‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’ I stared through the rain-speckled window at the soggy garden. There was no sea or sand visible today, just a hovering mist, and a bedraggled seagull on the gatepost.

‘Oh, Lily, of course you do. You’re just feeling funny because I’m going back home today.’ Mum came over and wrapped her arms around my waist. In the distorted reflection she could have easily passed for my funkier sister, with her spiky white hair, and her favourite rectangular glasses with the leopard-print frames. It was only when you looked closely that the ‘V’ between her eyebrows and fine lines around her eyes were noticeable.

She’d lost weight after Dad died, which had brought out her cheekbones, and she’d kept it off with a diet of faddy eating and a frantic lifestyle.

‘Can’t you at least stay until the weekend?’ I said, breathing in her familiar scent of fresh apples, and vanilla body lotion.

‘I can’t leave Annie for long, she gets flustered on her own,’ Mum said, giving me a little squeeze. ‘And I’ve got my play tomorrow night.’

As well as running a craft shop with her oldest friend, Annie Larkin, Mum was a leading member of Acting Out, an am-dram group that specialised in Agatha Christie mysteries and occasional adaptations of classic novels. The other players had been her saviours after Dad died, and I couldn’t begrudge her (much) for wanting to get back to them.

‘It’s so quiet,’ I said, cocking my head. Nothing but the patter of rain on the living- room window, and Mum’s soft breath in my ear. I hadn’t even heard a car door slam since arriving the day before.

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Mum steered me back to the plush, oatmeal-coloured sofa that had belonged to the previous owner, and sat me down. ‘I thought you wanted peace and quiet so you could write your novel.’ She slightly emphasised ‘novel’, as if unsure of its meaning, still not fully on board with me giving up teaching.

‘I do,’ I said, lifting my mug off the coffee table, hot chocolate steaming my face. ‘It’s just so unfamiliar.’

Things had happened quickly in the end, as my four-week challenge was met with gusto, and I’d become swept up in organising the move. Once we’d arrived, I’d thrown myself into organising the rooms, with Mum’s help, installing the few items of furniture I’d had stored in her garage, and rearranging the rest. Around midnight we’d sunk, exhausted, into my hastily made-up bed, and slept for eight hours.

It wasn’t until this morning, over a breakfast of poached eggs (me) and black coffee, (Mum) that reality began to sink in. Soon, I’d be alone in a strange town, miles from everything I knew.

‘It’s a big step,’ Mum acknowledged, sitting beside me, ‘but once you’ve got to know your neighbours, and reacquainted yourself with the area—’

‘We haven’t been here for years, Mum, it’s like a completely new place,’ I said, invalidating my original argument for choosing Shipley in the first place.

‘Seaside towns don’t change that much.’ She patted my knee. ‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart.’

I didn’t know whether to be upset that she was trying to convince me, or relieved that she wasn’t the sort of mother who wanted me tied to her apron strings forever.

‘Won’t you miss me?’ I said, childishly.

‘Oh, darling, of course I will, but you’re not a million miles away, and we’ll see each other at Christmas.’ She bristled a little in the chunky-knit cardigan Annie had knitted for her birthday. ‘I’m just happy to see you taking control after what that man did to you.’

Mum had been friendly towards Max, but after he broke my heart had branded him a ‘shitbag’, which had made me giggle, tearfully. She’d preferred ‘Lovely Dan’, who I’d dated since teacher-training, and I hadn’t had the heart to tell her he’d given me an ultimatum when I told him I was moving back home after Dad died – him or my mother.

‘I won’t be able to come to your plays,’ I said, though in truth it was quite a relief. As much as I supported Mum’s acting endeavours, it was sometimes hard to watch her playing a murder victim, or pouting, sultry-eyed at her leading man, as she’d done in an adaptation of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. ‘There’s probably nothing to do here in the evenings.’

‘Where’s that sunny girl of mine gone?’ Mum looked around comically, as if the old me might be lurking on the oak bookcase that had belonged to the previous owners. ‘We Ambroses are famed for our resilience, so don’t you go letting the side down,’ she said, wagging a playful finger.

I mustered a smile. She was right. Our family possessed an uncanny ability to bounce back from adversity, which had proved a blessing in the past, but since Max… don’t think about Max… since leaving my job, my resilience had taken a battering, and, apart from the resurgence that had seen me uproot my life, was in danger of vanishing.

‘Why don’t we have a nice muffin before I go?’ Mum suggested, as if I’d reverted to being seven years old. She shot into the kitchen and returned with the gingham-covered basket she’d found in the porch that morning, while putting out some rubbish. ‘You can pop round and thank the woman who left them, and then you’ll have made a new friend.’

‘I guess so,’ I said, taking the note she was holding out and scanning the untidy handwriting sprawled across the paper.

‘Doris Day?’ I immediately thought of the old films that Mum and I used to watch on Saturday afternoons, when Dad took Chris to the football, and tears pricked my eyes.

‘She’s bound to be lovely with a name like that, and to have gone to all this trouble…’ Mum peered into the basket and inhaled. ‘They smell divine.’ She often said actressy things like ‘divine’ since she’d joined Acting Out.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, then seeing worry unfold on her face, added, ‘Go on then, maybe a couple of bites.’

She relaxed into a smile. ‘We’ll share one,’ she said, which was a measure of her concern. She’d currently given up anything she couldn’t throw in a juicer.

‘They taste… odd.’ I swallowed a mouthful, trying to pinpoint the flavour. ‘Sort of… earthy.’

‘They might be poisoned.’ Mum grabbed it off me, her face contorting with horror. ‘It could be laced with arsenic.’

‘Mum!’ A laugh bubbled up. ‘This is real life, remember?’

All the same, I didn’t eat any more, and once Mum had left in a flurry of hugs, goodbyes, reassurances, and promises to call, dashing to her little Golf in the sleety rain, holding her tapestry bag above her head, I slid the bolt across the door. After I’d checked that all the windows were tightly closed, I switched on the television for company.

Next, I took another tour of the cottage, acquainting myself with its twists and turns, soothed by the unaccustomed space, soft colours, and tasteful furniture – which I’d never have chosen, but which suited the little rooms.

The books and cushions I’d accumulated, and the fortifying photos of family I’d scattered around, made me feel a bit more anchored.

‘I’m going to be fine,’ I said out loud, determined not to imagine Max’s head on the pillow in the bedroom, his athletic body in the shower, or his long legs stretched out on the sofa.

Shipley was going to be a Max-free zone. A drama-free zone.

A round of applause burst from the television and I gave a bloodcurdling yelp.

This was ridiculous.

Maybe I wasn’t suited to being alone with my thoughts.

‘You’re not used to it, that’s all,’ I said kindly, as if counselling one of my pupils. Don’t think about them. Don’t think of their shiny little faces, wondering where Miss Ambrose has gone, or my ex-colleagues, gossiping about me in the staff room.

My old life was over.

‘DO something!’ I ordered, my voice bouncing off the smooth, cream walls. Perhaps I could go for a bracing walk. I glanced through the window at a seagull being flung about on a gale-force wind. The rain was horizontal, and in the distance the sea was a frothing mass of crashing waves.

I should start my novel instead.

I rushed to the back bedroom, where I’d set up my laptop at the school-type desk I’d bought on eBay a few years ago, but had never found a space for. I plonked myself on the swivel chair Mum had given me, which used to be Dad’s.

I spun around a few times.

The room was warm, thanks to the efficient central heating, but otherwise empty. I’d need a new bed if I was going to have people to stay. Mum had been happy to bunk in with me, but I could hardly share with my brother if he came to visit, and even though the sofa was big and squashy enough to sleep on, it would be nice to have a proper spare bed.

I logged on to the Wi-Fi, congratulating myself for setting it up before arriving, and started browsing websites. Before I knew it, I’d ordered a double divan, and some bedding and matching curtains.

I quickly checked my emails (nothing but Spam) and clicked onto Facebook. Max loathed social media, so thankfully wasn’t on there, but reading updates from my old life made my throat ache. I was missing the build-up to the end of term before Christmas. We’d be living on a diet of Quality Street and mince pies in the staffroom, and someone usually brought in a bottle of Bailey’s to share on the last day of term.

On impulse, I deactivated my account and scrolled through Twitter instead. Erin often posted pithy updates from the talent agency she worked for, but apart from a bland congrats to Ellie Palladino on a job well done! about a former soap star fronting a toothpaste advert, there was nothing recent. Or pithy.

I logged off, surprised to find that a couple of hours had shot by. I stood up and did some stretches to get my blood flowing, then sat back down and opened the document I’d imaginatively titled ‘Novel’.

I stared at the blank page, wishing I’d written a paragraph or two already. The trouble was, I hadn’t made up my mind what type of novel to write. I’d been hoping inspiration would strike once I began my new life.

Thrillers were popular, so it made sense to go down that route.

I looked out at the muted colours of the compact garden, where the light was fading and the naked apple tree was bent double, and tried to enter a murderous frame of mind.

A robin landed on a wavering branch, its feathers fluffed up for protection, and the sight of it reminded me it was Christmas in less than three weeks and I’d hardly bought any gifts before leaving London.

Perhaps I should do some more Christmas shopping now…

No.

‘Stay focused,’ I ordered myself, waggling my fingers above the keys.

Just type an opening line and the rest will flow.

I was sure I’d read that somewhere. Or maybe Max had said it, about his poetry writing.

I quickly typed: It was dark and dreary, as Janet entered the garden… Janet? I knew a Janet from school, and she was lovely, but hardly main character material.

It was dark and dreary as Maxine entered the garden… That was better. A strong, female name.

No, wait. Maxine? I was thinking about bloody Max.

… as Camilla… too royal. Cerys… tricky to pronounce? …as Jasminda, Belinda, Melinda, Toyota, Magenta, Placenta…

Jessica!

I pressed delete and started again. Rain lashed down as Jessica entered the garden…

Why was she entering the garden?

…as Jessica entered the garden with a spade and began to dig…

More atmosphere.

…as Jessica drove her spade into the soil…

Drove didn’t sound right… dug… didn’t look right.

Jessica slashed the soil with her spade… Oh, for hell’s sake, spades didn’t slash.

I hated Jessica already.

And I didn’t want to write a thriller.

I deleted it all and typed: Jessica watched Marco enter the garden, his naked chest muscles rippling as he wielded his spade…

Blood gushed to my face. Imagine Mum reading that! And why was I fixated on spades?

As I deleted the text, I became aware of an unnatural brightness filtering into the hallway, considering the sky was now black with no sign of a moon. I rose and went into the front bedroom, and my mouth fell open as I drank in a kaleidoscope of Christmas lights. In the house opposite, they twinkled in every window, around the garden, and even on the roof, while next to it was a perfect replica of a gingerbread house. There were candy canes and gingerbread men surrounding the perimeter of the garden, and icing-like snow trimmings attached to the edges of the house (how had they got that ‘ginger’ effect on the walls?) Moving closer, I noticed a house a couple of doors down decked out as a scene from Frozen, with vivid blue lighting, and an image of Elsa beamed onto the front wall.

‘Wow,’ I breathed. They really made an effort on Maple Hill, and I wondered if it was compulsory; whether I’d be shunned if I didn’t participate.

Dragging my eyes from the festive lights, I slammed my laptop shut. What I needed was a cup of tea, and to plan my novel properly.

Down in the kitchen, I spotted the piece of paper Doris Day had written her note on, laid on top of some junk mail Mum had placed on the worktop. I picked it up and was about to throw it away, when I noticed Doris had written something on the back: There’s an emergency meeting of The Christmas Lights Society at No. 8 Maple Hill at 6 p.m. today (the 7^th) if you fancy coming along. Refreshments provided.

I glanced at the illuminated digits of the built-in oven: 17.55. I checked my reflection in the glass door. My hair – recently chopped from shoulder- to jaw-length – had developed a kink, and my skin was chewing-gum pale, but I didn’t have time to faff with straighteners and make-up.

I pulled my parka on over my sweater and jeans, stuffed my feet into my boots, and grabbed my keys.

My novel would have to wait. It was time to meet my neighbours.