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‘Have a lovely day,' I say. ‘Don't forget your paper.' I slide it across the counter.

‘I don't suppose I'll have time to read it, but it's handy for all sorts: lining the floor when Nero comes in from muddy walks, and putting the shine on the shop windows.'

I smile to myself as she leaves, and watch her unclipping the dog's lead from the ring outside, freeing him up to tow her back across the road. Gran and I could write a book on 101 uses for a Sunday newspaper.

A car with yellow and green markings and ‘Community Paramedic' along the side pulls up next and my heart misses a beat, a reflex reaction that I cannot suppress or explain.

‘Hello, Zara,' My ex-husband steps inside and the door swings closed behind him. Paul is thirty-five, four years my senior, and what Murray describes somewhat scathingly as a raving metrosexual. He's looking good with his short brown hair waxed into position and his clean-shaven complexion smooth and shiny with moisturiser. ‘How are you?' He walks around the counter and embraces me, kissing my cheeks. I like it. I miss being close to someone. I miss the physical contact.

‘I'm well. How about you?' I say, stepping back.

‘Great, thanks. I came in the other day.'

‘Gran didn't mention it.' I'm a little surprised by her omission. I thought she told me everything.

‘And you, Zara, didn't let me know about the big family news. I had to hear about Emily's baby from Rosemary,' he goes on, using my grandmother's Christian name. He looks a little hurt that I didn't get in touch, but not as hurt as I feel that the subject of babies has come up between us. ‘A little sister for Poppy.'

That's right. Twist the knife. I don't say anything but my expression must have told it all, because Paul apologises. ‘That was insensitive of me.'

‘It's okay.' I watch him pick up a packet of mints and place them on the counter.

‘I'm sorry, Zara. I didn't realise you still felt so strongly—'

‘Paul, I don't want to talk about it,' I interrupt.

‘We've been through such a lot together,' he goes on.

I don't respond – if I'm honest, I think Paul went through an awful lot on his own. Towards the end of
our marriage he withdrew from me, taking on different shifts at work which didn't coincide with mine so he didn't have to talk to me and let me know how he was feeling.

‘Friends?' he says gently.

‘Of course we're friends.' How could we not be when we were engaged for three years and married for seven? I met Paul, my first proper boyfriend, when I was starting my degree in midwifery. I was young and naïve. He was mature, sophisticated and heroic, and I couldn't believe he was interested in me. Within six months of meeting, I accepted his proposal of marriage.

‘We must go out for that meal sometime. It would be good to catch up properly. I feel like I've hardly seen you.'

‘Same here.' I gaze at him, finding myself less able to read him than I used to. Does he mean that in a just-friends way, or has he really missed me? ‘Let me know your shifts and we'll go out for lunch or dinner.'

‘Soon,' he says, taking his shopping.

‘Soon,'I echo as I watch him go.

‘What did you say that for?' Gran grumbles from behind me.

‘Were you deliberately listening to that conversation? It was kind of private. Gran, why didn't you tell me Paul had been into the shop?' I turn to face her as she wanders in through the fly curtain, the plastic strips clattering softly as they fall back into place. Now I know why she keeps it up all year round even when there are no flies. It's to provide her with cover.

‘Because out of sight is out of mind. It's time you forgot about Paul and moved on with your life.'

‘He's a friend,' I point out.

‘And ex-husband. What are his motives for popping up every five minutes, texting you and book-facing you all the time?'

‘It's called Facebook.'

‘It doesn't matter what it is. What matters is that he makes you unhappy.' Before I can open my mouth to argue, Gran continues, ‘I've seen your face when you look at your mobile and find you haven't had a text from him for two or three days. I can't help worrying that you're still in love with him.'

‘I'm not. At least, I don't think I am. I mean, when I see him, I find myself remembering the good times, and it makes me feel a little sad, that's all.'

Gran shakes her head as if she doesn't believe me, but how can she possibly know how I feel about Paul when I don't know myself? Can I honestly state that I no longer love him and that I've moved on? Perhaps now I'm getting my mojo back, it's time I thought about dating again, maybe having a light-hearted fling to take my mind off him and help me get back to my old self. I could do with having some passion and excitement in my life.

‘Look at the time,' Gran exclaims. ‘You go on up to the farm and help Emily get dinner on.' She means lunch. ‘I love Sunday dinners with the family.'

‘Mum's picking you up at one.'

‘There's no need to keep reminding me. Go on, off you go.'

I take the profiteroles, still warm in a tin, pins a pot of cream and chocolate for the sauce, up to the farm, where Emily, dressed in trackies, is frantically trying to peel potatoes with Daisy in one arm and Poppy ‘helping'. She smiles wearily and I wonder if we should all have descended on her like this so soon after she's given birth. It's only been a couple of weeks, after all.

Poppy stands on a chair and drops peeled potatoes into a saucepan on the floor from a great height.

‘Splosh.' She grins at me through her curls when I walk in.‘I'm making a mess.'

‘So I see. Emily, let me have the peeler.'

‘Oh no, you can spend some quality time with Daisy.' She hands me the baby who takes one look at me and bursts into tears.

‘Oh, Daisy,' I coo as I hold her close. ‘That's no way to greet your auntie.'

‘She's teething unusually early, just like Poppy did,' Emily explains. ‘Actually, she's driving me mad because I can't put her down and I've got all these veg to prepare. I feel like I'm having a meltdown.'

‘Mum said we should have had lunch with her and Dad at their house. It's too much for you.' I rock Daisy gently, wiping her cheek with the corner of her blanket. ‘There, there, that's better.'

‘Are you talking to me or Daisy?' Emily chuckles in spite of everything. ‘OMG, I'm cackling like a madwoman. Poppy, can you leave that now and feed the lamb instead? There's a bottle in the fridge. He can have it cold. Remember to use Larry's bottle, not Daisy's this time.'

Poppy clambers down from the chair, hauls the fridge door open and stares at the array of bottles on the shelf.

‘Which one, Mummy?'

‘That one with the blue top.'

‘Which blue top?'

‘There is only one.' Emily runs wet hands through her hair as I take the bottle out for Poppy. ‘Sometimes I think it's easier to do everything yourself.'

Poppy heads out to the utility room to feed the lamb, which I notice is confined to an area penned off with crates and boxes.

‘Can't he go back outside with the others?' I ask, looking out through the rear window across the lawn where the daffodils are on the verge of flowering, and the buds are beginning to appear on the fruit trees. Beyond, the first batch of lambs are gambolling in the field with their mothers.

‘Murray's gone soft and said he can stay here as Poppy's pet until it's time for him to go off for you-know-what . . .'

I make Emily sit down with Daisy while I finish the potatoes and bring them to the boil for a few minutes before draining them, scoring the tops and placing them in a tray of hot oil then into the oven. I try not to think about the cute little lamb that Lewis carried in under his arm going off to become some other family's Sunday roast.

‘What next?' I ask.

‘Cabbage and carrots, and Yorkshire pudding.'

I prepare the rest of the main course before counting
out the place settings for the table with Poppy. We make it seven, but Emily disagrees.

‘You need one extra, Poppy,' she says. ‘How many does that make?'

Poppy counts laboriously on her fingers before coming up with eight.

‘Clever girl,' Emily says fondly before looking straight at me. ‘Lewis is joining us. He wasn't doing anything else so I thought, why not? He's always asking when you're coming up to the farm so he can hang around and make sheep's eyes at you, Zara.'

‘He doesn't?' A fork thuds against the table as I lose my grip.

‘Why is your face red, Auntie Zara?' says Poppy.

‘Because it's getting hot in here.'

‘Oh,' she says.

‘Emily, this thing about Lewis is in your imagination.'

‘Is it really?' My sister raises one eyebrow.

‘Well, the other night when he picked up his coat, it felt like he was chatting me up,' I admit.

‘There you go then.'

‘He's very outgoing. Flirting seems to come naturally to him . I expect he's the same with everyone.'

‘Yes, he's a young lad, but give him a chance,' Emily sighs.

‘We hardly know each other and yes, he is attractive.' I'm being economical with the truth here. If he really wanted to start something with me, I don't think I could resist. In fact, I wouldn't. ‘But I'm a few years older than him and there's no way he'll ever be interested in me.'

‘Why not?'

I shrug.

‘You're always putting yourself down. Paul has a lot to answer for. He really rocked your confidence.'

‘He did not.'

‘There you go, defending him again. He could be pretty sharp with you about your looks and your weight. You are beautiful, and it's time you remembered that. Men like women who like themselves.' Emily grins. ‘Lecture over. Let the onslaught begin.'

The onslaught – consisting of Murray, Lewis, and Mum and Dad, who bring Gran with them – begins an hour later when they descend on the kitchen.

‘There's a seating plan,' Emily says as Dad carves the joint and I drain the carrots, sending up a cloud of steam, at which my father has to remove his glasses and wipe them on the sleeve of his golf sweater, flashing the gold ring on his little finger at the same time. I don't ask, but I can't help wondering if he's dyed what's left of his hair – it seems a darker, bluer grey than when I last saw him.

‘Since when?' Murray walks through from the utility room, leaving brown prints on a white towel as he dries his hands.

‘I thought Gran and Zara would sit on either side of Lewis to mix up the conversation a bit. I don't want you and him talking sheep all day.'

‘It isn't every day I get to sit down beside a nice young man,' Gran pipes up as she rocks Daisy rather violently in her arms.

‘Don't let her have any more sherry, Emily,' Mum
whispers as she straps the booster cushion to Poppy's chair.

‘I heard that. There's nothing wrong with my hearing. And I've had one glass, that's all, and it was no more than a thimbleful.'

The sherry continues to flow – for Gran, anyway – and so does the conversation as we settle down to eat. I pick at a carrot. Sitting beside Lewis is somewhat distracting, and I seem to have lost my appetite. I find myself casting glances his way, wondering if Emily could possibly be right, that he does fancy me just a little.

‘You and Zara must have quite a lot in common, Lewis, seeing you're both involved in making deliveries,' Emily begins.

‘It's a bit different dealing with people rather than sheep,'I point out.

‘Yes, none of my sheep think they're too posh to push,' Lewis says.

‘I can't imagine you have many worrying about their bikini lines when they have to have C-sections either,' I say, smiling.

‘Please don't start, Zara,' my mother interrupts. ‘I know it's perfectly normal to you, but I don't want to hear any gory talk of blood and afterbirth while we're eating.'

‘I did have someone make a smoothie out of their placenta recently,' I say, winding her up.

‘Don't upset your mother,' Dad says.

‘I've heard that one before, sis. Haven't you got any new stories?'

‘One of my ladies who has piercings in various places on her body told me she was scared of needles, and when I took a blood, she fainted.'

‘That's pretty tame,' Emily says.

‘Anyone for ketchup?' Murray asks.

‘Me, Daddy,' Poppy says, putting her hand up.

‘You don't have to put your hand up, darling,' Mum says.'You aren't at nursery now.'

‘What's the magic word?'Murray asks.

‘Which? Oh, I know.' Poppy's hand is in the air again as she goes on, ‘Please.'

Murray fetches the ketchup for Poppy, who promptly squeezes out most of the bottle onto her plate; we continue to eat until Gran excuses herself to go and powder her nose.

‘She means she's going for a wee,' Poppy announces.

‘I'm sorry. You can't do anything discreetly with a four year old in the house,' Emily says.

‘Poppy tells it like it is.' Lewis smiles at me and my heart lurches.

‘So how is Gran really, Zara?' Mum asks once she's left the room. ‘I can never get any sense out of her.'

‘She's all right,' I say.

‘Well, I worry about her. I don't like her working like this at her age. She can't go on for ever.'

‘It feels like she's going to,' Dad grimaces, the lines at the side of his mouth deepening and his whiskery brows twitching.

‘Your father has a bad back from sitting in a car day in, day out for all those years, and he could really do without the runs to the cash and carry,' Mum says.

‘That's true,' Dad agrees, and the realisation that, although he's nowhere nearly as old as Gran, he is sixty-eight, comes with a jolt to me. I suppose he should be enjoying retirement, playing golf and spending time with his grandchildren, not running around after my grandmother.