Anita Ward was singing ‘Ring my Bell’ when my doorbell rang, Mr Simpkins marched off to answer it, and Paul Felix walked into the room.

Everything stopped.

No, actually, that isn’t true: I stopped my air-guitar impression of Jimi Hendrix and stared at the chef while everyone else danced, ate, and drank. Elvis, Bertie, Seamus and Dolly trotted over to investigate the newcomer, and Paul stooped to pet them all and then straightened and looked at me. I walked as steadily as I could to stand in front of him.

“Balls.”

“I’m sorry?”

He held up a string bag full of tennis balls. “For the chucker I gave Elvis.”

“Oh. Lovely, thanks.” I took the bag and placed it by the sideboard. “You’re here then.”

“I’m here.”

“Everything alright?” Mr Simpkins stood beside us, looked at me and then studied Paul. “You’re late, young man.”

“I know, sorry, Marnie.” Paul smiled, and my heart felt like it might burst out of my chest and fly around the room like Meatloaf’s ‘Bat Out of Hell’. “I was seeing my ex-girlfriend onto the London train to go and stay with her sister.” He took a deep breath. “We had another huge row, and she told me the baby’s Mark Cooper’s.”

“Good God.” Mr Simpkins goggled at Paul.

“Hey, Paul, the cake was a success.” Tim appeared and shook Paul’s hand.

“Glad you liked it,” Paul said.

I stared at the chef. “You made Elvis’s birthday cake?” Paul nodded, and I turned to Tim. “You never said.”

“Didn’t I?” Tim shrugged. “It was no biggie. When Pippa and I left earlier, we saw Paul walking away, and I realised he was the ideal man for the job. We stopped him and asked; Paul agreed, and then we picked the cake up before we came here. Well, he is a master baker.”

“There’s no need for that sort of thing, Timothy.” Mr Simpkins bristled. “There are ladies present.”

“Ding, dong.” Pippa was beside me, eyeing up Paul. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t –” Paul managed to say before Pippa grabbed his hand and dragged him into the middle of the floor to the Bee Gees’ ‘Stayin’ Alive’.

Sue spotted Paul, ran up and hugged him. “Ooh, hello, you came, oooh, that’s so gooood….”

I wondered how many cocktails she’d had. Sue introduced the chef to everyone, including me, and I deduced she’d had a few.

Mr Simpkins sidled up to me, cleared his throat and said, “I think coffee may be in order.”

“I think you’re right.” I made my way to the kitchen, followed by the dogs, and opened the back door. Elvis and his friends streamed out to the garden, and the Kray pigeons fluttered onto the window sill. “Hey, guys, hang on a minute.” I cut a small slice from the remainder of the cake, took it outside and scattered it along the sill. The Krays tucked in.

Yes, the Mad Bird Woman of Dexter Bay knows how to throw a party.

“Marnie.” Paul walked into the room, and I spun around to face him – and kept on spinning. “Oops.” He caught me and held me, and I gazed into his eyes. All four of them. I shook my head, blinked and tried again. Nope, still too many. “Let me make the coffee.”

Paul led me gently back through to the living room and sat me on the chair next to Colin. “Look after her, please.” Then he left.

Colin grinned at me. I glared at him. “Don’t say a word.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He waited for a beat and said, “Ooh, Marnie’s in love. Is he the one with the cakes? Tell him his strawberry tart was orgasmic. Oh, wait, he’s the one who saved your life, isn’t he? Goats cheese and rescued dogs. There's a country and western song in there somewhere….”

“Oh, God.”

♦♦♦

The party began winding down soon afterwards. Everyone had coffee or tea and another slice of cake. Paul sat beside me, and I wondered if I was dreaming the whole episode and maybe I should pinch myself to find out? Or perhaps I should pinch Paul instead.

“Ow.” Paul looked at me and then laughed. “You should be in bed.” I raised my eyebrows, and Colin sniggered. “Alone, I mean. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Course.” I nodded. “I’ll come for lunch.”

“No goat’s cheese,” Colin said.

Stolen novel; please report.

“No cheese of any sort.” I sipped coffee and stared into space. “Although…what about the soft kind? I don’t mean the smelly stuff like old socks; I mean the smooth cheese in a tub.”

Paul laughed again.

“Mate,” Colin said. “You’d better get used to this if you’re sticking around.”

“Oh, I’m sticking around.” Paul looked at me, I gazed back, and he only had two eyes this time.

“Brilliant party. Thanks.” Sue appeared, enveloped me in a bear hug and seemed inclined to hold on until Emma and Don prised her fingers away.

“Thanks to you and Emma,” I said. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Colin, Paul, Ben Hope, Tim and Mr Simpkins seemed to be the only sober ones left. Tim channelled Jimmy Stewart and became Mr Decent-And-Responsible with a hint of long-suffering humour. He organised Colin’s crutches, helped him down the path, and ensured that Ian and Don walked close to Sue and Emma and didn’t trip over Bertie.

Elvis accompanied them to the gate and then charged back inside.

Next to leave was Mrs Darrow, flanked by Mr Simpkins and Mr Benedict, with Dolly trotting behind them. Mrs Darrow was singing ‘Ballroom Blitz’ at a rate of decibels guaranteed to wake Gary and Laura around the corner. I could only hope Windy Miller didn’t get to hear any details and I wouldn’t be the Clarion’s cover star three weeks in a row.

Elvis accompanied them to the gate and then charged back inside.

Now it was only me, Paul, Tim, Pippa, and Jeff’s parents.

And Jeff, of course.

We all stood around his armchair and studied his snoring form. “He can’t stay,” I said. “I don’t want him.”

“Where did he live before he came here?” Ben Hope asked.

“A caravan somewhere in Bournemouth.”

“That is too close for comfort.” Peter Lorre’s voice was grim. “We must organise something else.” His face suggested the ‘something else’ might be a hitman or a drive-by shooting.

That’s when I had my brilliant idea.

“Tim, you’re going back to Lufton, aren’t you?” I smiled at him. “Would you drop Jeff at his girlfriend’s house?”

“Yes, no problem.” Tim nodded. “He can go in the back with Dad and Dolly.”

“He’ll love that. It’s Twelve Manor Road, and they know him as ‘David’.” I held up a hand. “Don’t ask.”

“I like you.” This was Irene Hope with Seamus in her arms and a faraway look in her eyes. “Our son is an idiot.”

Well, I wasn’t going to argue with that.

Tim kissed me goodbye. Pippa kissed me goodbye. Pippa kissed Elvis goodbye, then Seamus, then Ben Hope. She approached Paul, and Tim grabbed her, steered her out of the house, and put her in the Land Rover. Then he returned for Jeff, and together with Ben Hope, carried my soon-to-be-ex-husband out to the car, while Jeff’s mother followed with their dog.

Elvis accompanied them to the gate and then charged back inside.

Paul and I stood in the doorway and watched Tim’s father climb in the back of the Land Rover and ask what the devil this drunken fool was doing in there, and he’d better not throw up, or they’d be hell to pay. I waved until their car disappeared.

Paul stepped onto the porch. “I want to stay, but I think I should go too. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m glad you came.”

“So am I.” Paul stepped forward and kissed me gently on the lips. I felt flutters of excitement in my heart, stomach, and elsewhere. “Night, Marnie.”

“Night, Paul.”

Elvis accompanied Paul to the gate and then charged back inside.

I waved until the chef had disappeared, made sure the cottage was locked and safe for the night, and hauled myself upstairs to bed, discovering a chewed string bag on the landing and a tennis ball on my pillow. When I pulled the duvet back, I found Jeff’s blue and white Y-fronts.

Elvis stayed downstairs for a while, torturing the squeaky chop, and then he trotted into my bedroom and flopped down on the furry rug.

I prepared to drift off, a soppy smile plastered across my face.

Of course, the problem with alcohol is that it makes you feel sleepy and then after you’ve gone to bed, it refuses to let you sleep. I lay, brain whirling, and replayed the evening instead. The bit where Paul appeared was a highlight - and Elvis enjoyed every moment. The hedgehogs had gone down very well, too.

Yes, all in all, the party was a resounding success.

♦♦♦

I drifted in and out of fitful sleep, rose with the sun, wandered into the bathroom, and found a tennis ball in the shower cubicle. Elvis slept on, so I went downstairs, made coffee, and sat at the kitchen table, wondering what I should wear to have lunch at the café. Time passed in a hazy, sunny Paul-induced daze.

Then my phone bleeped - Ian had sent me a copy of his video. I took my mobile into the living room, sat on the settee, and played the clip.

Elvis appeared when the guests were singing ‘Happy Birthday’, climbed up beside me and stared at himself on the screen, head cocked.

I composed a text:

Here’s what you missed. X

Then I attached the video and sent it to Paul. At least this was one clip I was happy to pass on.

Paul replied with a smiley face, a message saying he was looking forward to lunch, and three kisses. Three. I began to feel mean for only sending one. Why is text messaging fraught with dozens of potential pitfalls: kisses or not? If you do, then how many? And don’t get me started on who sends the last text, and how you know what message is ending the session and what one expects a reply….

“Dating in the twenty-first century,” I said. “It’s not easy.”

Elvis didn’t care. He yawned, lay down, and fell asleep. I roused myself, sent a copy of the video to Gran, fed the Krays and Elvis, and made myself toast and more coffee.

Then I remembered Jeff’s house keys lying in the dish on the hall table. I fetched them and dropped them into the third sideboard drawer, hoping that I could give them to Paul one day soon.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Marnie.

Oh, sod off.

I took Elvis for a walk on the moor instead of the seafront, prolonging the delicious sense of anticipation for my lunch date with Paul…and where that might lead. As we walked, the early morning heat grew, insects swarmed and buzzed around us, and my thoughts turned suddenly to my unwritten novel.

What better time to begin? I stopped and turned around. “C’mon,” I told Elvis. “Our new life starts right here.” Elvis’s ears pricked up, and he trotted beside me as I marched towards Hill Street.

Back home, I took Gran’s laptop out of its box, carried it through to the kitchen, and followed the instructions to charge the battery. I studied the contents and read about the installed programs, including a word processor,

Meanwhile…there was a novel to begin.

I opened the word processor and chose a new document. The Kray Pigeons stared in the window, and Elvis lay down at my feet as I typed.

“Here goes,” I told my dog. “Chapter One.”

Then I stared at the screen. What was the general advice to aspiring authors? Write what you know.

“What do I know?” I asked Elvis, and he stayed silent. “Well, I certainly know more than I did two weeks ago, that’s for sure.”

I looked at the screen again, and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

My fingers hit the keyboard.

When life gives you lemons, slice them up and chuck them in a dirty great G&T…

The End