‘Um,’ said Issy. ‘I make cakes.’

Mr Barstow grunted.

‘Oh yeah? Got any?’

Issy had been hoping for this. She opened the tin. As well as the lemon getting-what-you-want cake, which few could resist trying, she’d gone for a selection of cupcakes to show her range: white chocolate and fresh cloudberry (the acid of the cloudberry neutralized the overweening sweetness of the white chocolate if you got the balance right, which, after extensive experimentation last winter, Issy had, but it was very much a seasonal cupcake); cinnamon and orange peel, which tasted more Christmassy than Christmas cake; and a sweet, fresh, irresistible spring vanilla, decorated with tiny roses. She’d brought four of each.

She could see Caroline raising her eyebrows at the lemon cake, which looked cracked and messy. As she’d known he would, Mr Barstow stuck a fat hairy hand in the box and took a piece, as well as a vanilla cupcake.

Before anyone else dared move, he took a bite out of each of them. Issy held her breath as he chewed, slowly and deliberately, his eyes closed as if he were a top wine taster at work. Finally he swallowed.

‘All right,’ he said, pointing straight at her. ‘You. Don’t muck it up, love.’

Then he picked up his briefcase, turned round and left the office.

For Caroline, it felt like the final straw. Issy went from disliking her to feeling very sorry, particularly as Caroline would never even know that it was her who’d given Issy the idea in the first place.

‘It’s just, the kids are going to nursery and school now, and that shit’s messing me about and I just … I just don’t know what to do with myself,’ she sobbed. ‘And I’ve got one of those big houses just behind the shop and it would be perfect, and I thought I would show him. All my girlfriends said it would be great.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Issy. ‘My friends keep telling me it’s a terrible idea.’

Caroline stared at her as if just realizing something. A thought struck her.

‘Of course my friends lie all the time,’ she said. ‘They didn’t even tell me the Bastard was having an affair, even though they all knew about it.’ Caroline swallowed painfully. ‘Do you know, he takes her to lapdancing classes? With his own colleagues? On company expenses?’ She let out a strangulated giggle. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. Obviously I’m boring.’

This was directed at Des, who’d just let out a huge yawn.

‘No, no, not at all, colicky baby,’ stuttered Des. ‘I’m … I’m really sorry, Mrs Hanford, I don’t know what to say.’

Caroline sighed. ‘Try saying, “I’m a weasel estate agent who double-let the property.’’’

‘Uh, for legal reasons, I can’t …’

‘Would you like a cake?’ said Issy, not sure what else to say.

Caroline snorted. ‘I don’t eat cake! I haven’t eaten cake in fourteen years.’

‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘Don’t worry. Des, I’ll leave a couple for you and take the rest home.’

Caroline looked longingly at the tin.

‘But the children might like them.’

‘When they get home from school,’ said Issy, agreeing. ‘But they have white sugar in them.’

‘He can pay the dental bills,’ snarled Caroline.

‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘How many would they like?’

Caroline licked her lips. ‘They’re … they’re very greedy children.’

Slightly discomfited, Issy passed over the whole tin.

‘Thanks,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ll … I’ll bring the tin back to the shop, shall I?’

‘Yes please,’ said Issy. ‘And … good luck with finding a venue.’

‘“Get a little job,” he said, “to distract yourself.” Can you believe that’s what he said to me? Can you believe it? The Bastard.’

Issy patted her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Get a little bloody job. Bye, Desmond.’

And Caroline banged the door on her way out.

Des and Issy looked at one another.

‘Do you think she’s scoffing them all in her Range Rover right now?’ said Des.

‘I’m worried about her,’ said Issy. ‘I think I need to make sure she’s OK.’

‘I’m not sure she’d appreciate it,’ said Des. ‘I’ll give it a couple of days and ring her.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes,’ Des said stoically. ‘And now, you and I have quite a lot of paperwork to go over.’

Issy obediently followed him through to the back of the office.

‘Did she really take that entire tin of cakes?’ said Des sadly. He hadn’t liked the look of the lemon cake, but the rest of it had seemed delicious.

‘I’m sure I have a spare in tinfoil in my handbag,’ said Issy, who’d been saving it for a celebratory or commiserative treat, whichever was needed. ‘Would you like it?’

He did.

Issy arrived home with a bottle of champagne. Helena, who got back after her shift weary after stitching up a bottle-throwing incident that had got well out of control, suddenly perked up. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘You got it!’

‘It was Gramps’s cakes,’ said Issy with feeling. ‘I can’t believe he’s repaying me like this for putting him in a home.’

‘You didn’t put him in a home,’ said Helena, exasperated to be having this conversation yet again. ‘You moved him somewhere safe and comfortable. What, you want him here, messing about with your Bosch oven?’

‘No,’ said Issy, reluctantly, ‘but …’

Helena made an ‘enough’ gesture with her hands. Sometimes it was very reassuring, Issy thought, that she was so bossy and knew her own mind.

‘To Gramps,’ said Helena, raising her glass. ‘And to you! And the success of the Cupcake Café! Full of hot men. Do hot men go to cake shops?’

‘Yes,’ said Issy. ‘With their husbands.’

The two friends clinked glasses and hugged. Suddenly, Issy’s phone rang. She moved to pick it up.

‘Maybe it’s your first customer,’ said Helena. ‘Or that scary-sounding landlord, calling to threaten to whack your kneecaps as a warning.’