by Jenny Colgan
‘Because you kept talking about “accidents” and “regrettable incidents”,’ I said crossly. ‘I didn’t realise they’d gone altogether. AND I can feel them. They really hurt.’
He nodded.
‘That’s quite common, I’m afraid.’
‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? Everyone kept banging on about fever and bugs and things.’
‘Well, that’s what we were worried about. Losing a couple of toes was a lot less likely to kill you.’
‘Well, that’s good to know. And it’s not “a couple of toes”. It’s my toes.’
As we spoke, a nurse was gently unwrapping the bandages from my foot. I gulped, worried I was going to throw up again.
Did you ever play that game at school where you lie on your front with your eyes closed and someone pulls your arms taut above your head, then very slowly lowers them so it feels like your arms are going down a hole? That was what this was like. My brain couldn’t compute what it was seeing; what it could feel and knew to be true. My toes were there. They were there. But in front of my eyes was a curious diagonal slicing; two tiny stumps taken off in a descending line, very sharp, like it had been done on purpose with a razor.
‘Now,’ Dr Ed was saying, ‘you know you are actually very lucky, because if you’d lost your big toe or your little one, you’d have had real problems with balance.’
I looked at him like he had horns growing out of his head.
‘I absolutely and definitely do not feel lucky,’ I said.
‘Try being me,’ came a voice from behind the next curtain, where Mrs Shawcourt was waiting for her next round of chemotherapy.
Suddenly, without warning, we both started to laugh.
I was in hospital for another three weeks. Loads of my mates came by and said I’d been in the paper, and could they have a look (no, apart from getting my dressing changed I couldn’t bear to look at them) and keeping me up to date on social events that, suddenly, I really found I’d lost interest in. In fact, the only person I could talk to was Mrs Shawcourt, except of course she told me to call her Claire, which took a bit of getting used to and made me feel a bit too grown up. She had two sons who came to visit, who always looked a bit short for time, and her daughters-in-law, who were dead nice and used to give me their gossip mags because Claire couldn’t be bothered with them, and once they brought some little girls in, both of whom got completely freaked out by the wires and the smell and the beeping. It was the only time I saw Claire really truly sad.
The rest of the time we talked. Well, I talked. Mostly about how bored I was, and how I was going to walk; physio was rubbish. For two things I had never ever thought about, except when I was getting a pedicure and not really even then, toes were annoyingly useful when it came to getting about. Even more embarrassing, I had to use the same physio lab as people who had really horrible traumatic injuries and were in wheelchairs and stuff and I felt like the most horrendous fraud marching up and down parallel bars with an injury most people thought was quite amusing, if anything.
Claire understood though. She was such easy company and sometimes, when she was very ill, I’d read to her. Most of her books, though, were in French.
‘I can’t read this,’ I said.
‘You ought to be able to,’ she said. ‘You had me.’
‘Yeah, kind of,’ I muttered.
‘You were a good student,’ said Claire. ‘You showed a real aptitutde, I remember.’
Suddenly I flashed back to my first year report card. Among the ‘doesn’t apply herself’ and ‘could do betters’ I suddenly remembered my French mark had been good. Why hadn’t I applied myself?
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I thought school was stupid.’
Claire shook her head. ‘But I’ve met your parents, they’re lovely. You’re from such a nice family.’
‘You don’t have to live with them,’ I said, then felt guilty that I’d been mean about them. They’d been in every single day even if, as Dad complained almost constantly, the parking charges were appalling.
‘You still live at home?’ she asked, surprised, and I felt a bit defensive.
‘Neh. I lived with my boyfriend for a bit, but he turned out to be a pillock, so I moved back in, that’s all.’
‘I see,’ said Claire. She looked at her watch. It was only nine-thirty in the morning. We’d already been up for three hours and lunch wasn’t till twelve.
‘If you like …’ she began, ‘I’m bored too. If I taught you some French, you could read to me. And I would feel less like a big sick bored bald plum who does nothing but dwell on the past and feel old and stupid and useless. Would you like that?’
I looked down at the magazine I was holding that had an enormous picture of Kim Kardashian’s arse on it. And she had ten toes.
‘Yeah, all right,’ I said.
1973
‘Don’t cry,’ the man was saying, shouting to be heard over the stiff sea breeze and the honking of the ferries and the rattle of the trains. ‘It is a tiny … look, la Manche. We can swim it if we have to.’ He was trying to make a weak joke but it did nothing
This did nothing to stem the tide of tears rolling down the girl’s cheeks. He wiped one away tenderly with his thumb.
‘I would,’ she said. ‘I will swim it for you.’
‘You,’ he said, his voice cracking, ‘will go back and finish school and do wonderful things and be happy.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she groaned. ‘I want to stay here with you.’
The man grimaced and attempted to stop her tears with kisses. They were dripping on his long-collared shirt.
‘Ssh, bout-chou. Ssssh. We will be together again, you’ll see.’
‘I love you,’ said the girl. ‘I will never love anyone so much in my entire life.’
‘I love you too,’ said the man. ‘I care for you and I love you and I shall see you again and I shall write you letters and you shall finish school and you shall see, all will be well.’
The girl’s sobs started to quiet.
‘I can’t … I can’t bear it,’ she said.
‘Ah, love,’ said the man, his accent strong. ‘That is what it is; the need to bear things.’ He buried his face in her hair. ‘Alors. My love. Come back. Soon.’
‘I will,’ said the girl. ‘Of course I will come back soon.’
WELCOME TO ROSIE HOPKINS’ SWEETSHOP OF DREAMS
Jenny Colgan
Were you a sherbet lemon or chocolate lime fan? Penny chews or hard-boiled sweeties (you do get more for your money that way)? The jangle of your pocket money … the rustle of the pink and green striped paper bag …
Rosie Hopkins thinks leaving her busy London life, and her boyfriend Gerard, to sort out her elderly Aunt Lilian’s sweetshop in a small country village is going to be dull. Boy, is she wrong.
Lilian Hopkins has spent her life running Lipton’s sweetshop, through wartime and family feuds. As she struggles with the idea that it might finally be the time to settle up, she also wrestles with the secret history hidden behind the jars of beautifully coloured sweets.
‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’
Heat
978-0-7515-4454-1
MEET ME AT THE CUPCAKE CAFÉ
Jenny Colgan
Come and meet Issy Randall, proud owner of The Cupcake Café.
Issy Randall can bake. No, more than that – Issy can create stunning, mouth-wateringly divine cakes. After a childhood spent in her beloved Grampa Joe’s bakery, she has undoubtedly inherited his talent.
When she’s made redundant from her safe but dull City job, Issy decides to seize the moment. Armed with recipes from Grampa, and with her best friends and local bank manager fighting her corner, The Cupcake Café opens its doors. But Issy has absolutely no idea what she’s let herself in for. It will take all her courage – and confectionery – to avert disaster …
‘Sheer indulgence from start to finish’
Sophie Kinsell
a
978-0-7515-4449-7
WEST END GIRLS
Jenny Colgan
They may be twin sisters, but Lizzie and Penny Berry are complete opposites – Penny is blonde, thin and outrageous; Lizzie quiet, thoughtful and definitely not thin. The one trait they do share is a desire to DO something with their lives and, as far as they’re concerned, the place to get noticed is London.
Out of the blue they discover they have a grandmother living in Chelsea – and when she has to go into hospital, they find themselves flat-sitting on the King’s Road. But, as they discover, it’s not as easy to become It Girls as they’d imagined, and West End Boys aren’t at all like Hugh Grant …
‘A brilliant novel from the mistress of chick-lit’
Eve
978-0-7515-4332-2
OPERATION SUNSHINE
Jenny Colgan
Evie needs a good holiday. Not just because she’s been working all hours in her job, but also because every holiday she has ever been on has involved sunburn, arguments and projectile vomiting – sometimes all three at once. Why can’t she have a normal holiday, like other people seem to have – some sun, sand, sea and (hopefully) sex?
So when her employers invite her to attend a conference with them in the South of France, she can’t believe her luck. It’s certainly going to be the holiday of a lifetime – but not quite in the way Evie imagines!
‘Colgan at her warm, down-to-earth best’
Cosmopolitan
978-0-7515-3762-8
DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND
Jenny Colgan
Sophie Chesterton has been living the high life of glamorous parties, men and new clothes, never thinking about tomorrow. But after one shocking evening, she comes back down to earth with the cruellest of bumps. Facing up to life in the real world for the first time, Sophie quickly realises that when you’ve hit rock bottom, the only way is up.
Join her as she starts life all over again: from cleaning toilets for a living to the joys of bring-your-own-booze parties; from squeezing out that last piece of lip gloss from the tube to bargaining with bus drivers.
For anyone who’s ever been scared of losing it all, this book is here to show you money can’t buy you love, and best friends are so much more fun than diamonds …
‘Jenny Colgan always writes an unputdownable, page-turning bestseller – she’s the queen of modern chick-lit’
Louise Bagshawe
978-0-7515-4031-4
THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE DUMPED
Jenny Colgan
Now, you obviously, would never, ever look up your exes on Facebook. Nooo. And even if you did, you most certainly wouldn’t run off trying to track them down, risking your job, family and happiness in the process. Posy Fairweather, on the other hand …
Posy is delighted when Matt proposes – on top of a mountain, in a gale, in full-on romantic mode. But a few days later disaster strikes: he backs out of the engagement. Crushed and humiliated, Posy starts thinking. Why has her love life always ended in total disaster? Determined to discover how she got to this point, Posy resolves to get online and track down her exes. Can she learn from past mistakes? And what if she has let Mr Right slip through her fingers on the way?
‘A Jenny Colgan novel is as essential for a week in the sun as Alka Seltzer, aftersun and far too many pairs of sandals’
Heat
978-0-7515-4030-7
* Though I wouldn’t have put it past Flynn.
