‘So it will be just like every working day, except more so,’ said Pearl.

‘Oh Christ, all children’s birthdays are like that,’ said Caroline. ‘Hell on wheels!’

Graeme tried to feel as confident as he knew he looked – he’d checked himself out in the mirror of the BMW just before he stepped out of the car, ignoring a passing child who jeered at him as he did so. Nonetheless, although normally he felt like a tiger at meetings, aggressive and confident that he would be the top man, today he was nervous. Undoubtedly, nervous. It was getting ridiculous. He was Graeme Denton. He didn’t get silly about a girl, ever. He still hadn’t told Issy his plan, But every day Kalinga Deniki wanted to know his progress, were pushing for planning applications and the green light. They had already had preliminary surveyor’s reports and now he was meeting with Mr Barstow, the landlord for most of Pear Tree Court.

Mr Barstow didn’t bother with the formalities when he walked in. He extended his small plump hand and grunted. Graeme nodded, ordering his new assistant, Dermot, to start up the Powerpoint. Dermot, nine years younger, a total squit who dressed like a spiv and kept trying to get on to all of Graeme’s projects, reminded Graeme of himself when he started out. Graeme began his presentation, talking about how a bulk buyout of both occupied and vacant space would be a great thing for Barstow, at some bulk discount to KD. By the third graph, Mr Barstow’s eyes were glazing over. He waved his hands at them.

‘OK, OK. Write the figure down on a piece of paper.’

Graeme paused, and decided to do exactly that. Mr Barstow glanced at it contemptuously and shook his head. ‘Nah. Anyway, got someone in number four. Running a little caff. Making not a bad fist of it either. She’s bringing up the prices around the place.’

Graeme inwardly rolled his eyes. This was all he needed; Issy was actually making his job harder for him.

‘She’s coming to the end of her six-month contract though. We’ll make it worth your while.’

Graeme felt a momentary twinge. He shouldn’t know when Issy’s contract was up, but he did of course. Mr Barstow raised his eyebrows. ‘So you’ve talked to her about it then? Well, I suppose, if she’s amenable …’

Graeme didn’t change his expression, either to imply he’d spoken to her or not. It was none of Mr Barstow’s business.

‘Don’t know how I’ll get that ironmonger out though. He’s been there longer than I have,’ reflected the landlord. He rubbed one of his chins. ‘Don’t know how he turns a dime.’

Graeme didn’t care either way. ‘I’m sure we can make him an offer he can’t refuse.’

Mr Barstow looked doubtful again.

‘I think you’d better keep writing on that envelope, mate.’

Chapter Sixteen

Some scones. Scones, Issy. Scones.

260 oz all-purpose flour

4 oz flour.

sprinkle of flour

50 oz white sugar

6 oz brown sugar

6 oz salt

Issy put the letter down and sighed. It was heartbreaking. Awful. She was heading up there with some baking of her own; maybe the sight of some fresh cakes would help. Issy knew it was going to be a pain to carry them all up there on the bus but she didn’t care. There were forty-seven residents (although the numbers changed quite often, she knew) and thirty staff at the home, and she was taking them each a cupcake and that was that. She had thought of asking Graeme if he wanted to drive her up and meet her grandad, but when she’d gone into the sitting room he’d immediately closed down the window on the computer he’d been working on and been so short with her that she’d retreated instantly – once more, she thought crossly, a visitor in what was now supposed to be her own home. If Graeme wasn’t so grumpy all the time she’d have considered suggesting that they start to look for somewhere new. On the other hand, it wasn’t like she was bringing in such a fortune that they could massively upgrade together. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to sell the old place, even though she suspected that when she was, Helena would buy it in a heartbeat.

When she viewed these problems it was almost like she was thinking about someone else’s life, so disconnected did it seem – sell her flat, buy somewhere new. On the other hand, she had moved. Issy thought back to last Sunday, when she’d finally met Graeme’s mum. His parents had split up when he was small – he was an only child – and she’d been really curious to meet his mother, especially after the phone call she’d had from her own.

‘Issy!’ Marian had hollered, as if she was talking to her from Florida without a telephone. ‘Isabel! Listen! I’m not sure how your grandad is. Could you pop in and see?’

Issy had swallowed back everything she might have said: actually she spent every Sunday there already, and had been warning her mother for weeks via email that he wasn’t himself at all.

‘I’ve seen him, Mum,’ she settled on.

‘Oh, good. Good. That’s good.’

‘I think … I think he’d really like to see you. Are you coming back? Any time soon?’ Issy tried not to sound sarcastic, but it was completely wasted on her mother anyway.

‘Oh, I don’t know, darling, Brick is so busy at work …’ Her mother’s voice tailed off. ‘And how are you, sweetheart?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Issy. ‘I’ve moved in with Graeme.’

Marian had never met Graeme. Issy thought she would keep it like that for as long as possible.

‘Oh, wonderful, darling! OK, be careful! Bye!’

So it was little wonder Issy was looking forward to meeting her possible future mother-in-law. In her mind’s eye she was a nice, slightly rounded, eager-to-please lady with Graeme’s handsome dark hair and twinkling eyes, and they could share recipes and bond. Maybe she’d have liked a daughter in her life. At any rate, it was with some excitement that she’d dressed up in a pretty summery frock, and taken along her lightest Victoria sponge as a gift.

Mrs Denton lived in an immaculate modern townhouse on a group of streets that looked exactly alike in Canary Wharf. The house was tiny with low ceilings, but had all mod cons – Graeme had found it for her off-plan.

‘Hello,’ said Issy warmly, looking past her at the pristine hallway. There were no pictures on the walls, apart from an enormous one of Graeme as a schoolboy, and no clutter of any kind anywhere. ‘Ooh, I can see where your son gets his tidiness from!’