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sure it was the smile I’d practised, but it was genuine. And it worked. He smiled back – the same smile I’d seen in the photo but this time it was for me. Oh, to see that across a bowl of Crunchy-Nut and Bran-Flakes every morning. ‘Great.’ He said quietly. ‘Well, I’d better get back. And I’m really sorry about the hand,’ he said, finally releasing mine.
    ‘Hope I didn’t ruin your score?’ I asked, wanting to keep him close.
    His smile broadened. ‘No. It’s safe. The ball dropped over the boundary.’
    ‘Oh, well done.’ I added, surprised at my own magnanimity.
    ‘Thanks.’ He raised his bat in farewell and headed back to the pitch. Applause rippled from the spectators and I watched in admiration as he swiped the next ball in the opposite direction, scoring another four runs.
    ‘Nice one, Vic!’ someone shouted.
    Vic, I thought, rolling the name around in my head, Victor. I supposed it was quite appropriate for an outstanding sportsman. Although, I couldn’t hear it without the subtext of mentholated chest rub.
    My super-active ex, Jamie, had won the Victor Ludorum at school. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t an omen.
    Packing up my camera, somewhat gingerly as my hand was absolutely killing me, I couldn’t help but think that if love at first sight was for real, then I’d literally been knocked for six.

Chapter 5
    When Sacha came in from her late shift, she was almost as excited to see the pictures as I was. I’d downloaded them to my laptop and had already cruised through them several times and started a spreadsheet to record the men’s details and suitability grading. Despite being completely bowled over by Victor, I regained enough sanity to return to the original plan. I had to give the others a chance, but it wouldn’t be easy.
    I’d bought us Crispy Duck as a special treat because I really felt like a celebration was in order. I’d over-catered on the green veg front in a vain attempt to notch up the required five-portions-a-day. One blueberry muffin for breakfast didn’t really count. And I’d splashed out on a bottle of Supermarket Cava and some Crème de Cassis so I could make us Kir Royales – or perhaps I should say ‘Kir Proletarian’ since it wasn’t your bona fide Champagne.
    We settled down on the sofa and Sacha slurped her glass of Kir. ‘Right, let’s see the contestants.’
    I began with Romwick, where the pickings were slim indeed. She was, however, quite taken by the maverick crew from Itchenfield. ‘They look much more fun.’ But since I’d not snapped any of them in detail, we moved on to Oldersbury.
    I surprised myself by finding one of the contenders from the Beasley team more interesting than I’d expected. He was tall, dark and my guess, Mediterranean. ‘I bet there’s a drop of Greek blood coursing through his veins,’ I suggested.
    ‘Nah – Italian,’ said Sacha. She’d had a bit of thing for Italians, ever since an encounter with a ski instructor on a school trip to the Dolomites.
    He was also displaying a tantalising wisp of chest hair beneath his shirt. That’s one thing Sacha and I are in agreement over: chest hair only works on tanned skin. You wouldn’t want to tangle with a sandy thatch on dough-coloured skin…at least, we wouldn’t. Which made me contemplate what might be lurking beneath Vic’s shirt – naturally.
    ‘Not bad,’ said Sacha as we perused Mediterranean Man in close-up. ‘I like the sultry look – especially that one,’ she pointed to a shot of him out on the boundary, crouched slightly, hands on thighs, waiting for an opportunity to catch the ball. Yes, he certainly had potential so we stuck him in at number one – for the time being.
    I could feel my heart quickening as we approached the Marshalhampton contingent. I needed to remain completely impartial when we got to you-know-who.
    First up was a group shot of the batsmen resting outside the pavilion. Amongst them was a tall guy with a text-book handsome face