For my Joyces,

       Chris, Rianne and Isobel

Chapter One

      I’m going to have to dump him, which is a shame as he’s a good-looking guy (not that looks should matter, but there’s no denying the bloke is pretty damn hot). His dark hair is styled (but not overly so), he has the perfect amount of stubble, and deep, expressive eyes beneath defined brows, and – his best asset, in my opinion – a wide, readily available smile. He has good teeth, his fingernails are neatly trimmed, and he always smells divine. He has good manners too. He’s attentive and interesting and never monopolises our conversations. And, most impressive of all, when we spoke about our work (I’m a history teacher at the local secondary school) and he asked about my favourite time period, he didn’t gloss over as I gushed about my passion for all things Tudor. He is, on the surface, the perfect package.

      But he has to go, I’m afraid.

      ‘It’s too soon, isn’t it?’ he asks as I sit staring at him from across the table, my fork suspended between plate and (gaping) mouth. I haven’t said a word since he suggested I meet his parents next weekend, but I manage to pull myself together, snapping my cavernous mouth shut and pushing my lips into what I hope resembles a smile and not the grimace I’m feeling deep inside.

      ‘No. Of course it isn’t too soon.’

      I’m lying. It’s way too soon. This is our third date, for goodness’ sake! I’ve had a longer, more fulfilling relationship with the half-packet of Polos in my handbag. I don’t know him well enough to meet his parents; I don’t know whether he prefers salt and vinegar crisps or cheese and onion, which supermarket he frequents, how many sugars he takes in his tea or coffee (see, I don’t even know his preference of hot beverage!) or how he feels about Brexit. We haven’t even slept together yet! Now, call me crazy, but I’d quite like to know what he’s like in the sack before we start doing full-on couple stuff.

      ‘So?’ He looks at me with those gorgeous eyes, eyebrows lifted, fingertips meeting above his plate as though half in prayer. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘It’s… an idea.’

      A stupid idea. Ludicrous. Who meets the parents of somebody they’ve been on three measly dates with? We won’t make it to a fourth, that’s for sure. I’d probably find an engagement ring floating in my Chardonnay considering the speed this bloke works at.

      ‘Great!’ If he senses my discomfort, he doesn’t show it as he flashes his wide smile. ‘What do you want to do?’

      Go home? Curl up on the sofa with Carrot (my cat, not a root vegetable) and pretend this date never happened?

      ‘We could go for a hike?’ he suggests when I don’t respond. My fork is still frozen in the air, the speared stuffed mushroom no longer appetising. ‘We could take a picnic or stop off for a pub lunch? Do you own a pair of hiking boots? We can pick some up on the way if you don’t.’

      ‘Are you a big fan of hiking?’ I’m enquiring more to avoid answering the question than out of genuine interest, to be honest, but he doesn’t pick up on this.

      ‘Oh, yes.’ He nods effusively and picks up his cutlery while I place mine down gently on my plate. ‘We love it! The fresh air, the views…’ He sighs happily and starts to saw into his steak. ‘Gets your heart rate going too.’

      Do you know what else gets your heart rate going? The prospect of dumping a perfectly nice guy because he’s galloping way ahead of you, moving you on to a new stage of your relationship before you’re even remotely ready. But I have to do this, before I find myself clad in brand-new hiking boots, making polite conversation with Mr and Mrs Nice Guy while dragging my carcass up a hill.

      But just look at him. He’s so sweet, chatting away animatedly about the top hiking routes to take on the outskirts of Woodgate, the pubs that serve the best lunches, where to buy my new boots (his treat). I need to let him down – gently, obviously – but I’m not sure how to do it without hurting his feelings.

      ‘Maybe we can spend the weekend after with your parents.’ His fate is sealed as he pops a forkful of steak into his mouth. I now know, without a doubt, that this three-date relationship will be over before he’s swallowed.

      My house is just ahead, a two-bed terrace nestled between the Chelsea Flower Show and a drug den. Okay, so it isn’t the actual Chelsea Flower Show, but our neighbour has filled the tiny strip of yard at the front of her house with enough shrubs, blooms and decorative solar lights to create a mini exhibition. And our other neighbouring property isn’t really a drug den, though the lads who live there do dabble in a bit of weed dealing. The smell is sometimes as overpowering as Mrs Hodgkinson’s primroses.

      I’ve lived in this little house with my best friend for a decade, ever since we were students commuting daily into Manchester for uni and the waitressing jobs that helped fund our not-quite-lavish lifestyles. Alice is technically my landlady as she owns the house, but I’m an exemplary lodger so it’s never been a problem. It works for us, anyway. I love living with my best friend and the rent is extremely reasonable, which helps when you’re a teacher at a state school, and Alice likes to wind her family up (especially her annoying stepmother) by still ‘living in squalor like a student’. We don’t live in squalor, but Francelia Monroe (the annoying stepmother) has issues.

      Our house looks so inviting as I approach, the lamp inside the living room casting a warm glow now it’s just starting to turn dark, but I don’t ask the taxi driver to stop just yet. There’s plenty of space to park, but we carry on up the road, stopping several doors away so the rumbling engine doesn’t alert Alice to my arrival. My plan is to sneak, as quiet as a mouse wearing cotton-wool slippers, into the house and up the stairs without Alice hearing a thing. I know she’ll want to dissect the date – What did we talk about? Did we kiss (or get up to anything more saucy)? Wouldn’t he make a fabulous husband and father one day? – and I simply don’t have the energy or inclination to discuss any of it. Not tonight. Alice will be so disappointed I’ve let another good guy slip through my fingers, so I’ll let her down gently in the morning (or shout it over my shoulder as I leg it from the house with a piece of toast clutched in hand so I don’t have to go into detail). Alice has been trying to find my perfect match for the past year. She’s always had herself pegged as a bit of a Cupid, but three things happened a year ago to propel her nagging about my love life to actual meddling. The first was the introduction of Alice and Kevin, one of the music teachers at my school. Alice had been a bit mopey since her sister announced her engagement, so when a group of us got together to celebrate the end of the school year, to toast our surviving yet another set of GCSEs and kick off the summer holidays in style, I invited Alice to join us. She hit it off with Kevin and, one year on, they’re proper loved up, and Alice thinks it’s all down to me. She’s determined to repay the favour, even if I’d rather she didn’t. I’m happy being single. It’s less complicated. Less stressful. Ending my relationship with Edward – the second thing that happened a year ago – was the right decision, no matter how much Alice tells me otherwise.

      I pull my keys out of my handbag as I scurry past the row of houses, making an emergency stop as I reach the Chelsea Flower Show. From here, I tiptoe (yes, really – I look like a flipping cartoon character) past the shrubs and flowers until I reach our wall. I pause while I consider – briefly – whether I should drop down to the pavement