For me they had been pretty hedonistic times with just enough common sense thrown in to keep me out of trouble. It appeared to be different for him.
I wasn’t a wild child really – but there were six teenage boys growing up right next door.
Mr and Mrs Wilton were raising a house full of boys into men, right next door to me, and when you sat at the dinner table with them, which I did often, the fragrance of male hormone mixed with sweat and dirty socks was intoxicating to a fourteen year old girl.
This show needs to sing like a choir of angels harmonizing as if the first child were born. This is my first child. My baby! I need music so sweet people will cry. I need Ed Sheeran!
‘Alice, you keep missing a step, salt then lemon — and listen, he’s not worth the hangover you’re going to have in the morning.’
We were about six when The Wilton’s moved in next door. Yes, I know – who does that to their child? Wilton Wilton! The youngest of six boys, I guess they’d run out of names by the time Will came along.
Alice thought it hilarious, when I recounted my day from hell over drinks at Charli Browns. I couldn’t see the funny side myself and shot her a look that could kill as she plucked candy floss from my hair
What could be more disastrous? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I didn’t want to go to Mary Hill-Martins birthday party in the first place.
He just smiled back and turned his face to the sun, resting back on his elbows. A great body, great smile, cute as hell! There had to be something wrong with him, surely, nobody’s that perfect.
Nobody expected that a young girl from Framlingham could make her mark on the competitive Paris Fashion Week Haute Couture runways.