‘I’m on television five days a week, I’m going to be relatively well known in the area.’

‘Beatrice, there is a difference between a face people recognise off the television and someone who inspires them to send pineapples to an elderly woman they’ve never met! You’re clearly far superior to the average weathergirl.’

‘You’re a local treasure!’ Dad blotted his tears on a napkin covered in penguins wearing Santa hats. ‘Our Bea is Our Bea!’

‘Maybe we should watch the news more often,’ Mia said, frowning at her phone. ‘Have you seen all these comments?’

For some strange reason, seeing my family astonished at a few online stories about me, seeing them proud, had me fizzing with resentment. I felt as though they were telling me off for being sneakily successful. As if they couldn’t have seen it for themselves every evening.

I was brought back from the brink of painful, angry tears by a hand resting on mine, where it clenched the denim fabric of my boilersuit beneath the table. As my fingers instinctively let go, Henry wrapped his around my palm and gave it a squeeze. It was only when he’d taken a seat beside me a few minutes earlier that I’d realised I’d been missing his reassuring presence.

‘Bea is way more than a weather presenter.’ Henry spoke with a quiet authority that sent goosebumps scurrying up my back. ‘Haven’t you seen the community she founded? The features she writes? She spends her days off tirelessly supporting local events and organisations and they love her for it. What she’s created out of a three-minute slot is utterly unique and inspirational. And given how well those two words sum her up, none of her family should be surprised in the slightest. You should be her biggest fans.’ Henry’s ears were well past pink and heading for scarlet as his volume increased. I wanted to lean over and kiss the crease of annoyance at the side of his mouth. Only then he went and ruined it. ‘Her work is so ground-breaking that Baxter Bigwood offered her a role as his number one national weather presenter, even though she walked out of the interview.’

‘She got the job?’ Mum barked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. ‘You got the job?’

‘Sweet-Bea, that’s wonderful!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘I…’

‘Jed, fetch a bottle of champagne and some glasses. If there’s none left over from Christmas you can open one of the New Year stash.’

‘Mum, it’s after midnight.’

‘And? Maybe you should have told us earlier, then.’

‘Please can we not do this now…?’

‘Why not? Nana Joy won’t mind. She’s going to be fine, and if she was here she’d be the first to toast your success.’