‘I owe you a pizza and a stiff drink,’ he whispered, appearing out of nowhere after I’d gone on to play piano while Nana Joy sang and then found a discreet spot at the back of the hall. ‘Mum said I can borrow her car and drive us into Mansfield.’

‘Okay.’ I didn’t especially want to go out for pizza with Henry Fairfax, but I was still intrigued by this new side to his personality, and I also didn’t want to hang around here.

‘To be honest, I probably owe you a full three-course meal…’

Before I had a chance to answer that no, a pizza and a pint of cider would be fine, we were drowned out by the sound of the audience clapping and the first few strums of a guitar. The stage lights went up to reveal Adam, looking every inch the rock star, his old school band in the background. My heart leapt.

He then began to perform a new song that I’d never heard before. It was called ‘Wannabe idiot’ and the lyrics were all about how he’d been an idiot by putting fame above the girl he loved. Bea rhymes with a lot of different words. I think he managed most of them.

It was a lovely song. Just right for the evening – heartfelt yet upbeat, not taking itself too seriously but full of real emotion, and Adam sang it like a pro. During the last chorus he ditched his guitar, jumped off the stage and started walking straight down the centre aisle to where I stood, every nerve trembling. When he dropped to his knees, begging me with the final line to give him another chance, the crowd erupted.

‘Hey.’ He offered a sheepish grin, one hand pushing the chin-length hair off his face.

‘Hi.’

‘I missed you.’

I took a deep breath. The crowd were still clapping, so no one could hear my reply. ‘I missed you too.’

‘Wanna get out of here?’

The second I nodded he stood up, grabbed my hand, gave the rest of the room a wild wave and dragged me out of the doors and off into the night.

And that was the last time I’d seen Henry until the Coach House dining room the night before.

7

I found everyone in the kitchen, warming post-snowball-fight hands on mugs of hot chocolate and devouring home-made raisin toast dripping in butter.

‘Ah, Bea, how lovely of you to join us,’ Mum said, with a brusque pat on my arm. ‘It looks as though you were right about the snow.’

That was as much of an apology as I would get, but, given what I was about to say, I accepted it. Bracing myself against the worktop, I got straight to the point.

‘I have some news.’

Mia gasped. ‘You’re pregnant?’

‘You’re not ill?’ Dad asked, his face turning pale.