Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read

When I got back to the Summer Cottage Flossie was just waking up, so I took her for the hundred-yard stroll she considered a strenuous trek, which got us as far up the track as the actor’s cottage (no sign of life) but not quite as far as the farm, although Madge waved from the doorway. Then I set to work to try to turn the cottage into a home.

It was just two rooms, really, built into the hillside, and partitioned off to provide a bed-sitting room and the usual facilities. The décor was a bit flowery – the last mistress’s taste, presumably – and if I was going to be here for any length of time I would have to paint it.

I set up my easel in the veranda, a gesture of hope, and arranged my plants around me, though there now weren’t enough of them to give me quite that being-towered-over-threateningly feeling. I’d brought the tall ones, it was just the thick jungle effect that was missing.

I would have to take a big chunk of the auction money, go to the nearest garden centre – and hope they’d deliver.

It wasn’t very warm, either. The two paraffin heaters were only there to stop the plants freezing, and they gave out a pleasant but strange smell all of their own (a bit like Walter).

I could do with some coconut matting over the stone flags, and electricity so that I could have lighting, and some heating …

Which sort of presupposed I was ever going to spend some time in there painting; but Em and Walter had done their best to encourage me.

I went up the stairs to the kitchen to see if Em fancied a trip out plant-hunting, and Flossie trailed wearily after me, wheezing. I felt sure all the exercise would do her good.

The kitchen was deserted except for Frost, who lifted his head and gave Flossie a leer.

Walter was in the small front room, watching TV and carving a walking stick. He grinned, but didn’t say anything. His wig, never worn, occupied its usual place of honour on the mantelpiece, draped carefully over a polystyrene head.

Father’s study door was shut with his ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on it, though if anyone was already disturbed it was Father.

There was no sign of the Treacle Tart, and the children must be at school, but the sound of hoovering was still audible from above, where Gloria Mundi was singing Gilbert and Sullivan in a falsetto.

She was the very model of a modern major-general.

I found Em eventually in the sitting room, the curtains half drawn, which is why I was well into the room before I saw that she had company.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were entertaining, Em. I was just going to tell you I was off to the garden centre.’

‘That’s OK – you know Xanthe, don’t you?’

Xanthe nodded graciously at me; she did look vaguely familiar from her days as Father’s Flavour of the Month.

‘And this is Lilith Tupman and Freya Frogget.’

Lilith looked like she’d been blanched under a pot. Freya was large and clad in billowing white, like over-exuberant ectoplasm.

‘I’ll leave you to it, but let me open the curtains first,’ I offered, taking hold of the heavy velvet drapes.

There was a gasp from Lilith, who held her hands to her temples and exclaimed hysterically, ‘No! No! The light must not touch my face!’

I hastily unloosed the curtains. ‘Sorry.’

Maybe she was a vampire? But then, how had she got here?

‘Would you like me to make you some coffee or something before I go?’ I offered in atonement.

‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Em said. ‘There’s a tray ready in the kitchen – just fill the pot with boiling water and bring it in, will you?’

‘You could join us,’ said Lilith, recovering. ‘If you wished?’

‘No, no, her aura is blue!’ Xanthe cried. ‘I cannot have blue near me … it drains my psychic energy.’

If Father hadn’t managed to drain her powers, I couldn’t see how my blue aura would.

‘Ice, I must have ice!’ gasped Freya, in a parched voice.

‘A bowl of ice from the freezer, too, please,’ said Em. ‘Do you want a hand?’

What, the Hand of Death? The Hand Of Glory? The Hand of the Baskerv—

‘No, that’s OK,’ I assured her, backing out, and starting to puzzle over the ice. Still, Em’s friends all appeared to be women of a certain age: Freya might be having a hot flush of mega proportions.

I brought the tray, which contained all sorts of home-baked goodies, plus a pot of some disgusting-smelling herbal brew reminiscent of Gloria’s best, then left them to it.

Flossie was now snuggled up to Frost, the hussy, and showed no interest in accompanying me, to the garden centre or anywhere else.

Tips for Southern Visitors, No. 1

It is possible to have any variety of Northern accent in conjunction with an intellect.

At dinner it emerged that Father had also inadvertently crashed Em’s tea party, barely escaping without being ravished by Freya, Lilith and Xanthe (well, that was his version, anyway).

‘Congratulations, Em,’ he said through a mouthful of home-made chicken pie. ‘Not one of your friends is normal.’

‘Speaking of normal,’ Em said coolly, ‘your son is coming home tomorrow for a rest.’

Jessica helped herself to a lettuce leaf, looked at it doubtfully, and put half back again in the bowl. ‘I haven’t met Branwell yet,’ she said. ‘Is he as dishy as you, darling?’

The two little girls, who were doing full justice to the despised stodge, giggled.

‘He’s nothing like me,’ Father said tersely. ‘Charlie’s nothing like me, either.’

‘I’m like Mother, though, and I expect Bran takes after his.’

‘Your mother’s very famous, isn’t she?’ Jessica asked. ‘Big in America. But I do think all this writing books and talking about feminism does more harm than good, don’t you?’

‘Someone’s got to speak out, especially when men are trying to claim great works of women’s fiction as their own,’ Em commented pointedly, but Father refused to rise to the bait.

‘Yes, wasn’t Elizabeth Barrett Browning lucky, having such a clever husband to write her work for her?’ I said innocently. ‘I wonder how on earth she managed before he came along? Perhaps one of her brothers?’

‘You mustn’t tease,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘Ran researches very thoroughly. He works very hard.’

‘He has to research thoroughly to find scraps of evidence that can be twisted into proving what he wants,’ Em said.

‘And you, of course, are a great writer and know all about it?’ he said sarcastically. ‘My dear Em, I don’t think writing doggerel for greeting-card manufacturers quite qualifies you as a literary critic.’

‘No, but I don’t just write for greeting cards – I’m also Serafina Shane.’