‘That’s more than twenty years ago, Dad.’ Gordon Summer had never moved on from his wife’s death. Consequently, the widower’s wounds had never healed. She wondered if her father would consider going for some grief counselling, but the subject needed time and persuasion and she was already running late.

‘Is it really that long, Shelly love? Seems like yesterday.’ His voice faded to almost a whisper. ‘Still hurts like yesterday too.’ His wide eyes stared into the past. ‘I guess it must be. Same year as my sixtieth, wasn’t it? Remember that party she put on?’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes misted for a moment, then a look of intense joy filled his face. ‘Bloody marvellous, wasn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘Remember the cake? All my friends from Dover Homer Club . . . and me mates from the docks.’ He gazed around the kitchen, grinning at their ghosts, the light in his eyes shining right into Shelly’s heart.

She stood still for a few seconds, enraptured, and reluctant to distract him from the wonder of his daydream. Perhaps she should do a party for his eightieth. But the kitchen clock drew her attention and the moment faded.

‘Of course, that was when I still had a job, Shelly,’ he grumbled.

‘I’d better go, Dad. Busy day at the surgery. Lunch is in the microwave. Four minutes. It’s all set, just press the start button, OK?’ She kissed him on the cheek.

Reaching for his e-cigarette, he noticed the fluorescent-pink sticky-note on the microwave door. She caught his withering I’m not stupid look right between her eyes and decided to ignore it.

‘See you later, Dad.’

*

In the surgery later that morning, Eve ran an artistically painted fingernail down the appointment book. ‘Holiday all booked then?’ she called to Shelly.

‘I wish! Dad hates the idea of flying, and he won’t abandon his pigeons. I can’t leave him on his own for a whole week. God knows what catastrophe I’d come back to.’

‘Have you thought about renting him a room at The Rose and Crown?’

‘I did, but he’ll just go home once I’m on the plane.’

‘Can’t someone stay at yours?’

‘That’s what he suggested, but how would you feel about Bill Grundy scratching and farting in your bed?’

Eve hooted with laughter. ‘Not the dreamboat I’d imagine between your sheets.’ She did a little shudder. ‘Have you joined that dating agency yet?’

‘Oh, stop it!’ Shelly rolled her eyes. ‘I filed the brochure in the kitchen bin, where it belongs. Talking of romance, we’ve got three cat neuters this morning, better crack on, so to speak. If you prep the anaesthetics, I’ll shave them and do the job once they’re under the influence. That leaves you, Miss Glamour-nails, free to man the counter and do the paperwork. OK?’