With Doris’s words bouncing around my head, I pulled my phone from my cardigan pocket and shot into the kitchen. I didn’t need Mum turning up, her head full of Doris-fuelled nonsense. And I couldn’t believe she’d told Doris about me and Max.

As I pressed in her number, I glanced up and my mouth fell open.

The kitchen had been transformed. The limestone worktops shone, the washing up was tidily stacked in the drainer, and my pies and cake had been covered neatly with foil.

Unless a cleaning lady had snuck in while I wasn’t looking, Ollie must have done it after decorating the living room. As well as being charming, and extremely good-looking, he was house-trained, too. He was hardly living up to his stereotype – apart from the flirting.

As I waited for Mum to pick up, I switched on the grill and manhandled some bacon out of the fridge, determined to give him a proper welcome breakfast. I was going to prove I was more than a wine-swigging loser with a penchant for topless baking, who wore holey tights and apparently snored in her sleep.

‘Lily, thank god! What’s going on over there?’ Mum’s voice exploded into my ear as I placed strips of the bacon under the grill and my temples throbbed in protest. ‘I was worried sick when I got that photo after my play, and you didn’t reply to my call—’

‘How was your play?’ I interrupted, in an effort to deflect her.

‘Oh, it was fine, though Stuart forgot his lines and said the “c” word instead of “count”, which threw things off a bit.’

Stuart was a single ex-fireman who’d taken up acting after early retirement, and I’d started to wonder lately if their relationship was more than professional.

‘If Doris hadn’t promised to look in on you this morning, I’d have phoned the police,’ she said, getting right back on track.

‘Mum, it’s OK, I’m perfectly fine.’ I half laughed to show I meant it, looking around for the eggs. Damn. There were only quail’s eggs and they were tiny. Still, it would be nice to make a posh English breakfast for my guest. Guests, I reminded myself, wondering where Craig had got to.

I could hear the shower running, and assumed it was Ollie, and for the briefest second imagined joining him, and helping to soap his quads – although I would have to shave my legs first. A fiery heat rose to my face, which had nothing to do with cooking, and I realised Mum had stopped talking and was waiting for an explanation.

‘Look, I’d been baking,’ I said, telling her what I’d told Doris, trying to make light of it by adding the bit about the face mask. ‘My skin feels quite nice this morning,’ I said, smoothing a hand over my cheek.

‘Didn’t you use one on your sixteenth birthday, and it brought you out in a rash?’

‘I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ I said, glad she was finally distracted.

‘We had to coax you out of the bathroom to attend your own party.’ She laughed, fondly. ‘Your dad said to tell your friends you’d got sunburnt—’

‘But it was the wettest February on record,’ I finished off, smiling – though it hadn’t been funny at the time. ‘Then Chris thought it would be hilarious to announce that I’d got my period.’

‘Your brother always had a silly sense of humour.’

‘No wonder Perry Edwards didn’t hang around to give me a birthday kiss.’

‘I think that was the idea,’ Mum said. ‘Chris was being protective of you, because he knew what Perry was like.’

‘How’s my brother’s hipster café doing?’

‘It’s very popular, as you well know, and not at all hipster,’ she reproved. ‘He’s using barrels as chairs now, and he’s applied for a licence to do cocktail nights.’

Totally hipster, then. Chris had always been good at spotting a trend, and had made a big success of Ambrose and Bell – though Mum hadn’t approved of him adding his fiancée’s surname, despite her helping him run it.

‘Anyway,’ Mum went on, ‘stop changing the subject. Did Doris tell you I’ll be there this afternoon?’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m ringing.’ I turned on the grill to cook the bacon, took out an artisan loaf I’d bought from the supermarket’s instore bakery, and returned to the fridge for butter. It was rock-hard, so I popped the packet in the microwave and switched it on. ‘You don’t need to rush over,’ I said. ‘I’m settling in brilliantly, and you’ll never guess what’s—’

‘Miss Ambrose, do you have another towel I could use, this one’s a little small and I didn’t think to bring one with me.’

I whipped round to see Ollie’s head and one tanned shoulder thrusting round the door. He was vigorously rubbing his hair with a hand towel, which meant... ‘You’re naked.’

‘Sorry?’ He stopped rubbing.

‘You, er… you’re… I mean…’ I blinked to clear a mental image of what he might be hiding. ‘I mean… um… I left the big towel in my bedroom,’ I said, eyes darting everywhere but at him.

‘You only have one?’ He sounded vaguely scandalised.

‘I shoved a couple in the washing machine, and haven’t got round to putting them in the dryer.’ Sexy.

‘Right.’

Why hadn’t I thought to buy more towels while I was out, instead of quail’s eggs? ‘I’ll, er, you can go and get the one in my bedroom, but I might… I mean, it might be damp.’

‘No probs.’ He gave his hair a final ruffle, then raked it back with his hand. ‘I am wearing underwear,’ he said, and gave me an intimate smile as though sharing a secret.

He winked and withdrew, and I finally remembered how to breathe again, drawing in a lungful of air like a drowning woman.

I stared at the gap where he’d been, then lurched into the hall in time to catch a glimpse of jersey-clad buttock and muscular thigh. As I gawped, the front door opened and Craig materialised. I hadn’t even realised he’d gone back outside.

‘What’s happening?’ he said, lugging in his camera and another holdall.

‘Ollie couldn’t find a towel,’ I said, stupidly.

Craig shut the door on a blast of cold air and gave me a steady look, no doubt registering my dilated pupils and heightened colour, and jumping to all sorts of conclusions. ‘I meant, something’s burning,’ he said, and I became aware of smoke billowing from the kitchen, and an acrid smell in the air.

‘Oh, mother-of-pearl, the bacon!’

I scooted back, but Craig beat me to it. Wrapping a dishtowel round his hand, he pulled out the grill pan, which was leaping with flames, and flung it into the sink, before leaning over and pushing the window open.

‘Haven’t you got a smoke alarm?’ he said, and succumbed to a coughing fit.

‘Obviously not.’ As I lifted my hand to cover my nose and mouth, I realised I was still holding my phone, and that Mum had hung up. Through a haze of smoke, I read the text she’d left.

‘Oh crabsticks.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Craig said, straightening up and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘No harm done.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ I stared at the message, as if it might change its meaning. ‘My mum’s on her way.’

‘I’m guessing from your tone that’s a bad thing?’ Craig tore off a length of kitchen roll, scooped the charred mess from the sink, and looked around for the bin.

‘Over there,’ I said, pointing.

He deposited the mess and wiped his hands on his running shorts, which were layered over black leggings – not a good look on a man.

‘She’s worried about me having a strange man in the house.’

‘Isn’t that’s a good thing?’ He bent his leg and tugged his trainer off. ‘I should think most mothers would be worried.’

‘I’m thirty years old,’ I said, stung by the implied criticism. ‘I could have a houseful of men, if I wanted.’

He opened his mouth and seemed to be searching for a suitable response. Clearly not finding one, he removed his other trainer and said, ‘I’ll put these outside, shall I?’

‘Please,’ I said, shortly. I unlocked the back door, feeling hot and bothered. There’d be no stopping Mum, now she’d made up her mind to visit, and all the bacon had burnt. What was I going to cook for breakfast?

‘I can make some scrambled eggs if you like.’ As Craig bent to place his trainers outside the door, I let the air cool my face and clear the lingering smoke from the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t seem right you waiting on us, especially after the way we showed up last night.’ It sounded like he hadn’t approved – or maybe he was recalling the state I’d been in when I answered the door. ‘You will be paid for your trouble,’ he added.

‘I don’t want paying, and it’s hardly running around,’ I said, tetchy with embarrassment, even though I’d never been in the habit of cooking men breakfast; even Max, who’d preferred a coffee and a cigarette. He’d struggled to quit smoking, despite being desperate to give up for his daughter’s sake. ‘I’ve only got quail’s eggs,’ I admitted.

Craig turned, his eyebrows inching up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten them,’ he said mildly. ‘It’ll be a new experience.’

‘Please yourself.’ My headache had returned, and I didn’t have the strength to argue. ‘The eggs are over there, and the pan’s in the cupboard.’ I opened the fridge. ‘I bought some oyster mushrooms, if you fancy a go.’ I slapped the carton on the worktop.

Craig glanced at me, but didn’t comment, before crossing to the cooker and turning it back on. ‘You must have a lot of questions.’

‘Not really,’ I said, in a mean little voice, wishing Ollie would come down and lighten the mood. I reached for the loaf and a knife, feeling like a visitor in my own kitchen, despite agreeing to let Craig cook the eggs two minutes ago. ‘I’ll slice the bread.’

He scratched the back of his head, leaving a tuft of hair sticking up. ‘Your butter’s melted,’ he observed. ‘How long did you leave it in there?’

‘About five minutes.’ I looked at the microwave and, seeing a greasy pool leaking from under the door, thought of several swear words. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

While I attempted to mop up the mess, Craig silently began cracking quail’s eggs into a bowl, and the sight of his long fingers, handling the tiny shells, melted my irritation.

‘They’re fiddly, aren’t they?’

He looked at me sideways. ‘Just a bit.’

I tossed some of the remaining butter into a pan, then spread the rest on thinly cut slices of the artisan loaf, which was small and rather hard.

When Ollie came in, smelling of expensive shower gel, his hair freshly blow-dried, Craig was scrambling the eggs with the mushrooms, while I took out some cutlery, pleased it was the solid silver set my grandmother had given me when I moved in to my studio flat.

‘Wow, what a treat,’ Ollie enthused, rubbing his hands together.

‘Thanks for cleaning up in here, you didn’t have to,’ I said. He’d changed into loose black jeans and a grey hooded top that deepened his tan. The overall effect was a lot more appealing than his public-schoolboy/nightclub-owner look.

‘Hey, it was my pleasure,’ he said, grinning. ‘Ages since I put my hands in bubbles. I covered the pies and your yummy-looking cake, so they didn’t go stale. Used to help Nanny in the kitchen with that sort of thing, as a boy.’ I guessed he was referring to an actual nanny and not his grandmother. At least she’d taught him a thing or two. Max could barely tell one end of a tea towel from the other. Washing up didn’t fit with his self-image as an aspiring poet and passionate lover.

‘Thought I’d dress down a bit and go for a more urban vibe,’ Ollie said, catching me checking out his clothes. ‘What do you think?’

He rested one bare foot against the wall, squashing a hand in his pocket as he gazed moodily into the distance, like someone in an advert.

‘Suits you,’ I said, briefly catching Craig’s eye. ‘Much better, actually.’

‘You think?’ Ollie’s face relaxed. ‘I don’t look like I’m trying too hard?’

Was he asking for fashion advice? ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, although now I thought about it, wasn’t he supposed to be on a higher plane than the rest of us, with a sprinkling of stardust thrown in? Otherwise, someone from the council might as well switch on the Christmas tree lights. ‘I like it.’

‘You look like you’re auditioning to be someone’s love interest in Coronation Street,’ Craig said. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

Ollie gave another of his guffaws. ‘He’s bloody hilarious this bloke,’ he said, aiming a playful punch at Craig’s upper arm. ‘He keeps my feet on the ground.’

Shaking his head, Craig dished up two portions of food.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ I said, seeing the pan was empty.

‘I had something to eat at the café while I was out.’

‘You could have invited us, mate.’ Ollie looked around, as if seeking waiter-service in a restaurant.

‘Come and sit down,’ I said, gesturing to the little pale wooden table I’d squeezed into the corner with four mismatching chairs. ‘Or we can sit in the living room, if you like.’

‘Oh, no, here’s fine. This place is so cute.’ Ollie stretched his arms wide, demonstrating he could practically touch the walls, before straddling a chair the wrong way round, hands dangling over the back. ‘It reminds me of the Wendy house that Pa had built for Prissy’s sixth birthday,’ he said. ‘Remember, Craggers? She’d invite us in to pretend dinner parties.’

Craig handed Ollie a plate and a fork. ‘Of course,’ he said, quietly.

‘His pa was our chief gardener,’ Ollie said to me, shovelling some egg into his mouth. ‘Wonderful cook, just like his ma.’ He jabbed the fork in Craig’s direction, and I felt a prickle of interest. I’d assumed they must know each other from Eton, but it somehow made sense that they were from totally different backgrounds.

‘It’s only eggs,’ Craig said, modestly.

‘They’re quail’s,’ I added, as if it mattered, sitting self-consciously at the table with my plate.

‘Is he a farmer?’ Ollie looked quizzical. ‘I’m all for people buying local produce.’

I laughed a bit too loudly. ‘That’s a good one.’

Ollie’s brow puckered. ‘I don’t follow.’

As Craig massaged the point between his eyebrows, it dawned on me perhaps Ollie hadn’t been joking, and thought I was actually referring to a Farmer Quail. ‘Oh, I… er, I was talking about the bird the eggs came from.’

‘Ah!’ He let out a laugh. ‘Of course you were. I didn’t make the connection for a second.’

‘It’s a ground-nesting bird,’ I said, as if he was five.

‘Every day’s a school day, big man.’ Craig’s tone was dry. ‘Next, you’ll be telling him those mushrooms came from oysters.’

He gave me the tiniest of smiles, but it felt as if he was making fun of Ollie so I looked away and picked up a slice of the bread from a few that I’d fanned out on a plate. As I’d suspected, it was like chewing cardboard, and I wished I’d bought a squashy white loaf instead.

‘So, we need to sort out an itinerary,’ Ollie declared, once he’d cleared his plate and eaten four slices of the bread with apparent enjoyment. I was impressed that, despite his background, he seemed perfectly at home and wasn’t remotely judgemental – apart from his comment about the size of the kitchen (what must he have made of the tiny shower cubicle?). ‘Did Erin give you any deets?’

‘Deets?’ I pushed aside my half-eaten food, my appetite having diminished under Craig’s watchful eye. Eating when someone else wasn’t just felt wrong.

‘Details,’ Ollie said, handing Craig his empty plate. ‘A plan of action.’

‘You know she’s my friend?’ I said. It was odd, hearing him say her name. ‘Erin, I mean. And no, no deets.’

‘Yah, of course I do, she asked me to come here as a favour.’

‘It’s a favour for you, too,’ I felt moved to point out, as Craig rinsed Ollie’s plate at the sink.

‘She’s a great girl, isn’t she?’ Ollie said, perhaps not hearing me.

‘She is.’ I smiled. ‘The best.’

‘She’s so great at her job. She got me the gig with Snugz.’ My head grew hot as I pictured him in his pants. ‘Shame the bastards dumped me, excuse my language.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About them dumping you.’

He shrugged. ‘I can sort of see why they had to, but they didn’t know all the facts.’

‘Oh?’ I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, added, ‘Had you been on the show a long time?’

‘Hey, let’s not talk about that.’ He jumped up, smiling widely. ‘I’m trying to get away from that whole scene. This is my fresh start.’

‘I know all about that,’ I said, talking in a similarly jaunty way, as if it was catching. ‘This was my fresh start.’ I gestured around me, and noticed Craig had quietly made some tea and there were three steaming mugs on the counter.

‘Oh?’ He looked interested.

‘Let’s not talk about that either,’ I said.

His half-smile disappeared. ‘Right.’

‘Do you know Prince Harry?’ I said to Ollie, the words leaping out before I could snatch them back. ‘He must have been at Eton at the same time as you.’

He gave me a broad smile and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now, I definitely can’t talk about that,’ he said. ‘Except to say, he’s a jolly nice chap.’

‘That’s… great.’ What had I expected? That he’d offer to set us up on a blind date? Hardly likely, especially as the prince was now dating an American actress. I was relieved when Craig picked up one of the mugs and said, ‘Let’s go and sit in the other room.’

‘Good idea,’ I said, gratefully.

‘God, he’s bossy.’ Ollie’s grin was admiring as he picked up his tea. ‘You can see why I need this guy, can’t you?’

It was clear they got on well, despite their obvious differences, with Craig taking on an older-brother role – I guessed – from years of familiarity.

Ollie crept comically after him, as though trying to avoid triggering a landmine, and threw me a pretend–scared look that made me smile.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I said. ‘Make yourselves at home.’

I added two sugars to my tea, taking the opportunity to catch my breath.

Was this really happening?

I looked out of the window and watched a couple of seagulls wheeling past. The sky was white again, as if holding back more snow, and I thought how much had happened in a very short time. I didn’t know whether to be excited or scared.

How was I going to fit in working on my novel? I’d have to make some time, or I’d never get past chapter one.

Peeling back a corner of foil, I reached for a mince pie and ate it quickly.

The doorbell chimed and I started, slopping tea over the clean worktop.

Mum couldn’t be here already!

‘I’ll get it!’ called Ollie, and before I could tell him not to, he’d already opened the door. I entered the hallway to see him scribbling on a piece of paper for a swarthy man in a brown delivery uniform, gloved hands gripping a clipboard.

‘I don’t know how word got round,’ Ollie said, seeming not at all put out despite his clandestine arrival, and protestations about avoiding attention. ‘It’s been an absolute age since I’ve actually signed my autograph. People usually want selfies.’

‘I don’t think he wanted your autograph,’ I said, smiling at the confused-looking man as I spotted the Sweet Dreams van behind him on the road. ‘He was asking you to sign for a bed.’