Annie Lyons - The Choir on Hope Street - A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!

‘The Hope Street Community Choir!’ we chorused.

‘I’ll drink to that!’ cried Natalie, raising her glass with some gusto and almost falling onto Guy. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, giggling. ‘Maybe I should have a glass of water.’

Or maybe you should lay off the free booze, I thought as I followed her over to the sink. ‘Let me get that for you,’ I insisted, fetching one of Matilda’s plastic beakers from the cupboard and filling it with water. I was not about to risk my Dartington Highballs. They were a wedding present.

Natalie accepted the cup with a lop-sided grin. ‘I bet you think I’m a complete mess, don’t you?’

Not far off. I pursed my lips into a thin smile, thinking it might be best if I didn’t answer.

‘Well, you would be right, Caroline,’ she slurred, gesturing towards me with her cup and slopping water onto the floor in the process. ‘Whoops. Sorreee,’ she cried.

Unbelievable. It was like having another child in the house. ‘It’s fine. I’ll get it,’ I said, reaching for the kitchen towel.

‘No, no, no, let me,’ she offered, lurching forwards and wresting it from my grasp. ‘My mess. I’ll clear it up.’ She knelt down and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe up the spillage . She remained kneeling on the floor for a moment, gazing up at me like a child hoping for a biscuit. ‘So anyway, guess what I did last week. Go on, have a guess.’

‘Erm, you wrote another book?’ I offered, glancing around the room in embarrassment, willing her to stand up.

‘Haha! Very good. No. Last week, I thought my estranged husband was dying.’

I stared down at her. ‘Oh, my goodness. How terrible.’

Natalie gave a drunken nod. ‘Yes. Very terrible. And so I followed him to hospital, to offer my support and be there ’til death us do part and all that.’

‘Well, that was very good of you.’ I could see Phil looking over, a frown of concern on his face. I gave him a reassuring smile.

‘I know,’ slurred Natalie, staring down at the balled-up paper towel in her hand. ‘I am basically a saint. So I turn up at the hospital ready to do my weeping wifey bit and guess what he was there for?’

‘I have no idea.’

Natalie held my gaze as she delivered the punchline. ‘A hernia.’

‘A hernia?’

She nodded gravely before her face dissolved into hysterical laughter. ‘A bloody hernia! I thought he was dying and he’s just got a hernia.’ She hugged herself, rocking back and forth as she laughed. Pamela and Jim smiled over at us, wanting to share the joke. I felt a rising sense of panic . I have to get this crumbling wreck of a woman on her feet and out of my house. Fast.

‘How about you drink some more of that water before you head home?’ I suggested with a breezy smile, trying to help Natalie to her feet. She was surprisingly heavy.

She staggered to a standing position and patted me on the chest. ‘Thank you, Caroline. You’re a pal,’ she declared, patting my shoulder, her breath ripe with booze.

I took a step back. I wanted to extricate myself as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Guy had made his way over and was smiling at us both. ‘Caroline, I’m going to shoot off but I just wanted to say that I’ll see you next week and here’s my number,’ he said, handing me a card.

Natalie raised her water glass drunkenly at him. ‘Looking forward to it, Gareth Malone,’ she giggled. He grinned.

‘I’ll show you to the door,’ I said with relief, hoping that Natalie would take the hint and follow Guy’s lead soon. ‘So, you used to live round here?’ I asked as I led him down the hall.

‘Yes, I grew up a few miles away.’

‘We might know some of the same people. My maiden name was Winter – Caroline Winter.’

Guy froze as if he’d remembered something before turning to me and shaking his head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘Funny,’ I said. ‘You look so familiar.’

‘Yes, I get that sometimes – people are always saying that I remind them of someone. I have an everyman kind of face. Anyway, I must go. Good to meet you, Caroline. See you next week.’

‘Thanks Guy. Bye!’

When Oliver came home later that evening, I was buzzing with excitement. He had bought me an enormous bouquet of creamy white roses and was slightly drunk but full of smiles and apologies for being late.

I kissed him on the lips. I was too euphoric to be cross any more. ‘That’s a lovely welcome home,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I deserve it though,’ he murmured as he started to kiss my neck and run his hands over my body. ‘How was the meeting?’

‘It was great,’ I replied, moaning with delight at his kisses and wandering hands.

‘That’s good, that’s really good,’ he replied, as I reached my hand down the front of his trousers and felt him stiffen at my touch. I still had the power, you see. We still desired one another and that meant the world to me. For all his working late and my stay-at-home status, we still had the connection from when we were young and carefree. We still found each other attractive, we still wanted each other but it was more than just desire.

We remembered what it was like when we both worked; how we would meet after work for drinks or dinner, return home to our flat in Dulwich, make love and then fall asleep facing one another, connected by all the things we wanted in life. This connection remained. Whatever else has happened since, Matilda and all the joy and heartbreak we’d shared, that connection was still there. We wanted the same things and it was a pretty simple wish list – a happy child, a beautiful home, nice holidays, a good bottle of wine. We loved our life and we loved each other. It was as simple as that. People over-complicate things but I know what’s important.

So as he parted my legs and nudged his way inside me, as we moved together as one, I felt that connection again. All was well in that moment. Everything was perfect.

I nearly didn’t go to choir. Ed had promised to babysit again but had phoned earlier that day full of sheepish apology. Some guy he’d been lusting after for months had asked him on a date. Could I get another babysitter and he promised that he’d do the next one? I brushed it off.

I wasn’t that bothered about going. I’m not sure why I’d agreed. Actually, I am. I’d knocked back one too many glasses of Caroline’s delicious wine. I saw the label and knew it had come from Waitrose. Anyway, I’d got a warm feeling from the wine and the assembled company. I like Jim. He’s been the local postman forever and he is a kind man. Dan used to joke that he fancied me but he’s fifty if he’s a day and I’ve never seen him look at me in that way. He’s like the street’s uncle. I also remember Pamela from toddler group. She’s got a good heart and I’ve always liked Doly from the shop. Woody and her daughter Sadia are good friends too and we sometimes help each other out with school pick-ups. The whole group had a lovely feel and when Guy turned up and Caroline proposed a toast, I got carried along by it. Plus, I thought it would be a new hobby, something to make me more interesting in my bid to save my marriage. Singing was sexy – people love singers. Look at Taylor Swift and Rihanna – they had more men interested in them than I’d had jaffa cakes and I’ve eaten a lot of jaffa cakes.

However, one week later, in the sober light of day and with a viable ‘get-out’ clause, I felt complete relief. To be honest, I hadn’t felt like going anywhere much since Dan left. I felt vulnerable, as if everyone could see through my skin to the raw pain just below the surface. I knew that Caroline already had me down as a complete fruit-loop and I wasn’t ready for another dose of ‘my life’s so much better than yours’. Plus, I’d really gone off brushing my hair and making an effort. I figured I could get away with it. Writers are supposed to be pasty-faced weirdos with an aversion to socialising. They’re too busy creating to bother with other people or deodorant.