‘I have no idea how I’m going to get in and out of that stupid car in these shoes,’ Sue grumbled at the suede high heels that Tamsyn had teamed with black opaque tights and a considerably shortened kilt, which showed that Sue’s legs might be short, but they were shapely. With some deep red lipstick to set off her fair skin, and a little mascara, she looked lovely, and she had to admit, although never out loud, that she did feel good. If Rory could her see her now … Sue reflected for a moment on what she’d want him to feel if he could see her now, and then realised with a shock that she really didn’t care what he thought.

10

The Pickled Egg had once been a traditional Cornish pub, and fifty years or so ago it had been at the heart of the tiny hamlet that had once thrived around it, but gradually out-of-towners had snapped up the beautiful whitewashed stone-built cottages that surrounded it, and the little dwelling place had dwindled away, blossoming only once or twice a year when its part-time residents returned. That was until chef Jack Hawkes had taken the place over and made it a destination dining event, which had exploded in popularity after he’d been awarded two coveted Michelin stars last year. Perched on the cliff edge, it had an air of romanticism about it, and it was easy to imagine smugglers climbing up the secret and treacherous steps that had been carved into the cliff face, in the dead of night, looking for a place to hide their booty. Now, though, it was surrounded by a gorgeously designed cottage garden, planted with seasonal vegetables, and even in the heart of winter it looked pretty, filled with grey and green leaves, which seemed silver under the abundance of the lanterns that lit the way to entrance.

‘Mr Fletcher.’ Jack Hawkes himself was there to greet them, and Sue had to do her best not to feel doubly star-struck. In the rare moments that she had time to herself she liked to cook, often from celeb chef Jack Hawkes’s books. Once upon a time, she’d regularly cooked something special once a week for her and Rory, but for the last year or so she’d eaten her creations on her own. Her runaway husband had been increasingly absent, the children were fussy eaters and Cordelia couldn’t be persuaded to eat anything that wasn’t a cheese sandwich.

‘Call me Blake, please,’ Blake said, shaking his hand. ‘This is my friend Sue.’

‘Sue Montaigne, yes, you are rather a legend around these parts,’ Jack said.

‘Oh dear, am I?’ Sue could just imagine the things that were said about her behind her back, something along the lines of ‘the interfering old battleaxe’, she was sure.