Maddie Please - The Summer of Second Chances - The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

In the past couple of years I suppose we’d just got a bit out of practice, with Ian away so much on business. And for want of something else to do, I’d recently gone back to part-time work. Not for the money, but because I was bored. There are only so many times you can decorate a house and move the furniture round.

We’d made lots of friends who included us in their busy circle of golf, fussy dinner parties and meaningless celebrations. Most of the men were more Ian’s age than mine, and many were involved in property development or building, but I was cultivating a group of my own too. Younger second wives and girlfriends keen to shop and have fun and go on spa breaks. Spa breaks! Wouldn’t that be nice now? And best of all, Jess had moved into our village, a sparky high-maintenance blonde with a taste for heels and spray tans and a laugh like Barbara Windsor. We’d instantly recognised a kindred spirit in each other even if I could never rival her for glamour. She was married to Greg, a meaty-looking man, and last year they had returned from several years living in Spain and bought The Grange, the biggest house for miles. Ian had nearly had kittens with his excitement.

After I was sure that Bryn was staying indoors, I found my handbag, took my cigarettes out to the garden and lit one. Always one to conform, I knew I shouldn’t smoke in someone else’s house; not that it would have mattered under the circumstances.

I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I went to brush some dead leaves off one of the garden chairs near the back door and sat down. It wasn’t fair, none of this was my fault, was it? And yet here I was, on my own, miles from anywhere, looking into a future that was uncertain to say the least.

I shook myself; self-pity had no place here, I was going to have to buck up my ideas. I couldn’t treat having a job as an antidote to boredom any longer. I couldn’t rely on Ian’s seemingly bottomless wallet or acquaintances that had bought me flowers and sent cards when it all happened but now shied away from me in case my bad fortune rubbed off on them.

I walked down to the end of the garden through the thick, neglected grass and tried to see if there was anything apart from rubbish and weeds. A bank of nettles had taken over one of the borders. Something else that I think was honeysuckle was curling bare tendrils around a dirty and unpainted wooden lattice. It was a mess. Perhaps I could do something out here when I had a moment? Perhaps there was more under the rich red soil than was apparent. I went back into the house and picked up all the junk mail that had stacked behind the front door. Nothing to do with pizza delivery or takeaway menus, I noticed. Leaflets about hedge cutting, the local parish magazine, details of refuse collection, a flyer from the local feed merchant telling me about special offers on hen coops and wire netting. Perhaps I would have some chickens.

I pictured myself wandering down the garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, the hens fat and feathery clustering around my ankles. For some reason I imagined myself wearing an old-fashioned wraparound apron over a flowery frock. Oh get a bloody grip! I had moved a few miles over the county border, not into the last century! It wasn’t that long ago I was hosting dinner parties in the latest season’s fashion. I’d been famous for my huge shoe collection. I hoped Age Concern in Taunton had appreciated them.

When I had finished decorating and styling Ian’s house for the second time, I had found a job working part time as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. I’d been on duty one Saturday morning when I met Greg Palmer. It was also the day I found out we were having a New Year’s Eve party.

There were several messages to deal with on the answerphone and a trail of people came through the doors with appointments or wanting repeat prescriptions. The phone rang almost continually. At about ten thirty there was a brief lull and after having made sure Dr Hawkins was occupied with a patient, I went to make more coffee. When I came back to my desk a tall figure was standing there, muffled up in an expensive-looking tweed coat and a cashmere scarf. He fired me a broad, white smile.

‘Greg Palmer to see Doctor Hawkins,’ he said.

I stabbed at a couple of computer keys. I hadn’t worked here long and I was quite capable of getting things wrong.

‘I don’t seem to have you on the system,’ I said at last.

‘No problem, princess. I saw the good doctor yesterday, he told me to pop in today to check everything was OK. Just tell him Greg Palmer is here.’ He winked and flashed me another smile, utterly confident of his success in circumventing our appointment system. It was a good thing the other receptionist, Daphne, wasn’t in my place. She would have sent him packing and enjoyed doing it too.

‘OK, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. Do take a seat.’ I spoke into the intercom. When I turned back he was still there, looking at me with a speculative gaze. He held out a large, tanned hand. A heavy gold bracelet clanked out from under his coat cuff.

‘You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Charlotte Calder? Ian’s partner?’

We shook hands.

‘I’m Jess’s husband. We’re looking forward to coming over on New Year’s Eve,’ he said. His eyes, startlingly blue in his tanned face, didn’t waver for a second. I had the uncomfortable feeling he might be imagining me with my clothes off.

I must have looked a bit blank for a moment. What bloody party?

‘New Year’s Eve?’

New Year’s Eve was weeks away. What the hell was Ian playing at?

Greg leaned a companionable elbow on the desk, and a blast of his aftershave punched me in the nose.

‘Yes, I saw Ian the other day up at the golf club and he mentioned you were thinking of having a party. Sounds good to me, and Jess is always up for a bash. He told me you worked here. I thought I would make myself known. Just popped in for a review of my war wound.’ He held out his left hand, which was bandaged. ‘I caught myself with the electric carving knife a couple of days ago. I called Simon and he popped out to patch me up. They do say you shouldn’t mix champagne and tools, don’t they?’

I don’t know how he managed to make this sentence sound suggestive, but he did.

‘How awful,’ I said, trying not to laugh. I shuffled some patient record cards into alphabetical order. ‘I bet that hurt.’

‘A bit of blood, just a nick on the side of my hand, that’s all.’ He winked at me again. ‘Still, it got me out of doing anything else, so not all bad. Jess is a bit of a madam in the kitchen. She likes things done her way and I’m not very biddable.’

To my relief Dr Hawkins’ surgery door opened and his patient hobbled out after him, her ankle heavily strapped up.

‘Feet up for a few days, Jill,’ Dr Hawkins bellowed at her, ‘let Sidney get the meals and feed the chickens. Ah, Greg!’ The two men shook hands; smiles all round. ‘How’s the hand?’

Dr Hawkins ushered Greg into his surgery and the door closed behind them. I dealt with Mrs Guthrie and made her a review appointment for next week. All the time I could hear loud male laughter from behind the closed door I was aware of someone fixing me with a basilisk stare from across the waiting room.

‘I was next,’ an old man grumbled from under his bobble hat. ‘I’ve got my leg here. I was definitely next. Who’s he to go in when I was next?’

‘I met your new bf Greg Palmer at the practice this morning,’ I said when I got back at lunchtime. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my handbag on the kitchen table. Ian was still in his dressing gown nursing a Friday night hangover, reading emails at the other end of the table. He raised an enquiring eyebrow like a young Roger Moore.