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work faster, Emma had appreciated his efforts.
    But now, listening to the obscure music favoured by BBC Radio 3 was giving her a headache. To paint faster, she needed something upbeat, something peppy. She bit her lip. When had she last attempted upbeat and peppy? Rifling through the neatly ordered CDs, Emma uncovered an album by the Spice Girls she couldn’t even remember buying. That’d do. Dusting off the case, she shoved it in the CD player, hit ‘Play’, and picked up a brush, removing the plastic casing and dipping its bristles in the oi ly liquid.
    ‘If you wanna be my lover,’ Emma sang loudly, her screechy voice echoing around the room. ‘I’d fit right in with that opera singer,’ she snorted, smearing the first swathe of paint across the wall. Wow! Already the place looked better.
    Sixty minutes later, voice hoarse from singing and head pounding from the paint’s chemical fumes, Emma stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The once pristine white wall glistened in sky blue, adding colour and depth to the lounge. As she stared at the shade, oddly, she felt closer to her father, like some part of him had returned to her.
    Don’t be dumb, Emma scolded herself. After all, it was just a colour. Those fumes were getting to her! Setting the brush on top of the paint lid, she crossed the room and heaved open the window. Fresh autumn air scented with crisp leaves drifted in, and Emma took a deep breath as she gazed out at the giant trees. At first, their proximity to the terrace had been a concern—roots could cause structural damage to a building’s foundations, and even though insurance would cover any repairs, it was a risk she didn’t need. Now, though, she was kind of glad they were there.
    Her mobile phone jingled through the upbeat music, and Emma grinned as she glanced at the screen. Ah, it was Alice, probably calling to fill her in on tonight. Humming along to the tune, Emma shimmied over to the CD player, turned down the volume, and pressed ‘Answer’.
    ‘Hey! You’ll never guess what I’m doing,’ she sang out before even saying hello.
    ‘Er … dancing naked to the Bee Gees?’
    Trust Alice to come up with something so silly. No matter how much Pollyanna Emma swallowed, she’d never in a million years do that. ‘No, that’s more your speed. Actually, I’m painting.’
    ‘Reeeeeaalllly?’ Alice dragged out the word. ‘Fantastic! You know, I’m so glad you’re taking the Pollyanna Plan to heart. If you change your external environment, you change your internal environment .’
    Emma rolled her eyes. Exactly what she’d predicted Alice would say. Although—she glanced at the blue wall—she did feel more uplifted and vibrant somehow. Oh, God. She was becoming a crackpot.
    ‘Right, so guess what we’re doing this evening. Saturday night, here we come!’ Alice’s excited tone rang through the handset.
    ‘Er … ’ Emma tilted her head as she tried to think exactly what her friend had in mind. ‘No idea.’
    ‘Karaoke dating!’
    Emma’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ She must have heard Alice wrong. Honestly, was there anything more gruesome? Sure, she’d been belting it out earlier, but that was in the privacy of her own home. To sing (and ‘sing’ was putting it optimistically) in front of baying men dragged up from London’s gutters in hopes of finding a woman desperate enough to take them on? No way.
    ‘It’s a new thing. Sophie went last week, and she pulled, no problem.’ Alice’s voice was bursting with enthusiasm.
    ‘And did she ever see the guy again?’ Emma couldn’t stop herself from asking.
    ‘Well … no. But she said he was really good in bed!’
    ‘Great,’ Emma responded wryly. ‘Alice, look. Have you ever heard me sing? I scare away the crows! There’s no way I’d pull—let alone find a man who’d even consider being within earshot—after karaoking. And don’t you remember, I’ve just broken up with George?’ She neglected to mention