Meet Me at the Lighthouse: This summer’s best laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Mary Baker Jayne

worktop, is it? Ross Mason’s a nice lad, I’d bet my medical degree on it.”

      “The one you bought online?”

      “Ooh. Right, come here and take your punishment, you.” She jumped off her swing and came over to get me in a headlock, rubbing my hair with her fist.

      “Arghh, geroff!” I spluttered. “I’ve got mousse in, bitch.”

      “Make me.”

      Giggling, I pushed her away.

      “So am I being a daft cow as usual then, our Jessie?”

      “Yeah. But I can’t help being fond of you. You’re like a manky old cat living in a bin you just have to feel sorry for.” She gave my hair another affectionate nuggy. “Come on, manky, let’s go to the pub. I’ll let you drown your sorrows if you’ll let me have a go on the quizzer.”

       Chapter 8

      I tried to follow Jess’s advice and put the redheaded woman, whoever she was, out of my mind, and although I couldn’t help being a little cool to Ross at our next meeting, it soon melted as we threw ourselves into our pet project with gusto.

      Once the clean-up operation was under way, we decided the next step was to rally the troops: do the rounds of everyone we knew who might be able to help. Which was why I found myself one Saturday morning knocking on the door of a rundown bed and breakfast by the seafront, swilled over in peeling, pastel-pink paint.

      It was answered by a short, slim woman in beads and tie-dye skirts, her green hair clashing eye-wateringly with the building’s strawberry-milkshake façade.

      “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” she said. “Which one are you again? The doctor or the mad lighthouse owner?”

      I tutted. “We’re not identical, Mum.”

      “No, thank God. One of each is plenty.”

      I followed her along a yellowing hallway, pungent with the smell of greasy bacon and black pud, to the dining room. We navigated the tables of guests enjoying their full English then headed upstairs to her snug living room.

      “So, what do you want?” she asked when she’d made us both a cuppa and we were seated together on the sofa.

      “Can’t a daughter visit her aged parent without needing a reason?”

      “No. And I’m 46, missy. What is it then?”

      “Want to pick your brains.” I pulled out the notepad and pen that these days seemed to live in my handbag. “Lighthouse stuff.”

      She shook her head. “You must get this from your dad, you know. There was never any history of insanity on my side of the family.”

      “And was there on his?”

      “I don’t know, do I? If your art teacher knocks you up with twins when you’re 17 and promptly buggers off back to the missus, popping round for a detailed medical history isn’t the first thing that springs to mind. ‘Bollocks’ is the first thing that springs to mind. Followed closely by ‘ow’.”

      I patted her arm. “Ah, who needed him? You and Grandad managed us all right.”

      “Some might say you and your lighthouses are evidence to the contrary.”

      “Well if Jess is a doctor then it’s my job to be the idiot child no one in the family wants to talk about, isn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, you know you think the lighthouse thing’s a good idea.”

      “It’s not the idea that worries me,” she said, tossing back a mouthful of tea. “So what do you need advice about?”

      “All of it, basically. Have you got the paperwork from when you started the youth club?”

      “Yes, in the filing cabinet. I’ll fetch it.”