'It's going to take more than a bag of Maltesers this time,' I smile ruefully, knowing her tried-and-tested cure-all.

'No, it's a lot better than that.' She starts rummaging around her bag, which is gigantic and filled to the brim with who knows what, until finally she pulls out a magazine. 'Ta daaah!'

I look at it blankly. 'A magazine?'

'Not just any magazine, it's my magazine! It's not on sale till tomorrow but I got an early copy and look, it's my article,' she says, quickly flicking to the page and spreading it out in front of me.

'Oh that's great Fiona, well done,' I nod, my eyes glancing over the photographs of models posing with different beauty products. And it is great though to be honest, Fiona has done hundreds of shoots, I don't know why she's so excited about this one.

'No, I'm not talking about my stuff,' she exclaims, as if it's perfectly obvious what she's going on about it. She flicks over a page. 'I'm talking about your bag! Look!' she demands, jabbing it with her finger.

I look at where she's pointing, and there, sure enough, taking up the whole page, is a glossy photograph of a model with my bag slung over her shoulder.

'Wow, yes,' I say, feeling a surprised rush of pleasure. Fiona gave me back the bag a few days ago, but it's strange to see it in a photograph in a magazine. 'It looks good, doesn't it?'

'Good? It looks b.l.o.o.d.y fantastic!' tuts Fiona, flicking over onto the next page. 'And look, the stylist loved it so much, she used it here as well.'

Gosh. So she did. Somewhat stunned, I stare at all the different colour photographs: there's one where my bag is filled with beauty products; another where they're spilling over the sides and you can see the lining; another close-up where you can see the tiny sequins; one with the model and the leather handles against her bare skin . . . I feel myself swell up with pride. I knew I'd done a good job, but even so, it looks so much better than I ever dared dream.

'And that's not all,' announces Fiona. Turning over the pages to the end of the shoot, she points out the credits. Photographer: Jean-Claude. Model: [email protected] TrueInc. Stylist: Amy Woods. Beauty Writer: Fiona Mannering. Bag by Tess Connelly.

'Oh my G.o.d!' I gasp. I stare at it in amazement. I got my name in a magazine, and not for me, but for my bag, for something I made.

'Isn't that great?' enthuses Fiona.

'Wait till I tell Gramps, he won't believe it,' I say excitedly. But knowing Gramps, he will. He always said I had a gift; he always believed I could do it. Just like Fergus. As he flicks back into my mind, I feel a p.r.i.c.k of sadness. I can't tell him. I can't share this with him.

I glance once more at the TV, then turn it off. 'You know, I think I'll get an early night,' I say, closing the magazine.

'Too much excitement, hey?' grins Fiona.

'Yeh, something like that,' I smile back. And it's true, it is exciting. My bag in Sat.u.r.day Speaks magazine. Not bad for a first effort. You never know, this might be a first step towards my dream of actually selling one. Hope flickers like a flame. I've been thinking about work and I'm not sure what I'm going to do, apart from sign on with some temp agencies, do some dog walking, a bit of babysitting. But maybe now if I work on my bags in my spare time . . . maybe this is a start . . . maybe one day I'll get a whole photoshoot with my bags.

Well, a girl can dream, can't she?

Leaving Fiona, I go into the bathroom to wash and get ready for bed. I'm in the middle of cleaning my teeth when I hear Fiona's phone ringing. It's probably Richard; they're never off the phone from each other, when they're not spending all their time together. I'm getting used to it. Though I've made Fiona promise she'll put a lock on the bathroom door before he stays over. After what happened last time . . . Fair enough, he might not be my boss any more, but b.u.mping into Sir Richard on the loo . . .

I shudder.

'Sorry, it's who? Oh . . . yes . . . no . . . don't worry, it's fine to ring so late . . .'

Hmm, wonder who she's talking to? Not Richard, there would have been about five 'darlings' by now. Plus, she's suddenly put on her posh voice.

'If you'd care to hold the line one moment.'

She appears at the bathroom door, her hand clamped over her BlackBerry.

'It's for you.' Her face has gone a funny pink colour.

I pause, mid-brushing. 'Who is it?' I ask, through a mouthful of spearmint froth.

'Super Chic.'

'Who's Super Chic?'

Fiona looks at me in shocked disbelief. 'You've never heard of Super Chic?' she exclaims.

Something tells me I should have. 'Um . . . no,' I shake my head.

'It's only the hottest, most talked-about fashion website! It has its own online store everybody uses it . . .' She breaks off and looks at me, obviously remembering I'm a charity shop junkie.

'Oh I see . . .' I nod, then frown in confusion. 'But why do Super Chic want to speak to me?'

She's going a really funny pink colour now, and is she trembling?

'It's the head buyer,' she gasps. 'She saw your bag and she's sorry to call so late but she's too excited to wait until tomorrow morning and . . .' She breaks off, almost breathless, before the rest of her words come tumbling out. 'You're not going to believe this, but they want to place an order!'

What?

Stunned, I stare at Fiona. For a moment I can't take her words in; it's as if they remain floating above me in giant bubbles. I can't believe what she's just said, what this means, how a dream can just come true in the blink of an eye.

And now she's holding out the phone to me, and with nerves, excitement, joy and disbelief fluttering in my stomach, I take it from her.

'h.e.l.lo, Tess Connelly speaking.'

They always say you've got to start somewhere. When they interview famous businesswomen, successful entrepreneurs, or even novelists, they always talk about how they started out in their garage, or set up their business in a spare bedroom, or did their writing in a cafe to keep themselves warm. For me, it was in our bathroom that didn't have a lock.

Because there, standing on our s.h.a.ggy bathmat, in my Snoopy pyjamas with a mouth full of toothpaste, I take my very first order of what is to become Bags by Tess Connelly Designs.

And that's only the beginning.

Chapter 42.

New Year's Eve Outside the temperature is minus G.o.d-knows-what and sleeting. I swear, sleet has to be the worst kind of weather known to man. Rain isn't too bad, so long as you've got an umbrella, and snow can be lovely when it's all fresh and white and powdery. But the combination of the two is freezing, slushy ice pellets that soak you to the skin, ruin your shoes, and make every single cab in London disappear into thin air.

I'm not kidding, I can't see one single yellow light. But I can see tons of girls in party dresses and fake tan. Shivering and trying to shelter, they're searching vainly for a cab to take them to their parties before a) it hits midnight or b) they freeze to death or c) both. Seriously, it's h.e.l.l out there.

Which is why I'm so happy to be inside, all snug as a bug in a rug, I smile to myself, drawing my face away from the window and the scene below on the street.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm in my flat with the central heating full on so it's like the Bahamas. After going home to spend Christmas at Mum and Dad's, which meant listening to my little brother, who's back from his gap year, say every five minutes, 'Would you believe it, but this time last year we were sitting on Bondi Beach', I finally decided to come out and admit I didn't like New Year's Eve.

Mum was a bit upset. She couldn't understand why her daughter wanted to go back to London to stay in on her own, when she could be joining them at the local village hall, 'as they're having a disco and everything'. But after last year, I decided that this year I was going to finally be true to myself, and that meant no more c.r.a.ppy parties, no more fighting traffic and no more trying to look as though I'm having the most fun ever whilst wishing I was at home in my pyjamas.

Which is why I turned down all the party invitations and will be spending the evening at home with Flea, drinking a bottle of Cava, eating takeaway pizza and watching the new Johnny Depp movie on DVD. Whilst already wearing my pyjamas. I can't wait.

Plus, it gives me a chance to reflect on the past year and believe me when I say it, it's been quite some year.

So much has happened since Fiona got that phone call from Super Chic all those months ago. I've gone from making one bag with Gramps on his old sewing machine, to owning my own business and employing a small team of people (including Gramps, whose new t.i.tle is Creative Consultant) and producing hundreds. I've even got my own logo and a website that Ali set up for me, and orders are flooding in. We can hardly keep up. Plus we've got all these new designs and fabrics, and I've got so many different ideas . . .

I have to stop myself before I get carried away. I get like that. Sometimes I almost have to pinch myself just thinking about it. It really is a dream come true.

And that's not all that's changed. I glance at a photograph above the fireplace. It's a picture of Fiona and Sir Richard on their wedding day, together with Tallulah and Monty with flowers in their collars. They got married this summer on his family's estate in Scotland, and he's wearing a kilt, whereas Fiona fulfilled her bridal fantasy of wearing her grandmother's dress. Apparently she'd never been able to fit into it before, but since meeting Sir Richard, she's dropped a couple of dress sizes. Not that he cares about her weight, but that's probably why. It's as if, as soon as it ceased to matter, the pounds just melted away.

Well, until recently, but now she's started putting them back on. Only this time she's got a good excuse: Fiona's four months pregnant. Sorry, I mean Lady Blackstock. G.o.d, I still can't believe it. Fiona is now a lady! Not only that but she's swapped her stilettos for a pair of Hunter wellies and is now living in the country. I'm now renting the whole flat from her well, there didn't seem much point in moving out. Flea likes it here, plus I've turned Fiona's bedroom into my design studio.

But Fiona isn't the only one who got lucky in love. Gramps and Cecilie are never apart, although their love is of a different kind. His heart still belongs to Nan, as it always will, but in Cecilie he's found someone to share his love of poker; and in Gramps she's found someone to dance with again. On weekends they have tea dances at Hemmingway House, and they're always the first to take to the floor, waltzing around the common room in their finest suits and dresses.

As for his health, with Cecilie's help we finally got him to see a doctor, and as we feared, he's in the early stages of Alzheimer's. The good news if there is any good news with this disease is that no one knows how quickly or slowly it will progress. So far he's doing well; he's got Cecilie to jog his memory and, like she always says in that wonderful French accent of hers, 'We are all making new memories every day.'

I'm distracted by 'Auld Lang Syne' playing on the radio. To this day, I've never understood what that song means, the words don't really make sense, but I think it's about remembering old friends. And old boyfriends, I reflect, listening to the song and thinking about the round-robin email I received from Seb, wishing me Happy Holidays. Just like last year. Except this year I didn't get upset, I just smiled and emailed back, 'You too'.

Then again so many things feel different to last year, at least from what I can remember. I can't be sure as I lost my old diary a while ago. I don't have a clue where it went, and my memory's dreadful, but it disappeared around the time Fiona moved out, along with the disk. Maybe it got thrown away, who knows?

There's lots of things I don't know. Like, did it really happen? Did wishing I'd never met my boyfriend really erase our relationship? And did I really date him all over again, only differently this time? It sounds crazy. It was crazy. Looking back now, I almost can't believe it happened, and sometimes, just before I fall asleep at night, I think maybe it didn't happen maybe I dreamt it all, maybe I blurred the lines between my imagination and reality.

Except, I know that can't be true. I don't need a diary to prove to me that something happened to me; somehow I magically got a second chance at love, but the twist was, it was myself I learned to love. It's just a crying shame I learned it too late to be with Fergus.

The doorbell goes and I snap back. Ah, that will be the Cheese Feast and garlic bread I ordered. Hurray for Mario's pizza delivery!

'Coming . . .' I yell, dislodging Flea, who gives a disgruntled meow. I hurry into the hallway. 'Hang on, I just need to find my wallet . . .' Grabbing my bag, I start digging around with one hand, while I grip the door with the other.

I pull it open, my head still in my bag. I must do a lighter silk lining next time; this navy blue paisley is too dark.

'Aha, here it is!' I look up, waggling my wallet triumphantly.

A tall figure is standing in my doorway. I notice the scuffed boots first, followed by the long limbs, then the dark suede coat. My chest tightens. Somewhere inside me a pulse starts beating urgently as my eyes peel upwards. Unruly black hair is flopping over his face, almost hiding his eyes. It's got much longer than I remember it.

'Fergus,' I manage after a pause. 'What are you doing here?'

I suddenly feel absurdly nervous. And stupid. For G.o.d's sake, whose stupid idea was it to wear pyjamas?

'Oh I dunno,' he shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant, 'I just happened to be pa.s.sing.'

My mind is racing. I can't believe he's here. Standing in front of me. After all this time. There's so many things I want to say.

'How did you know where I live?' But all I can do is ask stupid questions.

'I was a courier, I used to find addresses for a living-' he begins, then breaks off. 'OK, I confess, I used my charms on the dragon at Hemmingway House.'

'You mean Catherine?' I can't help the beginnings of a smile. 'As in our future Queen Catherine?'

'Aye, that's right,' he smiles sheepishly, and for a moment we both fall silent, our minds flicking backwards.

'But it's New Year's Eve. Don't you have a party to go to?'

'That's why I'm here. Who else do I know who hates New Year's Eve as much as I do? I thought maybe I could not celebrate with you?'

I find myself smiling. 'I'm afraid I'm just staying in.'

'Grand,' he grins. 'Don't we have a date? "Next New Year's Eve, my sofa or yours",' he reminds me, raising an eyebrow. 'Only I don't have a sofa.'

'What happened to your chaise longue?'

'It's in storage. I moved out of the studio as I've been filming in Manchester mostly. I'll have it back soon though I'm buying a house. Nothing fancy but I think you'd like it-' He breaks off awkwardly.

'Wow,' I say, pinning on a bright smile, 'the acting must be going really well.'

'Yeh, I suppose so,' he shrugs modestly. 'And I heard about your bags well, I saw one, a girl was carrying one and I rushed over. I think she thought I was trying to s.n.a.t.c.h it.'

I laugh. 'We both got our dreams, didn't we?' I say, after a pause.

'Yeh,' he nods. 'Sort of.' He pauses, stuffing his hands awkwardly in his pockets before clearing his throat. 'Look, I wanted to say I'm sorry.'

'No, I'm sorry, I was an idiot to send those emails,' I blurt, before he can stop me. 'It was stupid of me, I didn't think.'

'No, I was an idiot not to see the reason why you did.'

Now the small talk is over, the dam is broken and our feelings are pouring out.

'I was the one who didn't think,' he finishes, shaking his head.

And then there's a pause, as if we've run out of words. After what feels like forever, Fergus finally speaks.

'Can we pretend like it never happened? Start over?'

As his eyes search out mine, I feel a tug deep inside, but I know for certain I can't.

'No,' I shake my head firmly.

'No?' He looks crushed.

My chest tightens as I think about everything we've gone through together, about all the good things and the bad things, and it's like Gramps says: never wish any part of it away. However painful, our memories and the times we spent together have made us us, and I don't want to erase a single thing.

'Let's just carry on where we left off,' I say quietly.

For a moment his brow furrows, as if he's trying to figure out what's going on, then his face softens in understanding. 'And where would that be?'

'Hmm, well, let's see . . .' I pretend to think. 'Well we've met, got to know each other, and then we had the big row . . . so . . . what comes after the big row?'

His mouth twitches and he raises an eyebrow. 'The making up?'