Page 27 of My Summer of Magic Moments

‘Not bad.’

‘A surfer-dude type? All Aussie-toned muscle.’

‘Now you’re getting carried away. Shush.’ She could feel the heat in her cheeks. Damn. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How’re things with you and Danny?’ Time to divert the conversation. He and Andrea had been living together for a year now.

‘Yeah … it’s good. We’re getting on really well. We give each other enough space to live our lives, you know, be our own people, which I like. But then when we do get it together, wow. Boy, that man is good in bed.’

A couple of male students looked up from the table next to them. Andrea just laughed and gave them a cheeky grin. The cute one with dark curly hair winked back at her.

‘Spare me the details, per-lease.’ Whereas Claire tended to keep things to herself, Andrea relished sharing every snippet of information. Sometimes Claire just didn’t want to go that far – the images were way too private. But she smiled at her friend. At least someone was loved-up and happy.

After a pleasant hour and a half, Andrea said she’d better be heading off; she had some shopping to do and had promised to visit her mother.

‘See you at work on Monday, hun.’

‘Yes! It’ll feel a bit weird, but I’m excited about going back too.’

‘Good. You don’t want to go all Robinson Crusoe on me and decide to live like a recluse in a cave on the Northumbrian coast or something?’

‘I don’t think so, Andrea. It was just a holiday by the sea.’

As she said it, she realized she was missing it already, that glorious view, the rickety, weirdly charming cottage. But she had missed her work and her friends too.

The house felt quiet. She made a simple supper of scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes – after all that cake, she thought she’d better have something light and healthy. She put the telly on for company as she tootled around, thinking about what she might pack up next. Maybe her book collection, or she might sort through her journalism papers, the textbooks from uni, the many newspapers and cuttings she’d kept over the years, some of which were her own articles that had made her proud, often telling of someone’s bravery, talents, kindness. She loved finding out about those kinds of things – meeting interesting people and being able to tell someone’s story that might never have been heard otherwise. She was a feel-good reporter at heart, even though a lot of the time the news she had to deliver was heart-wrenching.

A text pinged through from her sister: Coming for lunch tomorrow? Roast beef at 2pm if you fancy x

Thanks, that’d be great xx

Welcome home!

Home. That word sounded so very hollow.

Thanks sis. See you tomorrow x

‘Pass, Auntie Claire. Pass!’

She scuffled a shot across the back garden to Jack, her nephew, who was making a dash alongside the flowerbeds. His younger brother readied himself on the goal line, which was an imaginary zone between the apple tree to the left and his jumper, which had been thrown down on the ground about three metres away. She envied the endless energy of their youth. All the world was their playground. So innocent for now, but lessons they would have to learn along the way awaited them.

‘Great pass!’ Jack was definitely being polite. Playing football in plimsolls was not the easiest. She might end up breaking a toe at this rate, the ball was that solid.

Ollie was anxiously awaiting the shot, knees bent, body braced. Jack thundered the ball inside the apple tree, nearly taking his brother out and flattening a delphinium in the process. Oops, Sal would be none too pleased.

‘He shoots, he scores!’ He started running circles of the garden in a victory salute to himself. Ollie’s shoulders slumped as he went off into the flowerbed to retrieve the ball.

‘Right, you lot,’ Mark bellowed down the garden. ‘In you come and wash your hands ready for lunch.’

Claire felt like she was six, being called back by her dad. But she looked up and obediently made the move to go in. In fact, she realized her tummy was rumbling. Mark’s voice softened as he gave her a smile. ‘That order was for the boys, not you, Claire.’

‘Well, it’s good to know lunch is ready. And I probably ought to wash my hands too. I’m all footballed out.’

‘Thanks for entertaining them.’

‘No worries, they’re good fun.’

‘Thanks, Auntie Claire,’ the boys called as they raced past her into the house.

Roast beef, huge crispy Yorkshire puddings, a stack of roast veggies and lashings of rich gravy – Sal’s roasts were amazing.