‘At Ivy Lane!’ wailed Rosemary, clamping a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no. Colin is at such an impressionable age. I won’t have him led astray.’ Breathe, Tilly. In and out. I was a bag of nerves. Just being in the same room as Mr Cohen again brought back all sorts of memories that I’d rather forget. Every time a voice was raised my leg shot up like James’s used to do when he was watching Match of the Day and his team had a clear shot at the goal. Roaring, high-pitched indignation, outrage . . . All types of raised voices had been aired so far and I was as tightly coiled as a well-laden mule in Buckaroo. The last time we had gathered in the pavilion like this was in May to meet the director from the Green Fingers TV show. Despite my current state of nervousness, the memory brought a flutter to my stomach and a flush to my cheeks. Then my fellow plot holders had been buzzing with excitement at the prospect of being filmed for the allotment documentary. I, however, had been totally unimpressed by Aidan and hadn’t wanted anything to do with him or his TV show, when in fact he was a perfect gentleman, talented, thoughtful and an excellent kisser .
