A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018

Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.

‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’

Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’

The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’

Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.

Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’

Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.

‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’

She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.

Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.

She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.

Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.

‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.