Книга - Bridesmaids

Bridesmaids
Zara Stoneley


From the USA Today bestselling author of The Wedding Date! With friends like these…









Bridesmaids

ZARA STONELEY







A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)


HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008320652

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008320645

Version: 2019-04-10


Table of Contents

Cover (#u26181e2f-45c8-51bc-923a-865a57a8d5b3)

Title Page (#uf4542f07-cc8e-578a-af65-762f79c29a99)

Copyright (#u5f73feb8-828a-5e55-9fc3-998c638248e8)

Dedication (#u9db1aea7-9c65-531e-b2e1-7e4fcae22117)

Act One – With Friends Like These (#u9a4e7080-1865-565e-95f1-806ef1c469db)

Chapter 1 (#u649f924b-1e0f-5aac-ba33-373340a86ea2)

Chapter 2 (#uab0e9741-31af-53a9-9de7-8c81158a0a96)

Chapter 3 (#u56a62f3c-8190-59fb-bc16-6bca511884d9)

Chapter 4 (#uc0df94b5-4f87-58c7-850e-2d323f4093d1)

Chapter 5 (#u3d92d9bf-bd54-575e-92b5-017fdc652fb2)

Chapter 6 (#u3ab669b3-24bc-57f8-8836-b571a11f3ffe)

Chapter 7 (#u56e032a3-fe62-5189-b528-06a10e808a3a)

Chapter 8 (#u63cde16c-155a-598b-a648-599280f25a34)

Chapter 9 (#u89d18f37-6748-5d36-93a6-47fd9ce255a3)

Chapter 10 (#ucd8fb42e-c86c-5393-a5b0-237fd24331fa)

Chapter 11 (#u788e0481-66f2-51ef-994f-92cbccd55961)

Chapter 12 (#u7ef36a01-6a08-5864-a9ca-0b448bd79792)

Chapter 13 (#u2c04320c-00b4-57e1-b96f-7be16e17b731)

Chapter 14 (#uadd7efe1-f6a2-5004-bb45-27a21f1814d9)

Chapter 15 (#uc8f57bd5-7eeb-57b0-a44d-ae9c52633eed)

Chapter 16 (#u60d77608-d605-5022-977f-62d8cff0008d)

Chapter 17 (#u4c9b6a62-109d-505e-b2da-6707a916f1e8)

Chapter 18 (#uf08e8161-44b9-5a20-938c-36f101b4cde8)

Act Two – The Hen Party (#u26ae18fe-9893-567b-a27e-6a3d74c062e4)

Chapter 19 (#u57ccd500-19cf-5d22-8594-b24b1c02b15c)

Chapter 20 (#u19743625-25bc-5006-bcac-6690efe9a050)

Chapter 21 (#uaf6bcf80-0003-5cf3-b080-e9ddaefb8193)

Chapter 22 (#u6b443b51-4743-53f3-ac28-b92e9e3fddca)

Chapter 23 (#ub4ddf8cd-00af-5ea6-b4d2-864a6bc30344)

Chapter 24 (#u2b7a2164-f3a5-5de0-9c4c-23245a886860)

Chapter 25 (#u49386fc1-c6d3-5ed4-987a-41a01105ccac)

Chapter 26 (#u2a2ae893-412c-5bd8-a419-350517f6a667)

Chapter 27 (#u5f719027-17e8-50b1-bb2f-baaed9e7f3de)

Chapter 28 (#u6e6ebef4-bd32-59b0-ba0e-7fe452f39973)

Chapter 29 (#u29bd4473-49f5-5ccd-a8af-401a8fb20be9)

Chapter 30 (#uce56b67f-2f3c-5a44-880f-96024eb7e6c4)

Chapter 31 (#u2a29eea6-1781-5ce5-a840-bd559cec5a5f)

Chapter 32 (#u764c6536-1611-541f-9041-55ff1d26e602)

Act Three – The Big Day (#u1164dded-87a7-5995-82ab-763773076a5f)

Chapter 33 (#u78e2cb00-6ea2-50ff-a365-3d2b322d9753)

Chapter 34 (#u28dcc8a6-84a2-5862-b84b-06bdc9398928)

Chapter 35 (#ua767ab07-1018-5f20-be9e-cf4824598273)

Chapter 36 (#ud57074aa-8cb1-578f-85c7-5127582455ac)

Chapter 37 (#ub3f3334e-e22c-5b1c-bc42-7a306f6d9fc8)

Also by Zara Stoneley (#u580b358f-41f4-5723-8adb-52e3e45170d9)

Acknowledgements (#u154cf516-022a-53e7-97df-1b1127ccff17)

About the Author (#ucbca676c-ee4c-51a3-b42a-bbe6f1204b4a)

About HarperImpulse (#u63af1cf2-8102-5f9d-ac94-c98635fea737)

About the Publisher (#ucd473e70-3b07-5b97-ba13-b422b84fa7fe)


In memory of my Dad. The best friend a girl could have had.



ACT ONE (#ulink_5c5614dd-9f16-5901-93d2-20ac5fe5cef6)




Chapter 1 (#ulink_8bff72c7-24fa-5e5d-80d9-166fe81781e1)


‘Oh my God! You’re kidding? Wow, that’s fantastic!!’ And just like that I’ve looked my best friend in the eye and told a whopper. I pause for breath and lean forward to hug Rachel. ‘That is absolutely amazing. I am so pleased for you!’ My words are muffled by her shoulder.

I’m not in the habit of telling lies. I have been known to exaggerate slightly (and maybe tell the occasional little white lie), mainly to make myself feel better about my (currently) shitty life, or to make somebody else feel better about theirs.

I mean, when cuddly Liz who runs the ‘Olde Fashioned Sweet Shoppe’ in town told me she’d lost weight, I felt duty bound to tell her she was looking amazing, even if the missing poundage was probably down to her severe haircut (think scalped-elf) or the fact she’d gone for leggings rather than jeans (think scalped skinny elf).

Eating less and exercising more is torture, isn’t it? Specially when you spend your days staring at chocolate and boiled sugar. So, when I saw her a week later and she said she’d won the slimmer of the week award, the last thing she needed was me asking, ‘Are you sure the scales were working?’ or ‘Are you the only slimmer there, ha-ha-ha?’, wasn’t it?

Whereas, hearing my little white lie, ‘Wow! You look fab!’ followed by, ‘I read somewhere that liquorice can really help’ was just the right incentive.

Us girls need to stick together, don’t we? We need to present a united front and kick ass. So, if that involves smudging the truth at the edges now and then, that’s fine.

I smudge rather a lot. But I don’t lie. Especially not to my best friend.

Until now.

This isn’t a smudge, this is total truth wipe out.

I should be ashamed of myself. I am.

I also feel slightly queasy, and I’m not sure if it’s because the whole idea of this is bringing me out in a cold sweat because of what happened to me, or because of what might happen to her. My bestie.

If I hadn’t lied maybe things would have turned out differently.

Maybe all this wouldn’t have happened.

It started with the phone call.

Well, let’s be honest, it started a long, long time ago. When we were teenagers with fragile hearts, dodgy self-confidence and far too many hormones. When we were sure that the first guy who tried to get into our knickers could be ‘The One’. When love and lust were the same thing.

But anyhow, the lie and the big stuff started when she called me. All breathless and excited.

I was distracted with work, knee deep in fluffy kittens, or I might have been concentrating harder, and might have had some inkling of what was to come and where it might lead us.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_df1226b7-c574-573e-9040-6c2cd2ceccf6)


‘Thank God I caught you before you jetted off! Is it okay that I rang you at work? You are at work, aren’t you?’

‘I am, well, I’m not actually at work, but I am working. Will you stop that?’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, not you, Rach. I’m at home, but I’m trying to … sit still, please, pretty please? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I growl, and Rachel giggles. ‘I am working, well, trying to. Shit, why are kittens so bloody bouncy?’

‘Kittens? You’ve got kittens?’

‘Three. I think. They keep moving, it’s hard to keep track, but they’re colour coded. If they’d all been black I’d be totally up shit creek without a paddle. Stop it!’

‘Kittens! Like, real ones?’

‘Definitely real.’ I untangle one from my hair. ‘Would Sellotaping a paw to the table be considered cruelty? I mean, it’s not like I’m using glue, is it?’

‘Oh my God that’s so brilliant! Oh, I wish you lived closer, I’d be round there!’ She’s gone a bit shouty. I am confused. I never knew she was a cat lover.

‘Sticky tape?’ Nobody normally considers my ideas brilliant, and it’s not like I’ve just invented the stuff.

‘Not the tape bit, the having kittens bit!’

‘Well, er, fine. I’ve not given birth to them or anything clever.’ I’m not really concentrating on just how weird she’s being, I’m too busy trying to get one to remain upright. It just keeps keeling over onto its back and doing that ‘paws up’ thing. Cute, but unhelpful.

‘No, but it’s brilliant, you’re moving on, that’s so ace.’ She sighs. The sigh of relief. ‘I’ve been so bloody worried about you.’

I let go of the bundle of fluff that I’ve been holding in a ‘sit’ position and it flops over, then paddles the air with its little front paws.

‘Worried?’

‘Yeah, oh come on Jane, I’ve course I have. You’ve been so …’ she pauses, ‘not you since …’ She lets that dangle in the air, much like the kitten I’ve just spotted hanging from the back of a chair.

‘Andy?’ Andy is my ex. As in ex-fiancé. As in the man who decided he didn’t love me somewhere between going down on one knee with a ring and accompanying me up the aisle. Being dumped can leave you feeling kind of worthless, useless and totally unable to distinguish between ‘the one’ who actually loves you, and the fuckwit who didn’t at all.

He has been ‘he who must not be named’ for quite a while now. Mainly because hearing his name led either to an irrational outburst (from me), featuring lots of swear words, and descriptions about what I’d like to do to various parts of his anatomy, or, and this was so much worse, horrible, snot-inducing tears. Don’t you hate it when that happens, when you end up inside out and can’t stop?

‘Er, yes, him.’ She says it hesitantly, and there is a pause. I know she’s holding her breath hoping nothing horrible is about to happen.

‘Oh, Rach, please stop worrying. I told you, I’m fine. Totally fine. It was ages ago, I am so over him.’ The git. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was, but I’ve taken this one day at a time. I’ve stopped dating, because to be honest now I know my judgement is so far off it’s too scary. I’ve buried myself in work (not hard with my job) and talked a lot to the two people who mean most to me in the world: Freddie my flatmate, and Rachel.

There are many things I love about my best mate, Rachel: 1. She’s patient; 2. She’s caring; and 3. She’s honest, top the list.

She’s always been there for me, no questions asked. Good friends just know, don’t they? When to skirt round an issue because they know the wrong word could lead to a major incident, and when only a hug will do.

She’s obviously decided that kittens are significant in some weird and wonderful way though, which is slightly disturbing.

I just wish she didn’t worry quite so much. I’d always been the one looking out for both of us – as she’s so damned nice and easy to take advantage of. But lately we’d had a role reversal.

This time I’d been the one taken advantage of, and I guess I’d crumbled before her eyes (not a pretty sight). I’ve always liked to be in control. And I’d been in total control of planning my bloody wedding. Until Andy had pulled the plug, and suddenly I felt like I hadn’t got a clue what I should be doing. Everything I thought I stood for had been tossed into the air. I’d floundered. Well, more like come to a complete halt. Scared of doing right for doing wrong.

Then I’d woken up to the realisation that although I might not have had control over him and my love life, I did have control over the rest my life. So, with a few snivels along the way I’d pulled my socks up and prepared to kick ass. Of the work kind.

‘I can’t stop worrying, Jane! I love you, you know that. But this is brill, you’re committing. I’m proud!’

‘Proud? Committing? Stop right there Rachel.’ I hold my hands up in a stop position, even though she can’t see. Committing is not a word I want to hear. Commitment is a pathway that leads to disappointment and humiliation.

The kitten tilts its head on one side then makes a leap for me, misses and drops to the floor. ‘It’s just a kitten, oh, shit, it’s fallen off the table! Hell, hang on, hang on while I …’ I’m down on my hands and knees. ‘Do they break easily? I’m going to be drowning in the brown stuff if I send any back damaged. Lora will kill me.’ A second one follows it, lemming style and just misses my head.

‘Damaged? Send it back? Who is Lora?’

‘The girl up the road, you know at Number 20, the one with bright red hair and a nose ring? She fosters animals for that rescue place. She lent the kittens to me and I need some bloody good pics of them, or Coral will sack me. Christ, I can’t even catch the bloody thing now, it must be okay.’

At this point, I need to establish something, I am not an animal batterer. I love them. I especially love cats with all their haughty indifference, independence, and demands to be fed and petted when they feel like it. On their terms. They are ace. I’d quite like to be reincarnated as one.

You may pet me now, you may feed me tuna (well, not tuna; chocolate brownies, maybe), you may tickle me just here. Here! You may go away and leave me, or I will turn nasty.

See, cats have got life sussed.

Cats are totally within their rights to show their displeasure by yelling or swiping. There are times when swiping would work for me.

I realise I am about to growl, as an unbidden image of Dickhead Andy sneaks into my brain. Maybe I’m not completely fine. Anyway, I definitely haven’t forgiven him. I would so like to swipe him, claws at full stretch until he is shredded into something resembling pulled pork.

I know I need to rise above his fuckwittery and take the moral high ground. Karma will come and bite him on the arse one day, not a cat.

Okay, so you’re wondering what Andy did? Did he take me out for a romantic meal, then break the news that it was over? Did he walk out, and leave a ‘Dear John’ on a sticky note stuck to the fridge? Did he get cold feet when we booked a wedding date, a venue?

Oh, no. Andy did this properly.

I mean, what kind of fiancé tells you IT IS OVER in the middle of your flaming hen party? There I was with my leg wound round a Chippendale look-alike (as in semi-naked man, not item of furniture) when I felt a funny sensation in my lower regions. It wasn’t the over exuberant entertainment, it was my phone buzzing in my new super-tight leopard-skin trousers (yes, it had seemed a good idea at the time, they were on-trend and freebies from a photoshoot I was doing for my fashion-diva boss Coral).

I know I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. I thought he’d be sending me a funny text message. Not the cryptic ‘this isn’t working’.

‘It is for me! Ha-ha.’ texted back jovially, as the Chippendale gyrated, and cast off another layer of clothing.

‘We need to talk.’

This is not something Andy ever said in real life. It’s on the scale of him declaring he’d given up beer or football.

‘What’s up?’ I’d typed with the thumb that was holding my phone, because my other hand was otherwise engaged catching cast off clothing. I was expecting him to tell me his stag night had been cancelled or he was missing me.

I wasn’t expecting a ‘Dear John’.

A very long one. It definitely wouldn’t have fit on a sticky note. Not even a whole pad of them.

That should have set alarm bells off. I mean, who sends a text that is so long it doesn’t fit on the screen? This was saga length in shorthand. But I was on a high, having fun, excited that soon I would be walking down the aisle with my One.

Or not.

Apparently, my darling fiancé had realised we were totally incompatible. That I didn’t need him because I was far too busy with my job. That he knew I was building my career and wouldn’t want to be a stay at home mum, which, according to Andy, was the only way to bring up kids (I didn’t even know kids were on the table, let alone a clause in the mental pre-nup – or had he been planning an actual pre-nup?). That I had to be grown up and realise it wasn’t going to work (that bit made me want to be totally un-grown-up and yell like a toddler). That he also thought I needed to spend more time cooking (like his mum did) and ironing (like his mum did) and entertaining his bloody boss (you got it). I am paraphrasing a bit here, but all this came completely out of the blue. Domestic goddess I am not, but I didn’t think I needed to be. I am the ‘licking fingers and inviting people round’ side of Nigella, not the ‘slaving over a hot stove’ side.

I slithered down my Chippendale onto the floor, all melting and pathetic, and had to be scooped up by Rachel and helped to a chair. My bones had become all bendy and non-supporting, my brain scrambled, and my chest felt like it was fit to burst with pain.

When I got home I tore up all the scraps of paper I’d been practicing my new signature on, in a fury, then collapsed in a soggy mess on my bed and left lots of pleading messages on his voicemail.

Next morning, I was ashamed of my pathetic-ness and sent a few abusive ones.

Then I cut his head off all my photos. And a triangle out of the crotch area. And looked if Amazon Prime supplied Voodoo Dolls. They do, just in case you need to know for future reference.

Two weeks, lots of cancelled wedding arrangements, and a few crates of wine later I’d moved my (very) few odds and ends out of his flat and shoehorned them into my bedroom at Mum’s, rejigged all Andy’s carefully constructed playlists, sent his boss an invite to dinner at his mum’s (FORMAL DRESS! PLEASE BRING CHAMPAGNE! CABS WILL BE ARRANGED FOR MIDNIGHT!) and left iron shaped holes (to match the ones in the photos) in his best shirts. I know, it was childish, but it made me feel better for a short time.

‘Jane, Jane, are you still there? What’s happened?’

I shake my head, and blink, trying to regain my inner haughty cat composure and remember what Rachel was talking about.

‘Sure, sure. Just trying to catch the damned thing.’ I adore cats. I just love them less when I am trying to photograph them. Never work with animals or children? Yeah, yeah, yeah, whoever said that had a point. But some of us like a challenge. Or are slightly deranged.

Or desperate to impress the boss and rescue their job.

I wriggle on my stomach under the chair, my head on one side, cheek plastered to the floor so that I’m all squishy faced, making ‘Here, kitty-kitty’ noises. The wide-eyed kitten backs off in a kind of weird tarantula dance on its tip toes, until it has emerged on the other side. Its little back is arched and its tail all puffed up like a loo brush and it is jigging sideways, which makes me laugh. Mistake. The noise makes it spin round in alarm and it’s off.

‘Are you okay, Jane?’

‘I think,’ my cheek is still squashed so it comes out as ‘sink’, ‘I’m stuck. Not quite sure how I got under here.’ The trouble with this apartment is, it literally isn’t big enough to swing a cat in (not that I’d do such a thing, obviously).

‘How bijou!’ Mum had exclaimed – poking round into every nook and cranny the day I moved it.

‘You mean small. Bijou suggests small but tasteful.’ I’m not kidding myself.

‘Yes, dear. I mean small.’ She’d poked into one corner too many and was pulling her ‘dirty’ face. ‘But you can make it bijou darling.’ Then she’d spotted the gooey shaving foam without a top, and the toothbrush that looked like it had been used to scrub a skirting board, and doubt set in. ‘A small flat and a man doesn’t really work, believe me, darling. I do know. They take up too much space. Just look at your father, if he hadn’t had a shed we’d have been divorced before you’d left primary school.’

I’d bundled her out of the place, muttering the phrases the estate agent had about prices and bargain and aspect and foot on the ladder.

Small it is though. And we’ve crammed it with two people’s furniture. My flatmate and I both arrived with baggage – of the emotional and physical variety. Both can get in the way of life.

At the moment, though, I have more pressing problems that are getting in the way of life. I am currently jammed head first under a chair with my feet under a table and I’m going to have to perform a snake-like manoeuvre to get out.

‘Ouch.’ Snakes don’t have ankles, I do. A sore one. ‘Bugger.’

‘You okay?’

‘Think so, I’m out! It could be worse, I could have still been stuck under there when Freddie got back.’

Rachel giggles. ‘He might have taken advantage!’

‘Ha-ha. Bugger, it’s heading up the blinds now.’ The little ginger ninja is moving like Spider-man on a mission, mewling and rocking from side to side, and two more intrepid explorers have decided to join in. ‘There are three kittens scaling the blinds!’

I snap a quick shot with my mobile phone – I can’t not – and WhatsApp it to Rachel. Kitten number 1 is traversing chimpanzee-style (which is no mean feat when you haven’t got thumbs), while the other two are leaping about intent on grabbing its spiky, Christmas-tree tail.

‘Oh, God, you are so funny.’ She’s laughing, and I think from the sniffles, crying a bit. She also seems to be having difficulty breathing. ‘Oh, this so needs to be on YouTube.’

‘What? Oh, bugger! Don’t you dare!’ I suddenly realise I’ve accidentally gone into vid mode, and this is something I don’t even want to share with my bestest of best friends.

‘Hang on, I’m going to put you down, I need both hands.’ I throw my mobile onto the couch, then spin round suddenly scared I’ve squashed one of the fluffballs as there’s an alarmed squeak. I haven’t. Kitten number two has now made a leap from the blinds and is mid-air and dropping like a stone, with four rigid legs stuck out in all directions flying-squirrel-style. I stick my hands out, and its more luck than judgement that the soft furry lump lands splat in the middle of my palms. ‘Phew.’

‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ Rachel is squawking from the couch.

‘I caught it!’ It stares up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. And those baby-blues catch at something in my throat as I pull it closer to my body and stroke it reassuringly. Though, I suspect the cuddling bit is more for my own benefit than the kitten’s. It doesn’t seem bothered, but it does start up a raspy uneven purr that rumbles straight to the centre of my heart. And finds a squishy bit I’d almost forgotten I have.

I swallow hard to dislodge the lump as it snuggles its way deeper into my hands, then sigh. I can feel the beat of its heart through my T-shirt, feel the warmth of its tiny body. Maybe I do need a cat. Or something. I’ve been acting like I’ve been allergic to bodily contact of any kind since Andy did the dirty. And I have in a way. I’ve been air-hugging as well as air-kissing, and it’s probably not good for my mental health. Humans need contact, warmth, touch … not just wine, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Pringles. Although those do help, don’t diss the simple solutions until you try them.

I glance up, and commando kitten number 1, the ginger ratbag, is slowly sliding down the blinds. It makes a leap onto my leg and clambers up me. I’m a human kitten tower.

I slump onto the couch, suddenly exhausted, scooping up the third kitten which is determinedly clambering up me and settle all three in my lap, then pick Rachel up.

‘You still there, Rach?’

‘I am.’

I take another quick photo and forward it.

‘Aww, aren’t they the cutest! Which one is yours?’

‘None of them!’

‘You’ve got to keep at least one.’

‘No, I have not!’ But I might. ‘They are props. I’m supposed to be taking photos for Queen Coral.’

‘Aren’t you always!’ She laughs, but it’s a little bit strained. My job is definitely a vocation. Nothing nine-to-five about it at all. ‘She never struck me as a kitten type of person, though.’

‘She’s not. She wants me to take a picture of her flaming lipstick and an apple, the kittens were my idea, a kind of peace gesture.’ I shrug. ‘She can take it or leave it.’ I flop back further into the cushions. ‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t started something?’ One of the kittens stretches out in its sleep, tiny toes splayed, and I can’t help it. I stroke its cute pink pads, and its paw curls round my fingertip in a baby hug. I want to kiss those tiny toes, that little nose. I think this is the closest I’ve ever felt to maternal. ‘I think I need to ditch the felines and concentrate on the apple. Still-life is a bloody sight easier.’

‘And since when did you do easy?’ I can hear the smile in Rachel’s voice.

‘True. Look, soz, Rachel, but I suppose I better get on with this and at least take the shot she’s after before I lose the light. I’m expecting her to call soon with a new set of demands.’

‘Yeah, sure! I just wanted to catch you before you jetted off, check you were okay and tell you,’ there’s a slight hesitation in her voice, ‘I’ve got some news. Big news.’

‘Big?’

‘Mega!’

‘Tell!’

‘I can’t! But something exciting has happened, crumbs I hope you’re as excited as me! I think you will be, well, I hope …’

‘Rach! You can’t do this to me! Of course, I’ll be excited. Tell!’ Even if the actual thing doesn’t excite me, the fact that Rachel loves it so much will mean I will, too – for her.

‘I’ve got to. You’ll never guess! But you mustn’t, no, no don’t even try, I’m not telling you! I can’t tell you on the phone, I need to see you in person. Face to face, so I can check what you think.’ I smile to myself. I love it when Rachel is excited, she makes the whole world seem a brighter place. It’s infectious. ‘I just,’ she hesitates, ‘need to know you’re okay with it. You might be …’

The silence lengthens.

‘Be what?’

‘Upset?’

‘Why would I be upset? Rach, you’re worrying me!’

‘Soz. I don’t mean to, I mean it is good, honest, just a bit, well, I need to see you when I tell you. When are you back, Jane?’

‘You’re honestly not going to tell me? You’re going all weird on me, and not telling me?’

‘Nope. I want to tell you in person.’

‘FaceTime?’

‘In real person! How long are you here for when you get back? You’re not going to tell me you’re zooming off straight away again?’ Rachel runs out of steam and sounds breathless. Giddy with excitement, as my mum would say.

‘No, I won’t be zooming anywhere!’ I laugh a bit self-consciously. I might, or might not, have mentioned to my mate (well, all my mates, and most of my family, and everybody I know on Facebook) that I am about to jet off on an important business trip to New York. I couldn’t help myself, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

‘Promise? We can meet up as soon as you’re home?’

‘Promise.’ I won’t be going anywhere, apart from work, for quite some time. My credit card is totally maxed out because I’ve been on a massive spending spree.

For a moment I forget about my lap full of kittens, and I even forget about Andy.

I’ve been buying clothes for the trip. Talk about excited, I’ve never been to New York before, I’ve never set foot in any part of the U. S. of A. This is the trip of a lifetime, well worth a new outfit or six. ‘We can meet up the moment I get back.’

‘So, you’re back on the 25th? Can you make the 26th? Or will you have jet lag?’

‘I’ll be fine, the 26th is great.’

‘Brilliant! I need to see you, Jane! How about we meet me at that new Jax Bar in town at 7 p.m.?’

I’ve known Rachel for years, since we bonded over a stolen ciggie (yes, I packed them in years ago) behind the bike sheds at high school after we’d both found out we hadn’t got tickets to see the Spice Girls.

We were in different school years, but right then it didn’t matter.

I was eleven, coming up twelve, and Rach had already hit that milestone. And back then she seemed way, way older than me. She was an August birthday, just into the second year of big school but one of the youngest, and I was a September birthday, one of the oldest in my year but still trying to find my feet. A newbie to the scary, big world of high school. But that day we gelled.

I had a sneaking suspicion that my Dad hadn’t actually tried very hard at all to get the damned things. It was probably his idea of hell being surrounded by screaming teenyboppers leaping around as bubbly Emma Bunton and Scary Spice strutted their stuff round a Christmas tree (although thinking back, maybe not). But, anyhow, I’d found out over toast and marmalade that I had lost possibly my last ever chance to see some real Girl Power live and I was in a strop.

So was Rachel.

It was a defining moment, our own small act of Girl Power defiance, as we wagged Wednesday afternoon PE and stomped on the weed-ridden tarmac, punching the air and yelling ‘Tell me what you want, what you really, really want’ at the top of our voices. I reckon we got a far better work out than we would have done with Ms Stainton and a wooden horse in the freezing gym.

We were mates after that. In school she had her gang, and I had mine, but we’d walk home together, hang out at weekends and as we got older the fact that we were in different school years mattered less and less. By the time I walked out of those school gates for the last time, we were inseparable. Joined at the hip, as Mum laughingly said.

After school we were closer than ever for a while, but then she started spending more and more time with her boyfriend Michael, and I made the decision to move further south with Andy when he got offered a better job. Then I took on a job that involved loads of travel and unsociable hours, so we saw less and less of each other, even though we’d gas on the phone for hours sometimes. It’s not like we’re miles from each other, but life can kind of get in the way, can’t it? But Rach is always the person I tell first about anything. Well, anything major, my flatmate Freddie often finds out the minor stuff first these days, because he’s there. In situ. As in, on our shared couch.

I told Rach I was engaged before I’d even told my mum. She helped me pick my dress, the flowers, the bridesmaids, even my undies. Then she was the person who put me back together again when it all went wrong.

She took a week off work and camped out in the flat. Then she left strict instructions for Freddie and made sure she rang me every single day when she went back home.

‘Oh, come on Rach! What’s so big you can’t tell me over the phone?’ I shake my head and can’t help but smile.

‘I’ll tell you when I see you, it’s a surprise! I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it now, but I couldn’t help it. Now, are you all ready for the trip?’ This shows how excited she is – Rachel is a very considerate, caring person. Asking about my trip would normally have been her top priority.

‘Nearly! I’ve just got to do this one shot and then I’ve got two days off before we go.’

‘Wow, the mighty Coral has given you time off?’ She giggles, and I join in. The hours I put into this job (and the crap I put up with) are ridiculous, but I see it as an investment. This is my apprenticeship. One day, I won’t be the un-credited photographer for a glossy Instagrammer, I’ll be taking the photos I want, my way. But for now, as my only qualification is a GCSE in Art and I can’t afford to take time out and do a course, this is my way in. Along with my role as unofficial pet photographer for the local animal rescue centre. I’m working on that one though. Pet Portrait-er might not have the same ring to it as Photographer to the Stars, but I reckon it’s a good second string to my bow. There will always be dogs, right? And it has to be easier than taking pics of babies. Or cats.

‘She has, we’ve got a backlog of photos to post over the next few days, then the next ones will be in New York!’

Rachel squeals. ‘Ooh, I’m so excited for you! You’re my jet-setting friend, I tell everybody they’re your photos and not hers.’

‘I was lucky to get this chance.’

‘Bollocks to you being the lucky one!’

I was though. Serendipity don’t they call it? It was one of those one in a thousand things when I’d bumped into Coral on Millennium Bridge. Literally. Well, I was trying to take a photo and she nudged me with her bony elbows so hard I would have toppled in if Health and Safety precautions hadn’t been in place.

We had a bit of a stand-off, mobile phones at the ready. Me wrapping one leg round a rail so she couldn’t dislodge me from the prime spot.

Normally I’m an easy-going kind of person, and if she’d have asked nicely I’d have budged over, but it was her attitude that made me bristle.

She told me who she was, expecting me to recognise her name (I didn’t), then showed me her Instagram feed which was full of pretty boring photos. Then I saw her stats. She had tens of thousands of followers. Tens of thousands. Most of them under age for at least some kind of legal activity. I don’t think I’m her demographic, but I ask you, how had she got so many followers? I had more like ten.

Turns out Coral was a blogger, big time. She had sponsorship, bucket loads of free stuff sent to her every week, and a devoted following.

We compared the shots we’d just taken and before I knew it I had a job taking the pictures for her Instagram feed. Sadly, my role as photographer had also morphed into PA and general dogsbody, as she was a bit of a madam and had nobody else to boss around. And sometimes I find it hard to say no.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. And before I met Coral I’d been on the verge of taking a part-time admin job with the company Andy worked for, just to help boost my income until I started to build a reputation. He’d never been that interested in my career to be honest and saw taking photos as my little hobby and had done his best to persuade me to turn it into just that. And he had the killer reasoning that we did, after all, have to save up for our wedding. So why couldn’t I do a proper job for a bit?

So it felt like fate meeting Coral that day. It had stopped me putting a hold on my dreams and spending my days filing and photocopying. Andy wasn’t keen at all, but, I mean, if I’d taken that role he’d wanted me too, I’d really be in a mess now. No way could I have faced up to him every single day. I’d have been far too tempted to feed him into the shredder or slip something nasty into the water cooler and accidentally kill everybody in the company.

But I need this job more than ever now. I don’t want Andy to be proved right, that it’s just a hobby. Because it isn’t. This is my apprenticeship, and one day the time will be right to strike out on my own. But right now, it’s my security blanket.

Without Coral, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent, and I’d lose my flat, and Freddie, and everything.

I love Freddie my flatmate. Not in a lustful way – the shag-a-thon way would completely wreck everything, and I could never in a million years do that to us. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.

A man who I don’t need to shave my legs or comb my hair for. Though I do of course. I just don’t always have the time or inclination to de-fuzz bits of me that nobody is going to see. And after a burger it is just so hard to hold my stomach in and think sexy. It’s actually a relief to be living with somebody and not have to think about all that.

So that’s me in a nutshell. Wannabe photographer, average weight, slightly above average height, red hair, green eyes, no five-year plan, slightly forgetful, verging on sluttery, one flatmate called Freddie, half of a very small flat.

‘She was lucky to get you!’

‘Oh, I do love you, Rach.’

‘Love you back.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’ll see you on the 26


then?’

‘You will! Can’t wait to hear your news.’

‘Hey, Jane? Keep one of those kittens! That ginger one, it is so you.’

‘I can’t, I’m away too much. I’m off to New York!’

‘Get it when you get back, ask Lora to keep it.’

‘But I’m …’

‘Freddie will feed it when you’re not there! You know he will, he’d do anything for you. See you soon,’ I can hear her blowing kisses. ‘Keep it!’

I put my mobile down, and stare at my lapful of purr-i-ness, they’re rumbling so much my legs are vibrating. How on earth can she say that a kitten is so ‘me’?

It has its tiny pink tongue stuck out between its lips and its toes are twitching.

I know for a fact I don’t do that.




Chapter 3 (#ulink_bac0a620-9f08-5d33-9079-a7ab0a44472a)


‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ A waft of air from the front door, and the clunk of a heavy bag being dropped sends the kittens scattering in all directions.

Freddie is standing in the doorway, his big trademark grin on his face. He even uses it when cold callers and religious types knock on the door. It makes their day.

I’m not his honey, it’s a joke. We’re flatmates, but we’re like an old married couple without the married bit. Or the old.

He’s all lanky and loose-limbed, like a Great Dane puppy. But with the floppy fringe of a cocker spaniel. I don’t normally liken people to dogs, honest, but it works with Freddie.

Kitten number 1 has emerged from under the couch and is staring up at him, with a look of wonder on its little face. It’s cute, okay, I admit it. Very cute. Big eyed, button-nosed cute.

‘Oh my God, cuteness overload.’

See? ‘You sound so soppy.’ I look at all the ginger and white hairs on my black leggings. I so shouldn’t even consider keeping one.

‘I don’t care.’ He’s down on his hands and knees making baby noises, and the kitten is onto him in an instant. Literally. Marching over with a slightly sideways swagger like it thinks it’s a real big cat, with its spiky tail stuck in the air. All mixed up attitude and neediness in one small package.

Freddie scoops it up and rolls over on his back and I swear I see the tiny creature fall in love. The other two kittens emerge from their hiding places wondering what they’re missing out on, then scramble up onto his chest and join in the purr-a-thon. ‘Aren’t you the handsomest guy in the world?’ Ginger purrs louder, then opens its little pink mouth in a soundless miaow. ‘Aww, baby.’ Freddie props himself up on his elbow and looks at me, head tilted slightly on one side. ‘This mean you’re ready for love again?’ He winks.

‘Oh, God, don’t you start! They are kittens, right?’

‘Right on,’ he holds one up in the air, ‘definitely kittens.’

‘I need help, Freddie.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. ‘Though that is the first step to recovery, admitting—’

‘Sod off.’ I can’t help but grin back and nudge him in the ribs with my foot. ‘They’re a photoshoot not a therapy session.’

‘Shush. Don’t call them that.’ He covers the kitten’s ears with his hands. ‘Kitties have feelings too you know.’

I ignore him. ‘And they won’t stay still. Why won’t kittens just sit?’

‘You’re confusing them with dogs, and men.’

‘I need to get a decent shot, and I need to get a photo of that flaming apple on a white plate with lipstick before Coral rings.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘Well, how about,’ he pulls himself up, so he’s got his back resting against the couch, ‘it just sits on my knee? I could hold it sneakily to make sure it doesn’t move. You know put a finger on its tail, out of sight? Like this?’ He demonstrates, and the kitten rolls over in indignation, wraps its whole body round his finger, kicks like crazy and bites him. I hope that this isn’t what Rachel means by the ‘so you’ bit.

‘Ooh, you’re a little tough nut, aren’t you?’ He tickles its tummy and it flops back, all languid and blissful. Feet in the air, and I’m a tiny bit jealous. ‘Aww, so gorgeous, are we keeping them?’

‘No, we’re not! I’m taking photo’s for Coral’s Instagram page, and said I’d do a few for promo for the rescue centre.’

‘We should rescue one! A house is not a home …’

‘Well, you can clean the litter tray!’

‘Really?’

I groan. ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you? You want a kitten! Gawd, you’re as bad as Rach.’

‘Maybe.’ He tickles the kitten under its chin, and the purring starts up again. ‘Look, the perfect picture.’

‘Cute, but your finger is in the way, and I’m not sure the ripped jeans make the perfect backdrop.’

Freddie’s jeans are not ripped in a designer way, they’re ripped in a ‘we’ve been through a lot together and I can’t bear to part with them and they’re very comfy’ way.

It’s not Coral’s way. Coral doesn’t do comfy. Coral would sue me if I posted anything resembling un-touched-up reality on her Insta feed.

And I’m not convinced it will help with re-homing the kittens.

‘I could put a blanket on my knee?’ He pulls the throw off the sofa.

‘It’s a bit up and down, they’re only tiny. You can’t see its legs now.’

‘We could put a board underneath?’ He improvises with a magazine. ‘Mag, blanket, kitten. Ta-dah!’ He throws his hands out and the kitten slides off his knee, faceplants between his ankles then rolls over and attacks his leg. ‘Maybe not.’

I have to laugh. See what I mean about him being the best thing? What boyfriend would go to that kind of trouble? I’d be a total fool to ever think about him in any way other than just a mate, despite him being ever so slightly sexy when he pads through the place in the morning; bare-chested, with bare feet and his hair all tousled.

And makes me coffee.

Then goes away without a word.

No conversation required.

He is priceless.

I bumped into Freddie a few days after my world imploded, and he more or less saved my life.

There I was, at an all time low, my life all but over (I’d got a bit melodramatic, which I think I was entitled to). I’d been dumped mid hen-party, had a horribly demanding boss who just then was doing my head in, and had nowhere to live. Even though I love my mum, living with your happily married parents when you’ve just hit thirty, and it looks like you’re going to be a spinster for ever, and you’ve just woken up to the fact that there’s more chance of your eggs getting hard-boiled then producing babies, is not a recipe for happiness. One more day and one of us would have cracked. Nastily.

So, I’d strolled confidently into an estate agents’ office. All naïve and excited about my new life as a single independent woman earning a wage.

Okay, I wasn’t excited, I was exhausted from crying, full of self-doubt and needing to find a cave to hole up in. But I was naïve. That bit is true.

‘I’m looking for a flat to rent. Something like that.’ I’d said to the guy by the desk, pointing at what I thought was an unassuming but nice apartment.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ He wasn’t being very helpful. ‘Very. How, er, much are they charging?’

‘Haven’t got a clue.’ He grinned. Quite a nice grin. ‘A lot I’d imagine.’

I smiled back, feeling slightly awkward, not quite sure what to say next.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t find much in your price range.’ A tall, slim, blonde, immaculate vision in killer heels and a tight skirt rudely interrupted our smile-a-thon. ‘Apart from this.’ She passed him the details with a dismissive sniff.

Ahh, so that figured, he didn’t actually work here. I felt myself colour up but couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder.

It was the smallest hovel, next to a railway line, overlooking bin-alley and on the drug dealing route. Okay, I might be exaggerating the very tiniest bit. About the drug-dealing. But it was daylight hours, so who knows? The really terrifying part of it all though, was that the monthly rent was roughly the amount I’d had in mind as affordable.

Turned out my type of salary didn’t stretch to a roof over my head and food. The two would appear to be mutually exclusive.

Bummer.

Anyhow, gloomy was not the word. I mean I’d thought I’d be able to at least afford something that was halfway decent. And I really, as in really, liked the flat that I’d spotted when I walked in. It said ‘home’ to me.

Turns out I was delusional.

‘Were you interested in that one?’ She’d dismissed him and moved on to me. ‘It’s in an up-and-coming area. Very on-trend.’ She’d looked me up and down and made me not feel on-trend. ‘Well-maintained.’ She was doing it again. Cow. Bits of me might not be particularly well-maintained, but other bits are fine. I nodded mutely. ‘Very reasonable.’ She named a figure and I reckon I blanched. Reasonable it was not. Well, not for a normal person.

I think I may have squeaked.

Anyway, the smiley guy realised I’d been stuck dumbstruck. ‘I think she needs to think about it, we’ll come back later?’ His hands were on my shoulders and he’d spun me round and whisked me out of the office and before I knew it we were walking down the street together.

‘That’s shocking.’ I’d finally found my voice again.

‘Totally. Shit isn’t it trying to find a place round here?’

‘It is indeed shit.’

‘You don’t fancy a restorative coffee, do you? Just to get over the shock of that place?’ He pointed up, and I realised we’d slowed to a halt outside a café.

‘Yes, er, well, I don’t normally have coffee with strange men, I don’t want you to think …’

‘I’m not strange. Trust me!’ He winked, and I wanted to. Trust him. I felt a kind of glimmer of recognition, like I’d known him for years. Comfortable is the word I suppose. Safe.

‘Well, I suppose you do look harmless.’

‘Now,’ he held a finger up, ‘I didn’t say that!’

Anyway, just as I was wondering whether this was how you met ‘the One’, and if this was the moment to state clearly that I was never, ever going to get my knickers off for a man again in my whole life. That I was all about getting my career established and some money saved up for a house deposit. Though, ha, fat chance of me being able to ever do that solo. Unless I slept in a bin. Or trawled the streets for somebody who wanted to share a flat with me. Just as all that was whizzing through my brain, he interrupted me.

‘You don’t recognise me, do you Janey?’

Turns out I was right. He was familiar.

He wasn’t a random stranger, and my feelings weren’t those of kindred spirits destined to be together, but meeting at the wrong moment in their lives. It was much more down to earth than that.

‘It’s me, Freddie! I hung around with Matt at school?’

‘Oh, shit, you’re kidding? Freddie! Wow, sorry, I just didn’t recognise you, it’s the hair, the top, the …’ Body, I wanted to say, but stopped myself.

Now he’d told me, I definitely did remember him. But he’d changed. Back then he’d been a bit of a geek; lanky, quiet. Sweet. Whereas his mate Matt was all front. A cocky bugger who was a bit of a dish and knew it.

Freddie was the cheeky one, who played the fool some of the time (like when he nicked my yoghurt) but most of the time blended into the background. Into Matt’s shadow.

I grin. ‘You said you weren’t strange!’

‘I’m not. Now.’ He grins back. ‘I was a teenager back then, we’re all strange.’

‘You can say that again!’

‘All we think about is getting off, footie, having it off, computer games, what a normal sex drive is, food and, well, sex.’

‘Most of those seem to be the same thing.’ I arch an eyebrow in what I hope is a sophisticated not a pervy way.

‘Exactly, being a ‘yoof’ is bloody hard work.’

I laugh at the way he says yoof, it’s so completely not-Freddie.

So, anyway, I did know him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did.

Well, who knows, I might have done. I was bloody desperate. And he was laid back and friendly, not pervy at all.

We got chatting over coffee, then ended up being practically swept out at closing time, and we moved onto the pub on the corner and realised we were in the same boat. Roughly.

Well, he hadn’t been dumped, and he wasn’t currently living with his mum. But he was being chucked out of the flat he was currently sharing, because the other two flatmates had become a far too cosy couple. And he wasn’t really ready to settle for living in a dump but couldn’t afford somewhere up-and-coming on his own.

After two drinks, Freddie waggled the card that the estate agent had given him. ‘Shall we call her? We could just about afford that flat you’d fancied, between us. Or is that a bit weird? You can ignore me if it’s too weird. I’m not usually this forward but it’s just I’m solvent, got an okay job, pretty well house-trained, you’re, er,’ I wait for him to say desperate, but he doesn’t, ‘keen on the same place as me, and we do kind of know each other, and, er, I think it could work.’

When I’d spotted that flat I’d just felt deep down it was the One. Even though the rent had made me feel queasy, I’d been tempted with youthful optimism, to arrange a viewing anyway. Even if it was far, far more expensive than I could afford.

I’m not quite sure what I thought would happen, even I knew that estate agents didn’t tend to come with soft hearts and big discounts.

In my head while the agent had been talking to Freddie, I’d been fantasising, but all the while knowing that I couldn’t really afford to take it on, on my own.

Freddie was peering over his pint at me. ‘You really liked it, didn’t you?’

And with those few words there was some kind of unspoken agreement between us. We’d hit on the idea. We could take the place on together. So, we did.

Without knowing it Freddie had turned into my knight in shining armour.

That was well over a year ago, so we’ve been together longer than a lot of couples I know.

We also bicker a lot less. Though he does take the mickey a bit sometimes. But he has supported me through the Andy years, and I’ve supported him through the revolving doors years. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he shags round, he just seems to pick the wrong girls. Which I am beginning to suspect he does on purpose.

‘Oh, sugar.’ My phone beeps with the alarm I set earlier and stops my musings about Freddie. ‘I’m going to have to ditch the kittens for now and do the apple. You couldn’t look after them for a bit could you?’ I give him a slightly beseeching look. ‘Please, I’m begging?’ I indicate the kittens, then do a go away flap with my hands, and try to do my own imitation of cute, which I’m not sure I pull off.

‘Boy, you’re demanding, if only I’d known what I was letting myself in for when I signed that flat share contract!’

But I know he’s kidding.

He gets to his feet and expertly scoops up all three little felines in his big capable hands. ‘Come on fellas.’

‘I think one of them might be a fellee.’

‘We’ll be in my room if you need us.’

‘You’re a star, I owe you one!’

‘Several I’d say.’ He winks and kicks open the lounge door. ‘I can take them back to Lora’s if you like, on my way to the pub?’

I feel a totally irrational twinge in my stomach. Freddie likes Lora. He keeps saying he doesn’t, that they’re mates like we are, but he’s round there in an instant if he has an excuse. And I’ve seen the look in his eye.

I want Freddie to be happy, but I’m ashamed to say I’m selfish enough to not want to lose him. Not yet. And anyway, Lora would be a disaster. She’s far too calculating for Freddie, and she’s had more men than hot dinners this year.

Okay, I’m being bitchy. I confess. I don’t want to lose my best – well, only – male friend. Though Lora is a bit of a ‘rum ’un’ as my uncle used to say. Freddie deserves better.

I’m also being daft. He’s offering to help me out, and I’m not so silly that I don’t realise what a good move it would be to say, yes.

‘Wow, would you? That would be so helpful. There’s a basket thing in the kitchen. I’ll pop in and see her later, tell her I’ll try again tomorrow if she likes. I’d do it myself, but Coral will be calling any sec to discuss last minute plans.’

Freddie rolls his eyes. ‘We’re definitely out of here if Queen C is calling. See you later, and don’t take any shit from her ladyship.’ He blows me a kiss, then holds up a kitten and waves its little paw in the air. ‘Bye-bye Mummy! Love you! Don’t send me away, purry pleeeease!’

I shake my head at him. ‘Shoo!’





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