The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer. Kerry Fisher

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       Octavia

      I hated the bloody phone ringing in the middle of the night. Good news could always wait until morning. My first thought was Mum. I’d never liked her living alone in that big house after Dad died. I was awake on the first ring; it just took me a little longer to find the flaming handset under yesterday’s jeans.

      I was still trying to get my head around the Surrey police announcement when Roberta came on the line. She sounded strained, as though she was being forced to speak in front of a hostile audience. As soon as she said, ‘Arrested’, she started blubbing and couldn’t get proper sentences out. I got ‘Scott’ and ‘solicitor’ and something about bringing a T-shirt. I ended up speaking slowly into the receiver, not sure whether she could even hear me.

      I told her I’d be there as soon as I could, already grabbing a jumper from the end of the bed. Then the police officer came back on the phone. When I asked if I’d be able to see her, he told me that ‘detainees weren’t permitted visitors while in custody’. That did freak the shit out of me. Even though he said he didn’t know how long it would take for Roberta to be ‘processed’, I decided to go down anyway.

      I pulled at Jonathan’s wrist, trying to read his watch in the dark. Nearly one o’clock. He shrugged in his sleep. I shook him. Then again, much harder. The whole family could be hacked to death with a machete and Jonathan would just tug the duvet a little higher. In desperation, I held his nose. I thought he might suffocate before he opened his eyes. Panic that Roberta might be in real trouble made me pinch hard.

      When he did finally gasp into life, he squinted around as though he’d never woken up in our bedroom before. If the house had been on fire, I would have saved the three children, dog, hamster and been back for the giant African land snails before Jonathan had worked out where he was.

      ‘Roberta’s been arrested. I’m going to the police station,’ I said, while he was still peering round, mole-like. It really hacked me off that my husband could breathe life into any ailing computer but had the slowest thought processes on the planet when it came to getting to grips with the bare bones of a midnight phone call.

      ‘Arrested? Wha-? What’s happened?’ He started getting out of bed, almost knocking over his water glass. ‘Is she hurt?’

      I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘How long are you going to be?’

      ‘I don’t know, she couldn’t really speak. Not sure what’s happened, something to do with Scott.’

      ‘God, bloody Roberta. She can never have a drama at a civilised hour, can she?’

      ‘She can’t help it. Let’s hope she hasn’t murdered Scott,’ I said, tying my hair back with one of Polly’s school hairbands.

      ‘Can’t see that the world would be a worse place if she had done away with that arrogant git.’

      ‘Don’t say that. Anyway, go back to sleep.’ I wasn’t up for a rant about how Scott thought he was the dog’s bollocks with his great big banger of a house, even if it was the truth.

      He snuggled down again but stuck out his hand to squeeze mine. I held it for a second. He was warm, as always. I flicked away the grain of resentment at having to turn out on a freezing December night to hoover up the shards of someone else’s life. Just for once I would have liked Jonathan to come and help me de-ice the car, make sure the stupid Volvo started. I snatched up my handbag and hoped Roberta hadn’t done something very silly.

      Though God knows, Scott deserved it.