‘I’ll just be a few minutes, I’m going to freshen up,’ I said, pointing to The Stables.

‘Not on my account, I hope?’ Jensen said, glancing casually at my shorts and vest top. ‘You look nice as you are.’

‘You don’t believe women dress to impress men, do you?’ I said, pretending to be shocked and veering off towards home.

‘No, no, of course not,’ he spluttered after me.

Inside, I peeled off my clothes and ran to the bathroom. Right, five minutes to make myself presentable. For Betsy and Marjorie. Naturally …

Chapter 14

A few minutes later I approached the terrace at the rear of the house in a black T-shirt dress. The three dresses I’d rejected had made me look busty, butch and bloated respectively, but this one – with a scoop neck and short sleeves – covered up the bits that were feeling a bit bigger and emphasized my tan. Perhaps I should have had those protein shakes for breakfast instead of the morning pastry, I thought ruefully. The diet starts tomorrow. Again.

I’d only got as far as the side gate when I heard raised voices. I lifted the latch and hesitated, not sure if I should intrude.

‘Over my dead body!’ That was Betsy sounding most affronted.

‘I’m just saying, Gran, we need to face facts,’ Jensen replied calmly.

‘Here’s a fact for you: Granddad left the house and his ninety per cent share of the business to me,’ Betsy continued crossly. ‘Your great-aunt Marjorie, of course, owns the other ten per cent. As a zero per cent shareholder, you don’t get a say.’

‘What your gran means to say is that she loves you dearly,’ said Marjorie carefully, ‘but she’ll ask for help when she needs it.’

I smiled at that; Marjorie had probably been playing the role of peacekeeper for the hot-headed Betsy for years.

There was a patter of paws followed by the appearance of a wet black nose under the gate as Starsky sensed my presence.

‘Come on through, Lottie!’ Betsy shouted. ‘You can be on my side.’

I opened the gate, stopped to give Starsky some fuss and headed to the large wooden patio table shaded by a huge canvas parasol. The back doors to the house were open and a delicious smell of cooking wafted in the air. Marjorie patted an empty chair beside her and I sat down. She’d transferred from her wheelchair to a wooden armchair and looked comfortably ensconced, with cushions under her bottom and behind her back. She was wearing a voluminous grey T-shirt with the Harley-Davidson logo across her chest and shorts which looked like they’d once been a pair of jogging bottoms. Betsy, by contrast, looked dressed for a garden party at Buckingham Palace in a neatly buttoned tea dress, pearls and her trademark swept-up hair-do.

‘We’re all on your side, Gran,’ said Jensen wearily, sending me a pleading look.