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

I gave him a weak smile. He put an arm around my shoulder and kissed the top of my head. ‘Can’t I just marry you?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘That would be fine in terms of the no-sex thing but trust me, I’m a bitch in the morning. You deserve better, my gorgeous girl.’

I smiled. Maybe Ed was right about Dan and me. Maybe I’d been neglecting my own husband, forgetting that we needed to go out and have some fun. Plenty of couples hit these kinds of bumps in the road, so maybe I just needed to up my game a little. I started to think about where we could go – somewhere special with history. Perhaps we could go to the pub where we’d first met.

It had been just down the road from my college in town, a dark cavernous place with a huge bar on one side and uncomfortable tables and chairs on the other. I’d gone for a drink after lectures with a boy I fancied but who spent most of the time looking either at my breasts or over my shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to. In a desperate attempt to get his attention, I’d put ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ by Savage Garden on the jukebox with the intention of singing it to him. Yeah, I know. I’m one classy chick but desperate times and all that.

Just as the intro began, he’d downed his lager and declared, ‘Need a slash,’ before disappearing to the toilets. I took a large gulp of the cider I was drinking, even though I hated it and tried desperately not to look like Norma No-Mates.

Suddenly I was aware of a guy next to me at the bar. He was singing along to the track and much to my surprise, was looking straight at me as he did. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from men so I looked away, pretending that it wasn’t happening, at which point, he grabbed my hand and continued with his full-on serenade. His singing was terrible but I was impressed that he knew all the words. Plus, he looked a bit like the guy from Savage Garden and he grinned at me with such dark-eyed intensity that I felt an unexpected urge to snog his face off. It was one of those moments when you find yourself thinking, I’m starring in the movie of my life here. When he finished singing, he kissed my hand and offered to buy me another drink. I accepted, ordering a glass of dry white wine because I detected that my life was about to change and I needed to assume a more grown-up persona. Fortunately, the other boy had found someone more interesting to talk to at the back of the pub and never returned. I woke up the following morning with Dan next to me and a hangover of epic proportions. I never usually slept with boys after a first date, much less a first meeting, but it just seemed to happen as if it was meant to. We’d barely had a night apart since. Until now.

So maybe that was the answer. We had to re-engage with our past, to remind ourselves of the feelings that had brought us together, to recapture some of our wasted youth.

‘Thank you, Ed. I appreciate your advice and support. You’re a good bestie,’ I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘Always here for you, angel.’ He smiled.

I sighed. ‘What a loss you are to the heterosexual female population.’

Ed grinned. ‘If I had a pound for every time someone has told me that.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You’d have a pound?’

‘Har-de-fuckity-har. Now are we going to do any work today or what?’

I popped another brownie into my mouth. ‘Ab-fer-lutely,’ I said through a mouthful of chocolate deliciousness. ‘Fo me wha yoo got.’

Ed shook his head. ‘If only the fans of Natalie Garfield could see her at this moment.’

‘I fink you’ll find vey’d be very understanding – ’specially ver muvvas,’ I sputtered.

Ed shot me a disapproving look. ‘Are your fingers clean?’ he asked, picking up his large black art case.

‘Courth,’ I answered, wiping them hastily on my trousers.

‘Go and wash them,’ he ordered, unzipping the case.

‘’Kay, Dad.’ I carried our mugs into the kitchen. ‘Want another cuppa while I’m out here?’

‘No thanks, I’m all caffeined out.’

‘I’m just going to have one more,’ I said, flicking the kettle into life. I stared out of the window. It was early May and the garden was just beginning to bloom its way into colour. The apple tree looked particularly beautiful as it emerged into blossom.

I could remember the day we’d bought that tree. Woody had been three years old and Dan had decided that supermarket fruit and veg were poisoning his son. One Saturday morning, he had suggested a trip to the garden centre so that we could start to plant our own. It had been a beautiful spring day and I could remember Woody toddling happily between the rows of plants, pausing to point or shout, ‘Dat!’ at anything that interested him. It was one of those rare family outings where everything had gone to plan. Woody had napped in the car so that he was smiling and laughing throughout the visit, we had enjoyed carrot cake and coffee in the café (always a necessary pit stop for me) and Dan had been excited about the possibility of becoming the next Monty Don. He had filled our trolley with all manner of plants – courgettes, peas, sweetcorn, peppers, tomatoes and aubergines – before heaving three large bags of compost onto the space underneath. He had put his arm around me and kissed me and I remember feeling the sun on my face, hearing the gentle hiss of a sprinkler and the sound of Woody giggling with delight at a porcelain garden frog. It was a tiny moment and then Dan had disappeared with a wink.

‘Just got to get one more thing.’ He returned five minutes later, grinning and struggling with the tree in his arms. ‘I’ve always wanted an apple tree,’ he explained.

‘How are we going to fit it in the car?’ I laughed.

We drove home, singing along to ‘I Gotta Feeling’ on the radio, with our new tree poking out of the boot of our tiny VW Polo. I felt my heart sink at the memory as I gazed out at the tree, now festooned in cloud-like blossom.

‘You’re not moping are you?’ called Ed from the dining room. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

Damn him and his insightful perception. I had known Ed for over ten years and he knew me almost as well as Dan did. My publisher had paired us as a writer-andillustrator team for the very first Ned Bobbin book and we had worked together ever since. He was a bit like a favourite brother, collaborator and best friend all rolled into one. He was the first person I’d called after Dan left too. Admittedly, I didn’t call him until the next morning. I hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone before that. The ‘almost getting myself killed’ aspect to that morning had made me realise that I needed someone to talk to and, as was often the case when life got tricky or sad, it was Ed that I called.

‘I’m not moping. I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’

‘Very well,’ answered Ed. ‘Anyway, come and look at Ned in his super-hero outfit. I think he looks rather dashing.’

‘On my way,’ I replied, pouring boiling water into my mug. There was a knock at the door. I could tell almost immediately that the person on the other side was impatient. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock at a door. We have one of those very loud metal door-knockers that always makes me jump. I would have liked a doorbell really but we’d never got round to installing one and at least the knocker got my attention. Whoever it was tapped it loudly and rapidly so that I slopped my tea at the sound.

‘Damn, blast and bollocks!’ I cried.

‘Shall I get it?’ offered Ed.

‘Would you mind? Thanks.’ I reached for a cloth. I heard Ed talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognise. They were speaking very loudly as people often do when they meet for the first time and are trying to size each other up. I heard Ed say: