style="font-size:15px;"> Cass dunked a custard cream. ‘Which just confirms what kind of judge of character I am. Bottom line? Once the initial lust had cooled down, it took me about two days to work out that we had nothing in common. Worse, he was picky and undermining. He was always making little jokes about my weight or my hair and stuff, and then when we were out spent most of his time ogling other women…And then he got blind drunk at Lucy’s wedding—you know Lucy, from across the road? Makes silver jewellery? Anyway, he tried to pick a fight with the best man and he kept calling his ex-wife a brainless muppet, and I just knew that one day that brainless muppet would be me.’
‘So you jumped ship?’
Cass nodded. ‘I most certainly did.’
‘And how did he take it?’
‘Well, he was hurt and then he was weepy and then he was angry. And then a couple of weeks later I was talking to a mutual acquaintance and sure enough, I’m the muppet now.’
Rocco pulled a sympathetic face, no mean feat with a mouthful of custard cream. ‘Not in my book. Anyone else on the horizon?’
Cass laughed. ‘What is this, Mastermind? No, there is no one on the horizon at this particular moment. But to be honest, at the moment I’m that not fussed.’
Rocco looked horrified. ‘What do you mean not that fussed? You’re fit, you’re gorgeous, talented, great company…’ He grinned. ‘Your mother worries about you. How am I doing?’
‘So far, so good. Maybe I should get you to write my lonely hearts ad. The problem is, Neil’s a hard act to follow. I keep picking idiots.’
‘Is that all?’ said Rocco. ‘Realistically, if you kiss enough frogs one of them is bound to turn into a prince. It’s purely a numbers thing.’
Cass sighed. ‘To be honest, Rocco, I’m all frogged out.’
He looked pained. ‘How about coming to Amsterdam with us?’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room. You’d be doing me a favour. Your mother can play at pirates with the beautifully buffed Hans and Bruno while we go shopping or do the markets and the museums. It’d be fun.’
Cass laughed. ‘With two poofs, my mum and her toy boy? I don’t think my ego could take it.’
‘In that case, how about coming round to supper instead? We could talk about this job in Cambridge—your mum’ll cook you something yummy. Nita would love to see you, and we’ll go through our list, see if we can’t fit you up with someone.’
Cass fixed him with a stare.
‘What?’ he protested. ‘I owe you one.’
Cass laughed. ‘My mother doesn’t count—and besides, I’ve been on some of your blind dates before. I don’t want anyone over sixty, and no one without teeth need apply.’
‘Harry was a good bloke.’
‘He was sixty-eight.’
‘He was kind.’
‘He had dentures that clicked.’
‘You can be so picky. He was loaded. What about Fabian?’
‘Anyone who left their wife the previous evening is right out. Okay?’
‘Be fair—we didn’t know about that.’
‘He cried all the way through dinner.’
Rocco shrugged. ‘Maybe it was your mother’s cooking—who knows? I promise you that this new man is gorgeous.’
‘You’ve already picked me one out?’
‘Your mother always says it’s good to have something tucked away for a rainy day—and besides, she’s worried about you.’
‘So what’s new?’
‘Well, the one she’s got in mind is bright, the right size, right age, requisite number of teeth. Say yes, you know your mum’s dying to take you on a guided tour of the new kitchen—did I tell you we’ve got to have the roof off the bloody house now? Anyway, she’ll cook and while she’s in there griddling and steaming away I’ll show off, get horribly drunk and make a complete fool of myself. Remember last Christmas? It’ll be just like that, only with less advocaat.’
Cass laughed. ‘How could anyone possibly resist an invitation like that?’
Rocco grinned. ‘How’s Saturday night sound? Nita’s threatening to drag me off to see some peculiar foreign film with subtitles and bicycle baskets full of sardines.’
Cass hesitated. Rocco pulled his puppy face.
‘You’d be doing me a favour—honestly. And we could go with the fish theme for supper. There’s this great stall on the Saturday market we’ve just discovered, I could pick something up first thing—your mother does this amazing thing with halibut and Gruyère?’
Cass pulled a face. ‘Do I want to hear about this?’
‘And you could dig something or pull something up out of your allotment, something trendy and seasonal and Gordon Ramsay for the resident chef. Now how about you go and fish these cabinets out of storage, and while you’re gone I’ll mind the shop and ring your mum to let her know about Saturday. Oh, and I’ll get her to email you the brief over for the job in Cambridge.’
Cass sighed; it sounded like a done deal.
Wanting to pour oil on troubled waters, Cass tried ringing Fiona when she’d finished work, but got the answer machine. She had a feeling that Fiona was probably there listening, screening the calls. Whether Fiona was right or wrong about Andy playing away, Cass decided to be careful what she said in case he picked up the message. The last thing she wanted to do was add fuel to the fire, real or imaginary.
Cass sighed. She felt guilty about Fiona walking out. Although it had to be said that Fee had a talent for making her feel bad. When they were thirteen it had been because Mr Elliot—their art teacher, six feet tall and gorgeous—had told Cass that she was very talented, at fifteen because Cass had thrashed Fee in the mocks, and at sixteen because she had been the first one to get her hands on Justin Green, if Cass remembered rightly. Cass getting married, having two sons and being happy—even if it hadn’t lasted that long—had been the ultimate insult, and Cass had an odd sense that Fee had never quite forgiven her for any of it. When Fiona had walked back into her life, Cass had hoped they could start over; after all, they were grown-ups. Unfortunately two years on it was increasingly obvious that actually only one of them had made it through to adulthood.
So, after the beep Cass said, ‘Hi Fiona, hope you’re well. Be great to hear from you if you’ve got a minute. See you at choir on Tuesday if not,’ making a real effort to sound warm and cheery.
A few mornings later, Cass heard a phone ringing somewhere in the darkness. Dragged from sleep and a complicated dream about Amsterdam, rats and a blonde wig, she felt around by the bed, found the handset, pressed a button and mumbled, ‘Hello, who is it?’
‘Oh hi Cass, it’s me.’ The voice belonged to someone wide awake and unnaturally cheerful. ‘I’d
