Page 36 of Best Laid Plans

It was no good. She was still shaking as she opened the door.

Will was dressed casually, in blue jeans and an open necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Behind him, the twilight shadows were the deepest blue. He was smiling. He looked gorgeous – with the kind of masculine fabulousness that smacked a girl between the eyes.

‘Nice dress,’ he said, smiling his appreciation.

‘Thanks.’

With a pang Lucy allowed herself a rash moment of fantasy in which Will was her boyfriend and madly in love with her, planning to share a future with her and the baby they hoped to make.

Just as quickly she wiped the vision from her thoughts. Over the stretch of years, she’d had plenty of practice at erasing that particular dream.

Reality, her reality, was a convenient and practical parenting agreement. There was simply no point in hoping for more. She was incredibly grateful for Will’s offer. It was her best, quite possibly, her only prospect for motherhood.

‘Something smells fantastic,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Her voice was two levels above a whisper. ‘I hope it tastes okay. Come on in.’

She’d planned to eat in the kitchen, hoping that the room’s rustic simplicity and familiar cosiness would help her to stay calm.

Already, that plan had flown out the window. She was almost sick with nerves.

‘Take any seat, Will.’ She gestured towards chairs gathered around the oval pine table. ‘You can open the wine if you like. I’d better check the dinner.’

She opened the oven door.Concentrate on the food.

Her heart sank.

No, no, no!

The baked custard, which was supposed to be smooth as silk, was speckled and lumpy. Like badly scrambled eggs.

The lasagne was worse.

How could this have happened?

The lasagne had been a work of art when it went into the oven – a symphony of layers – creamy yellow cheese sauce and pasta, with red tomatoes and herb infused meat.

Now the cheese sauce had mysteriously disappeared and the beautiful layers were dried out and brown, like shrivelled, knobbly cardboard splattered with dubious blobs of desiccated meat.

It was a total, unmitigated disaster.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, crestfallen. She’d spent hours and hours preparing these dishes – beating, stirring, spicing, testing, reading and rereading the recipes over and over.

‘What’s happened?’ Will’s question was tentative, careful.

Fighting tears, Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I followed the instructions to the letter.’ Snatching up oven gloves, she took out the heavy lasagne pan.

Stupidly, she’d been picturing Will’s admiration. ‘It’s disgusting,’ she wailed.

‘It’ll probably taste fine,’ he said gallantly as she dumped the hot dish onto a table mat.

Lucy wanted to howl. ‘I’m sorry, Will.’ Unwilling to meet his gaze, she retrieved the dreadful looking custard and set it out of sight on the bench, beneath a tea towel. ‘They’ve opened a pizza place in town. I think I’d better run in there.’

‘This food will be fine,’ he insisted again.

Hands on hips, she shook her head and glared at the stove. ‘I can’t believe I spent so much money on a brand new oven and I still made a hash of the meal.’

‘It might be a matter of getting used to the settings.’ He bent closer to look at the stove’s knobs.

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