The One Saving Grace: An irresistibly heartwarming summer read from the bestselling author of A Village Affair

By Julie Houston

Harriet Westmoreland did not expect to go into labour in the Harvey Nichol's men's underwear department!
Nor did she expect that at exactly the moment she does she would set eyes on Alex Hamilton, and mark the start of a year of madness... For her, her family and, at times, it seems most of the West Yorkshire village of Midhope.

Giving birth only two months after Harriet, her lifelong best friend Grace has her own craziness to contend with. As both women hurtle down unexpected and very different paths, they flounder in a maelstrom of passion and confusion, perilously clinging on as the chain of events threatens not only their comfortable, ordinary lives but also their very existence...

Warm, witty and wonderful, the unputdownable bestseller from Julie Houston is perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella, Milly Johnson, Katie Fforde and Jill Mansell.
Praise for Julie Houston:
'Julie deserves to be up there with all the queens of chick lit' Alison Cremona.

'Superb story, great characters and thought-provoking happenings' Amazon reviewer.

'Reading this long awaited book was like meeting up with old friends' J.M. Jones.

'This sequel I have to say surpasses even the first book' Rani S.

'This is a fantastic book - pacy, sharp, and warmly and cleverly funny' Ysabel.

'A really funny and heartwarming book' Amazon reviewer.

'I could not put this book down, it had me laughing out loud, shouting at the characters and crying' Amazon reviewer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789542257

Julie Houston

Julie Houston lives in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire where her novels are set, and her only claims to fame are that she teaches part-time at 'Bridget Jones' author Helen Fielding's old junior school and her neighbour is 'Chocolat' author, Joanne Harris. Julie is married, with two adult children and a ridiculous Cockerpoo called Lincoln. She runs and swims because she's been told it's good for her, but would really prefer a glass of wine, a sun lounger and a jolly good book – preferably with Dev Patel in attendance. You can contact Julie via the contact page, on Twitter or on Facebook. Twitter: @juliehouston2; Facebook.com/JulieHoustonauthor

Book preview

Prologue

June

Do we ever grow up? I mean, really ever leave behind our inner fourteen year old selves? The chain of events that hot, June afternoon, and Grace’s and my reaction to those events, can only be described as downright adolescent, no different from when we were at school together and being told off for not wearing our berets or refusing to line up quietly in the dinner line.

‘Keep calm. Keep breathing,’ Grace ordered, eyeing the stream of fluid that was still continuing to seep on to the shop floor. After the sudden, premature gush that had taken not only me and Grace, but also the whole of the men’s department in Harvey Nichols in Manchester by surprise, the flow had subsided to an occasional, sullen drip.

‘I am calm. I am breathing,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief at being caught out like this, while trying to work out the best course of action. The twins weren’t supposed to be arriving for another three weeks.

Taking my arm as if I were an invalid, and steering me towards the nice young man in charge of underpants – despite my objections, Grace had been emphatic about coming up to the second floor in order to buy new boxers for her partner, Sebastian – she tried to get his attention.

‘Excuse me,’ she said bossily, pushing her way to the head of the predominantly male line in front of her.

‘There is a queue here, you know,’ a disgruntled voice shouted from the midst of the waiting men. Turning on him, calmly but icily, Grace said, ‘Have you ever had a baby? No? No, I thought not. In which case, I would ask you to exercise a little patience while I endeavour to sort out my friend here.’

I rolled my eyes, mouthed ‘sorry’ to the entire queue, and squelched my way to a nearby chair while Grace, her usual peremptory self, demanded help.

‘My friend, as you can perhaps see, has gone into premature labour. I wonder if we could have a little assistance here? And maybe a glass of water?’

The men’s underwear assistant, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, looked up from the box of Calvin Kleins he was intent on wrapping and blinked nervously across at me. I dutifully waved in his direction so he’d know exactly who was in danger of giving birth in full view of half the male population of Manchester. His face was comical as he glanced first at Grace’s seven months pregnant bump and then at my own, even bigger one.

‘Do you want me to ring for an ambulance?’ he asked, obviously not quite sure what was being requested of him.

‘I don’t think an ambulance will come all the way from Yorkshire,’ I shouted across to Grace, thinking of all the hospital cuts. ‘And I really don’t want to give birth in Manchester. I don’t actually live here, you see,’ I added for the benefit of the queue. ‘If someone could just give us a hand down to the car park then we should be able to drive straight to St Mark’s in Midhope.’

I didn’t think for one minute that I was actually going to produce my twins here in the Harvey Nicks men’s knicker department, I just needed to rest my feet after being dragged round every baby shop in Manchester. From the moment she’d grasped the pregnancy stick in her hand with its congratulatory thin blue line confirming everything she’d ever wanted, Grace had been manic in her desire to buy up not only all of the baby paraphernalia in Midhope, but also that in neighbouring Leeds and Manchester. Having accepted she’d probably never have children of her own, her boundless energy had never once dissipated, fired up as she was with delight at actually being pregnant.

We, or rather I, had obviously overdone it this time.

A rather scruffy looking individual left his position at the back of the queue and ambled over to where I was leaning on the chair for support.

‘Where’s your car, love? Is it near enough for you to walk to or shall we call a taxi?’ He smelt of stale cigarettes and his fingernails were deeply encrusted with black. Not your usual Harvey Nicks customer, I mused.

‘I’ll be fine, really I will,’ I smiled. ‘If my friend here could just go and get her car and bring it round to the store’s entrance then we can zoom back down the motorway to Yorkshire and everything will be tickety-boo.’

‘Tickety-boo?’ Grace turned from where the young assistant was trying to summon some sort of help on his department phone and looked at me in amazement. ‘God, pregnancy really has addled your brain.’

Such was the look of disbelief on Grace’s face that I began to giggle.

‘I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,’ Grace said bossily, which made me laugh even more. Tutting and raising her eyes to heaven, Grace made a decision. ‘You stay there, but for God’s sake stop laughing. It’s bad enough your babies being born in a Lancashire store’s men’s knicker department, but chortling like a mentally defective hyena while doing so is not really on, Harriet. Now, I’m going to get the car and bring it as near as I can to the entrance. Is your phone on? I’ll ring you as soon as I’m as near as I can get.’

Grace sailed rather than waddled towards the escalator and was soon lost in the crowd, leaving me perched on the rattan chair surrounded by the many purchases she had insisted she couldn’t possibly do without ‒ and wishing I’d at least got the Telegraph crossword for company to take my mind off the reality of being stuck in a chair, alone, and about to give birth.

As if by magic a cup of tea suddenly materialised at my side, and I nodded gratefully at the young woman whose acned face and nervous hesitation suggested a schoolgirl let out on work experience rather than a bona fide Harvey Nichols assistant. The strong smell of tannin – even when not in a state of pregnancy I can only ever face the weakest of Earl Grey tea – made me want to heave and, putting the unfinished tea on a side table laden with leaflets featuring men in every conceivable pose and type of underpants, I closed my eyes and waited.

It suddenly occurred to me that it might not be a bad idea if I rang Nick, my husband, to put him in the picture, as it were ‒ and inform him of his premature, but obviously fairly imminent, status as the father of twins.

‘When are you going to start leaving your phone switched on?’ Nick’s irate voice castigated me as I switched my mobile to ‘missed calls’ before attempting to get hold of him in order to update him on the current state of play.

Nick answered immediately. ‘Hi, darling. Have you spent up? I’ve just been told to turn my mobile off by a very officious steward, so make it quick. We’re about to take off.’

‘I’m in the Harvey Nicks men’s knicker department and, erm, I also seem to be in labour.’

‘Labour? Babies? Shit, I need to get off the plane… Yes, I do know the rules – probably as well as you do, seeing as I’m on your planes every week at the moment, but my wife is giving birth to twins in Harvey Nicks… Hat? We’re moving. I can’t get off. I’m going to try and get someone to help… Yes, I will, in a minute, I promise. Just need to make a couple of phone calls… Hat? Are you there? Try and hang on until I get…’

And then he was gone.

My phone rang immediately. ‘Hat, it’s me.’ Grace sounded horribly flustered. ‘I’m going to be ages yet. There’s a queue getting out. Are you OK?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Just a bit wet, that’s all. Babies take ages to come. I’ll just sit here and wait. I’ve spoken to Nick, but he can’t get off his plane to London… Oh, shit.’ A cramping pain across my swollen abdomen took me not only by surprise but reminded me, rather shockingly, that I was in labour.

‘Oh, God, Hat. What? What is it? Does it hurt?’

‘It’s fine,’ I said airily as the spasm subsided. ‘Just a little blip. Don’t forget I’ve done this three times before. I was in labour for two days with India.’

‘Right, I think we’re moving… Bloody hell, it’s hot… Come on… get out of the way, you pillock…’

Twenty minutes passed and I was just beginning to wonder if I should try to make my way downstairs to find Grace when another spasm took me by surprise. ‘Wow,’ I muttered to anyone who cared to listen. ‘I’d forgotten what this pain was like.’ I must have spoken louder than I intended because the young YTS – or whatever the title is these days – assistant left the pants she’d been arranging, rather lovingly I thought, and came over once more.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that… when my mum’s waters went when she was pregnant with my little brother, she said she was fine but the next minute she was on the floor giving birth, with me as midwife. I don’t want to worry you, but I wasn’t any good at it. In fact I was sick. I really could do with not having to go through all that again.’

Fear of reliving what had obviously been a traumatic experience for her, if not for her mum, had emboldened her. ‘I really don’t think this is on at all. I’m going to ring for an ambulance and let them deal with you.’

‘No, really… honestly. I will be fine. I’ve had three others and they all took days to arrive.’

‘I think an ambulance would be a really good idea, you know,’ a male voice now said from behind me. I turned and came face to face with one of the most gorgeous looking men I’d ever had the good luck – pregnant or otherwise – to have had crouching at my side. Hunkered down to my chair level, humour rather than concern etched upon his face, he patted my arm and said, ‘Hi, I’m Alex. ’Fraid I know absolutely nothing about babies,’ he grinned, a devastating smile showing perfect white teeth, ‘apart from the fact that I probably was one at one point.’

My heart, already racing from the contraction, went into overdrive. ‘Yes, I think I was one too,’ I said inanely, then coloured furiously as he laughed out loud. With blue eyes that would have put Cillian Murphy to shame, and a toned, tanned physique that was demanding release from its white T-shirt covering, he was the embodiment of every romantic thought and desire I’d ever harboured… that didn’t involve my husband Nick, of course.

He was just about to say something else when he noticed Grace making her way across the store towards me. ‘Well, it looks like you don’t need me any more,’ Alex said as Grace arrived, still looking as radiant as ever, but the two spots of colour on her face indicating a slight fluster. ‘I’m assuming this is your friend. I think she must have the whole Manchester constabulary in tow.’ He indicated the three police officers who had obviously insisted on accompanying Grace, and who were now standing impatiently behind us. Giving my arm a reassuring stroke, he picked up his purchases and made to go. He slung a pale blue cashmere sweater, the colour of his eyes, across his shoulders, and winked at me before walking across to the waiting elevator.

‘Oh, my God,’ I said.

‘Oh, my God,’ Grace echoed, as we continued to look after him until the blue of his sweater was totally eaten up by the maelstrom of shoppers. And then, lowering her voice so that the three police officers couldn’t hear, she added, ‘Could you just moan a bit more like that? You know, pretend you’re in labour as opposed to being in lust, otherwise I’m going to end up with a damned great parking fine. And why this lot didn’t believe me when I told them it was an emergency and had to leave the car on a pedestrian precinct I’ll never know.’ Grace put her hands to her own large bump, breathing heavily with the effort of it all.

‘Ow, ow ow,’ I shouted, clutching at the chair arms as my whole abdomen tightened in spasm.

‘Yes, very good,’ Grace winked at me, before turning to the only female officer for sympathy. ‘You can see, officer, what an emergency this is. If you could just accompany us downstairs to the car we’ll hit the motorway and be on our way back to Midhope.’

Ignoring Grace, she came over and crouched down beside me. ‘Are you all right, love? You look to be in a bit of a state. Shall we get you an ambulance?’

‘Yes, that’s just what I’ve been saying,’ the YTS girl piped up, sounding as bossy as Grace. Self-importance and relief in equal measures were apparent in her voice now that she didn’t have to feel responsible for me.

‘Look, I really will be OK,’ I smiled, ‘but if you could just help me to my friend’s car, that would be appreciated.’

‘Right, you two, over here,’ the policewoman called, and the next minute I was on my feet and being manhandled down the escalator accompanied by the two young, obviously rugby playing policemen, and the curious stares of those on the parallel ascending staircase.

‘I bet they all think you’ve been arrested for nicking things and hiding the evidence up your frock,’ Grace said crossly and, as I began to giggle, added, ‘I hope they don’t think I’m your accomplice.’

Out in the street everything began to seem a little unreal. I had to stop a couple of times, clutching the officers’ arms as several contractions brought me up in my tracks.

‘You can stop acting as though you’re auditioning for Casualty,’ Grace hissed in my ear. ‘You’ve made your point now.’

‘Sorry about this,’ I panted to anyone who was listening, ‘but if I can just get into the car and be off, everything will be fine.’

‘Hat, are you having us on or is this really it?’ Grace whispered in my ear as I continued to hug her car. ‘Only… if this isn’t it then we’re in danger, not only of a parking fine, but of being up for wasting police time. I mean, you are being a bit over the top, you know.’

‘Grace,’ I snarled, ‘believe me, when you go in to labour in the next few weeks, when you are biting Seb’s hand off with the pain of it all, when you are telling me that you will never go near a man again never mind consider actually have sex with him, then I shall take immense pleasure in asking you if you don’t, perhaps, feel you are being a "bit over the fucking top."’

‘Right.’ The WPC was obviously getting fed up with the whole argument. ‘Let’s get you into Manchester General.’

‘Manchester? No. You see, Manchester is in Lancashire.’

‘Yes, I am aware of that. I actually got rather a good grade in GCSE Geography.’

‘This is all getting a bit much for me,’ Grace said crossly, wiping the sweat from her forehead while once again holding on to her own bump. ‘You might not have noticed, but I’m pregnant too, you know. And, actually, I’m desperate for a pee,’ she continued, looking around as if in the hope that a loo would magically appear before her very eyes.

‘No, don’t even think about it,’ snapped the WPC as she saw Grace’s eyes fix on the young PC’s helmet. ‘It’s an urban myth that pregnant women are allowed to pee into policemen’s helmets.’ And then, looking at her watch and obviously relenting re our journey back to Yorkshire if not Grace’s ability to use her colleague’s helmet as a loo, sighed, ‘OK, on your head be it. I wash my hands of the pair of you.’

Thirty seconds later – with both of us crossing our legs – we were off, Grace at the wheel once more, heading for the M62 and Yorkshire. As we slowed and came to a standstill at some roadworks, Grace glanced across at me and asked, ‘Have you got your stopwatch?’

‘My stopwatch? Grace, I’m having a baby, not coaching future Olympic hopefuls.’

Ignoring me, she delved into her bag, rummaging around, but was unable to find what she was looking for.

‘Grace, will you keep your hands on the steering wheel? This is becoming an absolute farce. I knew I should have stayed at home this morning rather than being dragged down the motorway into foreign parts.’ I was feeling decidedly sorry for myself now. ‘How long until we get back to Yorkshire?’

Grace looked across at me once more, decided against the stopwatch and put her foot down, not speaking until we’d covered the next ten miles or so and were five minutes away from the border back into Yorkshire. ‘Not long enough, by the look of you,’ she eventually said, grimly. ‘Why couldn’t you just have gone with old Pontius Pilate like she suggested? You’d have been done and dusted by now. Sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and a baby on each arm.’

I couldn’t reply to this because the last contraction had literally left me speechless.

‘Grace, I hate to tell you this,’ I finally moaned, once I was vocal again, ‘but there’s no way I’m going to make it.’

‘You are joking. Oh, my God, you’re not, are you?’ Grace indicated desperately, moving across the motorway from the fast lane to the hard shoulder with an urgency that, if I’d had any breath left, would surely have taken it away.

‘Right… mobile… 999,’ Grace intoned as she scrabbled in her bag once more.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, peering out of the window.

‘Well, it’s not the maternity ward.’ Grace was sarcastic now, clearly frightened by the speed of events. ‘My goodness, that was quick,’ she continued as a panda car drew up behind us.

‘Do you realise you’ve just cut up half a dozen drivers?’ WPC Pontius Pilate demanded crossly before spotting Grace at the wheel. ‘Oh, deary me. Well, what a surprise! It’s the Yorkshire Two again. Didn’t quite make it, then, I see? Just my luck. Another five minutes and you’d have been off my patch and off my hands.’

Ten minutes and two more contractions later ‒ timed by the rather nice young policeman on my left, who insisted we call him Tom ‒ an ambulance pulled up on the hard shoulder, blue light flashing and siren screaming.

‘Right,’ the WPC called as Grace and the paramedic manhandled me towards the ambulance, ‘St Mark’s in Midhope for you, I think.’

‘Come on, love, get in and lie down,’ the paramedic urged. ‘I really don’t want to be delivering a baby in the middle of the M62.’

‘For God’s sake, Hat,’ Grace said crossly, ‘do as you’re told and go with the nice paramedics. I’m right behind you.’

The WPC tutted loudly in Grace’s direction. ‘I’m sorry, love, but you can’t go. You can’t just leave your car here on the hard shoulder of the motorway.’

‘I’m really not prepared to leave my friend,’ she snapped. ‘You can see she hasn’t got her husband here, and if you insist on me shifting my car, she won’t have me either.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ the WPC snapped back, obviously at the end of her tether. ‘OK, give me the keys and I’ll drive it back to the station. You’ll have to come and pick it up from there in the next twenty-four hours.’

And we were off, the ambulance’s blue light flashing like a monochromatic disco light.

‘Right,’ Grace said, scrabbling around in her oversized bag once more before triumphantly pulling out, very much in the manner of Jack Horner, the elusive stopwatch.

‘I don’t believe this,’ I said, looking for sympathy from the paramedic, who was unwrapping clean blankets from a cellophane bag.

‘Right, love,’ he said, ignoring me and giving Grace, who was obviously beginning to enjoy herself, a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. ‘How often are they coming?’

‘Well, there’s one on its way RIGHT NOW,’ I breathed, trying to keep calm as my body insisted on hurling me down yet another corridor of pain. Clutching on to Grace’s hand, I began to recite Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ under my breath getting as far as they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of the bay before relaxing my hold on her fingers.

‘Bloody hell, Harriet, that really hurt,’ she winced, nursing her crushed fingers. ‘And what’s with the poetry?’

‘Bloody tell me about it,’ I swore back. ‘And if you think that hurt, I suggest you ask for a full general anaesthetic if you ever get round to having that baby of yours.’

‘Right, OK, I obviously need to take your mind off this. What about that gorgeous Alex man in Harvey Nicks, then? He was a bit of all right, wasn’t he? Bet you wished you’d been in your little tight white trousers, eh?’

‘Gosh, yes,’ I said, remembering those devastating blue eyes. He certainly had made my heart pound quicker. Just my luck to come across someone so luscious when I was the size of a house and stuck in a chair. And then, as it didn’t seem in the least bit appropriate to be lusting after gorgeous men when I was on the point of giving birth to not only my fourth but also my fifth child, said primly, ‘I am a married woman, Grace, and as you know, even when I was thin and rather more lovely than I appear now, I have never once looked at any man apart from Nick.’ I hesitated. ‘And George Michael, of course. Can’t forget George. Oh, and Professor Brian Cox.’

‘There, you see,’ Grace said comfortably. ‘Told you this giving birth lark was all in the mind. You were soon distracted.’

‘Grace,’ I said through gritted teeth as another bout of pain began to make its presence felt, ‘in a minute, I am seriously going to hit you. This is not in my bloody mind, as you can well see. It’s here. HERE.’ And, pointing to my grotesquely swollen and now tight-as-a-drum abdomen, I continued to rant. ‘What, Grace, do you think this is? Wind?’

‘I’m really sorry, Hat.’ Grace was contrite. ‘I just assumed that because you’ve done it three times before you’d actually know what you were doing and sail through it again.’

When I didn’t say anything she held my hand again and said in a quiet voice, ‘They’re coming a bit fast, aren’t they?’

‘Very.’

Turning to the paramedic, Grace asked, ‘How much longer until we get to the hospital? Only… I’m not sure she’s going to make it.’

‘Two minutes now, love. She’ll be fine. I’ve not had to deliver one in the ambulance yet.’

‘There’s always a first bloody time,’ I snarled as another contraction had me gripping the blanket and getting, this time, as far as For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood before relaxing once more.

It really was like something on the telly. As soon as we drew up in front of the main entrance at St Mark’s, the doors of the ambulance were flung back and I was being wheeled out and raced along a brightly lit corridor.

‘I need to push. I really do.’ My voice didn’t sound like my own at all: I’d have sworn blind it was coming from some two-bit actor on a second rate soap. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this, but if I don’t get my knickers off we’ll all be sorry. Jesus. They flash upon the inward eye that is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the BLOODY DAFFODILS.’

1

October

‘Right, dear, any idea where I can get a decent blow job round here?’ Sylvia rinsed her cup in the sink before turning, hands on hips, obviously ready for action.

‘What?’ I looked in horror at my sixty-five year old mother-in-law, two plastic spoons held in mid-air while the twins, momentarily deprived of their mush on a spoon appeared, in their synchronised open mouthed stance, similarly aghast.

‘My hair, Harriet. It needs a good blow job.’

She patted her already perfect blonde bob and sighed. ‘I have the most marvellous little girl down in Surrey who is an absolute poppet. Blow dries my hair just as I like it. I have to say, Harriet, that I never quite managed a decent hairdo the two years I lived up here in Midhope.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said, relief (that Sylvia wasn’t up for a bit of northern extracurricular pensioner sex while her husband-to-be strolled the Epsom golf courses) rendering me somewhat inarticulate. Mind you, since having a pair of unplanned twins at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, being articulate was something that seemed to have deserted me. Big time. Along with the ability to remember who I was. Or who anyone was, come to think about it. Or getting back into the size 8 skinny jeans I used to nick on a regular basis from Libby, my seventeen year old. I sighed, and concentrated on scraping excess mush from around the mouths of Theadora and Fin before popping it back in once more. Fin was obviously at saturation point: he was starting to go cross-eyed, his little mouth pursed in remonstration.

The thought of those skinny jeans was still uppermost in my mind when Sylvia, who is not usually overly aware of what anyone else but she herself might be thinking, said, ‘So, have you thought any more about what you are going to do about this wedding, Harriet? It is only six weeks away, you know, and Colin and I need to know exactly what is happening. Are you bringing the twins as well as the other three down to Surrey?’

The other three were Libby, Kit my almost fifteen year old and India who, at the age of nearly seven, was going to achieve a lifetime ambition when she attended her grandmother as bridesmaid. ‘But no way am I getting dressed up in a poncy peach satin frock,’ Liberty had stated when asked if she too, would be an attendant at the wedding. ‘If you want to buy me a nice little Alice Temperley number, Mum, or even something from D&G, then I don’t mind walking down the aisle behind Granny.’

When, after looking down at my enormous leaking bosom and comfy leggings, I’d snapped (in what I’m ashamed to admit was a rush of jealousy at my gorgeous slinky eldest daughter) ‘Try Primark or Matalan,’ she’d retorted, ‘But Mum, Granny will be Lady Sylvia Fitzgerald by the time she gets married and you know, as well as I do, she’d rather die than have a bridesmaid wearing Primark… although, to be fair, she’s probably never even heard of it.’

And didn’t we all know that Sylvia was about to be promoted? She’d never shut up about it since her fiancé, Judge Colin Fitzgerald, QC, who also happened to be the father of Nick’s ex, Anna, had been given a peerage for his services to law. Which, of course, meant that once Sylvia walked down that aisle, she’d walk back up it as Lady Fitzgerald. It didn’t bear thinking about.

What else didn’t bear thinking about was that, six weeks from now, I’d be meeting for the first time the infamous Anna, from under whose – allegedly – pretty little nose I’d snatched Nick one Saturday night in the university union bar in Birmingham where we were all, Grace included, studying at the time. And there was no way that, six weeks from now, I was going to be able to fit into some amazingly chic little outfit that would convince Nick that he’d made the right decision that fateful evening almost twenty years earlier. Nick had laughed, and he patted my post-pregnancy bottom – rather condescendingly, I thought – and zoomed off once more to attend to his burgeoning business.

I sighed, simultaneously wiped two little faces and tried to concentrate on Sylvia’s question about the twins. My plan had been to leave them at home with my big sister Di while the rest of us headed south for the weekend. Di, happily single with no other commitments than a very demanding job as a social worker and a likewise demanding cat called Eric, had been more than willing to move in for a couple of days when I’d first broached the subject last week, but when I’d told her the actual date of the wedding and she’d checked her diary she realised she couldn’t do it.

‘Sorry, Hat,’ she’d said. ‘Would you believe it? It’s the one weekend I’m away – the conference in Denmark I’ve been telling you about. Can’t you persuade Sylvia to postpone the big do until the weekend after? The sausage rolls and vol-au-vents will keep a week, won’t they? I’m free then.’

I’d looked at her despairingly. ‘Oh, yes, sure she will. She’s planned this wedding with military precision. Every minute is accounted for. I bet she’s even allotted twenty minutes for sex with Judge Colin up in the bridal suite between the after dinner speeches and the first waltz.’ I’d shuddered at the very thought. I’d only met him on two previous occasions, and on each he’d leered suggestively at my pre and post birth bosom. ‘And,’ I’d added, ‘if you think that the future Lady Sylvia would countenance even a whiff of a sausage roll at her wedding breakfast, you’ve obviously not spent enough time with her at the planning stage. Gordon Ramsay has some connection with Judge Colin – don’t ask me what – and he’s in charge of catering.’

‘What? The Gordon Ramsay?’ Di had been impressed.

‘Do you know any other?’ I’d asked, somewhat gloomily, as I’d contemplated who else I could broach re the twins.

‘Do you know any other…?’ Sylvia’s echoing of my question to Di brought me back to the present.

‘Sorry?’

‘Any other? Do you know any other person who might take care of the twins? I suppose Grace is out of the question?’

‘Out of the question and slightly out of her mind as well, I think.’

I was a little concerned about Grace. In typical Grace style she’d given birth quickly and neatly, her birth plan in one hand and Seb’s squeezed fingers in the other her only birthing aids. Jonty David Greenwood-Henderson (Grace had reverted back to her maiden name after Dan, her husband, had left her for Camilla, my half-sister’s daughter) had arrived on the expected date, perfect in every way and, rather disconcertingly, with the same startling navy blue eyes as his paternal grandmother, Amanda. Now, almost two months after the birth, she didn’t seem to be coping in quite the way we all assumed she would.

‘Oh, she’ll soon snap out of that,’ Sylvia chirruped, reaching for her Barbour jacket before heading for the front door and her search for the desired blow job. ‘Healthy young gel like Grace… I bet in six weeks’ time she’ll be more than happy to look after the three of them.’

I bet she won’t, I thought.

And what was it with Sylvia that, now the title was almost within her grasp, she’d started dressing and talking like the Queen? She’d be donning a headscarf next and learning to ride.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ Sylvia said, taking a blue headscarf from her jacket pocket and tying it deftly around her neck. ‘I may be a while. Colin has suggested I learn to ride in order that I can hack out with him and the Digby-Croslands of a Sunday morning. I thought I might call in at the riding school over Blakely way.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘Never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.’

Old dog… Her parting words took me back to how the hell I was going to compete with the ex-girlfriend in six weeks’ time. At least it would be a November wedding, and I wouldn’t have a sea of skimpy summer frocks to contend with. Maybe I could get away with a layered look; a little Sarah Pacini outfit, perhaps? I took the two dozing babies, still in their bouncy chairs, and carried them up to our bedroom. To give them their due, they were both fairly well behaved little creatures, and I reckoned I had a good two hours’ respite ahead of me. I’d made a huge chilli earlier that morning and all that was needed was a pan of rice and some garlic bread before the other three came home, ravenous as usual, from school.

I went into our en suite bathroom and, checking the twins were sleeping soundly, closed the door on the world. Our bathroom had been transformed from its former avocado-green glory to a heated, tiled, floored haven only a couple of months previously. Gone were the curling daisy strewn wallpaper, the rough, mismatched towels and the mouldering tufted carpet left by the previous owners. With Nick’s new business going from strength to strength, the old seventies bathroom had been first on my list to hit the dust. In its place were the clean lines of a fully functioning wet room, Jack and Jill basins and a tower of fluffy white and navy towels so springy they were in danger of becoming out of control. But at the thought of this damned wedding I was beginning to feel a bit like that myself. I was no longer breastfeeding the twins. Time, I reckoned, to get myself and my poor old body back on track.

Without another thought I stripped off. Everything. Nick’s old school rugby shirt and my overstretched leggings hit the floor, followed by one knackered, greying M&S maternity bra and pants you wouldn’t be seen dead in. Pregnant or breastfeeding, maybe, but dead… definitely not. I tittered as I imagined being found dead in the monstrosities that were now slung around the base of the loo. I gave them a farewell kick for good measure and they rose slightly, before landing in an even more squalid heap than before. OK: truth time. I walked over to the full length mirror that very cleverly gave the impression of a bathroom twice its size in reality and took a good, hard look at what damage being pregnant with twins and three months’ breastfeeding had done to my body.

‘How do you solve a problem like my rear?’ I warbled, turning while trying to get a good look at my bare backside. ‘How do you catch your bum and pin it down…?’

In all honesty, there was limited damage. I really didn’t look too bad at all. All right, my poor old bosom was still a war zone, but with a bit of sucking in of stomach and a decent haircut I would be well on the way to recovery. I searched for stretch marks – and yes, I didn’t have to search too far, but they weren’t horrendous. Quite liveable with, I reckoned.

There are some things I can’t do: there are a hell of a lot of things I can’t do. But, having now had five of them, I can confidently say I can make babies. And recover from the after effects of having said babies pretty damned quickly, too.

Pleased – smug, even – I ran a hot bath, liberally endowed it with some Jo Malone bath oil and, giving myself up dreamily to the prospect of a luxuriant half hour, stepped in. I’d put in too much bath oil. The second my foot made contact with the well oiled bottom of the bath it slid away at high speed, taking its attached leg with it and throwing the rest of me off balance, whereupon I straddled the edge of the bath with my lady bits and, in the ensuing panic, fell heavily against the new tiles, cracking the side of my head and right eye with such a force I saw stars.

My shout of agony as I crashed back into the water was enough to wake Thea, whose cries then woke Fin. Gingerly and in pain, I groped my hand along the floor until I found a towel and managed to haul myself out of the bath. Wrapped in the towel, I made my way back to the bedroom, where both babies were obviously in competition to see who could scream the loudest.

‘Sssh, ssshh, ssshh,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t do this to your poor old mother.’ As I bent over each bouncy chair my head pounded and, grabbing one baby under each arm, I sank with relief on to the plumped up pillows on the bed. Bloody hell. What a stupid thing to do. I winced as I put a hand up to the side of my face. My eye felt funny – heavy, and not my own. And my hand was sticky. Oh,