Single Dads Collection. Lynne Marshall

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      It was a good job he had her in tow, she thought.

      He was fingering a lovely pale pure wool carpet with a thoughtful look on his face.

      ‘Imagine it with baby sick and play-dough on it,’ she advised sagely, and he wrinkled his nose and sighed heavily.

      ‘So what would you suggest?’

      ‘Something a little darker? Something scrubbable? There are some you can pour bleach on. Maybe a tiny pattern, just to break it up? Or a heather mix, so it’s not a flat, plain colour.’

      He was glazing over, she could tell. Poor baby. For the first time in his life he was up against having to consider something other than his own taste. And he didn’t like it.

      ‘I want wood, really. I’d like to strip the boards, or put down an oak strip floor, perhaps. I’ve got solid walnut in my flat and it’s gorgeous. And you can wipe it clean.’

      ‘Hard to fall on, and it can be a bit cold. Anyway, they probably couldn’t do a really nice floor that fast.’

      ‘Oh, damn,’ he said, ramming his hands through his hair and grinning ruefully. ‘I tell you what, you choose. You’ve had more experience than I have. So long as it covers the floor and I can have it next Tuesday, I don’t care.’

      So she chose—a soft pale coffee mix that would stand children running in and out—and then wondered what on earth she was thinking about because the only child running in and out would be Kizzy and she was less than two weeks old! He’d probably replace the carpet before she was walking.

      ‘Next?’

      ‘Furniture? I haven’t got any.’

      So she took him to a place that sold beds and sofas and dining furniture, and he ordered the best compromise between what he wanted and what was available at short notice, and then right on cue Kizzy started up.

      Freddie was wriggling around in the buggy, wanting to get out, and Beth was hanging on her hand and needed the loo.

      ‘How about lunch?’ she suggested. ‘Then we can tackle curtains and bedding—a bit more retail therapy for you.’

      ‘Retail therapy?’ He gave a snort. ‘Not in this lifetime—but lunch sounds good,’ he said, the air of hunted desperation easing slightly at the suggestion of reprieve, and she nearly laughed out loud.

      Poor Harry. Anyone less in touch with their feminine side she had yet to meet, but she had to hand it to him. He was taking it on the chin and giving it his best shot, and she felt a strangely proprietorial sense of pride in him.

      Swallowing a lump in her throat, Emily tucked her arm through his and steered him into the little café next door, sat him and Beth down, found a high chair for Freddie and took Kizzy from the sling on Harry’s chest, rocking her while the waitress heated the bottle. Then she fed her while her children played with their bendy straws and Harry sat back and closed his eyes and inhaled a double espresso with the air of a condemned man taking his last meal.

      It was all she could do not to laugh.