The Happy Home for Ladies: A heartwarming,uplifting novel about friendship and love. Michele Gorman

      ‘Davey, don’t you have other deliveries to get on with?’ I don’t feel like humouring him today. I forgot to defrost the lamb last night and now I’ve got to come up with something else for lunch. We had quiche yesterday. The women went for second helpings, but I can’t do it two days in a row.

      ‘You’re a tough one, Phoebes, but I love a challenge.’

      That must be why he never gives up. June is right. The more a woman plays hard to get, the more the bloke tries hard to get.

      And I hate when he calls me Phoebes. ‘Davey, really. You’re wasting energy on something you don’t even really want.’ I tuck a lock of hair back into my ponytail, catching a whiff of minty shampoo as I do. It makes a nice change from the usual pina colada scent of my dry shampoo. ‘You should aim higher,’ I tell him. ‘There must be better options around.’ Davey deserves someone who’s actually interested in him.

      ‘Not in my delivery area,’ Davey says. ‘Besides, I don’t mind a fuller-figured woman,’ he says. ‘And you’re not bad-looking, Phoebes. You might look hot if you made any effort.’

      ‘Thanks, I think, but I’m happy with the effort I make.’ I might not look like I’ve stepped from the pages of a magazine, unless that magazine is Foodservice Equipment Monthly. But I’m generally tidy and mostly clean. It’s not my fault that beauty standards are over the top. Perhaps expectations should tone down instead of expecting us to step up. Not everyone wants false lashes and statement lipstick, or to be filled, plucked, tucked, straightened, glossed or buffed.

      He stacks his plastic boxes to carry back to the truck. ‘Same time on Thursday?’

      ‘Yeah, thanks, Davey. See you later.’

      I know. I’ll do pizza. I was going to use the basil for a pesto pasta, but I can roast some vegetables and use it with the goat’s cheese. Maybe toast some pine nuts. Though Sophie won’t like the carbs in the base and she’s already told me off twice this week. The butter in my home-made granola offended her and she hasn’t had enough purple in her diet.

      The aubergines take just a minute to slice and throw into a roasting tray filled with cold salty water. She’ll probably kick off about that too, but it’s what makes them taste so good when they’re roasted. There’s your damn purple food, Sophie.

      I quickly knock up a dough and set it in the old boiler cabinet to prove.

      I love it when I get a few minutes like this to relax and think about what I want to cook next. That used to be my favourite part of my job at the bistro. I usually designed my menus on Monday, when we were closed. Sitting at the table in the window with my notebooks and all the old menus, I got to let my imagination run loose. What was in season? Was the brown crab in yet at the fishmonger, or the pheasant at the butcher? Did the apricots look good at Peter Pepper’s or were there English strawberries at the fruit stall? Sometimes I foraged in the countryside for wild herbs like sorrel for a sauce to use over mackerel, or mint or bay for home-made ice creams. There were always elderflowers in summer to make cordial, and velvety oyster mushrooms for my stir-fries.

      I still forage when I’ve got time, but I’m a little more restricted now with the other ingredients. Everything has to come through Davey’s supermarket deliveries and the budget is a lot tighter. Max would lose his mind if I blew the week’s shopping budget on beautiful Brixham crabs in summer or the Gower salt marsh lamb in the autumn.

      But I like that challenge too, to make the best dishes I can with what I’ve got.

      June pops her head around the corner. ‘Max wants to see us.’

      ‘What, now?’ It’s 10 a.m. in the middle of the week. He’s supposed to be at work.

      The home is a side business for Max. He followed his father into accountancy, for some firm down in Ipswich. That’s why he usually leaves us alone, except on Saturdays, when he likes to play Lord of the Manor in front of the residents’ families. ‘Did he ring first?’

      June shakes her head.

      That’s never a good sign.

      Nick and Max are already in the office when we get there. It has only two desks – one pushed up against the wall and heaving with three-ring binders – and two chairs, but none of us sits down. Nick leans beside me against the spare desk, careful not to knock over any piles. When he crosses his long legs at the ankle, I can see the muscles flex in his thighs beneath his jeans. Which just sends my imagination soaring, though I manage to stop myself before I get too carried away.

      I really do need to accept that we’re only friends. I say ‘only’, but that’s pretty good, right? Friends can last a lifetime. It’s proving harder than I thought, but I can get over Nick. Really, I can. I would have already if it weren’t for his perfect smile. And the way it plays on those kissable lips, and his faintly tanned complexion and deep brown eyes that I could gaze into for hours.

      Shite. I’ve been staring at him again.

      I have had a strong word with myself about all this, but obviously I’ve not been persuasive enough.

      June pulls down the hem on her top and smooths the front of her trousers. That’s her I-mean-business adjustment. ‘What’s going on, Max?’

      Max doesn’t adjust anything. He always means business. He’s wearing his usual suit trousers, shiny black shoes and a rumpled white shirt, with the buttons straining over his tummy. ‘First, I’ve got some good news.’ He flashes us a smile. He’s got bad teeth. They all slant in, except for his canines, which stick out. That gives him a vampirish vibe, though he’s much more of a Muppet Count von Count than he is the hot bloke from Twilight.

      June and I glance at each other. If Max has a ‘first’ bit of good news, that means there’s a ‘second’ bit that’s bad.

      ‘I’ve found a new waitress and she can start as soon as tomorrow. I told you we’d sort something out to replace Mary.’

      And not a moment too soon, either. Nick has been helping with the lunch service and I’m handling dinner, slowly, but it’s not really fair for us to work harder just because Max’s father can’t keep his hands to himself.

      The worst part is that it was Mary who always brought Maggie – the madam – her meals upstairs. Maggie holds a grudge against Amber, the other waitress, for once being on the phone while she brought up the tray. She’s banned Amber from the room ever since.

      Now that I’ve got to do it, I dread climbing those stairs to the top of the house. I’d love to just drop her tray off and leave, but she makes me sit there while she tastes everything and gives me a full critique.