Who was on the phone?’ my husband Danny asked as I stepped into the living room, clutching my mobile.
‘Greta,’ I said, quivering in delight. ‘She’s going away for the weekend – and she wants you and me to house-sit!’
Greta is my old school friend and way more successful than me. Whereas Danny and I and our three kids are stuffed into a three-bedroom semi, with dripping taps and a back door that sticks, Greta and her partner Mike share an architect-designed house with a vaulted ceiling in the lounge and all mod cons.
‘And are we saying yes?’ Danny enquired, dipping into the family bag of crisps he was munching on the sofa.
‘Of course!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s basically a free holiday in luxury accommodation.’
‘And what, precisely, is our role?’
‘We have to stay in and take delivery of a parcel.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘For goodness sake! Tom’s 17. He’s old enough to keep an eye on things here. It’s about time we showed the children a bit
