A gaggle of kids are tearing around by the reception desk as their mums try to simultaneously pay and keep them in check. The average age – not counting us – appears to be about nine.

‘Nathan, I don’t think…’

But he’s already gone over to check out the climbing wall that’s visible through a large picture window, so I stand for a while and watch the kids.

The boy causing most of the mayhem is the ginger-haired one in the Harry Potter T-shirt. He keeps dodging behind the girls and yanking their ponytails really hard, making them shout out in pain. He sees me watching and pulls a face.

I’m about to join Nathan and persuade him a nice long walk would be a good alternative. But I suddenly realise we’ve been spotted by the event organiser, a tall, horsy-looking woman in a blue tracksuit with big front teeth and huge glasses.

‘Halloooo!’ She canters across the reception area and grabs our arms. ‘How super! Some grown-ups taking part!’ She’s wearing thick red lipstick, much of it smeared on her teeth. ‘My name’s Mrs Grieves.’ We do a hearty shake of hands. ‘What do you think of our splendid new climbing wall?’

I smile apologetically. ‘It looks – well, super – but I’m afraid we didn’t realise it would be mostly children…’

I glance at Nathan for back-up.

But he seems fascinated by the wall.

It looks pretty scary to me. It’s massive, for a start, with lots of hand and footholds in different colours.

‘So how long has this facility been here?’ Nathan asks, sounding genuinely interested, and my heart sinks.

Mrs Grieves starts giving us an enthusiastic rundown of the facts and figures.

I tune out.

I’m watching a kid, who looks no older than ten, scaling this terrifying-looking edifice with the dexterity of a monkey. He’s almost half-way up, at least fifteen feet off the ground. What if he falls?

He turns slightly sideways then swings his leg upwards, aiming for a blue foothold. But it’s obviously trickier than it looks because it takes him three attempts to get there.

My heart is in my mouth.

What is his mother thinking of? I know he’s in a harness, but if he slips he’ll swing free and collide with the wall, and that could be very nasty indeed.

‘Come on. You’ll love it!’ Mrs Grieves rubs my arm briskly. Her eyes behind the specs look huge.

‘Yeah, we’ll have a go,’ Nathan says. ‘I’ve been wanting to try it ever since I heard about these things.’

My stomach revolts at the very thought but Mrs Grieves seems determined.

The obnoxious ginger kid points at me. ‘That woman’s scared,’ he announces to everyone with a curl of his lip. ‘And her trousers are too small.’

I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly horribly self-conscious and praying there’s no camel toe situation in evidence. (I can’t check now, obviously.)

But that settles it. I’m doing the climb.

I mean, how difficult can it be?

If these kids can scale a bloody wall, surely I can!

Fifteen minutes later, I’m clinging on for dear life, praying that death will come quickly. Sweat is pooling under my arms and trickling into my hairline.

I’m only about ten feet off the ground but might as well be on top of Mount Everest. If I look down, there’s a very good chance I will be sick.

My stomach shifts queasily. I’m not usually such a baby. Honestly. But this climbing wall lark is a real bugger with a hangover.

To be fair to Nathan, I did agree to do it. It’s just I’d thought we’d be having a nice Sunday walk up a hill, which I’ve done with him many times before. Not scaling a climbing wall for the first time, watched by a bunch of nine-year-olds impatient for their turn.

‘Hey, missus,’ yells the ginger Harry Potter fan. ‘Need a leg up?’

His gang of mates snicker and my cheeks burn.

If I can just get my leg up to the next foothold and climb another ten feet or so, I reckon I’ll be able to descend with my pride more or less intact.

Trouble is, I’m wearing entirely the wrong pants for stretching.

‘My grandma did it last week,’ yells Comedy Ginge. ‘And she was much quicker than you.’

Swallowing down the nausea, I glance over my shoulder, searching for Nathan.

But he’s some way off, helping a blonde girl get into her harness.

He hasn’t noticed I’m in difficulties.

My limbs are stretched in unnerving directions and I’m frightened that if I move even an inch, my sweaty hands will slip free of the holds and I’ll be left dangling on the harness like a beetle in distress.

‘Are you stuck?’ shouts Comedy Ginge.

‘No, I’m not bloody stuck,’ I snap.

‘You swore. I’m telling Mrs Grieves on you.’

‘Feel free.’ I glare down at him. ‘And by the way, Harry Potter’s dead.’

He looks at me in horror for a second and I think, Ha! Got you, you little bastard!

Then he shakes his head. ‘Nah! He’s not.’ He draws a big breath and yells at the top of his voice, ‘Mrs Grieves? This one’s stuck.’

‘I am not bloody stuck!’ With renewed determination, I swing my right leg up and to the side.

There’s a loud ripping sound as my trouser seams part company under the strain.

Then three seconds of shocked silence.

Followed by hoots and belly laughter from down below.

Now, everyone in the place is staring.

I’ve even got Nathan’s attention.

Humiliatingly, he has to climb up behind me and talk me down.

Comedy Ginge and his mates give me a round of applause as I beetle for the exit.

Mrs Grieves gallops after me and blocks the doorway.

‘What do you do if you fall off a horse?’ she bellows. ‘You get right back on the old bugger!’ She beams at me with her scary eyes and lipsticky teeth.

‘Excuse me, I’m going to be sick.’

She dives out of the way to let me through and I run for the ladies’.

Just in the nick of time.

Bloody Mrs Grieves.

I should never have let her hustle me into it in the first place.

Mrs Grieves Bodily Harm, more like …

Chapter Two

My face is still brick red in the car on the way home.

To cheer me up, Nathan says he’d find me adorable and sexy however many pairs of pants I split. Then he grins across at me. ‘Two guys walk into a bar. One of them says, “Your round.” And the other one says, “Yeah, so are you, you fat bastard.”’

He creases up with laughter and can’t understand why I’m not joining in.

By the time we arrive back, though, he’s teased me out of my huff and I’m beginning to see the funny side. I’m even contemplating dragging him off to the bedroom. Although when I put my arms round his waist and snuggle up to him for a kiss, it’s clear he has other ideas in mind.

‘I thought we could go out for a run?’

‘A run? Now?’

‘Lola!’ He wags his finger at me. ‘What am I always saying? There’s no elevator to success. You have to—’

‘Take the stairs,’ I supply in a monotone.

I hate that quote of his. It’s so cheesy. He must have learned it on his personal trainer course.

Nathan nods. ‘Run first, sex later.’

Not surprisingly, I’ve gone off the whole idea anyway.

I shrug. ‘You go for your run. I think I’ll stay here.’

Nathan looks taken aback.

I press my stomach. ‘Not feeling too great. Hangover.’

‘Oh, right. Well … if you’re sure.’

‘I’ll get on the cross-trainer for a bit,’ I tell him, to make him feel better.

‘Excellent.’ He kisses my nose and strides off into the kitchen to whiz up a nourishing snack. Then he gets into his running gear.

When the front door slams, I go into the living room and plop down on his cream leather sofa with a sigh.

I feel a twinge of disloyalty thinking it. But it’s so great that, for once, I don’t have to psyche myself up to run five thousand miles or swim the Atlantic.

I sigh happily, lying flat out on the sofa.

He was surprised by my resistance, I could tell. Normally, I go along quite happily with whatever Nathan’s planning. But I’ll never be as passionate about working out as he is, so maybe it’s time I relaxed a bit and stopped feeling I have to join in with every single activity Nathan suggests.

Barb made a very good point the other night.

‘You’re far too obliging,’ she said. ‘Just be yourself. If Nathan doesn’t love the real you – idle bugger tendencies and all – you shouldn’t be together anyway.’

She’s probably right.

From my flaked-out pose on the sofa, I stare up at Nathan’s minimalist ‘design studio’ chandelier. It’s cutting-edge in more ways than one. The long chrome spiky bits worry me sometimes – especially when Sharon upstairs starts leaping about to her aerobics DVD and the ceiling shakes. One squat thrust too many and I swear a nasty stabbing incident could ensue.

I move to the cream leather La-Z-Boy chair and resume my daydreaming.

I’m in a better place now than I’ve been for a long time.

I’m fitter and happier, thanks to Nathan. And I’m even thinking seriously about going for a promotion.

A pay rise would open up so many exciting possibilities. I might even be able to get my foot on the property ladder at last – something that I know would make Mum and Dad so proud. They’ve never seen the flat I’ve shared with Barb for the past year. They know it’s part of a Victorian conversion but I’ve glossed over the fact that it’s actually quite small – mainly because I hate the thought of Justine knowing my home is far from being a palace, which hers obviously is. (She’s always complaining about having to pay her cleaner a fortune because ‘The Gables’ has so many rooms.)

I lean over for the strawberry and mango smoothie Nathan whipped up for me before he left. And right at that moment, a stern vibration zips up my left buttock. Shit! What’s that?

By the time I’ve realised it’s my phone and I’ve been lying on it, I’ve knocked the glass off the side table and onto Nathan’s beige carpet. Leaping up, I watch in horror as it spreads out stickily like a nasty reddish-orange homicidal incident.

It’s Dad on the phone.

We chat as I rush to grab a cloth. He sounds a bit down.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says, when I probe. ‘I’m just not sure your mum’s up to doing Christmas this year after all.’

At once, my heart is in my mouth. ‘Really, Dad? Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Well, you know how it is, love. It always hits her hardest at this time of year.’

I do know. Only too well. To be honest, I can’t remember a time when Mum didn’t suffer badly with her nerves. Whole months can go by when she practically never leaves the house. And Christmas tends to make things ten times worse.

‘She’s seemed better lately,’ Dad’s saying. ‘She even had that day’s shopping with Ellen. They had lunch out and everything.’

‘Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. We’ll get there, Lola.’ He sounds firm. Back to his usual self. ‘Baby steps. That’s what I keep telling her.’

I grip the phone, wishing I were there with him.

Whatever’s happening, you can count on my dad to keep everyone cheerful. He’s given up a lot to look after Mum. In his younger days, he was a big motorbike enthusiast but all that has gone by the wayside.

‘She’s adamant she’s going to do Christmas.’ He gives a low chuckle. ‘You know how stubborn she can be. But anyway, enough about us. How’s my gorgeous daughter?’

‘I’m fine, Dad. Working hard. What are Rob and Justine doing at Christmas?’

‘Well, that’s another possibility. Justine’s offering to have us all at theirs. But I’m not sure…’

I stare up at the chandelier’s hideous spikes and my heart plummets.

It’s not a tantalising prospect. My sister-in-law is so uptight at Christmas, she even gets angry with God if the snow she ordered fails to arrive on time.

Justine gave up her high-powered job as a marketing executive a year ago (Rob earns enough for both of them and she said she wanted to devote more time to the various women’s groups and committees she sits on). I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she might calm down a bit, but she seems just as frantically busy as ever.

Her drive for perfection and Mum’s nerves are not a happy festive combination.

‘Dad, why don’t we do Christmas at our own places this year? Just this once?’

‘What?’ Dad sounds horrified. Definitely the wrong thing to say. ‘Not spend Christmas with you and Rob? But we’ve never missed a year yet. Oh, Lola, that would really do for your mum, not seeing you and your brother.’

‘Well, come to mine, then,’ I hear myself say. ‘Mum always does it. It’s high time I took a turn.’

‘Really, love?’ Dad sounds doubtful.

His uncertainty just makes me even more determined to show him I can manage it. I’m turning my life around. I’m going for promotion.

I’m becoming a proper grown-up at last.

‘Yes, really. It’ll be fun.’

‘We-e-e-e-ll …’

Come on, Dad. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Oh God, Lola, that would be great!’

His relief is so obvious, I can tell it’s been a real load on his shoulders. And I’m so glad I can relieve him of the worry.

I hang up and start tackling the smoothie stain.

As I scrub away, I think about Mum. Is she really improving? Or is Dad just doing his usual thing of putting a positive spin on a dismal situation? We’ve never been great, in our family, at talking about the emotional stuff. Letting it all hang out, if you like. But when something happens that’s almost too painful to bear, you have a choice. You can talk about it openly and risk scratching at the open wound and making it worse. Or you can keep it all inside, paper over the cracks and get on with life as cheerfully as you can.

In my family, we’ve got papering over the cracks down to a fine art. Mainly for Mum’s sake.

We chat about the weather and the state of the world, while resolutely ignoring the elephant in the room.

It’s just the way we cope.

The fly in the ointment is my sister-in-law. She talks without thinking and is always putting her foot in it without realising what she’s said.

Lately, she’s seemed more controlling and moody than ever.

I only hope she and Mum will rub along okay at Christmas …

Hang on.

I stop rubbing and stare at the vaguely orange patch on the carpet.

They’re all coming to me for Christmas!

Oh my God.

What on earth was I thinking? It’s just not possible.

There’s absolutely no room for them in my flat.

The place is almost too small for Barb and me, without having four other people staying over for five consecutive days, fighting over the one bathroom. Every wardrobe and drawer is full to overflowing. Even the ‘shoe tidy’ in the hallway makes the place look cluttered.

If Dad knew what our flat was really like, he’d never have jumped so eagerly at my offer to host Christmas. But none of the family has seen it yet.

It’s not that I feel ashamed of 5 Rustic Place exactly. Actually, I rather like it. It’s cosy.

It’s just that Rob and Justine live in this huge five-bedroom house on a prestigious gated development near Edinburgh. It’s called The Gables and it’s as grand as it sounds. They each have a study, and there’s even a library and a room dedicated to working out, with a rowing machine, treadmill and other hi-tech machinery. Not that either of them have time to use it much.

The point is, they’re real grown-ups. They do useful things with their lives.

Whereas at the age of twenty-seven, I sometimes feel like a teenager, wondering what I’m going to do with my life.

When Justine sees our Rustic Place flat, her brows will disappear under her glossy fringe, perhaps never to return.

She has a dressing-room in her house, for God’s sake.

While we barely have room to get dressed …

The flat door opens, startling me back to the present.

‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ calls Nathan in a cute American accent. (He’s from Wigan.)

Shit! Is it that time already?

It usually takes well over an hour to do our regular ten-mile run on Sundays. But then, Nathan hasn’t got me slowing him up today, so no wonder he’s back sooner.

I drag the sofa over the mark, planning to head straight for the Stain Devils as soon as I hear the shower running. Then I dash for the mini gym in the next room, leap on the cross-trainer and get started.

Nathan pops his head round the door a second later.

‘Ah, well done. We’ll make a little Ellen Hoog of you yet.’ He gives me a cheery wink and heads for the bedroom.

I slow down to a stop.

Ellen Hoog?

Who the hell is Ellen Hoog?

I leap off the machine and dive into the kitchen, emerging with several sprays which I hope will be up to the challenge. Thankfully, the rest of the stain comes away fairly easily with plenty of toxic chemicals.

I cross-train for another few minutes to work up a bit of a sweat then decide to join Nathan, who’s all lathered up in the shower.

‘Hey, sexy.’ He grins lazily, watching me strip off. I step in, he pulls me against him and I abandon myself to the steamy heat and Nathan’s lovely, slithery caresses. And I wonder for about the ninety-fifth time what on earth this glorious specimen of manhood sees in averagely attractive me.

He manoeuvres me out of the shower and onto the bed and, at that point, my brain ceases to wonder about anything at all.

Later, while Nathan’s in the kitchen throwing together hummus wraps and a mixed bean salad with crunchy seaweed topping, I sneak away and Google Ellen Hoog.

Apparently she’s a member of the Netherlands field hockey team that won gold in the 2012 Olympics.

She’s also a luscious-lipped blonde who wouldn’t look out of place on a New York catwalk.

I peer intently at the photo. Very sleek hair.

Hah!

I bet she has to use heaps of product to get it that smooth.

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