Free Don't Want To Miss A Thing by Jill Mansell

confide in. They told her their problems and she helped them find solutions. She was good at listening and apparently had a sympathetic face.
    ‘He’s not there at the moment,’ said Molly. ‘He fell asleep on my sofa last night. When I came down this morning he was gone. He’s either driven to the supermarket to pick up food or disappeared back to London. But if he’s still here, I’ll tell him to come over and . . . aahh . . . aahh . . . aah-choo !’ In the run-up to the sneeze Molly just had time to rummage in the pockets of her Barbour and whisk out a Kleenex. Something small and metallic flew out with it, skittering across the kitchen table. Frankie picked up the tiny charm and examined it.
    ‘That’s really pretty. Mind you don’t lose it.’
    ‘What is it? Let me see?’ Molly frowned and held out her hand.
    ‘It’s a frog on a spade.’
    ‘I’ve never seen it before! It’s not mine!’
    ‘Well, it definitely just came out of your pocket,’ said Frankie.
    ‘How weird. I don’t know how it could have got there. Mystery.’
    ‘Has someone else worn your coat?’
    ‘No.’ Molly studied the charm closely. ‘And look, he’s so cute. All I can think is that someone found it on the ground somewhere and thought it was mine. I’ll ask around. Except they wouldn’t have just put it in my pocket, would they? Not without saying something.’
    ‘You could mention it to Lois in the pub, see if anyone’s lost it.’ Frankie checked her watch. ‘Oh crikey, look at the time, I’d better get a move on.’
    ‘Me too. I’ve still got last night’s work to catch up with.’ Heading for the door, Molly said, ‘If Dexter wants to talk to you, I’ll give you a call.’
    But by the evening there was still no sign of the garish yellow Porsche; Molly’s next-door neighbour had evidently returned to London to sort out his problems himself. And when they asked around the village, no one knew anything about the little gold frog on the spade either; there were no clues as to where it had come from.

Chapter 11
    Laura’s house in Islington – the terraced house they’d both grown up in – might still be filled with her belongings but it felt indescribably empty. Dex felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. Each time the realisation hit him again, he just wanted to say, ‘OK, enough now, please make it stop.’
    It seemed unbelievable to try and take in the fact that it never would.
    He made his way on autopilot through the familiar rooms. It was the social worker who had suggested he came here and collected up anything he thought Delphi would like to have with her while she was in the care of the foster family. Not that he had any idea what she might want or need. So far he’d thrown assorted baby clothes and soft toys into a holdall without knowing if she liked them or not. There was one small squishy yellow duckling that made plaintive quacking noises when you jiggled it – he’d seen her playing with that one over Christmas – but otherwise all he could do was guess.
    Which was shameful. Poor Delphi, as if it wasn’t tragic enough that she’d lost her mother, all she was left with now was someuseless uncle who didn’t even know which were her favourite toys.
    Also, was she missing Laura? Of course she must be. But had she sensed that something this terrible had happened? According to the social worker, Delphi was fairly quiet and at times appeared to be bewilderedly searching for a face that wasn’t there. There’d been a couple of bouts of crying but otherwise she seemed happy enough; surrounded by care and affection as she was, she seemed to be coping well with her new foster family. Dex didn’t know how this made him feel; should he be reassured by her ability to adapt? He couldn’t bear to think she might be feeling – in her helpless baby way – as bereft as he was.
    Dex paused in the nursery to look out of the window. There was Laura’s car