A Stitch in Time

by Amanda James

  Copyright © 2013 Amanda James

  Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choclitpublishing.com

  The right of Amanda James to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is availablefrom the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78189-003-5

  With much love and thanks to my husband, Brian and my daughter, Tanya, for their love, encouragement, patience and unwavering faith in me. I couldn’t have done this without them.

  And to my darling grandson, Ronan. You bring light to the darkest day and fill my heart with joy.

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  About the Author

  More from Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people I would like to thank but that would fill another book.

  Firstly I want to thank Dr Joanna Cannon for being my beta reader. She read the first draft and loved it. She said she had forgotten that she wasn’t already reading a published novel. I was over the moon as it was a first draft and a bit of a departure from my previous novels. And coming from such an accomplished writer, it meant such a lot. Her words gave me fantastic encouragement. Thanks so much, Jo.

  I would like to thank all my family and friends who have been so thrilled with my writing successes, big and small. A special mention must go to my parents, brother and family for their love and encouragement.

  I would also like to thank the many writer friends I have on Twitter and Facebook for their good humour and advice. We all know how difficult it is to become published nowadays and sharing our experiences really helped the writing process.

  And finally, a huge thank you goes to the entire Choc Lit team for always being at hand and so wonderful to work with. My fellow Choc Lit authors are fantastic too. They welcomed me with open arms to the Choc Lit ‘family’ and are always so supportive, and encouraging. I of course am enormously grateful to the Choc Lit Tasting Panel, because without their acceptance, you wouldn’t be just about to read this book!

  Chapter One

  The number 37 bus hurtled down the narrow street, its engine growling like an angry thunder god. Sarah froze rabbit-like and did a quick but futile calculation in her head. The distance to the safety of the café entrance, compared to the puddle (masquerading as Lake Windermere), which was about to disappear under huge rubber tyres = not a chance in hell.

  ‘Oh no … don’t you dare! Can’t you see me walking here, you—’ The wind snatched her curse and tossed it up to the rain-soaked heavens.

  In a desperate attempt at damage limitation, Sarah turned away from the road and flattened herself against the café window. Cupping both hands around her face, she closed her eyes, and set her back against the deluge. A second later, a muddy wave of what felt like the Arctic Ocean drenched almost every available inch of her from head to toe. Water trickled into her ears, under her collar, down her neck, into her boots, soaked through her coat, black velvet leggings, and worst of all, her new ‘I cost an arm and a leg’ red cashmere sweater dress.

  A moan escaped from her lips as she realised that as well as the damage done to her clothes, a whole morning spent in the hairdressers had been undone in just a few seconds. Raising her hand to her head she could feel the lovely bounce of recently blow-dried hair at the front, and plastered rat’s tails hanging at the back. She must look like someone had hit her on the back of the head with a water mallet.

  Sarah blew heavily down her nose and tried to calm her rage. That bus driver had done this deliberately. He could have slowed down, moved out a little to avoid the puddle, but no. That bastard had been out to get her, and boy, did he get her. She swallowed the lump of humiliation forming in her throat. Open your eyes, Sarah, before people inside the café notice. On doing so, Sarah realised the ‘before people notice’ ship had well and truly sailed.

  Through the clear spaces in the steamy window of the café, she could see customers reacting in a variety of ways to the bedraggled scarecrow of a woman peering in at them from the street. Some were nudging each other and laughing openly, others were more politely stifling giggles behind hands and one or two frowned and shook their heads in sympathy.

  One customer, her best friend Karen, sat open-mouthed and then set down her coffee cup, pushed back her chair and hurried out into the rain.

  ‘Oh my God, Sarah, come inside, let’s try and get you dry somehow,’ she said, grabbing Sarah’s soggy arm and pulling her inside the door.

  Sarah shook her arm free and looked around the pin-drop silent café. ‘I’m not going in there now,’ she hissed. ‘I’m completely soaked and humiliated; I’ll just go home instead.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, at least it’s warm in here. By the time you get home you’ll catch your death. I’m sure we could borrow a towel and there are hand dryers in the loo.’

  Sarah glanced back outside at the torrential rain and then into the café where normal conversation had started up again. It would be daft to struggle home half-drenched in this downpour and the delicious waft of coffee and cinnamon rolls finally convinced her of Karen’s argument.

  At last, with the help of two towels and fifteen minutes with the hand dryer, Sarah could just about sit down at a table without squelching. The walk from the loo to the table had been less than silent however. Her boots had expelled damp air, making little farting noises each time her foot met the floor.

  The café owner had been really lovely and insisted on giving Sarah coffee and freshly made carrot cake on the house. She’d also taken Sarah’s coat and put it on the radiator through the back of the shop. The nasty ‘laugh out loud’ customers had left shortly after Sarah had walked in, and most people had smiled kindly or ignored her predicament.

  Wrapping her hands around the big mug of coffee, Sarah relished the heat seeping into her chilled fingers. She sipped it as quickly as the scalding liquid would allow, feeling it melt a warm, comforting path to her tummy.


  ‘Feeling better now, hon?’ Karen asked, her head tilted to one side.

  ‘Getting there, ta.’ Sarah looked across the table at Karen. Immaculate as usual. Even though it was the middle of December and pissing down with rain, Karen always looked absolutely stunning. A cross between Angelina Jolie and Julia Roberts was how Sarah’s neighbour had described her recently when she’d seen Karen giving Sarah a lift home. Sarah reckoned that she herself was average to fair on a good day, but right now people would describe her as a cross between Vicky Pollard and a loo brush.

  They’d known each other since school and met once a month on a Saturday afternoon, regular as clockwork. Today, mindful of the fact she was the wrong side of thirty and feeling a bit dowdy, Sarah had bought new clothes and had her mousy blonde hair highlighted and restyled. Just this once, Sarah had wanted to feel attractive and make an impression when she met up with the glamorous Karen. Well, she’d certainly made an impression, hadn’t she? Yep, an impression that she’d been hit with an ugly stick.

  ‘I can’t believe this awful weather lately,’ Karen frowned. ‘I think we’ll need to build an ark soon.’

  ‘We do live in Sheffield, Karen, and it is December; what do you expect?’

  ‘OK, no need to get stroppy. It’s not my fault you got drenched, is it?’

  ‘No, sorry, I’ll be alright when I’ve had a sugar fix.’ Sarah sighed and dug her fork into the cake. She couldn’t help noticing that all the male customers, while ostensibly chatting to their wives or girlfriends, kept sliding little surreptitious glances at Karen. Their eyes seemed to be attached by invisible threads to Karen’s eyes, mouth, breasts and legs, though not necessarily in that order. Karen appeared oblivious to their worship, banging on about work and who said what to whom. But Sarah noticed Karen tossing her hair once or twice and licking cappuccino traces from her lips with a slow tongue.

  Never mind, Sarah told herself; at least she had a husband who loved her. Poor Karen had a series of broken relationships as long as your arm. Even though she was such a lovely person, for some reason men didn’t stay around. Perhaps they couldn’t hack the constant predatory threat of other roaming males.

  Sarah had once moaned to Neil that she always felt self-conscious when she met up with Karen. Neil had said all the right things: ‘That’s rubbish! Yes, I guess she’s pretty, but she’s not my type. I have the perfect woman right here.’

  Sarah was not naive enough to believe she was the perfect woman, but it helped to know that he thought she was.

  ‘This carrot cake is delicious, in fact I might get another piece, want some?’ Karen asked, pushing her plate away.

  Sarah shook her head and pulled a face. ‘Another piece; you’re throwing caution to the wind, aren’t you?’ She laughed. Karen watched her calorie intake very carefully as a rule, hence the svelte figure.

  ‘You only live once.’ Karen stood, inched her way between the table and chairs and walked to the counter.

  Sarah nearly choked on her coffee; she couldn’t believe it. She’d been too preoccupied getting dry to notice anything before, but she could swear she’d seen a roll of fat when Karen’s tummy had been at eye level. And she was getting more cake? There is a god!

  Swivelling in her chair to get a better look at her friend’s apparent weight gain, Sarah was afforded a profile view. Yes, definitely a paunch … round, quite neat … Sarah felt her own stomach lurch and her mouth fall open. God, she’s not getting fat you daft mare, she’s … no, that’s crazy. Karen’s always said that’s the last thing …

  ‘What are you gawping at?’ Karen squeezed past again and settled back at the table, already sticking her fork into the generous slab of carrot cake.

  ‘Err … nothing, just not used to you eating cake like it’s the new get-slim-quick fix.’ Go careful, Sarah. If she wants to tell you her secret then she will …

  ‘What are you, the cake police? It’s nice to have a little bit of what you fancy now and again. Aren’t you always telling me that women are under pressure to conform to the stick-thin super model brigade and that we should fight against it?’ Karen’s brown eyes flashed and she rammed a huge forkful of cake into her mouth.

  Sarah raised her eyebrows and held up her hands. ‘Sorr-ee!’ Mood swings, weight gain …

  Karen slammed her fork down and avoided Sarah’s eyes. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m a little emotional at the moment. I didn’t mean to snap.’ She looked back at Sarah, her eyes awash with sudden tears. ‘You’re the last person I wanted to get angry with …’

  ‘Hey, don’t be silly, what’s up?’ Sarah reached for Karen’s hand across the table. Karen snatched it away. ‘No, don’t be nice to me or I’ll bawl my eyes out.’

  ‘I think I can guess what’s up. I hope I’m right or I’m probably going to get a slap … it’s not too many cakes that’s caused your pancake washboard to bulge a bit, is it?’ Sarah sat back in her seat, just in case.

  Karen flushed and shook her head, no.

  ‘Who’s the daddy?’

  ‘It’s a mess; I don’t want to talk about it.’ Karen folded her arms and looked out of the window.

  A mess? Sarah would give everything to be in Karen’s platform boots. ‘Was it a one-night stand, or …’

  ‘What don’t you understand about the words “I don’t want to talk about it”?’ Karen cursed under her breath and shrugged into her coat. ‘Look, I’m not in the mood for a heart to heart. I’m sorry, it’s not you.’ She picked up her bag and stepped into the aisle. ‘I’ll ring you, OK?’ Karen briefly touched Sarah’s shoulder and then rushed out into the rain.

  The handbag was hurled with such ferocity that it scattered the carefully placed tower of exercise books across the back seat. Loose pages and colourful diagrams of the Dunkirk retreat plopped on to the floor and disappeared under the passenger seat. Yeah, that’d be right, not only did she have to mark them all, she now had to scrabble around with her arse in the air trying to retrieve the bits that had fallen out. Serves you right, Sarah. You should try and calm your bloody temper.

  She slid behind the wheel and slammed the door on yet another miserable day. Three in a row – a hat trick. Saturday had seen the ruin of her new hairdo and clothes (the cashmere sweater dress would now just about fit the cat), and then the awful upset with Karen. Sunday, Neil had buggered off just as she was putting their seventh wedding anniversary meal on the table (which she’d planned for weeks and slaved over all day) – a mate of his was having a crisis, apparently. And Monday, today, the head teacher had announced Ofsted would arrive mid-week.

  The imminent arrival of school inspectors was enough to strike fear into the heart of even the most confident teachers at the best of times, but Sarah’s mid-week timetable was definitely the worst of times. Both Wednesday and Thursday were full teaching days with the toughest classes in Years 9 and 10. There would be no hiding place.

  Sarah tucked her shaking hands under her legs and leaned her head gently on the wheel. Bile rose in her throat and the school lunch she’d had, against her better judgement, hinted that it would like to get reacquainted. Dear God, if she felt like this on Monday, by Wednesday she’d probably vomit and pass out on the classroom floor. A coping strategy was needed pronto.

  Two images were simultaneously offered for consideration courtesy of the panic section of her brain: 1) a few huge gin and tonics in the bath, or 2) a rigorous workout at the gym.

  Sarah’s heart lurched for the gin, while her head figured that she should steer clear of alcohol, at least until Inspector Gadget had finished with her.

  She flicked open her phone and pressed speed dial. Great, answerphone … ‘Neil, it’s me. Going to the gym. See you at home later … Had a really, really awful day, tell you about it soon. And can you pop into Sainsbury’s on your way home and get something quick for tea, a pizza or something? I can’t be arsed to cook.’ Especially not after I spent so long preparing the meal yesterday, and then feeding it lovingly to the kitchen bin. She chucked
the phone over her shoulder and, instead of landing on her handbag, it of course decided to join the diagrams of Dunkirk.

  To shower here or at home? Sarah glanced at her watch; time was getting on, even though she was as pink as a shrimp and covered in sweat, she’d best get home. The rowing machine, treadmill and weights had loosed a few feel-good endorphins, and the tension that had twisted her shoulders into a hunchback had begun to trickle away with her perspiration.

  Picking up her fluffy towel she wiped her arms and face, shoved it into her gym bag and walked towards the exit. ‘Sarah, hey how’s tricks?’

  Turning round she saw Natalie, a woman she often chatted to at the gym, hurrying towards her. Sarah groaned inwardly. Natalie was OK, but she was a huge gossip and Sarah avoided telling her anything too personal. Besides, she had to go home and have a shower, stuff some food down and then tackle those books. ‘Hey, Natalie, I’m good. Can’t stop though; I’ve got lots of school work to do.’

  Natalie chose to ignore that and poked Sarah on the arm. ‘Have you heard about the lovely Carlos?’ Natalie’s dark eyes shone with excitement. Carlos was one of the personal trainers at the gym.

  Sarah sighed. ‘No, what about him?’

  ‘He’s been sacked for shagging a client in the sauna.’ Natalie leaned in conspiratorially. ‘And the client was a bloke!’ she hissed gleefully.

  Sarah shrugged and turned for the door. ‘Poor Carlos.’

  Natalie put her hand on Sarah’s arm preventing her from pushing the door open. ‘Poor Carlos? Poor half the women here, including moi. Such a waste if you ask—’

  ‘Yes, well I’m sure everyone will cope. Anyway, nice to see you but I must dash,’ Sarah said, and once again made to leave. Natalie was beginning to piss her off big style.

  But incredibly, once again Natalie put her hand on Sarah’s arm. Bloody hell, couldn’t this woman take a hint?

  ‘Saw that lovely hubby of yours the other day. I didn’t have time to stop and chat to him though as I was dashing to the library before they closed.’