Closet dreams

Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

M aura carried the donations bag through from the charity shop to the cluttered back room, where Terese was researching a promising looking oriental bowl online. “Excuse me, Terese, but a very smartly

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

VENITA FITZALAN-BLAKE had never liked dancing. And after treading the length and breadth of Bond Street, Mayfair and Piccadilly, fruitlessly seeking employment, she had good cause to remember why. If

The mini digger we hired was bright yellow. It sounded like a bus and belched out black smoke. Phil, looking like he sat upon a child’s toy, aimed it down the garden after the hire company unloaded it

A WAVE the size of a house crashed down upon the deck. Soaked to the skin, Dinah landed in a crumpled sail at the foot of the mast. “I had another of those stress dreams,” Dinah said, when Ken joined