems to change with me.

  I bring a lollipop out of my pocket and extend it to Max, who examines it for a few seconds without touching it, then takes it out of my hand, turns his back, and disappears down the hallway.

  ‘Max!’ Lucy shouts, running after him and sweeping him up. ‘I saw that! Don’t be so rude. You must say thank you when someone gives you something.’ She rolls her eyes at me, mouthing ‘sorry’, as she drops Max at my feet.

  ‘Fank you.’ He looks at the floor, lollipop already in his mouth.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say, as he trundles off again. I follow Lucy into the kitchen, the smell of freshly baked biscuits making me salivate. ‘He does hate me, you know,’ I say, pulling off my coat and throwing it on a chair.

  ‘Well, he obviously has terrible taste in women,’ she says, ‘and he doesn’t really hate you, he’s just at that difficult age.’

  ‘He’s been at that difficult age since he was born.’

  ‘Bloody men,’ she laughs. ‘They’re all the same. Now, how about some home-made, fresh-from-the-oven, apple-and-cinnamon biscuits?’

  I rub my stomach in approval and take one from the plate Lucy sets on the table, not bothering to wait for the tea that ought to be the accompaniment.

  ‘Lucy,’ I mumble, mouth full, trying to catch the buttery crumbs that fall as I speak. ‘Sorry for speaking with my mouth full, but these are amazing.’

  ‘You’re so sweet.’ Lucy breaks into one of her dazzling smiles. ‘That’s why I adore having you over. So much nicer to enjoy what you’re eating. I just can’t bear all these sticklike girls who eat only lettuce, or have drinks filled with that ghastly sweetener stuff. Have some more.’

  I happily comply, feeling only slightly guilty that I am not one of those sticklike girls who would wave the biscuits away, asking for a carrot instead, or perhaps a teaspoonful of cottage cheese. But even those girls would have trouble finding willpower if they had a friend who could cook like Lucy.

  Lucy brings the teapot to the table and sits down. ‘Cath, are you happy?’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean at work. Do you enjoy what you’re doing?’

  ‘I love my work,’ I say, suddenly realizing that I am only saying this because, up until recently, it is what I have always said. Except there is no longer any conviction in my words, they sound hollow and empty, even to me.

  I start again. ‘Well, I did love my work. I suppose I haven’t really thought about it lately. Sometimes I quite enjoy it, but not like I used to. What a strange question, what are you up to?’

  Lucy sighs. ‘I’ve just been thinking an awful lot recently, about why we’re here, and what we should be doing, and for years I always thought I wanted to help people, which is why I’m doing this bloody counselling course, although thank God it’s practically over.’ She pauses to drink some tea.

  ‘But the thing is,’ she continues, ‘I haven’t done any proper illustrating for three years, since Max was born, and to be totally honest I don’t think I want to do it any more. This is going to sound awful.’ She looks at me sheepishly.

  ‘But,’ I prompt.

  ‘But,’ she smiles, ‘I feel like I’ve devoted these last few years to helping other people, looking after other people, being Josh’s wife and Max’s mother, and, although I adore looking after my boys, I think that now I need to do something for myself.’ There’s a long pause. ‘What do you think?’
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  ‘I think that if that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you should do. Absolutely.’ Even as I say it I know I should be applying those rules to myself, but then I haven’t got a husband who would pick up the pieces if everything went horribly wrong. Who could afford to take on the entire mortgage if my money ran out. Who could, in short, be there for me.

  ‘So what are you thinking of doing?’ I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

  ‘Ah,’ she says, breaking into a smile. ‘Now that’s where, hopefully, you come in.’ She stands up. ‘Grab your coat. We’re going for a walk.’

  As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Lucy yells out to the au pair, ‘Ingriiiiiiiid? I’m going out. Won’t be long.’

  Ingrid appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Okay, Lucy,’ she says stonily, ignoring the fact that Max appears to be wrapping a lasso around her left leg. ‘See you.’

  ‘She is a godsend,’ Lucy says, closing the front door, which slightly surprises me, as personally I think she’s a cow. ‘I honestly don’t know where we’d be without her.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ I walk alongside Lucy, up her road, on to West End Lane, smiling because it’s impossible not to feel good when the sun is shining and the pavements outside the cafés are crowded with tables and chairs, with people lingering over their coffees, just to enjoy the sunshine a bit longer.

  ‘Surprise,’ she says. ‘But you’ll see when we get there.’

  Chapter six

  ‘Here we are,’ says Lucy, stopping in front of an empty shop and turning to look at me expectantly.

  I look at what she’s looking at. An empty shop in between the organic deli and the shop that sells strange wooden carvings. A shop that you can’t see into because all the windows are obliterated by huge, multicoloured posters advertising bands, concerts, gigs.

  Lucy’s pressed up against the glass, trying to see in through the tiny gaps where the posters don’t meet, and I join her, but the glass has been whitewashed underneath the posters and it’s impossible to see anything.

  I’ve passed this shop many, many times before. It’s on the main drag, on West End Lane, opposite the bagel shop but before the Green. And I realize that although I’ve passed this spot many, many times, I have always seen the same emptiness, the same posters. I’ve just never registered it before now.

  ‘And we are here why?’ I ask.

  ‘Look! It’s empty!’ Lucy’s struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  ‘Yes?’ I still haven’t the foggiest what she’s talking about.

  ‘Oh, Cath, darling. You’re being thick. This is the perfect place for my new business. Well, actually, hopefully, our new business.’

  ‘What business is this?’

  ‘Your bookshop and my coffee shop.’

  I look at Lucy, at her beaming eyes, expectant face, and I am amazed that she has remembered my dream, and more amazed that she wants to do it with me.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ I shake my head. ‘How on earth did you remember that? I must have told you years ago.’

  She links her arm through mine as we stand next to one another, trying to see into the shop.

  ‘First of all, you go on about it far more than you think you do, and secondly that night, when we were talking about our dreams, I have never seen anyone as passionate as you, when you said this was the one thing you had always wanted to do.

  ‘I suppose I never forgot that, and the one thing that I love, the one thing that I’d love to work with – ’

  ‘Food!’ we both say at the same time, bursting into peals of laughter.

  ‘I know it’s funny,’ she says, ‘but it’s actually true. I thought I’d stay in illustration for ever, but I just don’t have the same commitment now that I’ve had Max. And even though it’s your idea, to have the café/bookshop, I know, and darling Cath, do not be insulted by this, I know you couldn’t cook a cake if your life depended on it.

  ‘And the thing is,’ she continues, barely pausing for breath, ‘it actually wouldn’t be that difficult, and Josh would help, and we’d only have to employ, say, two other people to make it work, and Cath, please say yes, because I think we could do it. I know we could do it.’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ I stop and look at Lucy’s shining face with amazement, feeling nervous and excited, and not sure whether we could actually pull this off.

  Because isn’t that the thing with fantasies? Fantasies are absolutely safe, as long as you never try to make them a reality. Whether you’re fantasizing about wife-swapping, or café/bookshops, it’s still a truism that they will always be safer when they are kept locked in your head.

  But, as I look into Lucy’s eyes, behind the sparkle I can see steely determination, and God knows Lucy could do it. Out of all the people I know Lucy is the only one who could not only bake cookies from heaven, but would also charm everyone who stepped over the threshold, and there really wouldn’t be anything to be frightened of if Lucy were a partner.

  ‘Have I convinced you yet?’ Lucy grins.

  ‘God, Lucy.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s not as easy as that. There’s so much to think about. My flat, the mortgage, my job. I mean, Christ, could I just walk out? My savings, because this would be it…’ I’m so caught up in my world of problems I don’t even realize that Lucy is steering me to the other side of the road.

  I walk beside her in a daze, and I know that even though I have no idea what it will cost, how we’d get it going, or how we’d even think about running it as a day-to-day business, it’s something I want to do.

  I shake myself back into the present to find we’re now further down the road. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Come on,’ she says, dragging me into an estate agent’s. ‘I found this site and I think it might be ideal, even though I haven’t seen the inside, so I thought it might help to convince you.’

  The door closes behind us as a young man in a navy suit looks up from where he’s perched on the corner of a desk, sifting through a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Hi.’ He looks up, smiling broadly, putting the papers on to a desk and brushing a lock of mousy brown hair out of eyes that are surprisingly twinkly. ‘Can I help at all?’ His voice is deep, with just a hint of an accent that I can’t quite place. Definitely south of England, possibly Dorset or Wiltshire, but whatever it is he looks far too normal to be an estate agent.

  I always imagine estate agents to be smart and slick, dressed in sharp suits with mobile phones surgically attached to their ears, and though this man is wearing a navy suit, he looks slightly wrong in it somehow, as if he’d be far more comfortable in a chunky woollen sweater and a pair of faded jeans.

  I realize I’m staring and look away quickly, pretending to be absorbed in the grains of wood on the floorboards.

  ‘We’re looking for James,’ Lucy says, as the man stands up and holds out a hand.

  ‘Let me guess. You’re Lucy Portman.’ His laughter lines grow deeper, and I comprehend with a shock that this is a seriously attractive man.

  ‘James?’

  ‘None other.’ They shake hands, as I try to be as unobtrusive as possible. I glance up to see him looking at me with an eyebrow raised in a question.

  ‘Hi, I’m Cath, er, Catherine Warner,’ I mumble, reluctantly shaking his hand, because I’m really not very good at this business stuff, plus I’m suddenly feeling very awkward.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Cath,’ he says, looking directly into my eyes, as I look away and threaten to blush. He releases my hand and walks over to another desk, picking up a set of keys. ‘Shall we go?’

  We cross the road again to the empty shop, me still in a state of shock because it feels as if Lucy has completely turned my life around in the space of an hour, and, as James fiddles with the keys in an attempt to unlock the door, he turns to us.

  ‘You know, the more I think about it the more I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ he says. ‘A café/bookshop. Just what this area needs, and wai
t until you see inside. The space you’re looking at is perfect.’

  ‘You don’t know of any others, do you?’ says Lucy, vaguely anxiously. ‘I’ve tried to find out, but I don’t think there are any.’

  ‘There is a bookshop, and there are plenty of cafés, but this area’s so young and buzzy, the combination’s bound to go down well. Plus,’ and he lowers his voice as he says this, ‘don’t quote me on this, but a lot of the places here are a bit shabby, or quite dark and poky. A bright, sunny café with the advantage of the bookshop is bound to be a hit.’

  Now I know he’s only an estate agent, and I know he’s got no experience of running a café/bookshop, but because he’s a stranger, and because he has somehow validated this idea, I start to feel excited. In fact, by the time he’s actually picked out the two keys, out of the forty or so, that fit, I’m almost ready to start dancing round the shop with joy. The door creaks open and Lucy takes my hand, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze, as we both gingerly step in.

  We don’t say anything for a while, just wander around, trying to envisage whether it could be what we’re looking for. What, in fact, I wasn’t looking for up until an hour ago, but still. What the hell.

  But as our eyes adjust to the gloom, lit by a solitary light bulb in each room, Lucy and I gasp, because the only thing this place is, it could ever have been, is a bookshop.

  Surrounding the walls are beautifully made wooden shelves, stretching from floor to ceiling, the shelves acting as partitions, forming an open library. The craftsmanship is superb, and I realize how absolutely perfect this place is.

  And the space is huge. The ceilings go up for ever, and, as my eyes adjust to the one swinging lamp bulb, I can see that there is a gallery in the larger room. I wouldn’t trust the one rickety stepladder propped up in the corner, so I just have to assume you can stand up in the gallery.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Lucy keeps whispering. ‘Can you believe it?’

  There’s one large L-shaped room with a huge picture window at the back, another, smaller window in the gallery, and a slightly smaller room next door.