‘Um ...’ What had Jane Austen died of? Multiple injuries following a parachuting accident, perhaps? Had she crashed her jet ski? Or how about

‘Lola, there’s someone here wanting to speak to you.’ It was Cheryl, sounding apologetic. ‘A crew from a TV station are interviewing store managers about Christmas shopping and they wondered if you could spare them five minutes. If you’re too busy, Tim says he’d be happy to do it.’

‘I bet he would.’ Tim was besotted with the idea of being on TV; it was the reason he went along to all the film premieres in Leicester Square, why he’d dressed up as a chicken to audition for the X Factor (the judges had told him to cluck off) and what had propelled him to stand up while he’d been in the audience on Trisha to announce that as a baby he’d been found abandoned in a cardboard box at Victoria station and he was desperate to find his mother. His mum, who’d been ironing a pile of his shirts when the TV programme aired, had given Tim a good clump round the ear when he’d arrived home that afternoon.

‘It’s OK, I’ll do it myself.’ When you were having a good hair day it was a shame to waste it.

‘Cheryl, can you help this gentleman? His wife’s read everything by Jane Austen so I’m wondering if she might enjoy one of the sequels by another author.’

Having excused herself, Lola made her way over to the young male reporter waiting at the tills with a cameraman and his assistant. ‘Hi, I’m Lola Malone. Where would you like to do this?’

The reporter said, ‘Oh. We’re meant to be doing the interview with the manager.’

‘I’m the manager.’

‘God, are you really?’ The male reporter — who looked exactly like a male reporter — eyed Lola’s sleek black top, fuchsia pink skirt and long legs in opaque black tights. ‘You don’t look like the manager of a bookshop.’

‘Sorry. Were you expecting someone more frumpy?’ He looked abashed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I was.’

It was a preconception that drove Lola mad and made her want to rattle people’s teeth. ‘I could run out and buy a grey cardigan if you like.’

‘You’re joking, no, you look fantastic.’ He spread his hands in admiration. ‘Crikey, I just didn’t think ..’

‘You should get out more.’ Lola winked, because it was also a preconception she enjoyed shattering. ‘Try visiting a few more bookshops. You might be surprised — nowadays, some of us don’t even wear tweed.’

The piece aired on the local evening news two days later. It lasted less than ninety seconds and the reporter had asked some pretty inane questions but Lola, watching herself on TV as she set about her hair with curling tongs, felt she’d acquitted herself well enough. It wasn’t easy to be witty and scintillating whilst responding to, ‘And here we are, in Kingsley’s on Regent Street, with less than a fortnight to go before Christmas! So, just how busy has it been here in this store?’

The urge to stretch her arms wide like a fisherman and say, ‘This busy,’ had been huge.

‘Well?’ Still wielding the tongs, Lola turned to look at Gabe when the piece ended.

‘Yes, that was definitely you.’

Was I OK?’

Gabe was busy unwrapping a Twix bar. ‘You answered his questions, you didn’t burp or swear, or take a swig from a bottle of vodka. That has to be good news.’

‘But did I look nice?’

‘You looked fine and you know it. What time’s this car corning?’

‘Seven thirty. Should I wear my red dress or the blue one?’ Curling completed, Lola bent over and gave her head a vigorous upside-down shake. ‘I feel quite jittery. I’m not going to know anyone else there. What if it’s all really embarrassing and I want to escape but they won’t let me leave?’

‘OK, you’ll get there around eight. Leave your phone on and I’ll ring you at nine,’ said Gabe. ‘If you’re desperate to get away, tell them I’m your best friend and I’ve gone into labour.’

‘My hero. The things you do for me. How am I going to manage without you when you’re gone?’ Vertical once more, Lola hugged him then made a lightning lunge for the Twix in his hand. She was fast, but not fast enough.

‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’ Gabe broke off an inch and gave it to her. ‘You’ll soon find some other poor guy’s Twix bars to pinch.’

By seven fifteen Lola was ready to go — OK, it was uncool to be punctual but she simply couldn’t help herself — and peering out of the window.

‘Wouldn’t it be great if they sent a stretch limo?’

Gabe looked horrified. ‘That would be so naff.’

‘Why would it? I love them!’ OK, she was naff and uncool.

‘Don’t get your hopes up. From the sound of him, this guy has better taste than you. In fact,’

Gabe went on as a throaty roar filled the street outside, ‘that could be your lift now.’

It was Lola’s turn to be appalled. Flinging the window open as the motorbike rumbled to a halt outside, she watched as the helmeted rider dismounted. Surely not. If someone said they were sending a car they wouldn’t economise at the last minute and send a motorbike instead. Would they? Oh God, her hair would be wrecked .. .

‘Hi there, Lola.’ Phew, panic over, it was only Marcus.

‘Hi there, neighbour-to-be! Come on up,’ said Lola. ‘Gabe’s in my flat at the moment.’

Upstairs in Lola’s living room, clutching his motorcycle helmet and looking sheepish, Marcus said, ‘All right, mate? The thing is, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.’

‘Go on then,’ prompted Gabe.

‘Well, me and Carol are back together, she’s giving me one last chance. And I’m taking it.

Turning over a new leaf. Cool, right? So that’s the good news.’ An embarrassed grin spread across Marcus’s shiny face. ‘But that means I won’t be moving in here after all, mate. Sorry about that.’

Gabe shrugged, having already pretty much guessed what Marcus had come here to say. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. Bit short notice, seeing as I’m off next week.’

‘I know. Sorry, mate.’

‘I’ll have to register with a lettings agency now’

‘I might know someone who could move in.’ Eager to help, Marcus said, ‘There’s a guy at my motorcycling club whose parents are keen to get rid of him. He could be interested.’

Lola pictured a spotty gangly teenager inviting hundreds of his spotty gangly mates round for parties. ‘How old is he?’

‘Terry? Early fifties. Don’t look like that,’ Marcus caught the face Lola was pulling at Gabe.

‘Terry’s a good bloke. And he works in an abattoir,’ he went on encouragingly, ‘so you’d never go short of pork chops.’

The car, a gleaming black Mercedes, arrived at seven thirty on the dot. It wasn’t a stretch limo, but it was without a doubt the cleanest, most valeted car Lola had ever been in, and knowing that you wouldn’t have to pay a huge taxi fare at the end made it an even more pleasurable journey.

She sat back as the car purred along, feeling like royalty and quite tempted to wave graciously at the poor people trudging along the pavements on the other side of the tinted glass.

The house, when they reached it, was a huge double-fronted Victorian affair in Barnes, as impressive as Lola had imagined. There were plenty of cars in the driveway and discreet twinkling white Christmas lights studding the bay trees in square stone tubs that flanked the super-shiny dark blue front door. Lola was hoping to be sophisticated enough, one day, to confine herself to discreet white Christmas lights; as it was, she was more of a gaudy, every-colour-you-can-think-of girl and all of it as über-bling as humanly possible.

She tried to tip Ken, the driver, but he wouldn’t accept her money. Which felt even weirder than not having to pay the fare.

Even the brass doorbell was classy. Lola clutched her Accessorize sequinned handbag to her side

— as if anyone was likely to steal it here — and took a couple of deep breaths. It wasn’t like her to be on edge. How bizarre that attempting to beat up a couple of muggers hadn’t been nerve-wracking, yet this was.

Then the door opened and there was Mr Nicholson with his lovely welcoming smile, and she relaxed.

‘Lola, you’re here! How wonderful to see you again. I’m so glad you were able to come along tonight.’ He gave her a kiss on each cheek. ‘And you look terrific.’

Compared with the last time he’d seen her, she supposed she must. Not having uncombed, blood-soaked hair was always a bonus.

‘It’s good to see you too, Mr Nicholson.’

‘Please call me Philip. Now, my wife doesn’t know I’ve invited you. You’re our surprise guest of honour.’ His grey eyes sparkled as he led her across the wood-panelled hall to a door at the far end. ‘I can’t wait to see her reaction when she realises who you are.’

Philip Nicholson pushed open the door and drew Lola into a huge glittering drawing room full of people, all chattering away and smartly dressed. A thirty-something blonde in aquamarine touched his arm and raised her eyebrows questioningly; when he nodded, she grinned at Lola and whispered, ‘Ooh, I’m so excited, this is going to be great!’

‘My stepdaughter,’ Philip murmured by way of explanation. Nodding again, this time in the direction of the fireplace, he added, ‘That’s my wife over there, in the orange frock.’

Orange, bless him. Only a man could call it that.The woman, standing with her back to them and talking to another couple, was slim and elegant in a devoré velvet dress in delectable shades of russet, bronze and apricot. Her hair was fashioned in a glamorous chignon and she was wearing pearls around her neck that even from this distance you could tell were real.

Then Philip said, ‘Darling .. and she swivelled round to look at him. In an instant Lola was seventeen again.