Wonder Women

by Fiore, Rosie

  Holly smiled at him, but she couldn’t help feeling gutted. He was saying exactly what she had already decided – that he shouldn’t be a factor in her decision – but she wished … well, never mind what she wished. He clearly didn’t feel the same way. She checked her watch. ‘Bloody hell! Look at the time. I need to get going. It’s going to take me at least fifteen minutes to get to the station.’

  ‘Do you want me to come along and help with your bags?’

  ‘Nope. No goodbyes, remember? Besides, I only have one pull-along suitcase … a suit for court, and then a bunch of bikinis and sundresses. I’ve learned you should never travel with more baggage than you can carry yourself.’

  ‘And on that very profound note …’ Fraser smiled. ‘Bye, Holly. Travel hopefully.’

  He stood to kiss her lightly and hug her, and then she left, without looking back.

  She’d expected to feel more elated to be on her way, but she felt deflated as she began to walk across Putney Bridge, dragging her case. So that was it. Fraser had, in a way, sent her on her way a free woman. And he had done it because he was a nice guy. A nice guy that she liked more than she wanted to admit, in fact the very nicest guy she’d met in a long time, probably ever. Was she being stupid? Should she be fighting for him? Or was he genuinely not interested? She stopped in the middle of the bridge. She didn’t have time to go back, but did she have time to ring him? Would she be mad to? Did she really want him to reject her over the phone as well? No, best just to go. She started to walk again, a little quicker this time.

  She heard someone panting heavily behind her, and she thought it was a rather out-of-shape jogger or a mugger with asthma. Either way, she had better get out of his way. She stepped closer to the railing and drew her suitcase out of the path of the oncoming runner, but the panter didn’t run past her. He stopped.

  ‘I lied,’ gasped Fraser.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I lied. I said you should go and be happy. I don’t want you to. I mean – I do want you to be happy, but I want you to be happy with me. I’ve been trying to play it all cool and grown-up and sensible, trying to give you as much space as you need, but I bloody can’t do it any more. I love you, Holly, I want to be with you, and I very much wish to be a factor in your decisions about your future.’ And then he kissed her hard, and for a very long time.

  ‘Now I’m going,’ he said. ‘No goodbyes. But travel safely, and every mile you go, please remember that I love you.’ He walked back along the bridge, turning once to wave and blow her a kiss. Through the whole encounter, which lasted maybe two minutes, she hadn’t said a word.

  Holly stood, gripping the handle of her suitcase tightly. She turned and looked down the river, towards London. The sun was sinking low, throwing mellow rays on to the water. Love, opportunity, freedom. It wasn’t every day you got all three.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I would argue it takes a small city to write a book. Whether it was correcting dodgy punctuation and geography, offering emotional support or answering the author’s dim-witted questions about various subjects, so many people have been part of the journey that ends with my writing this page. As the book has been a year in the making, I am sure I will forget someone. Please forgive me … my gratitude is unending even if my memory is not.

  As always, first on the list is my agent, Caroline Hardman and her partner in crime Jo Swainson, outgoing editor Charlotte van Wijk and her assistant Nicola Budd, and new editor Jo Dickinson and Kathryn Taussig. Six women who have done so much to support, guide, refine, polish and defend my work throughout this process. It would be a poorer book without them. In fact, one might argue it wouldn’t be a book at all without them. If I may be forgiven the cheesy title reference, wonder women indeed.

  As is the author’s privilege, I took great creative licence with my plans for Jo’s shop and how it might run. However, I owe a debt of thanks to Lisa Usiskin of Happy Days Children’s Clothes, who met with me and talked through the nuts and bolts of running a children’s clothing business. She’s on facebook if you’re looking for something fabulous for your kids. A big thank you also to my dear friend Debbie Melliard, for her insider’s advice on Goldsmith’s.

  As always, many thanks to the great motley crew of friends and family who enrich my life and give so much, who (face-to-face or online), have offered information, character names (yes you, Tina Vaghela), an ear while I wrestle with a knotty plot problem, tea, distraction and chocolate. My heart is fuller (and my behind is wider) thanks to your contributions.

  Special mention must go to Maureen Parrington, who won the right to name a character in this book at an Auction of Promises at St Mary’s Church, Hendon. She chose her husband Ian Hope as the beneficiary of this dubious honour. I have stolen rather more than the name, and my fictional Ian is a music teacher too, and has some of the real man’s sterling characteristics. I hope he will forgive me a little artistic licence.

  It was extremely important to me to write about the care of the ill and dying, as my sister Sandy died of cancer in 2004, and the support we got from hospice nurses in South Africa has always stayed with me. More recently, my mum-in-law Doreen passed away at New Cross Hospital in Wolverhampton, and we were overwhelmed at the care and compassion she received from the nurses, and their boundless patience and kindness to us, her relatives. I have no words for those who are brave enough to guide us through the most difficult and sad times of our lives. These are people of great heart, and they deserve our support. If the issues covered in this book touch you, please donate to Macmillan Cancer Support: www.macmillan.org.uk/Donate.

  In memory of Doreen Smithies (1930–2012), a wonder woman indeed.

  Keep reading for an extract from Rosie Fiore's heart-warming novel

  LOUISE

  Sitting on the loo, blue penguin pyjama bottoms around her ankles, Louise stared again at the pregnancy test in her hand. The blue cross was very much still there. It wasn’t going anywhere. Pregnant. Who would believe it? Here it was, the baby she’d always dreamed of, but at the wrong time, in the wrong circumstances, and totally and utterly with the wrong man. The irony wasn’t lost on her. One stupid night with Brian. Just one, stupid, drunken shag, and now this. If she were a different woman, she’d have burst into tears and rung her mum or her best friend.

  But Louise’s mum was dead, and she wasn’t the sort to have a girly best friend. Anyway, it was a work day, and a busy one. She couldn’t sit on the loo all day. She had to get to work, get on with the day and think about all of this later. She certainly couldn’t think about it at work, not today, not with the branch managers’ meeting and Brian pretending to ignore her across the table. Although she thought they’d been discreet that night in Manchester, she was pretty sure everyone knew. Barrett and Humphries was too small a company. Until now, Louise hadn’t given the gossip machine much thought. She hadn’t really cared. All her energy had been focused on treating Brian with icy professionalism.

  She turned on the shower and switched on to autopilot. She went through into her bedroom, laid out her clothes for the day on her bed and stripped off her pyjamas. She showered quickly and efficiently, blow-dried her short, dark-red hair, and dressed in a maroon suit, with severe lines which flattered her slim, tall figure. She ate a quick breakfast of fruit, yoghurt and muesli and then rapidly applied her minimal make-up, just mascara and lipstick. Her briefcase was already packed, her keys and sunglasses in their usual place by the front door. She rinsed out her bowl, looked around her tidy kitchen and was out of the door fifteen minutes after she’d done the pregnancy test.

  It wasn’t until she’d eased her little car out of her quiet road and taken her place in the traffic queue heading towards the town centre that she let herself switch on her brain again. Suddenly, she began to shake. What was she going to do? Clearly, she couldn’t have it. She could just imagine the looks at work as she started to show. Barrett and Humphries w
as as progressive as an old-fashioned Yorkshire printing firm could be, and she knew they appreciated her skills and professionalism. But if it came to a choice, there was no doubt Brian would win. He was older, more senior, a partner. She’d be out on her ear quicker than you could say ‘discrimination lawsuit’. Yes, she could probably fight it, but did she really want the humiliation of having her mistake made public?

  No, there was no doubt, she’d have to have an abortion, and she most certainly couldn’t have it anywhere around here. Even if she went to a hospital three towns away, Sod’s Law said she’d bump into some colleague, or a friend of a friend. Even York didn’t seem far enough. No. She’d go to London, stay with Simon and get it over and done with as quickly as possible. Edward, her boss, had been nagging her to use up her annual leave. She could take a week or so and be back as if nothing had happened.

  As she inched forward in the traffic, Louise decided that going to work was a really stupid idea. She’d be in a world of her own, pale and worried. She might say something silly in the branch managers’ meeting, and Brian would give her his heavy-browed look across the table. He’d think he made her nervous, and that she was carrying a torch for him. There was no way she was going to put herself through that. Pulling into a convenient loading zone, she grabbed her mobile and rang her PA. She made an excuse about a domestic emergency, a burst pipe and a flooded kitchen, and said she’d do her best to be in later. She deftly nosed back into the traffic, made a swift three-point turn in a side road and headed home. Simon wouldn’t be in his office till ten. She’d ring him then, and then go online and find a clinic in London. With the decisions made, the trembling stopped and she felt like herself again.

  But two days later, she still hadn’t done what she had set out to do. She just didn’t feel she could tell Simon everything on the phone or in an email. Eventually, she rang him and asked if she could come down and stay for a few days, saying she’d missed him and was having a few days off work. That done, she set about making the necessary arrangements. She rang a clinic not far from Simon’s flat, and the woman she had spoken to seemed to think they’d be able to fit her in for an appointment at fairly short notice.

  She got into London at about four in the afternoon. Simon was a fairly senior civil servant, and she knew he’d clock off at exactly five thirty. She had a key to his flat, so she popped to the nearby supermarket, bought a bunch of flowers, a bottle of wine and some dinner ingredients and let herself into his riverside apartment.

  As always, her brother’s home was perfect, and the vases of flowers discreetly dotted around were much nicer than the ordinary supermarket blooms she’d brought. She opened the fridge and saw he’d stocked up because she was coming: the shelves were packed with cheeses, pâté and gorgeous salad ingredients, as well as several bottles of good white wine. She smiled. What else had she expected? He was such a perfectionist. She unpacked the simple groceries she’d brought and put the kettle on. As it came to the boil, she heard his key in the door.

  ‘Lou! It’s fabulous to see you. And the kettle’s on! Best sister in the world. Won’t you make me a little green tea, please? I’m parched.’ He swept into his bedroom and kept up a stream of chatter as he changed out of his suit and into pressed chinos and a crisp sky-blue shirt.

  Louise always marvelled at Simon’s personal reinvention. He’d completely lost his Mancunian accent, and spoke in a crisp, transatlantic one instead. He’d spent time and money learning to dress well, and he paid attention to grooming: his hair, skin and nails were always perfect. When she remembered the miserable, scrawny teenager he’d been, hiding his thin body in awful, shiny tracksuits, slouching and picking at his bad skin, she was so proud of him. They’d grown up just outside Manchester, in a grey little suburb. Simon had worked hard at school and as soon as he could, taken off for the south to study. He’d got a grant to read Social Policy at LSE, and had built a life and a career for himself in London. She supposed she’d always known deep down that he was gay, and that their lovely but conservative parents would never understand that. But in London he could openly live the life he chose. Once their parents died he’d been more open about his lifestyle. He’d had a couple of long-term relationships, but wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment. Jokingly he’d said to Louise that his social life was too busy for a relationship.

  She loved him to bits, but in a funny way, she felt distant from him. He’d worked so hard to make his shiny, wonderful life, and she often wondered if there was space for his slightly hectic, very northern sister in its designer perfection. She knew Simon well enough to know these worries were in her head, not his. He was always loving, rang her often and kept asking her to come down and stay with him. She didn’t accept his invitations as often as she might have: between work and her studies, things had been ridiculously busy over the last few years.

  Their other sister, Rachel, lived down in Surrey with her banker husband, Richard. Simon didn’t like Rachel’s suburban lifestyle, so they didn’t often see each other – he felt they really had nothing in common. Because he was so cold about his relationship with one sister, Louise was grateful that he made such an effort to keep her in his life.

  She hadn’t told him about Brian . . . it had been a momentary lapse, an out-of-character mistake she wouldn’t want to admit to. And now, here she was, bringing all her horribly messy baggage to his doorstep. Her stomach lurched. Simon might need something a bit stronger than green tea to get him through what he was about to hear. She took one of his nice French bottles of wine out of the fridge, opened it and filled two large glasses to the brim.

  He came out of the bedroom, smiling and turning back the cuffs on his shirt. He kissed her warmly on the cheek, noticing the glasses. ‘Wine! Much better than tea. Come and sit down.’ He led her into the living room and they curled up in opposite corners of the big squashy sofa.

  ‘Cheers, dear,’ said Simon and took a big gulp of his wine. Louise raised her glass, but the smell of the wine was so strong that it brought on a flood of nausea. She put the glass down on the coffee table and smiled brightly at her brother.

  ‘So how’s work? Any plans for the summer? Ooh! How are Eric and Julian?’

  Simon looked at her curiously. ‘Fine, possibly Rhodes, and they’re very well, thank you. Considering getting married in the autumn. They send their love.’

  ‘Oh, send mine back, and say congratulations.’ Louise knew that there was a slightly manic edge to her voice. They carried on chatting, but the conversation was stilted and halting. He asked about work, and she told him about the cutbacks they’d had and the people she’d had to let go. He kept looking at her really closely, which made her shift in her seat. How the hell was she going to bring the conversation around to what she needed to say?

  She wished she could manage a big slug of the wine to calm her nerves, but the smell of it (wafting over from the coffee table . . . so powerful . . . had there ever been a glass of wine that smelt so strongly?) was making her mouth fill with saliva, and not in a good way. Suddenly, she knew for sure that if she moved suddenly or coughed, or opened her mouth to speak, she’d be sick. She felt a fine sweat break out along her hairline. Simon peered at her intently. ‘Lou, are you all right?’ he asked. She managed a weak nod. He kept staring at her. Out of the blue, he gasped: ‘Oh my God, you’re pregnant!’

  She didn’t stay to hear any more, but bolted for the bathroom. When she came out, pale and smelling of mouthwash, ten minutes later, Simon had got rid of the wine and made cups of fruit tea. She edged shamefacedly into the room and sat back down, wedging herself tightly into the corner of the sofa.

  ‘I was half joking, but then I saw your face. You are, aren’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, the vomiting was a giveaway, but also, it’s not like you to be slow with the wine.’

  ‘Cheek!’ she said weakly.

  ‘Well, it’s true! You usually inhale your first glass and pour another while I’m st
ill genteelly sipping. But the main giveaway was the boobs.’

  ‘They’re bigger, aren’t they?’

  ‘Dear God. The Met Office has put out an alert for two missing weather balloons.’

  Louise began to giggle, then hiccup and then cry. Simon knew her too well to hug her. He got up and fetched tissues, moved her teacup closer to her hand and didn’t speak until she stopped.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me whose it is?’ he asked gently.

  The story just spilled out.

  ‘It’s a guy called Brian, from work,’ she began.

  ‘Have you been seeing him for long?’

  ‘I’m not seeing him. It only happened once, on a business trip. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Ah, accidental sex. I’ve heard of that. Sorry. I don’t mean to make fun. But is he so awful? Would you not want him in your life?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Louise slowly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Simon, and she knew he understood.

  ‘The thing is, well, it started at a conference we had a month or two ago. You know how hard I was studying for the MBA. I mean, I hadn’t been out partying for as long as I can remember. So we went away on a team-building event in Derby, and, well, I was in the mood to let loose . . . within reason, of course.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, there were twelve branch managers and about the same number of assistant managers on the weekend, and we spent the Friday night at a murder-mystery evening in this lovely Edwardian hotel we were staying in. We all had to dress up as different characters, and everyone got into the mood quite quickly. We all drank quite a lot. I had to dress up as a “femme fatale” in a silky, black 1920s dress, and believe me, I got plenty of attention.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ Simon smiled.

  ‘I just laughed it off . . . I’ve always worked with big groups of blokes, so I’ve seen every clumsy move in the book. Most guys will give it a go when they’ve had a few. But Brian was different. He just kept to himself. His role was a gambler, and he acted his part quite seriously, and then he just sat quietly in an armchair while everyone else played all sorts of drinking games and got more and more raucous. I knew who he was, of course, he’s one of Barrett and Humphries’ most successful managers. We’d met a few times, but I’d never really had a conversation with him.’