I am faced with a circle of blank stares.

‘Do suggest an alternative theme if you would like, Leena,’ Betsy says frostily.

I glance at Jackson again. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded, and there’s something so very cocky about that posture that my plan to forbear and win this lot around before I make any changes goes right out the window.

‘How about “Medieval”?’ I say, thinking of Game of Thrones, which I’ve been re-bingeing since I got to Hamleigh. Ethan always laughed at me for collecting my favourite shows on DVD, but who’s laughing now that I’m in the land of no superfast broadband? ‘We could serve mead, and have storytelling “bards” for kids to listen to, and the May King and Queen could wear beautiful gowns with flowing sleeves and flower wreaths, like King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.’ I’m not actually sure that King Arthur was medieval, but this isn’t the time for pedantry. ‘And we could have falconry and jousting, and the music could be all harps and lutes. I’m imagining flower garlands draped between lamp posts, stalls overflowing with fresh fruit and sugary treats, bonfires, hog roasts …’

‘Hmm. Well. Shall we have a vote, then?’ Betsy says. ‘Leena’s plan to drag us all back to the Middle Ages, or Jackson’s idea that we’d all by and large settled on last week?’

I let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘That’s kind of a leading question, Betsy.’

‘Hands up for Leena’s idea,’ Betsy says, very deliberately.

Everyone looks at each other. Nobody raises their hand.

‘And hands up for Jackson’s idea,’ says Betsy.

All hands go up.

‘Well! Good try, Leena,’ Betsy says with a smile.

‘Give me a couple of weeks,’ I say. ‘I’ll do a proper thought shower, come up with concrete ideas, pull together something to show you all. Let’s vote on it properly at the next official May Day meeting. After all, can May Day business be settled at a Neighbourhood Watch meeting?’

Betsy’s smile wavers.

‘That is a good point,’ says Roland. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’

‘Wouldn’t be proper,’ I echo. ‘Absolutely, Roland.’

‘All right, then. Two weeks,’ Betsy says.

I glance at Jackson. This isn’t about point-scoring, obviously, but I totally just scored one, and I’d quite like him to have noticed. He looks back at me, still sitting back in his chair with his legs apart like a manspreader on the tube, looking just as amused and unfazed as he has all session.

‘That’s all, everybody,’ Betsy says. ‘And Leena, remember you’re bringing biscuits next time.’

‘Absolutely. No problem.’

‘And that’s your chair,’ Roland says, nodding helpfully at me. ‘Remember that, too.’

‘Thanks, Roland. I will.’

‘Oh, and Leena?’ says Betsy. ‘I think you forgot to put Eileen’s bins out yesterday.’

I breathe out slowly through my nose.

They’re only trying to help. Probably.

‘Thank you, Betsy,’ I say. ‘Good to know.’

There’s a general scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet as everyone stands and makes their way to the door. Beside me, Kathleen wakes with a start.

‘Shit.’ She scrabbles to check her watch. ‘Where’ve we got to? Have we done the war on squirrels?’ She clocks my grumpy expression. ‘God,’ she says, ‘did the squirrels win?’

12

Eileen

This just won’t work. I’m going to call Leena and tell her it was daft of us to think we could swap lives like this, and then I’m going home. We can have hot chocolate and laugh about it, and we’ll go back to where – and who – we ought to be.

I am absolutely settled on this plan until Fitz walks into the living room.

‘Holy guacamole,’ he says, stopping stock still. ‘Eileen! You look stunning!’

‘I’m not going,’ I tell him firmly, bending to begin unlacing my shoes. ‘It’s silly.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Fitz swipes my slippers up from beneath the coffee table before I can put them on. ‘You are not wasting that killer blow-dry on an afternoon in,’ he says, waving a warning finger at my hair. ‘You look like a million dollars, Mrs Cotton, and you have to meet this Tod guy!’

I told Fitz about my impending date last night. Or rather, this morning – I was getting up to start the day and he was coming in from an evening out on the town. He seemed rather the worse for wear – it was half past five in the morning – so I’d assumed he wouldn’t remember the conversation, but unfortunately his memory is better than I’d hoped.

I shift uncomfortably on the sofa, my best pleated skirt digging into my hips. My back twinges. ‘I’m too old for this,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t be doing with these …’ I wave a hand at my stomach.

Fitz smiles slyly. ‘Butterflies?’ he says.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ I tell him, but I can’t come up with a better alternative.

He shifts up next to me on the sofa. ‘Now, I don’t know you very well, Eileen, but I know Leena, and the impression I get is that many of Leena’s qualities come from you. And Leena hates failing at things.’

‘This isn’t failing!’ I protest.

‘You’re right,’ Fitz says, ‘you’ve got to try in order to fail. And you’re not even trying.’

I bristle. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ I tell him.

‘Is it working?’

‘Of course it bloody well is. Now hand me those shoes, please.’

*

I nearly lose my nerve again on the journey to the café. I even open my mouth to tell the cab driver to turn back. But as we crawl through the traffic, a woman cycles by with dark curls beneath her helmet, and I think of Carla. She’d love seeing her old grandma going on a date. And I bet she’d tell me it’d be a crying shame to let a handsome West End actor slip through my fingers.

I worry about finding Tod in the café, but in the end he’s not difficult to spot. He stands out the way wealthy people stand out everywhere: his clothes hang a little too perfectly from his frame, and his skin has a glow to it, as though he’s wearing make-up.

Oh, he is wearing make-up. Well I never – I suppose he must have just come from the theatre, but still … What would Wade say?

‘Eileen?’ he asks me. I realise I am peering at his face, and feel myself blushing. That’s the second time I’ve blushed this week. I must get a grip on myself.

‘Yes,’ I say, stretching my hand out to shake his.

He gets up to pull my chair out for me. He moves very nimbly for a man of his age, and I catch a waft of cologne as he comes past me. It smells of woodsmoke and oranges, and I’d say it’s probably every bit as expensive as his dark wool coat.

‘You are just as beautiful as your picture,’ he says, settling back in the chair across from me with a smile. His teeth are startlingly white.

‘Now, I know that’s not true, because my granddaughter chose that picture, and it’s at least ten years out of date,’ I say. I wince at how prim I sound, but Tod just laughs.