Jimmy Madden is Grace's rock star ex-boyfriend, and father of Lily, and he's definitely persona non gratis round here, as Gran would say. He was in the papers when Lily was born, whining about how he wants to see his baby, but so far I don't think he's actually tried.

'Is he likely to turn up then?'

'You never know with Jimmy.'

'But he hasn't been in touch?'

She hesitates. Damn, I've done it again, strayed into tabloid territory.

'Not directly, but give him time. He'll get round to it, once he's got his exclusive lined up. Has Ed arrived yet, Max?'

'He's due any minute.'

'Well, bring him straight up, would you. Now then, wool. Show me, Jo, and I hope the pink isn't Pepto-Bismol puke pink.'

'Raspberry and dark chocolate?'

'Perfect.'

I'm casting on two hundred stitches for her when Ed arrives, with paw prints all over the front of his trousers.

'Fucking dogs, whose bright idea was that? And where have all the police pissed off to? There's only one of them out there now. Christ, talk about a thin blue line.'

'Morning, Ed. Lovely to see you too. What's the latest on the photos?'

'Vanity Fair suit you, madam?'

'Sure. Who with?'

'They're sorting that out now. Daniel Fitzgerald, possibly, if they can get him.'

I try to seem nonchalant at the mention of Daniel's name, but I think Grace has noticed. She's giving me a rather careful look as Ed sits down on one of the grey sofas.

'Do you remember Daniel, Jo? He was the one who did that shoot in the summer. With the rowing boat.'

'Oh yes, vaguely.'

I'm still trying for nonchalant but I'm not sure it's working.

Bugger.

'The only thing is, they want an interview.'

'Tell them to fuck off.'

'I'd never have thought of that.'

'They can have what we give them and work with that. Or we'll go with someone else.'

'No we bloody won't. Leave it with me, babe, and I'll get back to you. Yes?'

'Babe?'

'Fuck. Sorry.'

'Off you go.'

'Jesus. Not again.'

'Ed.'

'All right, I'm going.'

Ed gets up, looking rather fed up.

'If he calls me babe he has to do three circuits of the house. Is Bruno still out there?'

'I think so, why?'

'Then you'll have Tom and Jerry for company then, won't you?'

'Fucking hell.'

There's a sound of barking and shouting, and then we stand at the window and watch Ed racing past the cars at full pelt with Tom and Jerry chasing him.

Grace turns to me and gives me a very searching look.

'So. Daniel Fitzgerald? Tell me.'

'Tell you what?'

'There's no point trying to kid me I know every trick in the book. Come on, tell me.'

'I don't know what you mean, Grace. There isn't anything to tell.'

'Either you've had a fling, or you came close. I need details. How was he, out of ten? I've always wondered. Tell me, or you're fired.' She's smiling, but I'm not entirely sure she's joking.

Oh God.

'There really isn't anything to tell.'

'I mean it.'

Christ.

'Ten.'

She laughs and claps her hands.

'I knew it, although nobody's a ten, except me, of course. When?'

'Grace, it was just a one-off.'

'Of course. When?'

'In Venice.'

'Good for you. Found a way to make Christmas with your mother that little bit more bearable, did you? Clever.'

'Yes, but it really wasn't serious or anything, and he's back with his girlfriend now.'

'Liv, yes, I heard. Who's a total bitch, by the way; kept trying to steal shots off me when we did the girls in space film.'

'Oh, right.'

'I won all the awards, though. Still, she's a piece of work. He'll have a job keeping up with her, and serve him right. So you're over it then?'

'Oh yes. It was nice, lovely actually, but it wasn't real.'

She looks at me, and gives me one of her Megastar Smiles and I feel like I've just won some sort of prize.

'Good for you, darling, and you're spot on: it's never real with men like him. They want to be swept off their feet, overcome by beauty, creative types like him always do. She's perfect for him, she's always posing. But she'll totally fuck him over, in the end.'

'Why?'

'She'll get bored. Trust me. Been there, done that, got the diamonds. And pearls.'

She moves her head slightly and her earrings jingle.

'Oh.'

'They arrived this morning. I think he was just checking I'm not about to hit him with the daddy of all paternity suits. And before you ask, no, I'm not talking about Jimmy. And that's all I'm going to say on the subject.'

'Right.'

'Nice though, aren't they?'

'Beautiful.'

'You've got to keep them guessing. And know when to move on. Timing is everything, right?'

'Yes.'

'So if he's here doing snaps, you'll be OK with that?'

'Of course.'

'Good. Now then, what do you think of moss stitch, for my blanket? I'm getting bored with just plain knit and purl.'

'Lovely. Or maybe a moss-stitch border, and then squares? You could do plain ones, and some with bobbles. You said you wanted to do bobbles, didn't you?'

'Yes, and that other one. What was it called? The one you showed me on that little hat.'

'Seed stitch. You can try out some of the other ones we were looking at too if you like, do little squares in different stitches.'

'Sounds perfect.'

It's pouring with rain on Friday morning, and I feel like I'm wearing a very tight invisible hat, which is particularly unfair since I didn't drink anything last night at the Stitch and Bitch group because I was too busy. Everyone was agog about Gran's wedding, and how Grace is doing and how beautiful the baby is. Apparently one of the photographers tried to push past PC Mike yesterday afternoon, so he arrested him, and now the thin blue line has some extra reinforcement and PC Mike is in bliss. They're doing a piece on it for the local paper, according to Tina, and they took his photograph, only he's a bit worried about what his sergeant will say, because he likes to be centre-front in any photographs.

We spent most of the evening talking about our top wedding moments, and Tina Davies told us all about her honeymoon with Fireman Graham his Watch from the fire station filled their honeymoon caravan with foam, which must have been nice. Linda told us about her hen night too, which culminated in her being handcuffed to a lamp-post in a basque and suspenders, although I can't see Gran going in for that kind of thing, so all in all it was a really good evening.

The group feels relaxed now, which is just what I wanted; like friends meeting up, catching up on the latest news, with no need to make direct eye contact if you're sharing anything a bit embarrassing or the conversation moves on to freesias versus bloody carnations again. That's the great thing about knitting: you can look at your stitches if you're bored, or someone needs a bit of space, like last week when Maggie started talking about her mother, who sounds like a total cow, and we just let her talk until she'd finished, and then Linda got her a tissue while Connie cut her another slice of cake.

Last night it was fabulous almond tarts, which Connie says Mark is experimenting with for the restaurant, where they'll be served with home-made apricot sorbet; it's no wonder they're getting booked up at weekends really. The pudding menu alone should have people queuing down the street.

I sorted out Tina's poncho for her, which was going a bit rectangular, and we chose the wool for Linda's new cardigan, and Tina had us all in fits about her recent run-ins with Annabel Morgan, who keeps sending her increasingly rude notes about getting Graham to bring his fire engine into school. He's not that keen on assorted mixed infants swarming all over it pressing buttons and trying to climb up the ladder, and I don't really blame him.

Maggie's started on a complicated cable pattern on a jumper, but she'd gone wrong on the first repeat, which had put the second one out of kilter, so I showed her how to fix it while Connie made a start on the cardigan she's knitting for Mark's birthday. She's chosen a lovely flecked felted tweed, with dark green for the neckband and cuffs, and I've promised to do the sleeves for her since they're so busy in the pub. Mark's celebration-cakes sideline is really taking off, and he's cooking seven days a week now, so Connie's trying to get some more help in; she found him fast asleep by the big mixer last week, with marzipan stuck to his forehead.

Archie's re-launching his campaign for the kind of breakfast cereal that makes the milk go an unusual colour; although why he thinks I need a six-year-old with a massive sugar high on the school run is anybody's guess.

'It's not fair. We never have proper cereal. We always have rubbish ones.'

'Shreddies are proper, Archie, and please stop shouting, I've got a headache.'

'Yes, stop screeching like a baby. It's just ridiculous.'

Archie glares at Jack; they'll be nudging and shoving each other any minute. Sometimes I think I should just buy a whistle and a set of red cards.

'Jack, go up and do your teeth, and Archie, stop fussing and finish your Shreddies.'

He tuts, but starts eating, albeit in slow motion.

'Hurry up, love, I think you've got music this morning.'

'Damn.'

'Archie.'

'I hate music. And I hate Mrs Nelson, she's so stupid. She makes you sit with your arms crossed all the blimming time, and I can't sing in my proper voice with my arms crossed.'

'I bet you can. You've got a lovely voice.'

He starts belting out 'If You're Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands'. Lovely.

Apparently we're still Happy and We Know It while we're in the car on the way to school, but we've substituted clapping for stamping our feet and jabbing our brother so I have to reluctantly launch a 'Ten Green Bottles' counter-manoeuvre. We're down to two green bottles by the time we reach the safety of the playground, and my invisible hat feels significantly tighter than it did half an hour ago.

Connie's standing by the fence, with a selection of bags slung round her neck, while the kids run round for a final five minutes of yelling before the bell goes. There's some sort of tag game going on, and Nelly appears to be It. She's racing round looking frantic, trying to catch Marco and his friends, who are much faster than her.