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then Granddad had died, three years ago last August, and his house had been put on the market a few months later and had
     sold just before prices began to fall. And Hannah, his only granddaughter, had been given enough from the proceeds to realize
     her dream.
    Last November a little corner unit on the main street had become vacant, the rent not too horrendous thanks to the recession.
     After dithering for a few weeks, she’d finally taken the plunge and signed the lease, and told Joseph Finnegan she’d be leaving
     at the end of the year.
    She’d invested in a stove that took up twice the space of the old one—forcing a complete reshuffle of her other kitchen appliances,
     during which the tumble dryer had migrated to the shed—and she’d bought the frighteningly expensive stand mixer, along with
     the thousand other bits and pieces she hadn’t realized she’d need.
    Adam and his cousins had rallied, and the little shop had gradually been scrubbed and sanded, painted and fitted with display
     cases and shelves. And last week a man had painted CUPCAKES ON THE CORNER in bright blue letters on the yellow strip of wall above the front window.
    The shop was tiny—not much room for more than three customers at a time—but there was space around the back to pull up with
     the van. Adam had set up a Web site and designed stationery and printed off leaflets that they’d pushed through mail slots,
     stuck on telephone poles and supermarket notice boards, and slipped under car windscreen wipers.
    And a week before Christmas, Hannah’s kitchen had been visited by a health inspector and deemed a suitable place in which
     to produce the cupcakes.
    So everything was set. She was poised at last to make her dream come true—and the one person she wanted by her side had just
     left.
    She reached out in the darkness and found her phone on the bedside table. She opened a new text message and inserted Patrick’s
     name on the recipient line, then typed “ I miss you .” She held her thumb above “send”—and slowly moved it across to press “exit.”
    Save message? the phone asked.
    No, she replied with her thumb, and the words vanished.
    She replaced her phone, closed her eyes, and forced herself to begin measuring flour, sugar, and butter. For some reason mental
     baking usually sent her right to sleep.

    “Mum?”
    “Hello.”
    Leah’s heart sank at the cool tone. “I’m just ringing to see how you are,” she said, as brightly as she could manage.
    “He’s moved in, has he?”
    Leah could picture her face, pinched with disapproval. “Yes, he’s moved in—and his name is Patrick,” she added before she
     could stop herself. “Mum,” she went on quickly, “please don’t be like this.”
    “Easy for you to say,” her mother answered, “when you don’t have to face Geraldine Robinson at bridge every Friday night.”
    “She can’t possibly blame you.”
    “And who else would she blame, when it’s my daughter who stole her daughter’s boyfriend? You should have seen how upset she
     looked last Friday—I dread to think what she’ll say when she finds out who’s responsible for all this.”
    Leah closed her eyes and took a breath. “Mum, let’s not get into this. Just please try to understand, nobody planned it. I
     didn’t set out to—”
    “You knew he was involved with someone else. You should have had some self-restraint.”
    “It wasn’t like that. It’s not something—”
    “Imagine what that poor girl is going through right now, and just about to open up a shop. Geraldine was telling us all only
     a couple of weeks ago how nervous she was about it. Remember how tough it was for you when you opened the salon? How would
     you have liked to be landed with something like that on top of it?”
    With an effort, Leah held her tongue. No point in arguing: Nothing she could possibly say would make a difference. Not when
     her mother had been in Hannah’s very situation thirty years