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      ‘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.

       Chapter 4

       Popping the Question

       Juliet

      Who was Arabella Jones? Juliet mentally went through her database of newly-acquired school information to take her mind off the dragging sensation in her abdomen.

      Arabella … daughter of Carole Jones, of the On The Everything-That-Could-Possibly-Enable-My-Daughter-To-Shine-Ergo-Enable-Me-To-Shine Committee.

      Gloria called her a perfect example of a helicopter-mum.

      Juliet decided right there and then that if, while navigating this spaghetti junction that was becoming a parent of a school-aged child, she ever found herself in a field with a helipad, queuing up to get her pilot’s licence, she’d think about that special way Gloria had of making you feel stupid and step out of the queue.

      As she drove towards The Clock House on Whispers Wood green, she listened to Melody and Persephone talking about how they’d been soooo immature to dismiss ballet before – all art-forms required sacrifice and discipline. Arabella Jones said so, so it must be true!

      Juliet let her mind wander. By tonight, she’d be fine. All she needed was a seat on the sofa next to Oscar, a good box-set and him reaching over and wrapping her up in his big comforting arms and squeezing reassuringly. She’d squeeze back and start the process of resetting to their plan.

      Their plan not to make getting pregnant into a big deal so that they minimized the stress in conceiving.

      In the interests of full disclosure, no way had they been trying to get pregnant right off. Yet when she’d thought she’d accidentally fallen pregnant last Christmas …

      All the things they thought they ought to think about in order to make a decision and plan appropriately. All the obstacles. All the busy-ness they both had going on had faded into the background. The look on Oscar’s face when she’d discovered she wasn’t pregnant had mirrored the look she’d known had been on hers.

      Disappointment could be a simple and quiet pause, bringing you to a complete and utter standstill and forcing you to acknowledge what you ultimately wanted. And, it turned out, it could also become a constant hum if you let it.

      But she wasn’t going to.

      Wasn’t. Wasn’t. Wasn’t.

      Gripping the steering-wheel in the perfect ten-to-two position she blotted out unhelpful thoughts and immersed herself in the girls’ talk.

      ‘Of course,’ Melody told Persephone in her wisest tone, ‘to be the best requires a competitive drive and sacrifice from the whole family.’

      ‘Competitive drive? You have met my mum, right? I’m covered.’ Persephone remarked with a laugh.

      Juliet bit her lip so the laugh didn’t escape but Melody’s trickled out delightfully before she sobered and her voice popped up from the back, ‘Juliet? You must have had to sacrifice tonnes to get your business up and running. But you believed in yourself, didn’t you? You did it. So did Aunt Kate.’

      ‘I guess we did.’

      ‘See?’ Melody told Persephone. ‘Look at our role models. We can totally do this.’

      Juliet blinked away the tears. What was she doing thinking about what she didn’t have, when all she had to do was look in the back seat of her car to see how much she already had.

      ‘Did you hear Arabella talking about how she’ll have her own dressing room and a bouquet delivered on opening night?’ Persephone asked.

      Probably one big dressing room for the cast and the bouquet is from her mum but it did sound lovely, Juliet thought.

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