‘I know, right. And when the receptionist told her he was in a meeting, she was like, “That man is trying to blackmail my daughter” – although he wasn’t really; he knows I don’t have two quid to rub together – “So you fetch him out of his meeting or I’ll walk in there myself and tell everyone what kind of person he is.”’
‘No way!’
‘Yep. So the receptionist went and got him and they sat in his office and Mum gave him the bollocking of his life and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself and she was going to go the police, and that must’ve put the fear of God into him because you know he doesn’t pay anything like the tax he ought to and he’s really paranoid about scrutiny of any kind. So he literally begged her not to, and she said she might reconsider if he deleted every last pixel – I didn’t know she knew what those were either – of every image he had anywhere of me, and got in an Uber with her right that second and went round to my work to apologise to me.’
‘Shut the front door!’
‘Yep. So the first I knew of it was them turning up and Mum saying, “Mr Flatley would like a word with you in private, Danielle,” and I was like, what the fuck? But what could I say? So we went outside and he said he’d treated me appallingly and he was deeply sorry, and he accepted my decision to end the relationship and wished me every happiness. And then he got in another Uber and went away, and I took the afternoon off and had tea with Mum.’
‘That’s amazing!’
‘Isn’t it? And she said she felt awful about having been cold to me all this time, and she should have supported me wanting to make a life for myself away from home, but she’d never known how to say sorry, and now she was. And I said I was sorry too, for not making more of an effort, and we agreed that Mike and I will go there for Christmas.’
I stood up and finished my water. ‘Well, that calls for a celebration.’
‘Prosecco with our cupcakes?’
‘Word.’
And we swished out of the gym together, Dani only pausing to blow Mike a kiss over her shoulder.
Thirty-One
Christmas Day
The sound of church bells woke me just before seven. It was still dark outside and I could feel cold seeping in through the window, which was open just a crack because Adam got too hot otherwise. But under the covers I was perfectly warm. I turned over, pulling the duvet up to my chin, and opened my eyes.
There was Adam’s dark head on the pillow next to mine, the black eyelashes sweeping down over his cheeks. And there, lying on his chest, gazing adoringly at him and purring like a freight train, was Frazzle. In the corner of the flat, a tiny Christmas tree twinkled with gold and silver lights, and under it was a small pile of carefully wrapped presents.
For a minute, I let myself luxuriate, still half asleep, looking at my two boys.
Then I sat bolt upright and said, ‘Shit, fuck, bollocks! The turkey stock!’
‘What?’ Adam pushed himself up on his elbows, careful not to disturb the cat who was already half his. ‘It’s Christmas Day, Zoë. The pub’s closed. You’re not going near a kitchen today.’
‘Oh. Oh my God, of course it is. Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas. And happy day off. You’ve been working too hard.’
I smiled. ‘I’ve been working just right.’
He did have a point, though, I thought. The last couple of weeks had passed in a blur of mince pies, Brussels sprouts and chestnut wellingtons, Robbie and I both rushed off our feet. The Ginger Cat had been buzzing from the moment we opened the doors until late in the evening – or, as it seemed to me, from spiced pumpkin muffins to roast dinners, via turkey sandwiches, Christmas cake at teatime and sausage rolls on the bar at six o’clock.
Robbie had complained that he’d almost forgotten what Rex looked like, and Maurice had told me I looked like I needed a nice sit-down in front of the telly. The only night off I’d managed had been to go with Adam to his work Christmas party, at a five-star hotel. I’d been terrified of having nothing to wear and not knowing what to say, but he’d assured me that they’d all loved me and,