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for them for nearly ten years. She’d been taken on when Delilah was writing her first book. The publishing company
     had sent her along to collate the recipes, check them and make sure the measurements were correct. It had been hard work,
     deciphering Delilah’s elaborate scrawls with the asterisks and squiggles and scratchings-out. Most of her recipes were from
     her head. But Polly was a plodder, meticulous and organised, and had done the most brilliant job.
    She had been shocked at the chaos of the Rafferty household. Gradually, over the three months she had been employed, she had
     sorted out their lives. The girls had all lived at home then, which only added to the confusion. Polly had established some
     sort of order, starting with a huge calendar wall-chart she put up in the kitchen with a sticker system – a different colour
     for each of them. They had all been astonished at the difference it had made, and clearly thought Polly was a genius.
    When her contract came to an end, Delilah had begged her to come and work for them full time and Polly had agreed. She didn’t
     have a title. She wasn’t a PA, because she could turn her hand to anything. Cook, chauffeur, hairdresser, sticker-on-of-false-eyelashes:
     her job description covered every eventuality. She never knew what she might be asked to do when she turned up in the morning.
     And she never knew quite what time she might go home at night. And she loved it. She loved being at the heart of this mad,
     noisy family
    She had a stock answer when people asked her what theRaffertys were like. ‘They’re lovely, absolutely lovely.’ And that’s all she would ever say.
    She could never leave. Polly Wolly Doodle Dolly, they used to call her. They were her family, her social life, her entertainment,
     her sounding-boards. Her parents and her children in one. And in return they couldn’t live without her. Her calm, her common
     sense and her meticulous organisation had kept the Rafferty family afloat for a decade. She was the voice of reason in a house
     full of neurotic mayhem.
    Her parents and some of her friends had often expressed concern. They felt she was living in the Raffertys’ pockets, that
     she had no identity of her own, and that they exploited her good nature. Her father thought it was incestuous and her mother
     felt the family were too dependent on her, given that she wasn’t paid a huge salary, though the perks were spectacular. If
     the truth was known, Polly would have worked for them for nothing. She adored the girls – they were like sisters to her. Naughty
     little sisters who came to her for advice. She worshipped Delilah. And as for Raf …
    She would walk over burning coals for Raf. Stick pins in her eyes. She adored him, unreservedly. Of course she knew he was
     out of her reach. He and Delilah belonged together. But as long as she could be near him, feast on him with her eyes every
     day, breathe in the same air that he breathed, then she was happy. Besides, he would never look at a pudding like her.
    All in all, Polly was perfectly content with her lot, except for her wretched weight. It was getting out of hand. She was
     no fashion plate, but even she knew that size-sixteen stretch jeans with elasticated waist bands were hideous. She wore them
     with a rotation of baggy sweatshirts, topped with a padded waistcoat when it was cold. And loafers. She knew she dressed like
     a frumpy English cliché, but girls like her didn’t have much choice when it came to fashion. The baggy layers were an institution
     to hide behind. There were carbon copies of Polly all over the Home Counties – women to whom skinny jeans were as inaccessible
     as the moon. Her face was pretty – round,with twinkly eyes and a mass of unruly curls that she tied back in a scrunchy – but she felt sure no one saw beyond the massive
     arse and wobbly stomach. Not to mention the thunder thighs.
    She reached the bottom of Richmond Hill. There was no way she would