‘It really snowed?’ Cassie glanced through the café window, to the distinctly unsnowy view outside.

‘It really did,’ I said gloomily. When I’d got up, after a fidgety night, I’d looked out to see that the world looked much the same as it had the day before – overcast and cold. It was as if Mother Nature had backtracked on a magical promise… or something. Or maybe the fact that I hadn’t slept much accounted for my low mood. ‘Bridget saw it too, so I couldn’t have dreamt it.’

‘Well, they’re still forecasting a white Christmas.’ Cassie fixed me with her big, grey eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if it snowed for the party on Christmas Eve?’

‘It would be inconvenient if it meant people couldn’t get here.’ I ignored the pointed way she’d said party on Christmas Eve; a subtle reminder that the function room wasn’t finished. And no one had got back to me about the electrics.

‘I still can’t believe your sister kissed Seth Donovan.’ Meg had returned with a plate of adult-only mince pies bursting with brandy-laced fruit, and planted herself at the table, next to Cassie. ‘The papers would have a field day if they knew.’

‘I don’t think they’d be that interested, to be honest,’ I said. ‘I mean, he’s not David Beckham famous. If you’re not into Formula One, you probably wouldn’t even know who he was.’

‘I’m not into Formula One, but I’ve still heard of Damian Lewis.’

‘You mean Damon Hill,’ I corrected. ‘Damian Lewis is that ginger actor who was in Homeland.’

Meg’s forehead furrowed. ‘I don’t know who Damon Hill is.’

‘Maybe you meant Lewis Hamilton?’

She looked blank. ‘I’ve heard of James Blunt.’

Cassie giggled.

‘He’s a singer,’ I said. ‘And everyone’s heard of James Hunt. He was the bad boy of racing, back in the day.’

‘That’s who I meant.’ Meg looked pleased. ‘I watched a film about him, once.’

‘Your references are really old,’ I grumbled.

‘Someone’s got out of bed the wrong side this morning.’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘Either babysitting has drained you of your life force, or you’re a teensy bit jealous.’

‘I actually liked babysitting,’ I said. ‘And why would I be jealous? Bridget’s a really good match for Seth, and if seeing him keeps her in a good mood, I’m all for it.’

I’d expected her to be at least a little bit hungover at breakfast, but had found her fully dressed (albeit in a pair of Mum’s stretchy trousers and one of Dad’s sweaters) sitting at the kitchen table with a giant mug of tea, softly singing ‘Let it Snow!’ as she watched Romy eating mushed up banana on toast.

‘I woke up to a very lovely text,’ she’d said, but wouldn’t be drawn on the contents. ‘All in good time.’ Tapping the side of her nose, she’d got up with a sparkly-eyed smile and made me some tea. Once I’d got over the shock of her good humour, I’d spent too much time pondering what Seth might have said in his text that couldn’t have waited until they next saw each other. It must have been more than Thanks for the lovely snog, or she wouldn’t have been acting so secretive. I knew better than to probe, and resisted asking as I drove her and Romy to the restaurant to collect her car. She’d enjoy holding back, and I didn’t want her to know how curious I was.

‘Anyway, Tilly’s with Rufus,’ Cassie was saying. I’d filled her in on my trip to his house while we were waiting for Meg to bring her mince pies over, and I began to explain about his botched declaration of love on the café windows.

‘He wrote, I love you Matilda Campbell in purple paint—’

‘Oh my god, that’s so romantic!’ Meg flashed her eyes at Cassie. ‘Remember when Danny wrote that message in the sand, saying he liked you?’

‘I’d hardly forget it.’ She smiled, her eyes going far away. ‘Nobody had ever done anything like that for me before.’

‘Me neither,’ I said, wondering why I didn’t feel as thrilled about Rufus’s gesture as Cassie still did about Danny’s. Probably because she hadn’t had to clear up the mess afterwards.

‘So, do you think he might be the one?’ Meg prodded, as Cassie crumbled a chunk of mince pie on her plate instead of eating it. ‘I can’t imagine you agreeing to go to his brother’s wedding if you didn’t,’ she answered her own question.

‘How do you even know if someone’s “the one”?’ I scratched speech marks in the air.

‘Well, I’m not the best person to ask.’ Meg shook her shiny hair back, and I wondered how she managed to look so gorgeous all the time. I thought I’d made an effort, dressing in clean jeans and a loose, cream sweater after my shower, but next to Meg, in her fitted white jumper and stripy voile skirt, and Cassie’s dungarees and zebra-print top, I felt like a faded photo. ‘I was all set to marry Sam, a few months ago,’ Meg went on. ‘I thought he was the one for years.’

‘I didn’t know right away that Danny was the one.’ Cassie discreetly pushed her plate aside. ‘He grew on me.’

‘Very quickly,’ I said.

She grinned. ‘That’s how it happens sometimes, I suppose. Or, there’s a catalyst like, maybe you nearly lose someone and it makes you realise how important they are.’

‘And other people know right away,’ offered Meg. ‘It’s like a chemical thing.’

It was obvious I wasn’t going to get the clear-cut answer I’d been hoping for – because there wasn’t one. On the other hand, it was reassuring to know my slightly befuddled feelings weren’t entirely unnatural.

‘Just go to the wedding, and see how you get on,’ Meg said soothingly. ‘Maybe the magic will happen during the couple’s vows, or while you and Rufus are having a smoochy dance.’

Cassie mimed an adoring look at an invisible partner. ‘You’ll gaze into each other’s eyes during a Celine Dion number, and that’ll be the moment you know.’

‘If you hear that I’ve smooched to Celine Dion, you’ll need to stage an intervention,’ I said, pausing at the sight of Gwen behind the counter, in a pair of reindeer antlers, their jaunty bobbing at odds with her stony face.

‘Do you remember when we got you to try those dating tips we saw on Perfect Match?’ said Cassie, eyes bright with amusement.

Meg swallowed her mouthful of mince pie. ‘I remember that show, it was awful, but we loved it.’

‘We made you try them out on that boy you liked in year six… what was his name?’

Meg snapped her fingers. ‘Lennie Jamieson.’

‘Hold his gaze for three seconds, touch your hair, then smile,’ I chirped, in the manner of the perky dating ‘expert’, who’d had the unfortunate surname, Cox.

‘Only, for some reason, you did them all at once, three times in a row,’ said Cassie.

Meg giggled. ‘You looked like you had a really itchy scalp, and Lennie came over and asked you if you’d got nits.’

‘And you two almost wet yourselves laughing.’

‘You weren’t cut out for flirting, even then,’ said Cassie. ‘Not that you had to. All the boys liked you anyway, you just didn’t notice.’

‘Always got your head stuck in a book.’ Meg’s impression of our Maths teacher was terrible, but she’d got his expression spot on – like a court official serving a summons.

‘Books were way more interesting than most boys,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it was Lennie Jamieson’s loss.’

‘Apparently he’s wanted for embezzlement now and has fled to Spain,’ said Cassie. ‘Danny knows someone in the police who happened to mention it.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Good job you never got together.’ Meg finished her mince pie and took a bite of Cassie’s. ‘You might both have been on the run.’

‘A modern-day Bonnie and Clyde,’ said Cassie.

‘How’s your portrait going?’ I was keen to get off the subject of Lennie – and men in general.

‘She’s given up on the lingerie idea, thank goodness.’ Cassie’s cheeks were peaky, and she pushed aside her coffee. Definitely morning sickness. ‘She wants something Picasso-style, picking out certain features, which gives me a bit more freedom.’

A commotion at the counter drew our attention. Gwen was presiding over Meg’s cake of the day: a giant Christmas pudding, dark, rich and sticky, which was gently steaming on a plate.

‘What’s she doing?’ Meg stood up. ‘She’s taken the icing off it. It took me ages to make it look like snow.’

‘I think she’s going to set it on fire,’ I said.

‘No way.’ Cassie’s eyes were wide as we moved to the counter to join the audience that had gathered.

‘Tip some on then,’ Gwen was instructing a visibly trembling Jerry, who was gripping a small saucepan, a bottle of brandy at his elbow. ‘A nice big dollop to get a good flame goin’.’

‘Gwen, you can’t,’ said Cassie, in a tone that dared Gwen to disagree.

She didn’t disappoint. ‘It’s traditional,’ she said, a mutinous tilt to her jaw. ‘Warm brandy, hot puddin’ an’ a lit match. What can possibly go wrong?’

‘What about health and safety?’

‘Says the woman wot filled the café with cats six months ago.’

‘You wouldn’t have adopted Dickens if I hadn’t.’

‘Exactly,’ said Gwen, which immediately made us giggly.

‘You only need a spoon full of brandy,’ said Meg, one hand shielding her eyes as if fearing an explosion.

‘Rubbish,’ said Gwen, nudging Jerry’s arm. ‘Go on then, before it goes bleedin’ cold.’

Jerry did as he was bid, while Gwen struck an extra-long match she must have brought in specially.

Around us, nervous laughter rose, along with a few gasps and murmurs of she wouldn’t.

Oh, she would.

There was a collective intake of breath as a shaking Jerry sloshed out the contents of the pan, and Gwen leaned over the pool of liquid on the plate with the flaming match. I shouted a warning and screams broke out as blue flames leapt around the pudding and flared up. Gwen dropped the match and jumped backwards, and when she looked up, her eyebrows had disappeared.

‘Bleedin’ ’ell.’ She snatched off her antlers and scratched her head, and the sight of her puzzled face, combined with Jerry’s horror, and the smell of singed hair had us collapsing with laughter. Jerry sprang into action and tossed a sopping wet tea towel over the flickering pudding, while Gwen grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a hefty swig.

‘Absolute legend,’ someone said, wet-faced with mirth. ‘That’s totally made my Christmas.’

‘My poor pudding,’ Meg wheezed, wiping her eyes. ‘But it was totally worth it.’

After checking no real damage had been done, to the café or Gwen – I suspected from the gleam in her eyes she was hugely enjoying herself – the customers dispersed, replaying the scene on their phones. As if nothing had happened, Gwen snapped her eyes onto me.

‘Where’s them floorboards then?’ she demanded. ‘You need to be gettin’ a wiggle on.’

‘On their way,’ I said, hoarse from laughing, but her suspicious look suggested I was fobbing her off with excuses. ‘I’ll go and see what else I can do, if it’ll make you happy.’ I flipped my eyes up for Meg and Cassie’s benefit. ‘You’re not very good at being patient, are you?’

‘Patience is my middle name,’ she said, pressing her fingertips to the reddening strips where her eyebrows had been, before following me through the plastic divider into the function room. ‘After my great-grandma, Patience Green, a suffragette.’

‘Is that true, Gwen?’

‘On me cousin’s grave.’

‘Maureen’s still alive.’

‘Me ’uvver cousin, Brett,’ she said. ‘’E fell over puttin’ ’is socks on and ’it is ’ead on the garage door. ’E were only seventy-five.’

‘Seventy-five’s quite old.’ I had no intention of asking why he’d been putting his socks on in the garage.

‘Not these days, it ain’t.’

Her eyes – somehow smaller and naked without their furry pelmets – were probing the room as though picturing it finished. On impulse, I reached for one of the paint tins. ‘I might as well make a start on the walls myself.’

‘I fort you ’ad to do the floor first, or you get dust on the paint, or summink.’

‘It’ll be fine as long as I’m careful,’ I said.

‘What about the decorators?’

‘I’m capable of slapping some on myself,’ I said. ‘On the walls,’ I amended when Gwen’s invisible eyebrows rose. Every time I looked at her, I had to bite back a giggle. ‘The decorators will be pleased. They weren’t happy about the schedule being mucked about.’ I didn’t mention they’d warned they might not be able to squeeze the job in this side of Christmas.

‘Not bein’ funny, it’s just I’m in charge while Ed and Lydia are away and I don’t want nuffink goin’ wrong.’ Said the woman who could have burnt down the café.

‘Neither do I.’ I stood up, cradling a tin of paint. ‘Trust me, Gwen, I want the room to be ready for Christmas Eve just as much as you do, if not more. You just focus on sorting out the drink and food and entertainment, and leave the rest to me.’

‘It’s already done,’ said Gwen. ‘Cassie’s bruvver and ’is mate Fletcher’s agreed to do the music.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’ Cassie’s brother had been quite famous before leaving his band to settle in Seashell Cove and become a dad. ‘That’ll be the first time he’s played in ages.’

‘Some of us is organised.’

‘So was I,’ I protested. ‘I didn’t know a pipe was going to spring a leak, did I?’

Gwen looked like she might be about to argue, but the sound of a cup smashing on tiles drew her attention away. ‘He’s a right butterfingers.’ She was no doubt referring to Jerry. ‘That’s the second time this mornin’.’ Her face broke into a devilish grin. ‘I reckon ’e’s doin’ it to attract my attention.’

It was a measure of how enamoured she was that she didn’t rush off and demand he pay for a replacement, like she had when I’d dropped and broken a saucer during my ill-fated ‘helping out’ session.

‘It might have been a customer,’ I said, and she disappeared so fast I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks shoot off her heels.

After fetching the paintbrushes and rollers I kept in the boot of my car – I’d been known to get hands-on with painting before – I rolled up my sleeves and made a start, laughing softly as I thought about Meg’s poor Christmas pudding. On cue, she popped her head round to say she was heading back to the bakery, and Cassie had gone as she wasn’t feeling too good.

‘You’re doing a great job,’ she added. ‘It’s just a shame the floor isn’t down yet.’

‘It will be.’

As I painted, I relaxed and got into a rhythm, enjoying the precision of reaching into the corners, careful not to smudge paint on the wooden ceiling beams.

‘Good job you’re seven feet tall,’ said Gwen, coming in with the phone in her hand to find me on tiptoes, paint splattered down my arm as I nudged the very edge of the brush into the final corner. ‘Not bad.’ She cast a critical gaze round, her naked forehead crinkling. ‘What’s the shade again?’

‘Sea Mist.’ I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek, where a strand of hair had got stuck. ‘Looks OK, doesn’t it?’ I stood back to admire the effect, loving the way it reflected the colours outside – just as it would when the sun was out, or when it was snowing, or raining. ‘It’s designed to blend with whatever’s happening outdoors, like a trick of the eye,’ I explained.

‘It’s what I’d imagine pollution would look like, if it was a colour.’ Gwen’s head was cocked, and I could see she was making a genuine point and had to hide a smile.

‘But could just as easily be a cloud, or a puddle, or a rainbow,’ I enthused. ‘That’s what I love about it.’

‘S’only bleedin’ paint.’ She held out the phone. ‘’S’your sister.’

‘Bridget?’ Surprised into almost dropping the paintbrush, I laid it across the open tin and wiped my hands down my jeans.

‘Unless you’ve got another sister, then yes.’ Rolling her eyes, Gwen passed me the handset. ‘I’ll get you some coffee,’ she said on her way out. ‘I’ll put a bit of brandy in it.’

‘How come you’re calling me here?’ I said, pressing the phone to my ear, realising as I spoke that I’d left my mobile in the car.

‘Because you weren’t answering your mobile.’ Bridget’s voice sounded oddly compressed. ‘I thought you’d be at Seth’s, but he said he hadn’t seen you yet,’ shit, ‘so I guessed you’d be at your other job.’

Other job. I never thought of what I did as jobs. Have a job was being paid for regular employment: working in an office, commuting to work, putting in forty hours or more a week; doing something you didn’t enjoy very much. ‘Yes, I’m, er, here,’ I said. ‘I left my phone in the car.’

‘You should keep it with you at all times, Tilly, especially if you’re hoping to get more work. If potential customers can’t get hold of you straight away, they’ll simply go elsewhere.’

‘I’ll take that on board, boss,’ I said, aiming for levity. ‘Everything OK?’

I guessed it must be, or she wouldn’t be blathering about phones and jobs, but I couldn’t imagine she’d be ringing for a chat either. ‘How was Seth?’

‘Hmm? Oh, fine,’ she said quickly. ‘He sounded distracted.’

Distracted. What did that mean? Was Jack OK? Had Felicity been on the phone? Maybe Digby wasn’t well, or the team hadn’t turned up, or something had gone wrong—

‘Tilly!’

‘What?’ I realised I’d tuned out. ‘Sorry, Bee, I was just, er… checking the fuse board with the electrician.’ Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Oh, right.’ She did a laugh that sounded as if it was for someone else’s benefit. ‘Well, I was just saying that Rufus is here if you’d like to take a lunch break and pop over.’