As Luck Would Have It

by Zoe May

  About the Author

  ZOE MAY lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.

  Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes

  As Luck Would Have It

  ZOE MAY

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Zoe May 2019

  Zoe May 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: 9780008330941

  E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008321628

  Version: 2019-05-23

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title page

  Copyright

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  This is not how my life was meant to be.

  How is it that at 32 years old, I’ve somehow wound up in my childhood bedroom? I’m sitting at the same desk where I revised for my GCSEs and I’ve been ticking off a to-do list compiled in a pink sparkly notebook I discovered gathering dust in the back of a drawer. My bedroom is like a museum exhibit entitled ‘the habitat of a 13-year-old girl’. It’s frozen in time. There’s a Take That poster on the wall, for goodness’ sake! And not one from their reunion tours, a genuine Take That poster from back when the band was young. When I was young. God, I feel like such a relic.

  I cross out the last item on my to-do list – ‘Send Katy press cuttings’ – with a long satisfying swipe of my purple glitter pen. Did I mention that I’m using a glitter pen? It’s one of those ones with a random tuft of fur at the end. That’s just how I roll. Katy is a celebrity make-up artist and she’s one of my clients, because believe it or not, I run a fashion and beauty PR agency. And no, I haven’t always run a PR agency from the comfort of my childhood bedroom. I’m not a total freak. I used to have an office in Camden in this seriously cool co-working space filled with tech geniuses, cutting-edge fashion designers, artisan coffee sellers and general hipster entrepreneurs. And then there was me. Not quite hipster, but not quite geek. A businesswoman. Unlike a few of the people there who rolled in at midday and ‘brainstormed’ over team-building games of ping pong, I was really committed. But then shit hit the fan. And now I’m back at home, living in a terraced house with my mum in the quaint Surrey village where I grew up, and instead of a cool Camden office with shabby chic exposed brick walls and co-workers lounging around on expensive bean bags, I’m surrounded by wallpaper printed with tiny hedgehogs wearing aprons (not even joking) and the closest thing I have to colleagues is a row of Beanie Babies lined up on the windowsill, their colours having faded from decades in the sun.

  When I say shit hit the fan, what I really mean is my ex, Leroy, cheated on me with a girl from the gym where we met. In fact, Leroy wasn’t just my ex, he was my ex-fiancé. Even saying his name makes me cringe. Leroy. What was I thinking going for a guy called Leroy? Did I really think I could marry him? Imagine standing at the altar saying, ‘I take thee, Leroy, to be my lawfully wedded husband’. Bleurgh. His name was obviously a red flag. Everything about him was a red flag actually, from the tattoo of Dr Dre on his shoulder to the way he made these horrendous grunting noises when he did bench presses like he was experiencing some kind of demonic possession. And then there was his ridiculous job as a furniture upcycler, which essentially involved buying old chests of drawers for a tenner from car boot sales, painting them blue and then selling them on for a five quid profit to someone who probably needed to go to Specsavers. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit harsh. Sometimes Leroy made a ten-pound profit. Sometimes even fifteen. Basically, he wasn’t exactly going places. And yet somehow (I blame pheromones) that didn’t matter to me. I decided that his furniture upcycling was trendy and cool and creative. I told my friends that he ‘wasn’t really an office person’ which, looking back on it, was just a nice way of saying he was pretty much unemployable. I’d stress how Leroy ‘liked to work with his hands’ as though he were an artisanal god. Ha. Artisanal he was not. A god he was definitely not. But he did like to work with his hands. He loved that. He certainly loved working his hands on Lydia – the annoyingly chipper personal trainer he started seeing while we were still together.

  I know I sound bitter but I’m not. I mean, not that much. Okay, a bit – but can you blame me? I thought Leroy was the one. I was willing to overlook a Dr Dre tattoo for crying out loud! It didn’t matter because we were together. We were in love. We were going places. Leroy moved into my flat and somehow –through many frenzied sexual encounters and a lack of respect for reproductive biology – I ended up pregnant. P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T. When I saw those two red lines, I knew this was a problem that had to be solved. When you’ve spent your entire adult life avoiding pregnancy, that’s just how you see it, right? At least you do when you’re me and the only experience you’ve ever had of looking after something living is the time you bought a Venus flytrap and managed to kill it within two weeks. I ran through my options:

  Morning-after pill (probably too late)

  Abortion (eek)

  Buy another test in the hope that this one was faulty (fingers crossed)

  I ran to the shop and bought another test, but the damn thing wasn’t faulty. I was pretty sure it was too late for the morning-after pill so that left me with one option: an abortion. Abortion. Even the word made me shudder, but I braced myself to talk to Leroy about it. We’d get through it together.

  But then that annoying furniture upcycler went and upcycled my mind, didn’t he? He turned me from an IKEA desk – good for work, reliable, decent and functional – to a rainbow-coloured child’s table, that with a few clicks and manoeuvres could turn into a cot. In Leroy’s eyes,
I could become multi-purpose, a businesswoman and a mum. He made me feel like anything was possible. As long as we were together – a team – we could make it work. The timing wasn’t ideal, but we’d find a way.

  To begin with, it was all going swimmingly. Leroy was so excited about our baby coming that he started buying the most adorable things – miniature Converse trainers, a tiny tracksuit, a rattle. He even came to antenatal classes with me without grumbling, and I started to feel like this pregnancy might be a gift. The catalyst needed to give my life and mine and Leroy’s relationship a bit more substance. Until then, I’d just been a businesswoman and a party girl, and I thought that with the arrival of a baby, my life might start to mean something more. And then Leroy proposed and even though it wasn’t the most epic proposal ever (a cheapish ring presented midway through eating a calzone at Pizza Express), I still felt like everything was starting to work out. That all the pieces of my life were coming together like a completed jigsaw. But then suddenly, pretty much overnight, Leroy’s whole attitude changed, and he became completely hands off. Literally. He stopped wanting to come anywhere near me in the bedroom. He said he felt weird about ‘disturbing the baby’. I mean, he was well-endowed but not disturbing-the-baby-by-piercing-my-womb big. I could tell it was about more than that.

  Leroy quit coming to the antenatal classes. He stopped buying things for our baby. He stopped hanging out at my flat like he’d been doing the whole time we’d been together and went back to his tiny studio, claiming he ‘had a ton of work’, but there’s only so much time you can spend upcycling furniture. When that excuse got old and I asked him to come home, he said he ‘was feeling under the weather’. I didn’t know what was going on, but I desperately missed him, so one evening, I dragged my pregnant arse over to his place, with a carrier bag filled with Lemsip, Jaffa Cakes (his favourites) and even a box of gourmet cupcakes, only to find Leroy wasn’t under the weather at all. He was under Lydia. Leroy had forgotten that he’d left a spare key at my place and when he didn’t answer the front door, I assumed he might be too ill in bed. I burst into his flat and headed to his bedroom, only to find him having such wild passionate sex that he clearly hadn’t even registered my knock at the door. It took so long for him to notice my presence in the room that I began to feel like I was witnessing some kind of live sex show, and gawping in horror throughout the whole thing. Finally, Leroy spotted me and sprung apart from Lydia – but our relationship was over. I yanked the cheap ugly engagement ring he’d given me off my finger and flung it in his face. That was when it first dawned on me: I was going to be a single mum.

  ‘Natalieeeee!’ My mum’s voice bellows up the stairs now, interrupting my thoughts, which is probably a good thing since they weren’t exactly going to the best places.

  ‘Yes?’ I call back. The fact that my mum and I are still communicating like this – down a staircase in a similar way to how she used to call me down for dinner – is a little cringeworthy. Okay, it’s really cringe-worthy, but my mum’s been a life-saver recently. She let me move in with her when I realised I couldn’t cope with looking after my baby alone while trying to keep my business going. And living rent-free at home has allowed me to save up for a deposit so that my daughter and I can have our own little home at some point.

  ‘Come down here!’ she shrieks.

  ‘Okay!’ I call back, placing my glitter pen on the desk, before heading downstairs.

  My mum’s got my daughter Hera downstairs and it’s been a few hours since I saw her, which is a long time for me. Even if Leroy turned out to be a complete waste of space, I have to give him credit for helping me make the World’s Most Perfect Baby. My little Hera is adorable, and I’m not just saying that because I’m her mum. She really is a gorgeous baby. She has the biggest brownest eyes, the longest lashes, a cute button nose and the prettiest little rosebud lips. She’s so uniquely beautiful that I wanted to give her a unique name. I chose Hera because it’s the name of the queen of the Greek gods – a powerful, strong, leading woman, just like I want my baby to grow up to be.

  I head into the kitchen and immediately spot Hera sitting in her highchair, playing with her favourite toy – a teddy that somewhere along the line was dubbed ‘Mr Bear’.

  ‘Hello angel!’ I coo, giving her a kiss on the head.

  Hera immediately drops Mr Bear and reaches out for a hug. My heart melts. It never gets old. I pick her up and hold her close to my chest, rubbing her back and bouncing her up and down while she plays with my hair. It’s only then that I notice that my mum is leaning against the kitchen counter fully made up and wearing a party frock she bought last week from TK Maxx. It’s pink, embroidered with gold fuchsias, and she was incredibly happy to get it for 70 per cent off. She’s munching on a cracker with brie, carefully cupping one of her hands under it so the crumbs don’t fall on her dress.

  ‘How come you’re wearing that?’ I ask, gesturing at her dress and noticing her face of full make-up. She’s gone all out with blue eyeshadow, lashings of mascara, blusher and bright red lipstick.

  ‘It’s Mick’s fundraiser!’ my mum says through a mouthful of cracker. ‘Remember?’

  ‘What?’ I head over to the counter and take a cracker from the open packet on the side.

  ‘Mick’s fundraiser. At the village hall?’ My mum eyes me expectantly, as though waiting for the penny to drop but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘Remember? We’re going!’ My expression is blank. ‘Oh Natalie! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? Baby brain isn’t meant to hang round for a year after you give birth!’ She tuts, reaching for another cracker.

  I roll my eyes indulgently. ‘Seriously Mum, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What fundraiser?’

  ‘Down the village hall. Mick’s annual fundraiser for Cancer Research. It’s been happening every year since you were 12. Held on the anniversary of his wife’s passing. Maggie, remember? The fifth of May. Ring a bell?’

  ‘Oh that,’ I reply, finally realising what she’s on about.

  Mick has been our neighbour my whole life. He lives just a few doors down in a narrow terraced house just like ours. Our village is incredibly close-knit. Chiddingfold is a small place. There are only a few thousand residents and most of us know each other or know someone who knows someone we know. Sadly, Mick’s wife Maggie died from breast cancer around twenty years ago and Mick has been organising a charity fundraiser every year since in her memory. The whole community gets together in the village hall. There’s a buffet, drinks, an auction of donated items, a disco, and one year there was even a talent show for the kids. It’s a great event and it’s certainly been going on for a long time, but it’s hardly the highlight of my social calendar. It’s not exactly been at the forefront of my mind.

  ‘You used to love that fundraiser!’ my mum reminds me as I chew my cracker and feed a little bit to Hera.

  She’s right. I used to love the fundraiser. I used to love the cake stand selling the prettiest cupcakes ever, the most chocolatey brownies and the fluffiest, most delicious Victoria sponge. The village hall would always be decked out with streamers and bunting and there’d be a massive bowl of non-alcoholic fruit punch for the kids and real punch for the adults. I used to love the disco, which was overseen by a Rick, a guy who worked at the Spar but doubled up as ‘DJ Bubble’ for the fundraiser. His rousing catchphrase was ‘DJ Bubble, you’re in trouble!’ which we all loved when we were kids even though, looking back, it was totally awful. He’d play what I used to think were the best sets ever but were probably just the top tracks from Now That’s What I Call Music 6. One year there was even a smoke machine. Oh, and there was a raffle that everyone used to get so excited about. I used to love the raffle, even though the best thing I ever won was a John Lewis spatula.

  ‘Yeah, I did love that fundraiser, Mum, but the last time I went I was a kid! How am I meant to remember the dates of events I haven’t been to for nearly two decades?’ I ask exasperatedly before shovelling
another cracker into my mouth.

  ‘It was on the calendar,’ my mum comments, nodding towards the calendar on the wall, where in red marker pen in today’s box are the scrawled words ‘Mick’s fundraiser’.

  ‘Right, so I’m supposed to just check the calendar every day to see if there are events I’m meant to be going to?’

  ‘Umm, yes love, that is what calendars are for!’ My mum laughs.

  I love my mum but she’s impossible sometimes.

  ‘You could have told me, Mum. You know, reminded me or something. Verbally?’ I suggest.

  She simply shrugs. ‘Oh well, I forgot.’ She looks at her watch. It’s a gold and silver bracelet-style one she always wears for special occasions. ‘We’d better head off. It starts in half an hour.’

  ‘Mum, I can’t go! What about Hera?’ I remind her, stroking Hera’s head.

  ‘She’s coming with us, love! Mick’s included loads of prizes in the raffle this year for baby stuff. There’s a baby rocker up for grabs. Even a baby forklift truck. Hera might win!’

  ‘Hera has a rocker!’ I point out. ‘And she doesn’t need a forklift truck!’

  My mum just shrugs. ‘It’ll still be a fun outing!’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum, Hera will get tired. You know what she’s like after late nights,’ I remind her. Hera can get pretty loud and cranky the following day if she doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.

  ‘We’ll put her in her buggy, she can relax, and then we’ll duck out early. We don’t have to stay for the disco! Oh come on, Natalie, Hera can handle a little outing. And it would do you good as well,’ she says, giving me a pointed look as I grab another cracker.

  Ever since I moved back home, my mum’s been on at me to get out more, and it’s not that I’m anti-social, but I honestly don’t see how I can. I have a business to run and when I’m not working, I’m taking care of Hera. My mum offers to babysit but she already looks after Hera while I’m working, and I feel bad asking her to do any more. She only recently retired from her job as a nursery school teacher and I don’t think spending more time with small children was quite what she expected from retirement. And anyway, she has a life too. A few years ago, she started seeing the landlord of the pub down the road – a good-natured divorcé called Tim and they’re totally smitten with each other. My dad upped sticks when I was little and moved to the French alps to start a new life as a ski instructor and I know it’s taken my mum a very long time to trust a man again. I should probably have been a bit damaged too, but I was so young that I don’t really have many memories of my dad and you don’t miss someone you’ve never known. Plus, my mum’s always been exceptional, so I never really felt I was lacking. She deserves happiness and she adores Tim. The last thing I want is for them to miss out on quality time together just because I decided to pop out a baby.