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We were all born here. And dad, I think.’
    Lucy intervened. ‘It used to belong to the local squire. He was a dreadful gambler – lost every penny, so my husband’s grandfather bought the house off him.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Brewing was the business to be in then. There were lots of thirsty farmers around, who weren’t worried about drinking and driving. Not like now.’
    ‘It’s beautiful.’
    ‘You might not be so enamoured once you’ve spent the night here. It’s freezing – bed socks and hot-water bottles, I’m afraid.’
    ‘And there’s never any hot water for a shower. Sophie and I have to shower at school.’ Georgina sounded outraged.
    Mandy grinned, sure they didn’t mean it. She stepped reverently into the flagstoned hallway of Honeycote House, and as she was ushered into the biggest kitchen she’d ever seen, she was overcome by a wave of desire. For there, in front of her, was everything she’d ever wanted.
    It wasn’t the size. Her parents’ ostentation had taught her that big certainly did not mean beautiful. No – what was truly overwhelming was the feeling that this was a room where people had fun, where people wanted to be and, more importantly, wanted to be with each other. Its charisma was tangible, seductive, and Mandy was instantly under its spell.
    The focal point was the table, which sat twelve comfortably and was ranged on both sides by wooden church pews. When you looked closely, you could see there were sets of initials carved at random all over it. Sophie explained that whoever sat there had to leave their mark. Mandy thought of her mother’s dining table, protected first by a heat-proof undercloth, then mats at each place setting, then a starched cloth over the top. And always napkins in a bishop’s mitre. She knew there’d be no such fripperies here. Her eyes moved to a large pine dresser. There was no carefully arranged display of cut glass and bone china, just a hotchpotch collection of mementoes haphazardly arranged, which clearly hadn’t seen a duster for weeks. Photos of family antics were stuck on to the walls with browning Sellotape, a faded sofa sporting a hambone and a coating of hairs indicated Pokey’s territory and a row of empty champagne bottles were inscribed in black marker with the events they had celebrated (Sophie’s GCSEs, Pokey’s puppies, Georgina making the county netball team). There were hardly any gadgets apparent: a coffee machine and a toaster but certainly no dishwasher, merely a huge stone sink piled shamelessly high with washing-up.
    Mandy was given tea in a chipped Bart Simpson mug. And, when Mr Liddiard got home, champagne in an ancient and heavy crystal glass to celebrate the end of term. They had shepherd’s pie for supper: not a microwaved supermarket offering, but ground steak flavoured with herbs and garlic and mushrooms and, strange yet deliciously appropriate, baked beans. Then ice cream, not presented in prissy little glass bowls with fan-shaped wafers, but served from the tub at the table and smothered in Mars Bars that Georgina melted on the Aga. And all the way through the meal the Liddiards laughed, chattered, laughed again and, most of all, listened to each other.
    Suddenly, everything fell into place and Mandy knew she’d found the way forward. This was the answer. A house where you had what you wanted, not what you thought you ought to have, and where nothing was done for effect, but for a good reason, or maybe for no reason at all other than you just felt like it. And where everyone was made welcome. Somehow, effortlessly, the Liddiards had made her feel one of the family, which made Mandy realize she’d never been made to feel one of her own. Silently, she vowed that she’d recreate. all this for herself, someday, somewhere, somehow. She was just toasting herself with the last drop of champagne in her glass – it wasn’t every night you found the meaning of life – when the door opened and in strolled a tall,