I was declining the invitation. Roast chicken was roast chicken. And roast chicken easily trumped washing and ironing, even when I’d been out clubbing on a Friday night. Staying over at Bel’s sister’s in London meant that I’d only managed to do one load of washing. Tomorrow morning, Monday, I’d be the one wrestling with the ironing board and rushing around grabbing clean knickers from the drying rack tucked behind the sofa in my bijou lounge.
When I pulled up onto the spare space at no. 11 Pettyfeather Lane, behind Shelley’s car, I was pleased to see that there were no other cars. Just the family today, which I was relieved about, given my unwashed hair scooped up in a scraggy bun and the bags under my eyes as a result of too much girl talk on Friday after clubbing.
I let myself in, calling, ‘Hello, honey, I’m home,’ as I walked into the kitchen.
‘Hey, lovely,’ said Aunty Lynn wiping her hands on her pinny. ‘Oh, my darling, you’ve got some excess luggage going on there. Was it a good night on Friday?’
‘Yes.’ I laughed and wiped at my eyes. ‘It was a late one, not helped by Bel and the girls yakking until the wee small hours.’
Someone grabbed me around the waist, enveloping me in CK One. ‘You’re a fine one to talk, Jess. God, woman, why don’t you ever put on any weight? I hate you! Why couldn’t I have got Mum’s side of the family’s genes instead of Dad’s sausage fingers and stocky man-thighs?’
I turned to return Shelley’s hug before stepping back and nodding at her cleavage, tastefully displayed in a very pretty floral dress. Next to me she looked all shiny and polished. ‘Don’t complain. You got boobage. I’m still buying teen bras in M&S.’
There was an awkward silence and from the shocked amusement on both Shelley and Aunty Lynn’s faces, I knew before I turned around that I’d made this announcement to some complete stranger.
If only. Broadcasting my bra size to just about anyone else would have been preferable.
When I turned around, I met Sam’s laughing blue eyes, which to give him credit did not duck below my neckline but held my gaze.
‘Hi, Sam,’ I said, an octave higher than my usual register.
‘Hey, Jess, how’re you doing? I haven’t seen you at the parkrun for a couple of weeks.’
‘Oh, I’ve been busy,’ I lied. Busy avoiding you. My Instagram habit had got a bit too much and I’d decided I needed to go cold turkey. So much for that strategy. All the attraction I felt for him roared back into life with rocket-propelled jets.
‘Sam, would you like a beer? He’s just been helping Richard move a couple of paving slabs in the garden. He’s housesitting for his parents again.’ Aunty Lynn’s jaunty tone wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Jess, would you get one for him from the outside fridge and help yourself to a drink?’
Sam’s eyes danced as I stomped to the fridge, which was actually inside the pantry but for some historic reason was always referred to as the outside fridge to differentiate it from the fridge in the kitchen. I snatched up a beer and grabbed the Prosecco bottle, realising my hands were shaking. Must be the adrenaline rush, I told myself. Lynn was directing Shelley, who was helping make gravy, even though it was still nearly thirty degrees outside. We were experiencing a week of record-breaking temperatures, even though it was late May, but still the Hilton family had to have their Sunday roast. Food was food. I wasn’t complaining, although I did feel a little Shanghaied by Sam’s presence. And also cross that no one had warned me and given me a chance to prepare.
Although, if I’d known he was coming, would I have been able to help myself? And did he think that I knew he was coming?
Flipping the cap off the bottle with the opener attached to the door frame, I handed Sam his beer and turned my back on him as I poured myself a small glass of Prosecco before topping up Shelley and Lynn’s glasses.
‘Why don’t you two go out in the garden?’
‘Don’t you need any help?’ I asked, desperately semaphoring a message to her with my eyes.
‘No, darling. I’ve got everything under control. Shelley, don’t let the gravy burn.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Lynn, bustling away with a steamer full of uncooked broccoli. ‘We’ll be eating in about ten minutes, when Richard gets out of the shower. That all right with