This is torture.

“Biddy!” I call lightly, but she doesn’t hear me. “Well, anyway.” I summon my most pleasant tones. “Best of luck with the wedding—”

“I could break up with her.” He speaks in low tones, leaning toward me.

“What?”

“If you say the word.”

“What?” I stare at him, aghast. “Steve, if you want to break up with her, you shouldn’t be marrying her!”

“I’m not saying I want to break up with her. But I would. You know. If you and me…” He makes a weird motion with his hands. I don’t even want to think about what he’s trying to describe.

“No! I mean…that’s never going to happen. Steve, you’re engaged.”

“I never gave up on you. Did you give up on me?”

“Yes, I did! I totally gave up on you!” I’m hoping to shock him into reality, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Think about it,” he says, taps his phone, and winks.

He’s insane.

“I’m really happy you’re engaged,” I say briskly. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful life together. I must go and help Biddy.”

As I leave the room, I want to scream. And Biddy asks me if I want to move back here? She must be bloody joking.


By the beginning of February, Dad and Biddy have bought yurts, feather duvets, fire pits, vintage-style kettles, one hundred meters of bunting, and two hundred labels reading ANSTERS FARM JAM. Dad’s midway through converting a barn into a shower-and-loo block, with nice rustic tiles on the floor. (Not the vicious bright-blue lino he was going to get cheap from his mate in the trade. Honestly, you can’t trust him for a minute.)