Page 2: The proposed events: a Yoga-thon; face painting; some circus-type stuff; a dog show; and the Grand Finale, the Fireworks. No talent show.

Page 3: At the back of the PDF, a separate page where Nella had carefully listed all the favours called in: marquees, those donating food and beer, fire-eaters, rich sponsors who needed a name check, the lot.

I still hadn’t worked up the courage to say I wasn’t going to be actively involved. I’d attend the actual event, of course, and spend what I could afford – but I was so tired already, I didn’t have much left to give. Plus there was no denying Nella made me feel unpleasantly inadequate.

At least school had begun again, with little drama. Willow was in Zach’s tutor group, it transpired, and he’d been asked to ‘buddy her’ – but other than the minimum, ‘It’s calm, Mum,’ I didn’t get much more from him.

Personally, I was more concerned with whether I’d be able to pay the next three months’ rent on the shop than Willow Jackson’s welfare.

At 4 p.m., I locked the shop up, knowing it was too late to get to Nella’s meeting. I’d forgotten my phone this morning, which meant I’d spent the day fretting about Zach’s whereabouts – although I imagined it was highly likely he hadn’t moved from his computer since waking.

All I wanted now was my saggy old sofa and a nap.

But, loading the van, worries buzzed like bluebottles round my ears. Trade wasn’t roaring, and I’d already had to let Diane go, except on Saturday mornings. I was truly grateful that locals had warmed to me enough to return; that some regulars spent well – but I couldn’t afford to invest in any strategies other than beautiful stock. And no advertising meant a vicious circle: I simply didn’t turn enough profit to pull anything unique out of the bag.

I was close to admitting my pop-up florist was nothing but a failed pipe dream. It was Jonny who’d encouraged me to take the punt, when his promotion in the ambulance service gave us a tiny bit of freedom.

‘Give it a year or two,’ he’d said as I procrastinated about resigning my social worker role at the local council. ‘We’ll manage,’ he promised me, by my side – but then—

But then my world cracked in two.

I wiped my eyes angrily and slammed the door on the flower buckets. Feeding my children had to be my priority at the end of the day, now it was just me fending for Zach and Ali.

That was fine, except the fending was going badly.

‘You’ll have to get a proper job again. You’re not even using your training,’ my mother sniffed on the phone – the irony being she’d hated the fact I’d been a social worker in the first place. She’d displayed a similar lack of sympathy when I’d proudly told her I’d paid off Zach’s school trip.

‘Zach doesn’t need to go to Paris though, does he? He can learn everything from books or the computers, like Richard did.’