‘Let’s hope for Penelope’s sake that you’re better at parking than Eileen,’ Basil chortles.

I frown at that, but Betsy’s snapped back before I have the chance.

‘At least Eileen’s got enough sense to tie her shoelaces before she marches down the street, Basil,’ she says tartly.

Basil scowls, rubbing his knee. ‘That fall was no laughing matter, thank you. And it wasn’t my shoelaces, it was the potholes on Lower Lane. They’ll be the death of us, I know they will.’

‘It’s true,’ Roland says. ‘I nearly toppled my scooter down there the other day.’

‘Cocktail?’ Jackson says, reappearing from the kitchen with the oven gloves over his shoulder and a fresh cocktail in his hand.

I eye the cocktail. It does look excellent. And it’s good to sample the competition. ‘Yes, please. Though if any future May Day pitching sessions are occurring, I would appreciate an invite,’ I tell him, raising my eyebrows.

‘It wasn’t a …’ He sighs. ‘Fine. No more tropical cocktail-tasting without your knowledge. Happy?’

‘Perfectly.’ A thought occurs. ‘Whilst I’ve got you all, actually, I’ve been meaning to ask something. Getting a sponsor for May Day – had Grandma decided against it, for some reason?’

‘Ah,’ Basil says, ‘Eileen’s latest project. She didn’t get anywhere with that one either, from what I remember.’

‘And now she’s off in London, I thought we’d take it off your plate,’ Betsy says, sipping her cocktail.

Basil shakes his head incredulously. ‘Eileen has some strange ideas, but taking off to London has to be her strangest. You know she’s living with a lesbian?’ he tells Betsy. ‘And a pregnant one at that? Can you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘That pregnant lesbian happens to be my flatmate and one of my closest friends. Do you have a problem with lesbians, Basil?’

Basil looks startled. ‘What?’

‘Or perhaps you have a problem with lesbians having children?’

‘Oh, I …’

‘Well, you might be interested to learn that children fare just as well if raised by a same-sex couple in a stable environment as those raised by a heterosexual couple. What matters, Basil, is being there for your child, loving them, looking after them – that’s what makes you a parent.’

I’m about to continue when Jackson stands abruptly and leaves the table, startling me into silence.

I watch him go. Did I offend him? Is Jackson secretly homophobic? That’s … disappointing?

‘Jackson doesn’t have the privilege of being there for his child,’ Betsy says quietly into the silence.

I turn to her. ‘What?’

‘Jackson’s daughter. She lives in America.’

‘Oh, I … I didn’t know.’ My cheeks burn. ‘I didn’t mean you can’t be a good parent if you’re—let me—I should go and apologise—’

Penelope stands and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Better not,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘I’ll go.’

*

‘Grandma! How did you not tell me Jackson has a kid?’ I ask as I walk home from Penelope’s house, cheeks still hot.

‘Oh, the Greenwood family have had a very interesting few years,’ Grandma tells me, dropping into the lower-octave, this-is-really-juicy voice she reserves for her finest pieces of village gossip. ‘When Jackson’s mother left Arnold she … Sorry,’ Grandma says, ‘I’m getting a message on my phone, let me just …’

Dial tone. I sigh, wait ten seconds, and call her back.

‘Did I cut you off, love?’

‘Yeah, but don’t worry – you were saying, Jackson’s mum …’ I say, turning on to Lower Lane. Basil’s right, actually, these potholes are dangerous; I make a mental note to call the council about sorting them.

‘Ooh, yes. So she ditched grumpy old Arnold and went off with Denley from Tauntingham. You know, the one with the house in Spain that he probably bought with dirty money from his father’s used-car business?’

I laugh. ‘Grandma, I’m only just getting a handle on the gossip in Hamleigh. I can’t broaden my range to the whole of the Dales just yet.’

‘Oh, you’ll get the hang of it all in no time, just have Betsy around for coffee once a week. She can fill you in on everything you need to know.’

I make a face to myself. I don’t get the impression Betsy wants to come for coffee once a week. ‘Go on, Grandma – Jackson’s kid?’

‘At this point Jackson was living with Arnold – I never got to the bottom of that, but Jackson’s always seemed strangely fond of Arnold – and so I knew he was stepping out with a bouncy blonde girl called Marigold from Daredale who fancied herself the next Hollywood starlet. I knew she was a wrong ’un,’ Grandma says, suddenly sounding a lot like Betsy. ‘She wore these awful high-heeled shoes that were always getting stuck in the mud on the driveway and she’d squeal until Jackson heaved her out.’

‘Wearing high heels, eh,’ I say. ‘Whatever next!’

‘Oh, don’t try and make me sound old-fashioned,’ Grandma says. ‘I’ll have you know Fitz took me out shopping yesterday and I bought all sorts of trendy things. And I borrowed your high-heeled boots to go out for cocktails afterwards.’

I widen my eyes in alarm. Is she steady enough on her feet to be wearing my heeled boots?

‘But this girl went everywhere in stilettos and tight skirts she could hardly move in. Jackson was always opening doors and helping her into cars and carrying her bags and she never liked to lift a finger for him. Then they ended things, or at least I think they did because she stopped coming by, and then she turned up six months later round as a Rolo.’

That makes me laugh. ‘A Rolo?’

‘Exactly,’ Grandma says with relish. ‘Pregnant! Then next thing we know, Jackson’s off to Daredale half the time looking after the baby. This was all, ooh, three or four years ago, maybe? Then – and this is the real gossip – Marigold moved to LA for her big break as an actress, and she took the little girl with her. Jackson hardly gets to see her now.’

Oh, God. Poor, poor Jackson. I feel so bad about what I said at Penelope’s house that I don’t even feel angry with him about the sneaky cocktail-making any more.

Well, not very angry about it, anyway.

My phone buzzes. This phone is a relic from the era of floppy discs and Game Boys, and it takes me a while to realise what’s happening: I’m getting another call.

‘Got to go, Grandma – speak soon, love you.’

‘Oh, bye, love,’ she says, and I hang up and switch to the call waiting.

‘Hello?’ comes a wavering voice from the other end of the line. ‘Is that Leena Cotton?’

‘Yes, this is she.’ I definitely just did my work voice. It felt a bit weird.

‘My name is Nicola Alderson,’ the lady says, ‘and I’m calling about an advert I saw in the grocery store, about lifts?’

‘Oh!’ I drove out to Knargill and posted a few flyers (well, printouts from Grandma’s computer) yesterday – I’d not expected quite such a speedy response. ‘Hello, Nicola, thanks for calling.’