The frontage had been left dusty and uncared for, with pieces of old shelving strewn everywhere, along with mail for previous owners from yoga retreats, fair trade children’s clothing manufacturers, homeopathic societies and the local council. Issy waded through them.

‘Oh yes, I should probably have moved those,’ murmured Des, looking slightly embarrassed. You should have, thought Issy. If one of KD’s agents showed a property like that … Mind you, he did seem very tired.

‘Things busy in your line of work these days?’ she asked nonchalantly. Des looked down, stifling a yawn.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘They just repossessed our snazzy little cars.’

‘The little Minis with the rock bands stencilled on them?’ asked Issy in horror. They were a staple of bad London parking.

Des nodded. His wife had been furious.

‘But apart from that, amazing,’ he said, trying to pull it back together. ‘In fact, I’ve just taken an offer on this place, so if you wanted it you’d have to be quick.’

Issy narrowed her eyes.

‘Why are you showing it to me if someone else has already offered on it?’

Des cringed. ‘Well, you know. Want to keep the market buoyant. And I’m not sure if it’ll go through.’

Issy thought about the blonde woman. She’d seemed very sure.

‘The client is, ahem, just going through some “personal issues”,’ said Des. ‘And we do often find that an initial burst of enthusiasm for new ventures can … ahem, tail off when the settlement comes through. One way or the other.’

Issy raised her eyebrows.

‘And what were you thinking of doing with it?’ asked Des. ‘It has B/C/D permission.’

She looked around. She could visualize the whole thing – little mismatched tables and chairs; a bookshelf where people could bring books to exchange; the lovely low-slung glass catering desk where she could array her cupcakes in different flavours and pretty pastels, making sure there were cake stands in the windows to tempt people in off the road. Making up little gift presentation boxes for parties, maybe even weddings … could she cater on such a level, though? That was huge. Mind you, if she took someone on …

Issy realized through her reverie that Des was waiting for an answer.

‘Oh, I was thinking a little café,’ she said, feeling her ever-present blush rising to the surface. ‘Just something small.’

‘Oh, that’s a great idea!’ said Des enthusiastically.

Issy felt her heart leap. It couldn’t … she couldn’t really be serious about this, could she? Although, here she was …

‘Sausage sandwich and a cup of tea for a pound fifty. Perfect for round here. All the builders and commuters and council workers and nannies and that. Scone and jam a pound.’

His face had become quite animated.

‘Actually, I was thinking more … a kind of bakery place,’ she said. Des’s face fell.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘One of those poncey joints where they charge two fifty for a cup of coffee.’

‘Well, there’d be delicious cakes,’ said Issy.

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Des. ‘Actually the other bidder wants to open a café too, just like that.’

Issy thought back to the blonde woman. Hers would be nothing like that! she thought indignantly. Hers would be warm, and inviting, and cosy and indulgent and somewhere to come and enjoy yourself, not somewhere to come and feel like you were atoning for bad behaviour. Hers would be a lovely focal point for the community, not for people to neck raw carrots while typing on their BlackBerries. Yeah. Exactly!

‘I’ll take it!’ she said suddenly. The agent looked at her in surprise.

‘Don’t you want to know how much it is?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Issy, suddenly totally flustered. What on earth was she thinking? She wasn’t qualified to run a business! How could she manage? All she could do was bake cakes and that would never be enough, surely. Although how, a little voice inside her said, how will you ever know unless you try? And wouldn’t you like to be your own boss? And have your lovely cleaned-up, gorgeous local café in this perfect spot? And have people come from far and wide to taste your cupcakes and sit and relax for half an hour, read the paper, buy a gift, enjoy a little bit of peace and quiet? Wouldn’t that be a nice thing to do every day: sweeten people’s lives, give them a smile, feed them? Wasn’t that what she did in her life anyway; didn’t it make sense to take it to the next level? Didn’t it? Now she had this once-in-a-lifetime cash; this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, confused. ‘I’m jumping way ahead of the gun. Can I just have a brochure?’

‘Hmm,’ said Des. ‘Have you just got divorced by any chance?’

‘I wish,’ said Issy.

She studied the brochure for hours and hours. She downloaded forms from the internet; tried working out some rough costings on the backs of envelopes. She spoke to a small business adviser, and wondered about a cash-and-carry card. Issy felt so excited she couldn’t contain it. She hadn’t felt this alive in years. At the back of her mind, all she could hear was one thing: I could do this. I could really do this. What was stopping her?

The following Saturday, Issy made good use of the slow bus up to Gramps’s home; she worked on some calculations and schedules in her newly purchased notebook, and felt a little rising bubble of excitement. No. She mustn’t. It was a daft idea. Although, after all, when else was she going to have the chance to do something like this? On the other hand, would it be a total disaster? What would make her different from everyone else who had gone into that space and failed miserably?

The Oaks was an austere ex-stately home. The organization had done its best to keep some kind of a homey feel – the baronial hall remained intact. There had been money left over when Gramps had sold his bakeries and Helena had recommended the Oaks as the best of its kind. But still. There were handrails; the industrial cleaning scent; the wing-backed chairs. It was what it was.

Taking Issy up, the plump young nurse called Keavie was as kind as usual, but seemed a little distracted. ‘What’s up?’ asked Issy.

Keavie fidgeted. ‘You should know,’ she said, ‘he’s not having one of his better days.’