Bad Mother's Diary: a feel good romantic comedy with a heart-warming happily ever after

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘I’ll leave you two to talk,’ said Helen, looking all smug and pleased with herself, and disappearing into the crowd.

  I told Nick I had nothing to say to him.

  ‘But I miss you.’ He put a heavy, drunk hand on my arm. ‘Please Julesy. Just tell me what to do. How can I win you back?’

  I shouted at him to get off me.

  Then Alex came striding over. ‘Everything okay, Juliette?’

  I told Alex, yes. I had everything under control.

  But Nick shouted, ‘Fuck off, Dalton. I’m talking to my fiancée.’

  The nerve of it! His fiancée!

  I screamed at him that I was no more his fiancée than he was a successful actor. And that he needed to take his hand off me or I would break his nose.

  ‘But Jules, I love you,’ Nick implored.

  ‘Well I don’t love you,’ I shouted.

  ‘You do,’ he insisted.

  ‘No I don’t,’ I yelled, trying to pull my arm free. ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Take your hand off her,’ said Alex, his voice very low.

  Nick noticed the look in Alex’s eyes and dropped his hand.

  ‘Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘Can I talk to you?’

  Alex led me out of the ballroom, into an empty conference suite.

  He took a jug of iced water, dipped a napkin in it and sponged my arm, which was the tiniest bit red. I mean absolutely nothing to make a fuss about.

  I told him I was fine.

  ‘So you don’t love Nick Spencer,’ said Alex.

  ‘I told you I didn’t.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You never said you didn’t love him.’

  ‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ I shouted. ‘I tried to explain. You wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I’m listening now.’ Alex pulled two chairs from the long conference table and offered one to me.

  We sat opposite each other.

  ‘I’ve had enough of being messed around,’ I told him. ‘I tried to tell you before. You didn’t want to know. What’s so different now? You’ve had months to talk to me. If you really cared, you would have listened ages ago.’

  ‘The last thing I want to do is mess you around,’ said Alex. ‘I care about you. Isn’t that obvious?’

  ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ I snapped. ‘What’s obvious is you didn’t call.’

  Alex rolled up his sleeve, held out his scarred forearm and said, ‘Do you know how I got this burn?’

  I looked at the twisted skin, and said, ‘When your house burned down. When we were teenagers.’

  Alex said, ‘I went back into the fire. After my father dragged me out.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d left something in my bedside drawer.’ Alex took a silver coin box from inside his suit jacket and flicked the lid open.

  Inside the box was a four-leafed clover frozen in see-through plastic.

  I felt too stupid to ask the question. But Alex answered for me:

  ‘The one you gave me. My lucky mascot. I went back into the house for it. That’s how much it meant to me. And then a burning door fell on my arm. After that, firemen pulled me free. So you’re right. Actions do speak louder than words.’

  I felt a lump in my throat. But I quickly swallowed it down.

  ‘You’ve left me hanging for months. If you really cared, you wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I was protecting myself,’ said Alex. ‘A survival mechanism. Selfish, I know. It comes from my father.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’ I asked.

  ‘I saw how you looked at Nick Spencer tonight. It … changed things.’

  ‘I don’t know Alex.’ I shook my head. ‘This is still all just talk.’

  Then the conference-suite door banged open, and Brandi stumbled in.

  ‘Jules!’ she yelled. ‘Auction time! You promised you’d go up with me.’ She winked at Alex. ‘You can bid on her you know. It’s allowed.’

  Alex rested his elbows on his knees and said, ‘Bartering for women isn’t really my thing. But Juliette – you go and make my mother some money.’

  I touched Alex’s scarred arm and said, ‘I care about you too, Alex. I always want to be your friend. But words aren’t enough.’

  He took my hand and held it. Then he nodded and let go.

  In the ballroom, Brandi and I climbed on stage with the other girls.

  Fat Doug Cockett was striding back and forth, trying to get more ‘ladies’ to join us.

  He asked Althea to come up, but she refused. She barked that it was all ‘fucking sexist bullshit’ and she’d never be part of ‘some capitalist cattle market’ unless the men got bid on too. Then she said she’d like to see Doug get bid on.

  Doug looked a bit frightened and started the auction pretty quickly. He did his usual boring speech about ‘lovely girls’, and then reminded everyone it was a cash-only auction. ‘So no loot, no lady!’

  Ugh.

  Then the bids started.

  I was lot number five.

  When it was my turn, Doug put his arm around me.

  ‘JULIETTE! Juliette Duffy – let’s see if we can do any better for you this time, love.’

  He did this big, embarrassing speech about me having a hard year, but looking ‘pretty damn fine tonight’ and ‘scrubbing up well’.

  ‘Let’s begin at a fifty pounds, shall we chaps?’ he said. ‘Unless anyone wants to go higher?’

  To my horror, Nick stuck his hand up.

  ‘One hundred pounds.’

  Nick gave me this hopeful smile.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be saving your money for when Sadie gives birth?’ I shouted, but my voice was lost on the noisy, echoey stage.

  Doug boomed into his microphone, ‘Well, there’s a turnaround! Juliette and Nick making a go of it for the New Year. Here, here!’

  For one horrible moment, I thought Nick would be the winning bidder. But then Althea’s hand shot up.

  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds!’

  Good old Althea.

  Doug chuckled, ‘A lady bidding. Well, all in a good cause I suppose. Nick? Care to raise your bid?’

  I was shaking my head at Doug, hoping he’d get the hint. But his drunk eyes were glazed and unseeing.

  On stage, Brandi grabbed the microphone from Doug and shouted, ‘Two hundred pounds!’

  Doug looked a bit confused. He said, ‘I’m not sure the auction girls should …’ But then he took one look at Brandi’s face and said, ‘Um … yes, well I suppose. Ah … all in a good cause. Any other bidders?’

  On Doug’s other side, Laura leaned towards the microphone and said, in her lovely polite voice, ‘Two hundred and twenty pounds and fifty pence.’

  Everyone laughed.

  Nick pulled a wad of notes from his wallet and waved it in the air. ‘Five hundred pounds. Cash.’

  ‘FIVE hundred pounds!’ boomed Doug. ‘Quite right, sir. Well met.’

  There was silence.

  No one else carries big wads of cash like Nick does. He’s such a flash idiot.

  ‘Well ladies and gentlemen,’ Doug shouted. ‘I have FIVE HUNDRED pounds for Juliette Duffy. Going once. Going twice.’

  Then Alex’s voice boomed out, ‘I bid my Rolls Royce.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  Everyone turned to the doorway.

  ‘Mr Dalton?’ said Doug. ‘Are you making a bid?’

  ‘My car,’ said Alex. ‘My Rolls Royce. I bid my Rolls Royce for Juliette.’

  The room was totally still.

  Doug chuckled and said, ‘You’re not making a joke, are you?’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ said Alex.

  Doug blinked at him for a moment, then said, ‘Uh … Nick? Care to match that bid? If you can?’

  ‘He can’t,’ said Alex.

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  I stared at Alex, not quite believing what was happening.

  ‘Well then,’ said Doug. �
�I suppose … Juliette Duffy. Sold to Alex Dalton. For one Rolls Royce.’

  He banged his hammer.

  I was frozen to the spot.

  Alex strode up on stage. He threw his car keys at Doug, took my hand and said, ‘Is that a big enough action for you?’

  I felt a big silly grin spread across my face and nodded.

  ‘You know I hate these auctions, don’t you?’ said Alex. ‘Only for you would I do this.’

  He led me down the stage and through the crowd.

  Everyone was clapping and cheering.

  Nick was swaying and blinking with bewilderment.

  When I passed him, he said, ‘Julesy. Babe. Please. You can’t leave with him. Come on. We have a baby together.’

  I stopped.

  ‘Sorry about all this, Nick,’ I said. ‘I just go with my heart.’

  Alex and I ended up on the top floor of the Bond Street Dalton, in the Empire Suite.

  Below us, London sparkled and twinkled through panoramic glass.

  I said, ‘Am I dreaming?’ or something tacky like that.

  ‘You’re not,’ said Alex. ‘I might be.’

  We lay on the bed and talked and talked.

  About growing up in Great Oakley. About stuff we remembered. The woods. The rope swing.

  Alex wanted to know everything. What my perfect day would be, my favourite superhero, my favourite food … everything.

  It was five in the morning before we fell asleep. And then Alex woke me at six.

  ‘I’m taking you home to see Daisy,’ he told me, propped up on his elbow, looking all first-thing-in-the-morning ruggedly handsome. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. It’s surreal.’

  I told him it was surreal for me too. But good surreal.

  I wanted to enjoy the moment. But I found myself asking, ‘Can you really see us being together, Alex?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Can’t you?’

  I asked what his family would think. His mum in particular.

  He laughed. ‘My mother hates any woman under forty. I doubt you’ll be the exception. If I cared about my mother’s opinion, I’d never do anything. Anyway. Listen –someone once told me that life isn’t about avoiding the storms. It’s about dancing in the rain.’

  Thank you for finishing my book

  If you have a minute, please review.

  I read all my Amazon and Goodreads reviews (yes, the bad ones do make me cry) and good reviews mean everything.

  Reviews don’t have to be fancy. In fact, just one word is great (as long as it isn’t ‘shit’ …). And they do more good than you could ever imagine.

  Click to write your review on:

  Amazon.com

  Amazon.co.uk

  On the next page, you’ll be asked to rate this book.

  Please let Amazon know if you loved it.

  Suzy K Quinn xx

  What to read next?

  The next in the series, of course!

  BOOK 2: The Bad Mother’s Detox

  Search your Amazon store for:

  Bad Mothers Detox Suzy

  Turn the page for your seven-minute sample of

  the Bad Mother’s Detox:

  The Bad Mother’s Detox

  Sunday, 1st January

  New Year.

  A time to take stock.

  Last January, I was living with Nick in London.

  We were engaged.

  Things weren’t perfect.

  Nick’s mum was always letting herself into the apartment, criticising my parenting and eating fishy salads at the breakfast bar. Nick was drunk half the time, and panicky when left alone with Daisy.

  Also, getting Daisy’s pram into the tiny executive lift was a nightmare.

  But I honestly thought Daisy would grow up with two parents living together.

  I was wrong.

  Now I’m staying at my parent’s pub in Great Oakley, with Daisy in a travel cot, while Nick plays happy families with my former best friend, who will give birth to their child any day now.

  Last year, Nick and Sadie’s affair felt awful. I wallowed. But then I got on with it. I even ran a marathon. Now I’m stronger. I’ve learned that life doesn’t end because your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend are shitheads.

  And now Alex and I … well things are looking up.

  Can’t stop thinking about the Dalton Ball.

  What a night.

  Nick was SO shocked when Alex and I headed upstairs together.

  ‘Julesy. Babe. Please. You can’t leave with him. Come on. We have a baby together.’

  Hilarious that after getting my best friend pregnant, Nick thinks he can have a say in my love life.

  Nick STILL hasn’t paid any maintenance for Daisy.

  And it’s been six months since we split up.

  BLOODY Nick.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

  Everyone warned me not to settle down with a charming, bit-part actor. But pre-Daisy I was young and stupid.

  In my early twenties, Nick’s puppy-dog eyes and charismatic personality felt romantic. Then Daisy came along, and I realised charm means nothing. Responsibility is everything.

  Nick’s new baby is due any day, so it’s not a great time to talk finances. But that’s not Daisy’s fault.

  Sent Nick a text message:

  Hope you are well. We need to sort out maintenance.

  If you keep sidestepping this, I’ll have to take you to court.

  Sorry.

  The text message wasn’t strictly true. I don’t hope he’s well, and I won’t be sorry to take him to court. But social nicety is hard-wired into me.

  Nick hasn’t replied yet.

  Knowing him, he probably won’t answer.

  Denial is his favourite way of dealing with problems.

  Monday, 2nd January

  Alex Dalton called late last night.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Did you catch up on sleep after New Year’s Eve?’

  I pictured Alex in one of his marble-floored hotel lobbies, black suit and white shirt, jet-black hair, gleaming jawline. Like an aftershave model, but a heterosexual one.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘Just a bit of family drama.’

  ‘Is Daisy all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Silence.

  Then Alex said, ‘I want to see you. But I’m flying out to Tokyo for work. I’ll keep the trip as short as possible. I hate leaving, but a lot of people are relying on me.’

  ‘How can you be working already?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a holiday in the hotel trade,’ said Alex. ‘We have big plans for the Dalton Group this year. Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?’

  ‘Just one,’ I said. ‘I want to stop Daisy eating biros.’

  ‘Come on now, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘There must be something you want.’

  Yes – many things.

  Unstained clothing.

  Leaving the house before 9 am.

  Eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

  Financial support from Daisy’s father.

  And a lovely cottage with roses around the door.

  But I’d count myself very lucky just to have unstained clothing.

  Tuesday, 3rd January

  Mum’s been arrested again.

  It was the usual charge – disrupting the peace.

  She was drinking tea with the policemen, playing cards and sharing out her sausage rolls when I picked her up.

  The police were cheerful too, letting Daisy crawl into the empty cells and jangle their handcuffs.

  Mum asked me about the Dalton Ball on New Year’s Eve.

  Under different circumstances, I would have shared my evening of drama. However, the police station wasn’t the place to relive a romantic encounter, so instead I lectured Mum about proper grandmother behaviour while she signed her release papers.

  I could tell she wasn’t really listening, because when I’d finished the lecture, Mum said, ‘Can we stop at the C
o-op on the way home? I fancy some Findus Crispy Pancakes.’

  Wednesday, 4th January

  Visited Nana Joan this afternoon with the shopping she wanted – bacon, pork chops, frying steak and beef kidneys.

  Her care home has a strict vegetarian policy these days, so Nana makes a little on the side selling contraband meat.

  Nana took one look at my tired face and fired up her portable grill to make bacon sandwiches.

  She’s not supposed to have Calor gas in her room, but the staff let her get away with it because it saves arguments at meal times.

  Daisy got really excited about my bacon sandwich and kept making grabs for it. Foolishly, I let her have a bite, and she crammed half the sandwich in her mouth before I could stop her, then clamped her little lips closed and stubbornly refused to let me pry them open.

  Was concerned about salt content, choking, etc., but Nana told me not to worry.

  ‘Our family are born with unusually large gullets,’ she said. ‘Your mother used to scoff whole Eccles cakes, and no harm ever came to her.’

  Cleaned Nana’s portable grill in the en-suite shower room, using fairy liquid from the shower rack.

  Then I helped Nana with her mobile phone. ‘It doesn’t ring anymore,’ she complained. ‘There’s something squiffy with it.’

  It turned out to be an easy problem to solve.

  Nana had confused her phone with the temperature controller. The diagnosis was a relief for Nana because she’d been sweating at night for months.

  Told Nana I’m a bit worried about Daisy, re: walking.

  The NHS website says babies start walking around the age of one, but Daisy hasn’t even taken her first step yet.

  ‘Daisy is fifteen months old,’ I said. ‘Surely she should be able to walk by now.’

  Althea’s little boy, Wolfgang, walked at eight months – although it proved to be a nuisance. Althea was forever arguing about the price at soft play and eventually resorted to bringing Wolfgang’s passport everywhere.

  ‘But Daisy is walking right now,’ Nana insisted. ‘Look at her go.’

  ‘She’s not walking,’ I said, as we watched Daisy pull herself up on the rise and recline chair. ‘She’s cruising.’