LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Of course there isn’t. But it would be plain silly to give up on him this early!’

      ‘Oh, come on. So Cass is meant to stay with this guy, with all the obvious problems, purely because he’s a footballer?’

      Cass shakes her head, her ratty ponytail wobbling as she does so. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the fact he’s a footballer!’

      ‘Exactly,’ Mum agrees. ‘Well said, Cassidy, darling!’

      ‘I mean,’ Cass goes on, ‘why on earth would I want to be with someone just because they’re good at kicking a ball around on a field? The main thing is that because of the fact he’s good at kicking a ball around a field, he’s really loaded.’

      Even Mum has the grace to look a bit sheepish.

      ‘And,’ Cass goes on, ‘being with Zoltan makes me an actual WAG! Which is all I’ve ever wanted,’ she breathes, ‘since I was, like, thirteen years old. I mean, I’ve never forgotten the image of the original WAGS walking around Boden-Boden …’

      ‘I think you mean Baden-Baden,’ I say.

      ‘… their clothes, their shoes, their hair …’ Cass clasps a hand to her chest. ‘That’s the kind of thing that stays with you.’

      ‘The main thing,’ Mum says, hastily, ‘is that Zoltan seems like such a wonderful young man.’

      ‘You’ve never met him,’ I point out.

      ‘I can tell he seems like such a wonderful young man.’ Mum glares at me. ‘I’ve been reading a lot about him these past couple of days, in the magazines. He does all sorts of wonderful charity work – hospital visits for sick children, that kind of thing …’

      ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s great. Though, I mean, it might not be a bad idea for him to think about his own children, when he has a minute …’

      ‘… and he’s obviously a great family man, because he has the most wonderful house in Surrey,’ Mum goes on. ‘Doesn’t he, darling? I saw it in Hello!’

      ‘Yeah,’ Cass grumbles, ‘but the ex-wife will get that in the divorce.’

      ‘Not if he plays hardball. After all, if you have the children living with you even some of the week, darling, you’re going to have to move somewhere bigger and better yourselves. And in Surrey, obviously, because those poor wee mites can’t be uprooted from their schools and their friends.’

      Only three minutes ago, they were little horrors. But that was before they’d become quite useful pawns for Mum to justify why Cass needs a WAG-tastic mansion in Surrey.

      ‘In fact, while I’ve been resting today, I’ve been looking on Rightmove, darling,’ Mum goes on, pottering over to the bedside table and picking up her iPad. ‘There are some lovely places up for sale at the moment in the Cobham area … look,’ she goes on, getting out her phone. ‘This one even has stables!’

      ‘Oooooh, I’ve always wanted to get back to horse-riding,’ breathes Cass, peering into Mum’s iPad with a fraction of her old get-up-and-go. ‘This one’s gorgeous. Is it anywhere near that workhouse place Libby was telling me about?’

      I think this is my cue to leave them to it.

      ‘OK, well, if you’re OK, Mum, and if you’re all set here for the night, I’ll head off.’

      ‘Libby’s got a date,’ Cass sighs, bitterly.

      ‘Oh! With Dillon?’

      This perks Mum up slightly; me going out with Dillon O’Hara was the Best Thing I Ever Did, in her eyes, and she can’t really forgive me for the fact I don’t seem to have any intention of doing it again.

      ‘No, Mum. Not with Dillon.’

      ‘Who, then?’

      ‘No one. Just a guy I met in the street.’

      ‘Oh, Libby. I know you’re almost thirty-five—’

      ‘I’m thirty!’

      ‘… but I still think you ought to be setting your sights a little bit higher than some random man from the streets.’

      ‘He’s not from the streets! I met him on the street, right near my flat. He’s a personal trainer, actually, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.’

      ‘Ooooooh, is he one of the trainers from FitRox?’ Cass breathes. ‘You jammy cow! They were all massively hot. Is it Nathan? Or Kyan? Or Sabrina?’

      ‘Sabrina’s a girl’s name.’

      ‘Yeah but, seriously, she was so hot, I’d have done her, too. God. Why does Libby get to go out with a gorgeous personal trainer while I’m stuck at home being Mum to my stupid boyfriend’s kids?’

      ‘I know. I know. It’s very insensitive of her to point it out,’ Mum says, soothingly. ‘But look, darling: if you talk Zoltan into this place, near Walton-on-Thames, you could even think about putting the kids in the annexe …’

      I leave them poring over the iPad, and head out of the room, somehow managing to refrain from banging the door behind me as I go.

      *

      I reach my flat at eight twenty-seven exactly, let myself in the front door, and just have time to hurtle upstairs to zhuzz my hair and bung on a coat of lipstick before, on the dot of eight-thirty, there’s a knock.

      Joel is waiting politely outside when I answer it, and is holding a bunch of extremely lovely dusty-pink roses.

      ‘If those are apology flowers …’ I begin.

      ‘Nothing of the sort,’ he says, with a grin. ‘For an apology, you’re really looking at a hyacinth, an iris, or a nice calla lily. These are Looking Forward To A Nice Evening Out flowers. I’d have thought that was obvious.’

      ‘You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ I smile at him. ‘They’re really gorgeous, Joel, thank you. Oh!’ I add, as I take them from him and notice the branded tissue paper they’re wrapped in, inside the layer of cellophane. ‘And you got them from that place up past the tube! For God’s sake, they must have cost you an arm and a leg up there! You honestly shouldn’t have.’

      ‘It was worth it. Besides, I’d never have been able to drop the words hyacinth, iris or calla lily so expertly into the conversation if it hadn’t been for the woman who sold them to me. Were you impressed?’

      ‘Ever so. I’ll just dash up and put these in some water, and then we can get going.’

      I should probably, for politeness’s sake, if nothing else, invite Joel up while I bung the gorgeous roses in a sink-full of water, but we’re not quite on that level of intimacy yet, I don’t think. Besides, after Marilyn Monroe, I’m once bitten, twice shy. Even though there’s been no further sighting of Grace Kelly since last night, I’m wary of the worst-case scenario, which is that she’s materialized up there right now and is stretched out on the sofa in full wedding dress, still going on about me being her alter ego, or whatever the hell it was she had me pegged as.

      She’s not, as I can see pretty quickly as soon as I get up there. But still. Better to be safe than sorry. I’m pretty inexperienced at this whole dating thing at the best of times; no need to add to my awkwardness by introducing my magical sofa before we’ve even cracked open the first bottle of Pinot Grigio.

      ‘Shall we start out at that nice pub on the corner of the next street,’ Joel asks, as I re-emerge and lock up the front door behind me, ‘and then we can negotiate what sort of thing we’d like, eating-wise?’

      ‘Perfect.’

      I try not to make it too obvious, as we set off, that I’m looking at him.

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