Cathy Hopkins - Dancing Over the Hill - The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List

‘Well yes, but it’s addressed to me.’

‘Since when has your mail been private?’

‘It’s not. Junk mail,’ I said as I opened the first envelope. ‘See, nothing important.’

Matt looked out of the French doors to the garden. He seemed miffed.

10.45 a.m. Matt appeared at the study door.

‘Anyone call for me? I thought I heard the phone go.’

‘Dad again. He forgot to tell me to listen to something on the radio.’

‘Oh. What was that?’

‘Some programme about children’s writers.’

‘Anything else in the mail?’

I picked it out of the bin and handed it to him. ‘Here. Only catalogues we don’t really want. You can take them if you like.’

He did.

He seemed miffed.

11 a.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, where are you?’ Matt called.

‘On the loo.’

I heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘Where do you keep the Sellotape?’

‘Desk drawer in my study, second one down.’

‘Righto.’

11.15 a.m. Hall. Matt appeared on the stairs, still in his dressing gown. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘I can see that. Where?’

‘Supermarket.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Car keys. Have you seen them?

‘No. What time will you be back?’

‘Not sure. I might go for coffee afterwards.’

‘Oh. Who with?’

‘Matt, when have you ever taken an interest in who I go for coffee with? And when are you going to get dressed?’

‘No need to be prickly.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m going for coffee with Carol from my yoga class.’

‘Do I know her?’

‘No. She’s new to the group.’

‘What time will you be back?’

‘About one.’

1 p.m. Home. Hall. ‘How was the supermarket?’ asked Matt. He’d dressed but not shaved.

‘Same as ever.’

‘Good. Good. So. What’s for lunch?’

‘Lunch? I …’

Matt sighed. ‘I get it. You just grab something quick. Don’t worry. I’ll fix myself something.’

He seemed miffed.

2 p.m. Study. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Matt from the corridor.

‘Lizzie.’

‘Anything interesting to say?’

‘Not really. Just chatting over whether I’d got any new ideas. She promised she’d look over anything I write.’

‘And have you got new ideas?’

‘No. That’s what I’m trying to do now, so that Lizzie and I have something to discuss next time I see her.’

‘Right. OK. I’ll let you get on.’

Back to new ideas, but first a quick look at Facebook. Oo. Someone had posted a new clip demonstrating The Art of Mongolian Flute Singing. Felt compelling need to watch all four minutes of it.

4 p.m. Study. Deleted all the rubbish I’d written after the words ‘New Ideas’.

Opened new page. Wrote ‘Options’.

Write brilliant, mind-blowing and original children’s book.

Sell our house, downsize, have some money in the bank.

It’s a no-brainer. Called two estate agents to come and value the house.

‘Want a cup of tea?’ Matt called up the stairs.

‘Sure, but I’ll make it. I need a break.’

I went down into the kitchen, where Matt had parked himself again, on the stool at the island, looking at his laptop. I put the kettle on. He got off the stool and came up behind me and reached into the bread bin.

I stepped back as he stepped forward.

‘Oops, sorry,’ we both said.

I found the teabags, then moved cups onto the island at the same time he opened the fridge door, which banged my knee. We stepped into each other again. ‘Oops, sorry.’

I reached into the bread bin and got out crackers.

‘Oh, what are you having?’ he asked.

‘Snack. Bit of cheese on a cracker.’

‘Make me one, will you?’

‘What do you want on it?’

He sighed. ‘I’m getting in your way, aren’t I?’

‘No, not at all,’ I lied .

5 p.m. Bathroom. I could hear shuffling outside the door. ‘Where are you?’ called Matt.

‘Loo. What do you want?’

‘What’s for supper?’

‘Supper? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Sea bass, green beans OK?’

‘We had fish last night.’

‘Can we talk about this when I’m out of the bathroom?’

‘Oh. Course.’

I finished what I was doing then opened the door. Matt was leaning against the wall.

‘OK. Supper,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you want. I tended to eat light in the week when you were away. Something healthy.’

‘Light? OK. No, don’t bother about me then. I’ll see what’s there and sort myself out.’

5.45 p.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, are you in there again?’

‘ Yes . I’m having a shower.’

‘I’ve just found a good website about downsizing. I’ll send you the link.’

‘Right. OK. Thanks.’ A minute later. ‘Are you still out there Matt?’

‘Erm yes, just—’

‘ Go away.’

6 p.m. Bedroom. ‘Cait?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’

‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’

‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’

‘Right.’

And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.

6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him , I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.

‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’

‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’

Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’

‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’

‘Happened when?’

‘You lost your job.’

‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’

‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’

He gave me a puzzled look.

I felt miffed.

8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.

Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.

‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook . Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.

I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.

I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that , I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.

‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’

I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.

Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.