Up All Night

by Carmen Reid

  Carmen Reid is the author of the bestselling novels Three In A Bed, Did The Earth Move?, How Was It For You? and Up All Night. Her new novel is The Personal Shopper. After working as a journalist in London she moved to Glasgow, Scotland where she looks after one husband, two children, a puppy, three goldfish and writes almost all the rest of the time.

  You can drop her a line at www.carmenreid.com

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Also by Carmen Reid

  THREE IN A BED

  DID THE EARTH MOVE?

  HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?

  THE PERSONAL SHOPPER

  and published by Corgi Books

  UP ALL NIGHT

  Carmen Reid

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409085348

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  There are only two bits of advice I’d give any aspiring author: make sure you have Darley Anderson as your agent and Transworld as your publisher.

  Thank you once again to Darley and his wonderful staff, and to the brilliant Transworld team, most especially my editor, Diana Beaumont, who cares about every little detail just as much as I do!

  A very big thank-you to my home support system because they have to put up with me every day:

  Debbie Treanor who has tried to keep us in milk, bread, toilet paper and happy children.

  My parents, for chocolate cake and weekend breaks.

  My sisters and friends: I know I owe everyone a phone call and a cocktail.

  And husband, Thomas Quinn, who really does deserve a paragraph to himself, even though it’s totally revolting and gushy, for tea making, tantrum quelling and constructively criticizing. I do like the beard, honestly. I have no idea why I can’t stop making jokes about the beard. Maybe I have beard Tourette’s.

  Chapter One

  The immune systems of women who lead highly stressful lives are ten years older than they should be, scientists warned yesterday.

  Daily Mail

  Monday: 10.35 a.m.

  The massage had not begun well. The towel had fallen off, leaving Jo stark naked on the bed for several painfully long seconds. Oil had run into her freshly washed hair and her masseur seemed to have some sort of indigestion situation going on which involved small, almost inaudible, but faintly smelly garlic burps.

  The mobile in her bag had rung twice, which she’d tried to ignore, shrugging off images of babysitter du jour – her mother – desperately trying to contact her because the girls had choked/drowned/been abducted.

  But now, apart from the incredibly annoying tinkly music in the background, she was finally settling down into this and relaxing. The masseur was circling his thumbs firmly down the sides of her spine, gradually unwinding the tension that had built up in the brief time since she’d returned from the half-term holiday week.

  For six lovely days she’d managed to avoid all newspapers, most news bulletins and any phone conversations with her divorce lawyer, Hugo.

  However, she was now back in London, back in contact, and already she felt bombarded, although technically she had one last day of holiday left.

  The massage was fanning out over her neck and shoulders and she sank gratefully into the foam mattress trying not to think about the list of things she had to do today: more presents were needed for her older daughter, Mel’s birthday and she had run out of ideas; Hugo would have to be called; her mother ‘wanted to talk’; a mountain range, no, make that, the Himalayas of laundry was waiting for her back at home, not to mention last week’s entire set of newspapers which she would have to plough through so that when she walked into the newsroom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning she would have some inkling of what to write about this week.

  Oh, that was so good.

  The masseur had leaned right over her so that he could elbow his way into the mass of tension knots at the base of her neck. He was pressing down and it was painfully blissful.

  But. . .

  What was that?

  What?!

  Why was there a sensation of clothed, but nonetheless soft, warm flesh in her open hand?

  No.

  But what other explanation could there possibly be?

  No!

  Her masseur, he of the big biceps and digestive disorder, had somehow managed to lean over far enough to land his balls into her outstretched hand.

  This was not happening.

  But yes.

  As he elbowed away at her shoulders, his legs were at the edge of the bed beside her hand . . . and her cupped palm was weighed down with something soft but heavy enough.

  Oh God.

  What the hell was the etiquette here? He must know. Was he doing this on purpose? Was he doing it for a bet? Had he moved in there by mistake and wasn’t quite sure how to move out again without drawing attention to the situation?

  If she moved now, couldn’t she be accused of touching him inappropriately?

  Oh my God. The headline flashed before her eyes.

  Randy reporter in hunky masseur grope shock.

  ‘But, Your Honour, he put his testicles into my hand. . .’

  Jo Randall, 35, single mother-of-two told the court.

  The balls were still there, pressing down on her hand. She could feel her palm start to sweat. He was pummelling at her neck, but how the hell was she supposed to relax when she was freaking out about this entirely unexpected hot handful?

  This was now, officially, the worst massage she’d ever had in her life.

  As she tried to work out what to do next, her brain finally put a name to the tinkly background music, it was a New Age pan pipes and bells rendition of the hymn ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ stuck on permanent repeat.

  Hard to believe she was actually paying for this torture, shelling out precious, hard-earned cash and even more precious, hard-earned time for this horrible, extremely stressful, stress-relieving treatment.

  Jo decided she would have to flatten her hand, press it into the foam-backed massage bed, then edge it out from underneath the balls. No, maybe she should whisk it out. Edge or whisk? What was going to be less obvious here? She had just begun edging when there was a tap on the door.

  The masseur straightened up, went to answer it, and at last her hand was empty.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but is there a Jo Randall in here?’ the woman at the door asked. ‘There’s someone on the phone, says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Clutching her towel, Jo sprang from the table and made for the shop’s front desk. See?! She should never have ignored those mobile calls, it had obviously been her mother . . . the girls had choked/ drowned/been abducted and it was all her f
ault. She should be at home on the last day of her holiday, not here, listening to Muzak hymns, enduring the world’s worst massage.

  Hair sticking up in a towelling band, ignoring stares from the other customers, she jogged to the salon’s front desk and took the call.

  ‘Hello, Jo here,’ she blurted into the phone.

  To the strained interest of the few people milling about the reception, whoever the somewhat crazed but energetic-looking woman (slim but with bum, broad shoulders and chunky calves – surely once the girl who always got picked for the team first) was talking to, didn’t seem to be making her very happy.

  ‘Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Rod,’ she snapped into the receiver, with a softened Northern accent: ‘But will you kindly piss off? I’m trying to have a frigging day off here.’ She paused to listen to the response, then went on: ‘What? WHAT?! Well, you’re right, that is bad. But there’s nothing I can do about it on a Monday morning, is there?’

  She answered her question herself: ‘No!’ and once again for emphasis, ‘NO! I’m not going up there. The daily papers will be all over it and by the time we come out on Sunday it will be dead as a doornail. Look, here’s an idea: why don’t you phone Aidan or Dominique? They’re supposed to be keen enough to go on crap errands like this.’

  ‘Oh really. I see,’ her tirade continued. ‘They’ve only been in the job for five minutes and they already know to switch their mobiles off when you call them from the newsdesk on a Monday morning. Look, don’t cry—’ This caused heads to swivel in her direction. For goodness’ sake, she was only joking, you didn’t get to be one of the top Sunday newspaper reporters in the country unless you gave as good as you got at all times.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’ she added, almost quite nicely, but then with another blast of annoyance, she remembered to ask: ‘And by the way, how did you know I was here?

  ‘I see. Well I’ll frigging kill him. Until tomorrow bloody morning I am still officially on holiday. So goodbye.’

  She slammed the phone down and stomp, stomp, stomped back to the treatment room where she managed a really quite winning smile for the masseur, considering.

  ‘I realize I’m presenting you with a bit of a challenge here, but I need to relax,’ she told him. ‘I have to calm down. I’d also quite like to get my shoulders down from my ears before I start work again tomorrow. Now one other thing . . .’ Jo leaned over to peer at his name badge, ‘Jamie. I’ve got some mints in my handbag, I think you’ll find they’re a help with the garlic indigestion thing you’ve got going on there. And, if you don’t mind, could you try and keep your meat and two veg to yourself?’

  Chapter Two

  Drinking red wine isn’t just good for the heart, it may also ward off lung cancer, according to Spanish researchers. Each glass drunk per day appeared to reduce the risk of lung cancer by 13% compared to non-drinkers.

  The Independent

  Monday: 8.30 p.m.

  Bella had been watching Jo carefully for the past hour, scanning for signs that her friend really was as OK as she kept insisting.

  Five months after the separation is a dangerous time, as Bella knew from supporting other women through similar marriage meltdowns, which is why she’d had to respond to the text from Jo earlier in the day that had announced:

  Feeling flat as a fart please come round later.

  After all, it was only four weeks or so since the night Bella had driven over to Jo’s new home unannounced one evening because she hadn’t liked the way Jo wasn’t answering her mobile or her landline. This never happened, it was an accepted part of Jo’s job always to be contactable: she even had a bleeper to clip on if she found herself in an area with a bad phone signal.

  So Bella had gone to investigate and pulling up at the newly bought ‘railwayman’s cottage’ – i.e. tiny terraced red-brick house – she’d found all the curtains drawn but chinks of light coming from the front room. She’d rapped on the door, rung the bell and after a few minutes with no reply, she’d shouted into the letterbox: ‘It’s me, so you can stop hiding and let me in. I’m not going away. I’ll annoy you all night if I have to.’ And finally Jo had come to the door swathed in a grubby white dressing gown with swollen eyes and a streaming nose.

  Bella, known in various London circles as the ball-breaking boss of her own computing consultancy who made a comfortable six figures a year, knew she was a slightly unlikely angel of mercy. Nevertheless, she’d put comforting arms around her friend and demanded to know what was wrong.

  Jo had led her into the sitting room where all the telltale signs of heartbreak were in place: a generous scattering of crumpled tissues, a blanket on the sofa, three empty mugs, a plate stacked with white toast, dripping butter and what looked suspiciously like Marmite.

  The TV appeared to be freeze-framed on the funeral scene in Steel Magnolias. This was bad. Very bad.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Bella had asked.

  ‘What’s the matter?!’ Jo had repeated, sounding incredulous, flinging herself onto the sofa: ‘I’m going be divorced. I’m going to be a single mother, I’m going to damage my children for life, I’m going to struggle to pay the mortgage even on this poxy little place myself . . . and - ‘ first choked-back sob – ‘I’m never going to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary.’ Desperate snivel. ‘Who’s going to watch Mel’s ballet shows with me? And Nettie’s first day at school . . . Will I get to take her? Or will it fall on a Simon day? And . . . and. . . ’ Jo’s voice had disintegrated into a wail, ‘I’m practically 40V Then she’d dived for the tissue box that Bella had thoughtfully held out to her.

  ‘You’re 35,’ Bella had reminded her, starting with the obvious. ‘That’s not practically 40.’

  She’d crouched down beside Jo and let her cry on the shoulder of her pale lilac designer suit for a few more moments before asking: ‘Do you seriously want to be married to Simon for twenty-five years? If you do, why not just pick up the phone and tell him? Go on, it’s over there. Just another fifteen years of Simon to go.’

  Jo had slowly shaken her head.

  ‘Jo. . .’ Bella had put an arm round her friend’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done the right thing, for many reasons. I could reel off a whole list of reasons, but the most important one, the one you should keep right in the forefront of your mind, is that you don’t love him enough and he doesn’t love you enough. And everyone deserves better than that.’

  ‘But why doesn’t he?’ Jo had asked, dissolving into a fresh burst of tears. It was the first time Bella had seen her cry. Jo had been so together about the decision to bring the marriage to a close. It had been her decision.

  Finding Jo like this had only served to reinforce Bella’s long-held belief that her friend might be, or might pretend to be, tough as old boots on the outside, but really, beneath the surface she was supersensitive. The combination was probably what made her so good at her job.

  ‘Oh, it’s not Simon,’ Jo had managed. ‘Of course I’m better off without Simon. I know that, I know it,’ she’d said, then had blown her nose forcefully. ‘It’s just the idea . . . unmarried. I always wanted to be happily married, part of a family, for years and years.’

  ‘You are part of a family,’ Bella had reminded her. ‘It’s a modern family, it’s normal. It’s just not a Walt Disney, 1950s family and anyway, what was that all about? Lunatic housewives on Valium, lithium or booze.’

  ‘You’re a Disney family!’ Jo had accused her. ‘With your husband and your 2.2 children. And you’re happy.’

  ‘I earn three times more than Don, that’s hardly Disney,’ had been Bella’s reply, along with: ‘And we’ve had plenty of problems. I nearly left him for someone else when I was pregnant, we have at least one Mount Etna scale row every month as well as the one I blame on PMT; Don claims I’m in a bad mood the whole time because I’m so busy; sex is something he has to schedule into my diary weeks in advance and anyway, we’ve only been married five years or something. I’ve to
ld him when he hits 50, that’s it, I get to trade him in for a toyboy.’

  This outburst had at least made Jo smile.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bella had asked, gently, sympathetically.

  ‘Wallowing,’ was Jo’s answer.

  ‘Steel Magnolias and Marmite?’ Bella had pulled a face.

  ‘I know . . . I know. And I hate Marmite.’

  ‘You have to stop eating this.’ Bella had picked up the plate: ‘Five more pounds and a yeast infection are not going to help, believe me. I’m going to pour you a drink and then you’re allowed one of my “light only in the event of an emergency” cigarettes.’

  ‘So liver failure and lung cancer are better, are they?’ Jo hadn’t been able to resist.

  ‘Tea, then?’ Bella had suggested, trying to sound enthusiastic at the prospect of tea.

  ‘No, no, God no, I’ve had about eighteen cups of tea today. Go into the kitchen and open a bottle of wine.’

  Once Jo was tucked up under a blanket on the sofa, wine glass in hand, the trigger for this wave of divorce grief had emerged. She’d confided in Bella that Simon hadn’t moved into his new flat alone: an old family friend had moved in with him.

  ‘Gwen!’ Jo had exclaimed, still hardly able to believe it. ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you? I’m sure you have. She’s. . .’ and Jo had paused, wondering how she would have described Gwen in the past. Now only the words ‘pathetic, needy, selfish and completely inconsiderate’ came to mind.

  ‘He swears nothing was going on between them until a few weeks ago,’ she’d told Bella. ‘But then why is she moving in with him so soon? She’s lived alone for years.’

  Gwen! Gwen?! She was older than Simon. Sensible, long-term single. She’d worked with Simon briefly, years ago, and a casual friendship had been in place since then. Jo had never felt any jealousy or seen any reason to be suspicious. Gwen of the tasteful court shoes, white blouses, string of pearls and even longer string of disappointing dates had never been a threat.