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  ‘Oh,’ I said, drooping.

  ‘Yes. I do a great fish pie. Fancy trying it, you two?’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to intrude, not if you’re having your friends round,’ said Mum.

  Mike looked at me. I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Mum! I think we’re the friends,’ I said.

  So we had supper with Mike. We did wonder if he’d invited any of the other guests, but the two walking couples drove off to some gourmet pub and the family went to try the evening meal at the hotel.

  ‘So it’s just us,’ I said, smiling. ‘Mum, can I wear my grey dress and pinafore and my new boots?’

  ‘Oh, Beauty! It’s just supper. Just pop a clean T-shirt on and wear it with your jeans.’

  ‘No, I want to look lovely. Well, I know I look total rubbish no matter what, but I feel lovely in my grey dress.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. You don’t look the slightest bit rubbish. But OK, you wear your grey outfit if you like. I’m not going to make a big effort though.’

  Mum wore her jeans – but she changed into her little pink clingy top with pearl buttons and she wore her pink strappy high heels. She even bothered to paint new nail varnish on her toes.

  We went downstairs at seven as Mike had suggested but the breakfast room was empty, all the tables set ready for the morning.

  ‘Oh goodness, maybe he’s changed his mind,’ Mum whispered.

  But Mike came into the breakfast room, beaming at us.

  ‘Through here, ladies. I thought we’d be cosier in the kitchen, and it won’t give any of the other guests ideas if they come back early.’

  Mike had on his stripy apron, but underneath he was wearing a big blue flowery shirt and clean jeans without a single paint smear, and his big baseball boots shone scarlet. He had obviously made a big effort.

  ‘Oh, Beauty! Is it you, Beauty?’ he said. ‘You look so grown up. And you look even younger, Dilly. You’re just like sisters.’

  We were used to people saying this but it was still good to hear. We followed him into the kitchen. I’d expected it to be a big formal stainless-steel working kitchen, but it was a glorious colourful old-fashioned room with a great wooden dresser hung with willow-pattern plates. Old toby jugs jostled each other on the windowsill and there were big blue lustre vases on the wooden table, containing red asters, white daisies, yellow lilies and pink rosebuds. The cooker itself was a big green Aga that spread a cosy glow throughout the kitchen. There was a red and yellow and blue rag rug on the tiled floor with a black cat stretched out, comfortably dozing.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a cat, Mike!’ I said, squatting down beside it and stroking its sleek head.

  ‘I don’t. It’s next door’s, but she’s got a sixth sense whenever I make fish pie. She comes on the scrounge for the scraps,’ said Mike. ‘Right, sit yourself down, girls. What would you like to drink? White wine, Dilly? And I thought you’d like a special red wine, Beauty.’ He grinned and poured us each a glass. Mine was the most beautiful deep red. I knew it couldn’t really be wine but I felt wickedly grown up sipping it all the same.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ I said. ‘What kind of wine is this, Mike?’

  ‘Oh, the very best. Vintage pomegranate,’ said Mike. ‘Now, you ladies talk among yourselves while I do the finishing touches to the meal.’

  He popped some runner beans and asparagus into a pan of boiling water and then had a peer at the fish pie. It was golden brown and smelled wonderful. The cat raised her head from the mat and looked hopeful again.

  ‘No, you’ve had your share, greedy-guts,’ said Mike. ‘It’s our turn now.’

  It truly was delicious – soft creamy mashed potato with a crispy cheese topping and large chunks of haddock and cod and curly pink prawns. I ate my entire plateful and then had a second helping. Mike didn’t frown at me and make comments about my weight. He seemed delighted that I appreciated his pie and congratulated me on my appetite. Mum couldn’t quite clear her plateful because she’s got the appetite of a bird at the best of times, but she told Mike he was a brilliant cook.

  ‘I’m not much cop when it comes to puds, I’m afraid,’ he said, producing a bowl of red apples, some purple grapes and an orange cheese. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got any sweet nibbles for you, Beauty. There might be a biscuit or two in that tartan tin.’

  ‘Are they home-made?’ I asked.

  ‘Beauty!’ said Mum.

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t do that sort of baking,’ said Mike.

  ‘Mum does,’ I said proudly. ‘She makes the most fantastic cookies, all different sorts, iced and chocolate chip and cherry and oatmeal-and-raisin.’

  ‘Mm! So you’re a good cook, are you, Dilly?’

  ‘No! I’ve just got a very sweet daughter,’ said Mum. ‘I can’t cook for toffee, apart from cookies. I can make good cookies though.’

  ‘What about breakfasts?’ said Mike. ‘I’m going to need a hand in the kitchen now the summer season’s starting up, and I usually employ a student to come in and do chambermaiding. It’s a bit of a boring job but you’d be finished and free by lunch time. You don’t fancy trying it for a few weeks?’

  Mum looked stunned. She just stared at Mike, not saying a word. So I answered for her.

  ‘Yes, please!’ I said.

  ‘No, no, hang on, Beauty. Mike’s just being kind, trying to be helpful,’ Mum muttered.

  ‘No, I need help. It’s a bit of a rubbish job and I can’t pay much, but it’ll give you time to think out what you really want to do. The only trouble is I can’t let you keep the first-floor double, not if you’re here as staff. If I have a live-in girl she usually sleeps up in the attic, but it’s a bit basic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The attic!’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Oh, can we see? I’ve always wanted to live in an old house with a proper attic.’

  So Mike led us up the three flights of stairs to his attic. It was a dark narrow little room with just one very small window, but it was still beautiful. The small bed had a navy patchwork quilt with silver stars and moons appliquéd all over it. There was a squashy ruby velvet armchair with a matching footstool and a red-and-blue tapestry curtain hiding a clothes rail.

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t think it’s anywhere near big enough for you,’ said Mike worriedly.

  ‘We can easily scrunch up together. It’s great!’ I said.

  I ran to the window, rested my elbows on the sill, and looked out over the red tile rooftops to the sea. ‘I feel just like Sara Crewe in A Little Princess. She lived in an attic!’

  I knelt down, examining the wainscoting.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, Beauty? Get up!’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m just seeing if there are any little rat holes,’ I said.

  ‘What? There are absolutely no rats in this house, I promise,’ said Mike. You won’t find so much as a mouse’s whisker!’

  ‘Oh, I’d love my own pet rat like Sara’s Melchisedec,’ I said.

  ‘You might, Beauty, but I definitely wouldn’t,’ said Mum. She smiled at Mike. ‘We’ll be great here, Mike, Beauty and me. I’ll bring our stuff up here and start work in the morning, how about that?’

  ‘No, no, you must have your little holiday first.’

  ‘Please. I’d like to get stuck in straight away. Shall we shake on it?’

  Mum stuck out her hand and they shook, sealing the deal.

  Sixteen

  Mum was up extra early next morning, wearing her checked shirt and jeans, her hair scraped back into a ponytail.

  ‘Do I look like a breakfast chef?’ she asked me anxiously.

  ‘No, you need checked trousers and one of those big floppy white hats,’ I said, laughing at her.

  ‘Don’t, Beauty! I’m so scared. I’m sure I’m going to mess up royally. Your dad always says I can’t even boil an egg and I can’t – they always come out rock hard or so soft they ooze everywhere. Mike’s being so kind but he’ll so regret it when I muck everything up for him.’

  ‘Mum, you can c