I spent the afternoon skulking around my parents’ house like a convalescent, reacquainting myself with the past – hardly anything had been thrown out or replaced since the 1990s – and ended up in a chair in the garden with an old Harry Potter from my bookshelf.

‘What are you doing out there?’ Mum called from the patio doorway what felt like just minutes later, yanking me away from Hogwarts.

‘Just relaxing, like you suggested.’ I waggled my book at her and she came over, still wearing her café uniform, her face pink from her exertions.

‘I thought you’d be reading one of your business books,’ she said, eyebrows rising. I thought guiltily of my unpacked rucksack in my bedroom, mostly stuffed with sketch pads and the clothes I hadn’t been able to fit in my suitcase. ‘That won’t help your career.’

I dragged on a smile. ‘Maybe my career will involve witchcraft and wizardry in future.’ I flourished the book like a magic wand and she gamely looked down at her outfit with a look of exaggerated astonishment.

‘Cinderella shall go to the ball!’ she cried, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

I smiled properly, pleased she was being playful. ‘And you don’t even have to cook dinner,’ I said, feeling generous. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Her expression reverted to ‘my daughter’s so special and clever she shouldn’t be allowed to do normal things’. ‘Mind you, I don’t cook every night any more,’ she admitted. ‘Sometimes, your dad and I just have a sandwich when we get in, so we have the evening free to—’

‘Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.’

‘I wasn’t going to mention making love, Cassie.’

‘Oh god, you said it.’

She batted a hand at me. ‘I was going to say, do whatever we like.’

‘And now your offspring are home, cramping your style.’

‘Oh, no, not at all, it’s lovely having you to stay.’ She sounded genuinely horrified I might think otherwise. ‘We want to make the most of you both, because Rob will soon be back with Emma, by the sound of things, and you’ll be off goodness knows where.’

My nerve-endings pinged. Her words implied an end date to my visit, which meant I shouldn’t be reading in the garden – I should be getting on with organising my future. ‘And I’m very happy to cook dinner for you,’ Mum continued. ‘I ordered some parmesan and rosemary stuffed chicken breasts from the butcher’s specially.’

‘Sounds… lovely,’ I said. ‘But I’d have been happy with fish fingers and oven chips.’ It had been my favourite dinner as a child.

‘Oh, no.’ Mum’s forehead crimped. ‘We can’t feed you frozen food when you’re used to eating out at fancy restaurants.’

‘For god’s sake, Mum, I don’t eat out every night,’ I said, unable to smooth out a snap. My fine-dining experiences had been few and far between, and I was no stranger to beans on toast for dinner. ‘I’m perfectly happy to eat whatever you’ve got in the fridge. Stop treating me like minor royalty.’

‘I’m not.’ I saw the hurt in her eyes and wished I hadn’t said it. ‘We just want you to have a nice visit,’ she said.

There was the ‘V’ word again. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said humbly. ‘I’m sure I will. Have a nice visit, I mean.’

She smiled. ‘I hope so, love.’ She sounded so doubtful I got up and gave her a hug, glad when she relaxed against me. ‘Silly muffin,’ she said, patting my back before pulling away and turning back to the house. ‘Did you go to your nan’s?’

‘Yes. Have you seen what she’s been up to?’ Glad of the change of subject, I followed her indoors. ‘She’s going environmentally friendly and throwing out all her stuff.’

‘So I gather,’ Mum said, entering the kitchen and looking around as if she’d never seen it before. ‘Danny suggested putting her things in storage, but if she wants to downsize, it’s really up to her.’ My heart stuttered at the mention of his name. ‘He’s been a godsend, actually.’ That was the word Nan had used. ‘Did you see him while you were there?’ Mum retrieved a tray of plumped up chicken breasts from the fridge and placed it on the counter. ‘He’s been doing her gardening for a while.’

‘He’s a proper jack of all trades.’ There was a bit of an edge to my voice, and seeing that Mum was about to protest, I added, ‘He’s making her an outdoor toilet, did you know?’

I’d hoped it would elicit a stronger reaction than a chuckle.

‘Mum! He shouldn’t be encouraging her.’

‘It’s one of her fads, and if she’s happy we’re happy, though it’s a shame she doesn’t have much time for us any more.’ As Mum rinsed her hands at the sink, I noticed how worn they looked from constantly washing them at the café over the years. She never remembered to rub in the moisturising creams that Rob and I bought her, despite requesting a new one every birthday. They were lined up on the windowsills in virtually every room. ‘Remember when she wanted to learn to fly a plane?’

‘I certainly do.’ Nan had booked some lessons at a flying school in Umberleigh, but turned out to be horribly airsick.

‘And then there were the Tibetan bowls,’ Mum reminded me, switching the oven on. ‘Part of her musical phase.’

‘Oh god, that was awful,’ I said, groaning. I’d been helping to arrange a charity fun run when Mum had sent me a recording of a noise like discordant church bells, accompanied by a low droning sound, which turned out to be Nan, bashing a series of different shaped bowls with a wooden spoon and humming under her breath.

‘I blame that man she was seeing,’ said Mum. ‘What was his name?’

‘Gregory, I think.’ It had been hard to keep up with Nan’s boyfriends. ‘She met him at the garden centre.’

‘That’s right.’ Mum shoved the tray of chicken into the oven and set the timer. ‘What your grandfather would make of it all, I’ve no idea.’

‘He couldn’t complain after the way he used to carry on.’ I plucked an overripe pear from the fruit bowl and bit into it. ‘And anyway, I think this is more than a fad.’ Blocking out all talk of her dying, I thought of Nan’s make-up-free face, and how knowledgeable she’d seemed about what she needed to make her new lifestyle work. ‘Maybe this is what she’s been looking for since Grandpa died.’

‘Well, good for her, I guess,’ Mum said, her smile in place as she took some carrots from the fridge and emptied out a bag of potatoes. ‘Mashed or roasted?’

‘Both?’

‘Good girl.’ She gave a satisfied nod, seeming to forget I was supposedly used to eating more exotic fare. ‘I think you should stay here until you’ve at least got your boobs and hips back.’

‘In that case, I’d better restrict my calories so I can stay longer,’ I said jokily.

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Misunderstanding, Mum flashed me an old-fashioned look that made me want to hug her again. ‘I hope you haven’t been comparing yourself with those underwear models on Instagram.’

‘Do you mean Victoria’s Secret?’

‘If they’re the ones that hardly eat so that they can parade about in their skimpies, then yes,’ she said. ‘One of them contacted Rob, you know. Said she was a fan of his music.’

‘Blimey.’ And he’d rather live in Seashell Cove, and train to teach IT? ‘What do you think of him giving up the band?’ I was genuinely curious. She and Dad had got so much vicarious pleasure from having a semi-famous son, just as I’d enjoyed having a brother whose music had been played on the radio. OK, so it wasn’t our kind of music, but that hadn’t stopped me from downloading it onto my phone, or my parents from proudly displaying the CDs alongside Bananarama (Mum’s favourite), The Eagles, and Nina Simone.

‘I think it’s brave to recognise when you’re on the wrong path and to step off and do something different,’ she said, in a way that suggested she was parroting Rob, after he’d been brainwashed by Bossy Emma. ‘At least he’s experienced… life.’ She emphasised the word to demonstrate its vast mysteries – as if she had no hope of experiencing it herself. ‘He wouldn’t have done that if he’d stayed around here for the past seven years.’

‘He might not have started drinking either,’ I said. For some reason, Danny Fleetwood’s smiling face burst into my head. ‘He might have been happier.’

‘Of course he wouldn’t.’ Mum spoke with more bite than usual. ‘He’d always have wondered what might have been.’

I studied her back as she peeled potatoes with more force than seemed strictly necessary. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ I finished my pear and pulled a pan from the cupboard for the potatoes. ‘Experience is the teacher of all things.’ It was something I’d heard Carlotta say once, in an unusually reflective mood.

‘Exactly,’ Mum said. ‘And he chose to do it, we didn’t force him. You know we wanted you both to do whatever made you happy.’ She looked at me over her shoulder. ‘You’re happy with your life, aren’t you, Cassie?’ There was such a ray of hope in her eyes I couldn’t bear to extinguish it.

‘Course I am.’ I managed to say it with conviction, glad when a beaming smile transformed her face. I will be, once I’ve sorted out my career, I added silently, in order to keep my expression pleasantly relaxed. In the meantime, I’m happy to be crunching this deliciously sweet, raw carrot.

‘Put that down,’ Mum instructed, tapping my hand with the potato peeler, and, keen to hold onto a sense of normality, I took another bite, knowing she’d warn me affectionately that I’d ‘spoil my appetite’ like she used to, when talks about experiencing The Big Wide World hadn’t been a part of her vocabulary.

‘You’ll spoil your appetite,’ she said, and looked puzzled when I burst out laughing and squashed a kiss on her cheek. ‘Maybe you could set the table,’ she said, flushing with pleasure. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Dinner was a jolly affair, mostly because Rob was so enthused about his course, and with proving himself to Bossy Emma, that he kept up a flow of conversation, which Mum and Dad responded to with bright-eyed eagerness, and partly because I kept deflecting questions about my life in London. I came up with memories from the past: ‘Remember when Dad got fed up with losing at Scrabble and made us keep playing until he won?’, and random compliments: ‘Your hair looks extra bouncy, Mum, what conditioner are you using?’, and I teased Rob about becoming a teacher: ‘You can always resort to playing your keyboard if you’re rubbish.’

‘Is there someone staying in your flat while you’re here?’ Mum said, catching me out over a plate of cheese and crackers. I’d neglected to tell them I no longer had a place to live, and hadn’t yet invented a plausible reason why.

‘I’m, erm, between accommodation at the moment and have been staying with a friend.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. ‘My lease was up, so I’ve decided to… look for something else.’

‘Shame things didn’t work out with Adam. You could have moved in together.’ Mum paused, as if imagining the pair of us snuggled together on a sofa – or maybe she was wondering whether she should have said it, considering Adam and I were no longer together.

‘What about buying your own place?’ Dad said, and the idea that they believed that my salary could in any way stretch to a mortgage was so incredible that I swallowed a crumb the wrong way and had a coughing fit. ‘Rob’s looking to buy, aren’t you, son?’ Dad seamlessly moved on as I shoved Rob for slapping me deliberately hard on the back.

He nodded. ‘Music royalties,’ he said, to my unasked, watery-eyed question. ‘Got a bit of a nest egg.’

‘Do you know where that saying came from?’ I said, desperate to drag us away from the subject of housing. ‘It originated in the fourteenth century when people would put a real or china egg into a hen’s nest to encourage her to lay more eggs.’ After once overhearing a client ask what it meant, I’d speedily looked it up so that I could wow her with my brilliance.

‘Bit silly, when you think about it,’ Rob said, straight-faced. ‘It’s not like the hen could buy anything with her eggs.’

By bedtime, I was so exhausted that even when Rob re-enacted my least favourite childhood memory by bursting out of my wardrobe to ‘make me jump’, I could barely muster a scream.

‘You’re no fun any more, Sandra.’

‘Piss off,’ I managed drowsily, but fell asleep smiling, and dreamt I was watching a documentary, in which Nan was flying an aeroplane over a field where a shirtless Danny Fleetwood was digging a grave.

---

I woke the next morning full of purpose. Striking out on my own meant being in charge of my own destiny, setting my own hours, and being free to take on my own staff. I’d learn from Carlotta’s mistakes by being a kind and encouraging employer, dispensing wisdom, and not treating them like underlings.

Indulging a vision of my future self as the sort of person featured in magazines as ‘one to watch’, I drank the coffee Mum had left by my bed and, once everyone had left the house, I whirled into action. After showering, I dressed more smartly than the previous day, in a pair of tapered black trousers and a dove-grey blouse, a pair of black lace-up brogues completing the outfit. I disguised my purplish hair by fashioning a wide hairband from a scarf that I found hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and was tucking into a power breakfast of bacon, eggs and French toast, when the teas and coffees I’d ordered by next-day delivery turned up.

‘Smells good,’ said the courier, with a hungry look, as I signed for the boxes. ‘Can’t remember the last time I ate bacon. The wife says it’s as bad as smoking.’

‘Only if you eat twenty rashers a day,’ I joked, my mood still riding high, gratified when he laughed all the way back to his van.

I opened the boxes and began pulling out fancy packages and reading the labels, knowing I’d need some rudimentary knowledge of the products before the tasting session.

There was a Nicaraguan blend of coffee beans with complex flavours of hazelnut, cloves, and a tantalising hint of citrus. Should coffee taste of citrus? And what about the Kenyan coffee, crafted from prized peaberries—a particular type of coffee bean, formed when the two seeds of a berry fuse into a single tiny oval. I’d never heard of a peaberry and was certain none of the café’s customers would have either, but part of the fun would be trying them.

Dreamtime tea came in a lavender tin, and boasted a rich, malty rooibos for the base that was blended with flavours of apricots, creamy vanilla and a spoonful of honey for good measure. Sounded more like a cake recipe. Whole chunks of apple make for a moreish midnight feast… It was obviously to aid a restful night’s sleep, but could be marketed as ‘relaxing’, while the Ceylon Orange Pekoe tea, with its brisk taste and long, wiry leaves, was bound to invite discussion.

A wave of excitement pulsed through me as I imagined word spreading about the café’s exquisite new beverages – until I remembered I had no way of getting the stock to Seashell Cove unless I carried it there. It was possible, in a couple of trips – the boxes weren’t exactly heavy – but not very practical, or professional.

I dithered over whether to call the café and ask either Mum or Dad to come and get me, but it was hardly fitting to be relying on my parents for a lift, and I didn’t fancy turning up in a taxi, which might give the impression I was throwing my money around – money I could no longer claim back on expenses. There was a bus that meandered down to Seashell Cove every couple of hours, but I couldn’t quite see myself hopping on public transport.

In the end, I called Nan.

‘Is Sir Lancelot still in the garage?’ It was the name she’d given the old Morris Minor that she’d had for as long as I could remember and which, these days, was probably considered vintage.

‘Where else would he be, ma bichette?’ I smiled at the endearment – my little doe – which Nan had used when I was a child. ‘I don’t drive much, since my shoulder popped out.’

‘Popped out?’

‘When I was learning judo last year,’ she said. ‘It’s not been the same since I threw my opponent down.’

I shook my head. Luckily, that fad hadn’t lasted long. ‘I’ve got some stuff to take to the café and don’t have a car,’ I said.

‘Ma chérie, of course you can borrow him. It’s such a shame he’s tucked away out of sight, he must be desperate for some fresh air.’ She’d always referred to her beloved car as though it were human, much to my grandfather’s embarrassment. He’d preferred his sporty Mazda, and had refused to even sit in Sir Lancelot. ‘He doesn’t have power steering, I’m afraid, and he’s a bit of a gas guzzler, which of course is terrible for the environment.’

‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said. ‘I’m not even sure I can remember how to drive.’ It wasn’t strictly true. On my flying visit home last Christmas, I’d ended up driving Mum and Dad back from the Smugglers Inn after their team won the quiz night, because they’d drunk too much mulled wine, but before I could tell her that I’d walk down and get it, Nan was already speaking.

‘Don’t worry, Cassandra,’ she said. ‘Danny can drive it over and take you there.’