Ella Harper - Pieces of You.

Patricia gathered up her bag and locked the shop door. The fact of the matter was, she had this prickle of resentment she didn’t know what to do with, and laying it at her daughter-in-law’s door for not giving her a grandchild gave the feeling a more comfortable home. It was unfair, of course it was. And it might not be accurate. But with Nell in her early twenties and far too focused on her fashion degree to think about kids, Luke and Lucy were Patricia’s best bet.

Patricia pushed all thoughts of a baby to one side. She was being selfish and that wasn’t fair. She needed to keep busy – she needed a few projects of her own to focus on. Patricia glanced back at the shop window. The pots really were beautiful. Perhaps she could do a course, making pots and dishes and things she could use when she baked. Yes, a course of some kind. That would keep her busy.

‘It’s ridiculously hot,’ Dee said, fanning her pink face with Dan’s worn straw hat. ‘It’s September; it shouldn’t be this hot. I was hoping for sunny with a light breeze. God, this is what the bloody menopause is going to be like, isn’t it? Mood swings, hot flushes and vaginal dryness. Bloody hell .’

I glanced at her in amusement. We hadn’t even hit our forties yet. Besides, Dee had a cheek moaning about the heat. I was absolutely roasting in a loose-fitting purple maxi dress with one of those elongated cardigans over the top. Paranoia about someone spotting my tiny bump was to blame for my sweaty hairline, but honestly, I was about to melt.

Hearing my mobile beeping, I groped in my handbag.

‘Who’s that?’ Dee jammed Dan’s hat on her head, squashing what I knew to be an expensive blow dry. She looked ravishing in it, as she did in everything she wore. ‘Not Luke cancelling, I hope. Frankie’s got her heart set on playing swingball with him all afternoon.’

‘He wouldn’t miss it for the world. No, he’s just going to be a bit late.’ I took out my sunglasses. Perhaps I could slip off my cardigan when everyone had downed a few of Dan’s pungent sangrias.

‘I suppose, now that Luke’s a senior paramedic, he can’t always just dash out of the door, even for Frankie,’ Dee drawled. ‘Why can’t I have a hero for a husband instead of a gallery owner? It doesn’t sound half as sexy. Art … saving lives. There’s no comparison.’

‘Being a paramedic isn’t sexy. Luke comes home covered in blood most nights.’

‘Don’t spoil it. But seriously. You two are such a couple of romantics.’ Dee sounded wistful.

I glanced at her. ‘You and Dan have a brilliant time together.’

‘Oh yes, we have fun,’ Dee replied vaguely. ‘But still …’ She turned her attention to Dan, who was holding court on the patio wearing torn Bermuda shorts and a navy T-shirt. ‘Look at him. He’s a bloody caveman.’

I studied Dan. He was wielding a beer and a ridiculously large pair of tongs as he told a joke to a group of men in matching short and T-shirt combos.

I smiled. ‘He’s definitely “Man in Charge of Fire.”’

‘Ug, ug. When Luke gets here, there’ll be lots of references to “man tools.”’

‘And about his gigantic barbecue being compensation for a tiny nob.’

Dee’s mouth twitched. ‘Men,’ she said indulgently.

‘Men,’ I agreed. We laughed.

Luke and Dan were proper mates. Although their friendship had been brought about by the closeness of their wives, it was a union in its own right nonetheless; games of pool, putting the world to rights over beers, jokey texts at all hours that caused them to snigger like schoolboys. Standard stuff, but there was genuine respect and affection there too … Maybe even a teeny bit of ‘hetero man love,’ as Dee called it.

Dee flapped her face once more. ‘Right. More people. I need to air kiss and host. I might even proper kiss a few of them, if they’re dishy.’

I watched her as she set off down the lawn, her hot-pink prom dress flouncing around her knees. I sighed a breath of relief; Dan’s sangria was legendary – laced heavily with booze, vodka-spiked fruit bobbing in it – and I couldn’t possibly drink it. Dee was practically a member of the booze police and I knew she would be the most challenging person to keep my pregnancy-dictated avoidance of alcohol from, because drinking was a thing we did together, but, luckily, she was too busy circulating and introducing people as though they were on speed dates to notice.

My friendship with Dee – or Delilah, as she was known back then – began eight years ago, the summer I’d begun working at a book shop. We met in the deli next door, bonding over deliciously pungent houmous, and we cemented our friendship on a night out, working our way through the cocktail menu in a local bar. This, I learnt, was a normal night out for Dee, but it wasn’t for me. I rarely drank in those days, nor was I much of a girl’s girl. I wanted to be, but I struggled, and Dee was the extrovert required to bring me out of my shell. She introduced me to grown-up drinking: Porn Star Martinis (‘because they come with a champagne chaser – it’s the future, darling’) and Salt ‘n’ Peppa Vodkas (neat vodka, with three olives providing the salt element, and a sprinkle of black pepper). Better still, she introduced me to her gaggle of loud friends and, after a few months spent in their company, I found I had gained confidence, although I’d never be Dee.

I glanced around Dee’s sprawling garden. It was reasonably well looked after and, like their house, it was very much a family space. Dominated by climbing frames, swings and, the pièce de résistance , a vast treehouse, erected with much ugging and hammering by Dan in another macho moment.

I waved at Patricia and Nell as they strolled into the garden, glad to see people I recognised. Dee charmed men and women effortlessly and, being the total opposite myself, I envied Dee her enigmatic allure.

I was one of life’s ‘growers,’ a person others tended to need to get to know, rather than instantly warmed to. Dee had a number of opinionated theories about why this was the case, most of them blaming my ‘kooky’ parents and lack of siblings. She probably made a good point, but, whatever the reason, I was still really shy, despite the boost knowing Dee had given me. This, I’m told, translates to ‘stand-offish’ on initial contact. This fact distresses me – it’s not the way I want to be seen – and I have tried to work on it, but it feels forced. And I admit: it’s sometimes easy to forget to make the effort when Luke has enough charisma for the both of us.

Dee joined me again, raising an eyebrow at my still-full glass. Damn. I should have tossed it in the bushes.

‘Drink up, Luce. You’re lagging behind.’

‘Sorry.’ I made to sip it, close to blurting out my baby news. But we had agreed not to talk about the baby until the twenty-week scan this time. Our secret weighed heavily on my shoulders; Dee was my best friend and it didn’t feel natural to keep this from her.

I glanced around for a suitable conversation point to distract Dee. I spotted a woman in a low-cut dress that showed off a plethora of daring tattoos and knew I was safe for the moment.

‘Who’s that ? I haven’t seen her at one of your shindigs before.’

Dee obliged with a peppy observation. ‘ That is the wife of one of the artists at Dan’s gallery. She’s about to feature in her husband’s explicit nude collection, would you believe?’ Dee flipped her sunglasses down on to her nose. ‘I must’ve been drinking champagne at one of Dan’s events because I don’t even remember inviting her … don’t say it, Luce; I know I can’t handle the bubbles. But honestly. We can see her bum cleavage from here, so I’m not sure the nude paintings will show us anything new. Apart from her fairy parts, perhaps – do you think she has those tattooed as well?’