by Lucy Diamond
For all my friends, with love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Afterword
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
It was May, soft and warm, all apple blossom and sunshine; one of those days that take you by surprise and remind you that summer might actually be around the corner after a long wet spring, even in Manchester. It was the kind of day when a person’s thoughts begin to drift towards the pleasing prospect of painted toenails and bare legs, of half-term on the horizon, of Wimbledon and Pimm’s. For India Westwood, it was also a day when she’d left her husband and kids back at home and caught the bus into town for a post-birthday lunch with her three best friends. Hello!
God, but she loved birthdays and all their accompanying fuss, even as an adult; still waking up with that childlike fizz of excitement in her belly each time, just as she did when it was Christmas morning or had snowed outside. Any excuse to string some bunting about the kitchen and light candles on a cake, any excuse to get family and friends around the table and line the mantelpiece with colourful cards and flowers. Besides, when you had just turned thirty-nine and there was the big Four-Oh looming in the distance, you might as well wring out every last drop of joy you could, right?
Right. Which was why this was actually her third birthday celebration in as many days. Get her, and her impressive Milking It skills! She’d been treated to a takeaway and presents on Thursday, her actual birthday, followed by dinner and drinks with her husband Dan the evening after, and now, Saturday, she was on her way to lunch with Eve, Laura and Jo, as per their tradition. She’d picked Jean-Paul’s as the venue, a new French bistro near the Albert Hall, not least because they were running a bargain lunch menu, which, by India’s logic, would leave them more money for cocktails and wine. Genius.
The restaurant was just beginning to fill up when she arrived: clusters of people lingering at the pavement tables with morning coffees, other early lunchers descending upon the larger tables at the back of the main room. India plumped for a seat outside, wanting to make the most of the spring sun, enjoying the feeling that she could be on holiday somewhere glamorous – Paris, Rome, Madrid – as she left her shades on and ordered an espresso and a jug of water.
And relax, she thought, leaning back against the curlicued iron chair and breathing in the mingled scents of the air: the waiter’s woody aftershave, a twist of cigarette smoke from the next table, a passing plate of hot salty chips. The combination was undoubtedly more exotic than the smells of home: cat food, unwashed children, something burning under the grill. In her imagination, she transformed accordingly; no longer a mere frazzled wife and mum who spent her days shaking maracas in chilly church halls for the benefit of grizzling babies and their sleep-befogged mothers. Today she was carefree. Sophisticated. Perhaps even a little mysterious.
‘Here you go, darling,’ said the waiter just then in broad Manc, breaking the spell as he set down her drinks.
‘Merci,’ she said. ‘I mean – ta.’ Oh well. She might not be in Paris or Rome, but she did have a free pass for the whole afternoon, she consoled herself. Plus she had made an effort and dry-cleaned her favourite black silky blouse with its bold plunging neckline that always made her feel a million dollars; she’d squidged into her nicest and most bum-flattening jeans; and, for once, her flyaway chestnut hair had allowed itself to be tamed into a smooth chin-length bob. Make-up – tick. Perfume – tick. Friends on the way – tick. They’d have a slap-up lunch and an excellent gossip, then she’d suggest a mooch around the shops and go crazy with her credit card, knowing that the other three would all support her wholeheartedly in this decision. To a woman, they were excellent enablers when it came to shopping matters.
Talking of which . . . There was Laura striding across the road right now, regardless of a red Ford Focus that braked sharply, the driver gesturing something rude and cross at the wheel. But Laura, smiling as she saw India, was quite oblivious, her long blonde hair tousling in a breeze, her handbag sliding off one shoulder as she waved. And there too was Eve, coming from the other direction, all high cheekbones and poise with the mix of Ghanaian and Scandinavian in her genes. As ever, she looked neat and crease-free in a white body-con dress, her hair a glossy dark waterfall as she paused to wait at the crossing. Oh, and three out of three – here was Jo as well, stopping to take a call and . . . India pushed up her sunglasses and leaned forward nosily to see better. Whoa. Was down-to-earth, no-nonsense Jo actually giggling and blushing as she chatted into her phone?
Yes, she most certainly was. Jo’s round freckled face was suffused with pink and she was putting a hand up to her cheek in a . . . well, there was no other word to describe it – a flirtatious way. What was all that about then, eh?
‘Hello, hello!’ The four of them kissed and embraced, laughing at their simultaneous arrivals, as if they were a well-rehearsed mini-flashmob descending on India.
‘Happy birthday!’
‘You look gorgeous!’
‘What are we drinking?’
Oh, she loved these women with all her heart, India thought fondly, as Eve took charge, asking for menus and the wine list, and Laura flapped around unpeeling a silk scarf and not noticing as it slithered to the floor, and Jo stuffed her phone in her bag, still pink in the cheeks with a – yes, a secretive sort of smile, India observed. Curiouser and curiouser.
The four of them had known each other for years now, finding one another through different channels: she and Eve had met at an antenatal yoga group, for instance, forming a bond as they disgraced themselves by sniggering childishly at the woman in front of them, who kept farting through her downward-dog pose. Then Eve had introduced her to Jo, having known her since school, and on another night, Jo had brought along her sister Laura, too. And just like that they became a foursome, an all-conquering group of friends who would drop anything for one another when the chips were down. They’d been a tag-team of support throughout Jo’s divorce the previous spring, getting her drunk, helping her find a new flat, dragging her out shopping – whatever it had taken. They had lived through the pain and misery of Laura’s miscarriages with her as well, holding her hand, bringing her cake, comforting her as best they could through the agony. And Eve had always been a total rock when it came to scooping up India’s kids whenever there was some A&E crisis or other. It was good to know that someone had your back in your hour of need. Three someones, in fact.
But they were there for good times as well as the bad, that was the loveliest thing – for birthdays, of course, but also every month for gossip and wine at someone’s house. And here they were now, making India feel loved and special: ord
ering champagne, complimenting her on her blouse, pressing beautifully wrapped gifts on her. Yes, she thought, feeling a rush of contentment as she decided on the mustard chicken and skinny chips and eyed up the delights of the dessert menu further down the page. Come to Mama. This was more like it. Friends and sunshine and a generously filled bread basket; the smell of chips and perfume; the clink of bracelets at her wrist – oh, it was heavenly, it really was. (‘I fully intend to be drunk and incapable of anything later,’ she had warned Dan, her husband, prior to leaving the house, to which he’d rolled his eyes and replied, deadpan, ‘You surprise me.’)
‘So,’ she said now, helping herself to a chunk of crusty baguette and slathering it with salted butter. ‘Down to business. Jo Nicholls – I think you should know that I spotted you giggling coyly into your phone just now. Is there something you want to tell us?’
Jo looked startled, then turned bright red. ‘Well . . .’ she said sheepishly, at which they all pounced.
‘What?’ cried Laura, choking on a breadcrumb in her surprise.
‘I knew it!’ exclaimed India, clapping her hands together.
Eve put down her butter knife and leaned forward. ‘We’re all ears,’ she said.
Jo hadn’t known whether or not she should say anything about Rick to the others yet. It had been such a whirlwind, after all, meeting him in the very last place she’d ever expected to find a new man – in the grubby, damp-smelling waiting area at her local garage, while her car was undergoing its MOT. There he had been, too, wincing as he sipped from a plastic cup, his tall frame folded into one of the uncomfortable red plastic chairs, glancing up at her from his phone. ‘If you value your life,’ he’d said conspiratorially, ‘I advise you not to try the coffee.’
Jo had been in an exuberant sort of mood that day, having just heard from her solicitor that the buyers of the Stretford house were finally ready to exchange contracts. Not just that, but her hair had serendipitously fallen into perfect coppery waves after her morning shower, and she’d squeezed into an old denim skirt that had previously been too small for her for at least four years. She had smiled at the man – Rick! – and sashayed across to the coffee machine regardless, joking, ‘Hey, I’ve always been one to live on the edge.’
Listen to yourself, Nicholls, she’d scoffed inwardly as the machine went about noisily spurting brown liquid into a plastic cup. Living on the edge indeed, when in reality she was far too cautious a person to go near the edge usually. But there was something about his face – his open, friendly, extremely good-looking face, with that gorgeous flop of dark hair – that made her want to present a better version of herself in return. Then, of course, she’d tasted the disgusting coffee and promptly spluttered on its bitter, nasty taste. ‘Christ,’ she’d yelped and they’d both laughed.
‘I did say . . .’ he reminded her, his brown eyes amused.
‘You did,’ she agreed, wincing, ‘and that’ll teach me to ignore perfectly good advice at my peril.’
He’d grinned at her in reply, and then they’d just got chatting about this and that, and it had all been remarkably easy and enjoyable. Added to that, he was so handsome and interesting that she’d soon started to feel a bit breathless. Was it her imagination or was there some kind of . . . spark between them? An undercurrent?
A giddy feeling took hold of her; she was giggling at his funny stories in a seriously un-Jo-like manner, high-pitched and girlish. Was it a bit naff of her to be acting like a teenager with a whopping great crush, when she was forty-two years old, divorced and plucking out her first grey hairs? Oh, who cared, though; this was fun. Knowing her luck, he was probably gay anyway. Plus – real-life klaxon – he was way out of her league!
A few minutes later, a blue-overalled mechanic stuck his balding head around the doorway. ‘Mr Silver? Your car’s ready.’
Jo had given the handsome stranger a rueful smile as he got up and went to the door. So that was that, she’d thought, surprised at how disappointed she felt.
But then something extraordinary had happened. The sort of thing that never usually happened to Jo. Instead of walking through the door and vanishing from her life forever, the man had hesitated there, one hand on the jamb, a distant din of clanging and engine noises behind him. Then he turned back. ‘Look, no worries if you’re with someone or married, or whatever,’ he said. ‘But . . . er . . . would you like to meet up again some other time?’
There had been the merest hint of vulnerability in his body language, an unexpected shyness all of a sudden, and she’d felt it then, true and clear, deep inside her: I like this man. Not only that, but I like this man and I think he’s asking me out. Asking. ME. Out!
Feeling flustered, absurdly flattered and wildly excited, she had tried very hard to contain herself. ‘That would be lovely,’ she managed to say, and then her lips twitched. ‘Although, to be honest, after such fabulous surroundings – ’ she flung out an arm to indicate the dismal little seating area, the rancid coffees, now cold and abandoned in their plastic cups, the scuff marks on the walls – ‘anywhere else could be a hard act to follow.’
‘This is true,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘We’ve set the bar pretty high today. I’ll have to go all out to impress you after this, won’t I? Pull out all the stops.’
‘Every last one,’ she agreed. ‘Quite a challenge, frankly.’ Check me out, flirting, she thought, hysteria bubbling up inside her. Who is this bold, brave Jo?
‘Mr Silver?’ repeated the slack-jawed mechanic impatiently, scratching his neck in the manner of someone who didn’t have time to waste indulging waiting-room romances. ‘Your car?’
Ignoring the interruption, Rick quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Challenge accepted,’ he said, then grinned, his eyes all shiny and soft. Goodness, he was lovely. Surely too lovely for Jo. ‘Let’s be wildly extravagant,’ he said and passed her a business card. ‘Coffee sometime next week? A proper one, in an actual mug, that doesn’t taste like a small animal has died in it?’
‘You know how to treat a girl,’ she said, dimpling. Girl, indeed, she thought, with an inward snort. She pocketed the card, trying to look cool about the fact that his fingers had just brushed against hers. Mmmm. Nice strong man-fingers. Phwooar. ‘Thanks. I’ll call you.’
God, but it was fun, having a man say Let’s be wildly extravagant, even if he was joking and only referring to coffee. Greg, Jo’s ex-husband, had been the sort of person who would ring up the gas board to enquire about an extra two pounds on the bill; who would sit in a restaurant seething about the over-priced wine list, and drink water all night to prove a point. ‘I just like things to be fair,’ he would say, as he kept tally of who owed what for rounds in a pub. Being fair was one thing, but being stingy was quite another, in Jo’s opinion.
And so she and Rick had met at Moose for coffee that Saturday, and despite being a bag of nerves about seeing him again – would he regret his impulsive suggestion, would he realize how plain and ordinary she was and make excuses to get away, were her jeans too tight and muttony? – the conversation had barely let up for a second. He ran his own PR agency and almost made her cry from laughing at tales of his latest client who designed and produced outfits for dogs, and who sounded both eccentric and a complete pain in the neck. ‘That’s ruff,’ Jo had joked. ‘I hope she hasn’t been hounding you.’
‘Barking up the wrong tree, usually,’ he replied, and his smile was so infectious that she’d found herself becoming positively melty inside. Gooey, even. And then he suggested ordering some American pancakes to share, and they bonded over the joys of streaky bacon and maple syrup and . . . Oh, it was all good, basically. It was really, really good. She could feel herself not falling for him exactly, but certainly teetering in a hopeful, excited sort of a way.
A week later they’d gone out for dinner (Italian, her favourite – and his too, as it turned out), and then the week after that they’d met for really good cocktails in The Alchemist, followed by quite a lot of X-rated kissing, before
reluctantly getting separate cabs home. I like him, she kept thinking, smiling in a dreamy sort of way whenever he crossed her mind (approximately nine million times a day). I really, really like him. But surely there’s a catch? There’s always a catch. Surely this is all going too well to be true?
And then, last night, she’d discovered the catch. That catch had come slamming up against her and knocked her sideways.
They’d gone to a Mexican restaurant in Spinningfields with a resident mariachi band that wandered around and singing to the customers, and they were drinking tequilas and having such a good time that, even though Jo kept sternly telling herself, Remember Greg; don’t get carried away, she was starting to think that this could really be it – Rick might very well be the one, her happy ever after. Daringly she’d also been thinking that yes, if asked, she would go back to his place afterwards and make things official, so to speak. (Full disclosure: she was wearing her nicest satiny knickers especially, and a matching bra, and had rubbed scented body lotion all over herself after showering earlier. She was, it had to be said, kind of terrified at the prospect of stripping off in front of a new man, but she had a feeling, given his excellent kissing abilities, that it might just be amazing.) What the hell, she’d thought recklessly, smiling at him over the table as he applauded the mariachi band with gusto, hands above his head. She would live on the edge for once, she would go with her instincts and throw caution to the wind.
But then . . .
‘Jo? Are you deliberately keeping us in suspense, or what? Tell us more!’ cried India at that moment. She had never been very patient when it came to important gossip and the speed with which it was forthcoming.
Jo snapped out of her reverie. ‘Sorry. Um . . . Yeah. So I’ve been seeing someone,’ she said, her face flaming as the others made high-pitched Ooh noises and instantly leaned closer, a circle telescoping in on itself. She pushed away her doubts – don’t worry about it, she told herself for the hundredth time, it’ll be fine – and gave them the lowdown. ‘He’s called Rick, he’s forty-four, divorced but sane, and . . .’ Her cheeks burned even hotter but she couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘What can I say, he’s sexy as hell.’
