‘What do you mean, he won’t do it?’

‘He said it was beneath him and he’s going to the Maldives for Christmas.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ I stopped and a customer shoved past, arms loaded with boxes of brightly coloured baubles. I was in the Christmassy section at a super-sized garden centre, half an hour’s drive from Shipley, and had been merrily humming ‘Jingle Bells’ as I browsed the aisles when Erin called. ‘He actually said it was beneath him?’

‘’Fraid so.’ She didn’t sound too surprised, as if she’d guessed what Ollie Matheson’s response would be.

‘But I thought he needed some good publicity.’

‘He does, but insists he’d rather lie low until the fuss has blown over, and re-emerge in the New Year.’

‘To what?’

‘Exactly.’ I heard her tapping a pen on her desk, a habit she had when stressed. ‘I told him his chances of joining another show are practically nil. And he’s been dropped as the face of Snugz.’

My stomach tipped at the mention of the upmarket underwear brand, my mind zooming back to Max, stripped to his boxers, one foot thrust on my bed. Hips jutting forward, he’d raked back his hair with his fingers and asked huskily, ‘Do I look like the Snugz guy?’

He’d been slightly peeved when I’d snorted with laughter, and said the Snugz guy probably removed his socks before trying to seduce a lady.

‘He wasn’t bothered about doing it for nothing, to be fair.’

‘That doesn’t really matter if he’s not going to do it.’

‘He’s worried he might look like a “desperado”.’

‘He used that exact word?’

‘Yep. Tosser.’ I was getting the sense that Ollie Matheson wasn’t Erin’s favourite client. ‘There might be a ventriloquist who could do it, next Thursday,’ she said. ‘He’s appearing in panto in Bournemouth, so Shipley’s en route.’

‘Ventriloquist?’ I moved out of the way of a toddler careering around with reindeer antlers on his head, while his flustered mother threatened to take away his iPad. ‘I don’t like ventriloquists, they’re creepy.’

‘It’s the one with the rapping panda that swears a lot.’

‘Oh, no.’ I chucked a snow globe in my basket. ‘I want Ollie Matheson.’

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘At least he’s not a sweary, rapping ventriloquist,’ I said, reluctant to admit that overnight I’d adjusted to the idea of Ollie Matheson. I’d tried googling him after talking to Erin, but the wild weather had played havoc with the broadband signal and I couldn’t get online. Nevertheless, as I’d lain in bed listening to the howling wind, I’d played out various scenarios in my head – most involving my neighbours being overwhelmingly grateful that I’d allowed them to uphold their Shipley traditions. I’d drifted off to sleep, and dreamt that a faceless Ollie Matheson was begging me for a role in the film of my bestselling novel, The Neighbours, before waking with a start, disappointed I hadn’t come up with a more imaginative title.

‘Maybe I should speak to him,’ I said, tipping some boxes of lantern-shaped lights into my basket. ‘I could appeal to his better nature.’

‘I’m not sure he has one,’ Erin said grimly. ‘I told him it was a favour for a friend, and he said I should do it.’

‘What an idiot.’ I was starting to despise Ollie Matheson.

‘I know, I know, he’s a moron.’

‘What if it’s for charity?’ I said, as the thought popped into my head.

‘He’d happily make a donation, he’s pretty generous like that.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘I don’t know what else I can say.’

‘Did you tell him he’ll get good coverage in the local news, and—’

‘Lily, I tried,’ Erin interrupted, sounding torn. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘But, Erin, I promised.’ I was ashamed of my stroppy toddler whine. ‘I don’t want to let them down.’

‘Let down people you don’t even know?’ Her voice softened. ‘They’re not going to hate you if you don’t produce a celebrity,’ she said, but remembering their excitement, and Barry’s demand that I let him know as soon as possible (or else?), I wasn’t so sure. ‘There must be a local business owner, someone neutral, who could step in and do the honours.’

‘I don’t think there is, and anyway it wouldn’t be as memorable.’

Disappointment nudged tears to my eyes. I imagined the reaction from my neighbours. I’d be a laughing stock. Worse, they’d hate me. It would be Isabel Sinclair all over again. They’d start referring to the ‘curse of Seaview Cottage’ and campaign to get me out.

‘This isn’t school we’re talking about.’ Erin spookily picked up my line of thought. ‘Not producing a celebrity for neighbours you barely know is hardly the same as being confronted by your boyfriend’s wife, in front of your whole class, at the place where you’ve worked for years.’

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ I said stiffly, twisting my mind away from the stinging memory. ‘It’s not that I’m desperate to be liked and approved of, I just want to fit in and be accepted.’

‘That’s the same thing, you prat.’

‘Look, I know you think I was running away, but I really want to make a go of it here.’ I squeezed a rubbery Santa so hard that one of his eyes pinged out, and I hastily stuffed him to the back of the shelf.

‘Lily, I didn’t mean—’

‘I’m sorry for putting you on the spot,’ I said. ‘I should have checked with you before I made any promises.’

‘Oh, Lily, you don’t need to apologise. I just… I’m worried about you, that’s all, over there on your own. It’s such a bloody big change. I bet there isn’t even a Costa Coffee there.’

‘You pointing that out doesn’t help.’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ Erin exhaled. ‘Maybe I’m jealous that you’ve escaped and I’m stuck here, clinging to my job, wondering if I’m going to be single forever and end up being eaten by my Alsatian.’

‘You don’t have an Alsatian,’ I said.

‘Not yet.’

Relieved to be treading a more familiar path, I said, ‘It’s not like you don’t have the opportunity to meet men. Maybe you should be less fussy.’

‘I need to be more fussy after The Actor.’

‘Understandable.’

A year earlier, Erin had broken her cardinal rule about not dating showbiz types and had fallen for the star of a hospital drama, only for him to dump her six months later to ‘break America’. There had been a grim satisfaction in hearing that the only thing he’d broken was his leg, after slipping down some steps on his way to an audition.

‘Maybe if you weren’t babying your clients all hours of the day and night, you’d have time to meet someone normal.’

When she didn’t respond, I realised I’d gone too far. ‘Oh, Erin, I’m sorry.’

‘Let’s stop apologising to each other,’ she said, briskly. ‘I’ll try Ollie one more time, see if I can work my magic.’

‘No, don’t.’ I felt a surge of fury towards Ollie bloody Matheson. Because of him, Erin had had a dig about me moving to Shipley, and I’d been bitchy about her job. He’d made us apologise to each other, which had never happened before. ‘Give me his number and I’ll contact him myself.’

‘You know I can’t give out contact details.’ Nevertheless, Erin sounded sorely tempted. ‘I’ll tell him he’s off my books if he doesn’t do it.’

‘Will he care?’ I quickly realised how that sounded. ‘What I meant was—’

‘I know what you meant,’ she said, wryly. ‘And, yes, I think he might.’

‘Mention I’ll go to the press otherwise, and brand him a mean-spirited, entitled…’

‘Fuckwit?’ Erin knew I didn’t swear, from years of being around small children. ‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘No,’ I said, backtracking. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.’

I turned in time to see a pair of white-skinny-jean-clad mums speeding towards me with baby-buggies, and backed into a Christmas tree trussed with tinsel and baubles. It toppled over before I could grab it, spilling its decorations across the floor. ‘Shoot!’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Got to go,’ I said, yanking the tree upright, but the damage was already done. It was squashed and misshapen, and only a bright-breasted wooden robin remained on a branch, staring glassily ahead.

An assistant approached with a chilly expression, as though I’d kicked the tree over on purpose. ‘Leave it,’ she ordered as I dropped to my hands and knees and scrabbled to rescue some baubles.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you have a dustpan and brush?’

‘I said, leave it.’

I rose and backed away, cheeks fizzing with heat, catching some sympathetic glances and a couple of sniggers.

‘Good job I was going to buy one anyway!’ I called out, heaving a boxed tree onto my shoulder and staggering to the checkout, throwing more items into my basket on the way.

As I stuffed the tree and several bags into my car, I cursed Ollie Matheson again. It was his fault I’d bought a tree too big for the cottage, and enough lights and baubles to decorate the whole of Shipley. ‘The least he could do is turn up now,’ I muttered, slamming the boot shut.

The sky was goose-grey, as if holding back snow, and my breath emerged in white puffs. On impulse, I drove to the beachfront and opened the car window a crack, breathing the ozone tang in the air, while I watched the waves flinging themselves at the empty beach. We’d often visited Dad’s parents in France during the summer holidays, and one year we’d gone to Portugal, but it was our seaside trips to Shipley that remained the most vivid, when the sun had seemed to shine endlessly, and the sea and sky were just the right shade of blue.

The beach and parade had bustled with holidaymakers, and I remembered an ice-cream parlour where we’d eaten sundaes, my tongue lingering over a scoop of cold vanilla.

Today there were just a few dog-walkers, angled against the wind, but a café on the corner of the parade looked busy, and there were several people in the sweet shop. Resolving to pop in there soon, I drove back to Maple Hill and parked on the narrow driveway, hoping to avoid detection. I half expected Barry to pounce, even though I’d seen him drive off earlier, presumably to work, but there was a shiny Honda parked outside. I assumed it belonged to Sheelagh.

As I got out of the car, discreetly eyeing the endless rows of lights on the roof next door, which looked ghostly when they weren’t lit up, I caught a glimpse of green eyes at one of the windows.

‘Morning, dear.’

For a spine-prickling moment I thought Marmite had spoken, before realising that the voice was female and had come from somewhere behind me.

Slamming the car door, I turned to see Doris Day on her way up the hill, neatly wrapped in a navy belted coat, with her feet encased in black Ugg boots. ‘Good morning,’ I called after her.

‘I’ll see you later!’ She waved a leather-gloved hand without turning.

‘Later?’

‘When you return my basket.’

‘I can get it now, if you like.’

‘Can’t stop, dear, I’m having coffee with Celia.’ Without breaking her stride, she motioned to a grey stone house at the top of the hill. ‘About three p.m.?’

‘I’ll try, if I’m not too busy,’ I called, but my words were snatched away by a gust of cold air, and she didn’t appear to hear me.

Busy. The word had taken on a different shape over the past few months. Did wrestling unwanted Christmas items into the cottage count as busy? Making myself something for lunch? Going to the shops and doing housework? Being ‘busy’ used to be teaching, while home was where I slept and ate, but after leaving my job I’d found myself sleeping late, and spending hours at the library, or baking all afternoon to distract myself from how badly things had gone wrong.

But that was all in the past. A new start meant new routines, and I began by

lugging the Christmas tree indoors and dumping it in the passage between the front door and the kitchen. It took up a lot of room, even in its box. I stacked my carrier bags on top, and went back outside to close the car boot, just as Sheelagh emerged from her house in a mustard coloured coat with black leggings, her brassy curls misshapen.

‘How are you, love?’

‘Fine, fine,’ I said, rubbing my arms to indicate I was cold, hoping she’d get the message and let me go back inside. I couldn’t face a probing about whether I’d booked a celebrity yet. ‘Looks like it might snow!’

‘Ooh, I hope so,’ she said, and before she could speak again I dashed inside and closed the door.

From the kitchen window I watched her climb into her Honda and drive off, and was about to microwave some vegetable soup when my phone rang.

‘I’ve spoken to him.’ Erin’s voice was taut. ‘He said he’ll do it.’

‘That’s great!’ Relief swept over me as I imagined telling Barry, once he returned from work.

‘On one condition.’ I detected a note of caution. ‘He wants to stay in Shipley for a few days beforehand and mingle with the locals.’

‘What?’

‘And…’ Erin sucked in a breath. ‘He wants his stay to be filmed for a one-off show.’