Perfect Mishap

by Aimee Horton

  I hope she doesn’t notice I had to repack it all when George climbed in and threw up on everything. Then had to replace all the white stuff because I’d got a black sock mixed up with it all.

  Jane lets out an animal noise, which causes me to swerve into the middle of the road. But I spot a car in the distance, so I slip back into my slot, beeping my horn and signalling for the tractor to pull over.

  “Just over-bloody-take him, Dottie! Before I give birth on your bloody front seat,” she growls.

  Shit, I knew I should have put a towel down first, but she wouldn’t let me.

  Trying not to think about how angry my friend had been at the suggestion that we protect my new leather interior, I finally get the courage and screech past the tractor, then slide gracefully back into my lane.

  My God, this car handles well.

  I don’t even know what that means, but it’s going round the corners without moving onto two wheels so I think that saying is about right. “Pant, Jane, pant!” I say as I hear her holding her breath again. I turn the corner and see the hospital ahead of us. “We’re nearly there, sweetie.”

  “Oh just bugger off,” she finally manages to spit at me, and I stay quiet.

  Moments later, I’m screeching into an ambulance space in front of the maternity ward, and Ben, who’d come to the hospital straight from work, is running towards us. Once I see that they’re safely inside—the automatic doors are working today—I park my Range Rover on a grass verge down the road. No way would it have fit in the tiny spaces in the car park.

  I race down the street and back into the maternity unit, and they tell me to take a seat. I’m out of breath from the barely two-minute burst of exercise I’ve just had.

  I really need to start working out again.

  As my breathing returns to normal, I look around the waiting room. It’s hardly changed since the last time I was here, although there are a few different chairs and what looks like a new TV.

  How can somewhere have changed so little in the time that life has changed so much?

  My mind starts to run through the last year: moving house, George’s birth, making friends and nearly losing them all. Then that night when everything came crashing down.

  When we’d gotten home the evening of the barbecue, we were met by Henry, Ben and a sheepish-looking Arthur. Turns out Henry caught Arthur in the en-suite listening to the party unfold.

  What was the child doing rifling through my tampons?

  Luckily I managed to convince Henry to discuss it with him in the morning. We sent Arthur and Hannah up to bed in (semi) disgrace, and after very little need for persuasion, we’d gathered around the breakfast bar and switched on the offending baby monitor.

  We could pick up the muffled whispering of people trying to work out what had happened, but we couldn’t hear Tina at all. Eventually Phil took the lead; he called Tina and Joe downstairs and then suggested that perhaps everyone should leave.

  Er… duh.

  “I think I should go get Declan,” Ben said, still a bit shell-shocked.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jane said.

  Tina didn’t put up a fight, and Declan, while a bit confused that his dad had come to fetch him on a random Sunday evening, came along without any fuss.

  According to Ben, Tina had just been standing there holding the baby monitor and watching people leave. She didn’t say a word.

  We listened until finally we heard Phil tell Joe to go home and talk to Izzy.

  Had she left straight after us?

  I was half-tempted to find out what Izzy and Joe were saying, but Jane must have read my mind, because catching my eye, she shook her head.

  I hate it when she’s right.

  For ages, all we heard on the other end of the monitor were the sounds of pots being stacked in the dishwasher and the odd muffled sob. In the end, we dished up the chilli, and then, just as I’d dreaded, the conversation turned to how it had all happened.

  Together, Jane and I spilled the beans. Henry took the majority of it well, except the part about us telling the girls he’d been cheating, which I kind of understood.

  When I’d finished, we heard a sudden roar from the monitor.

  Why couldn’t I have been interrupted BEFORE I’d had to explain everything?

  Then lots of swearing, followed by more sobbing. It was uncomfortable, but for some reason, we just couldn’t turn it off. Our eyes were focused on the tiny green light flashing on the side of the monitor. Finally, after some clattering near the base unit, everything went silent.

  Now she unplugs it.

  “Ready to put this all behind us?” Henry asked, collecting the offending monitors and the base unit. Then he and Ben started a bonfire and had a little too much fun burning the monitors.

  Spoilsports.

  We sat in the garden, wrapped in cardigans and drinking wine as we watched the flames melt them away. Resting my head on Jane’s shoulder, I watched Ben and Henry.

  “They’re obviously going to be firm friends,” I said, and she nodded happily. “What do you think will happen?” After all, Jane’s daughter accidentally outing Tina in such a magnificent way could only make things even more awkward.

  “God knows. Is it wrong that I’m proud of the little bugger?”

  We both laughed, knowing that whatever happened, everything with us—our two families—would be fine.

  The weeks that followed were even stranger. Joe moved out for a bit, and Jane, Penny and I tried desperately to comfort a devastated Izzy, who finally confessed to being eleven weeks pregnant. Two weeks later, they reunited, and whilst it’s still a sore subject, I actually think it’s done them good. Perhaps nearly losing Izzy made Joe realise how lucky he was to have her. Baby Lucas was born safely three months ago, just after George’s first birthday.

  Penny and I did join forces in the end, and I’m rather excited with how it’s going. After nine months of maternity leave with an increasingly fast and mobile George, I decided I could no longer be a stay-at-home mum. I still claim it was because I missed the interaction with adults and the creative side of designing fabric. But really, between you and me, even though Jane now lives across the road, the kids were running me ragged. I mean, there are only so many times a day I could play hybrid Rapunzel meets The Hulk games, with Maka Pakka joining in of course. The days when I was lusting after a glass of gin before lunchtime were becoming more frequent. It was time to go back to work.

  With Penny’s sales and business skills, things have started to rocket, giving us an opportunity to branch out. Next week, we launch our own children’s wear website, and at the end of the month, my dream bathroom—complete with colour-changing shower—will finally be fitted.

  And yes, you did read that right: Jane now lives across the street.

  Well, Tina wasn’t going to stick around, was she?

  The morning after it happened, she called us all, claiming Ben set her up. She swore she didn’t even know the monitors existed and said he’d put Hannah up to it so he could force her off the street. Nobody took any notice. In fact, she was frozen out, and without her listening devices, we soon realised how much she must have relied on them. Her visits to the wheelie bin or the car no longer clashed with our chats outside, and eventually, she asked Ben if he wanted to buy the rest of the house from her.

  He promptly proposed to Jane while they were on a weekend away in Paris—we had Hannah—and much to my delight, she accepted, along with a key to the house opposite.

  Ben, Hannah and Jane all moved in about eight months ago, when she confessed to me that she was also pregnant.

  She didn’t waste any time, did she?

  I feel in my bag for the little parcel wrapped up, containing a tiny newborn sleep suit—the first design for the new range by “Ruby and George.”

  I wonder how Jane is doing?

  A half hour passes, and I’m beginning to worry. I’m replying to a text message from Izzy to say there’s still no news when Henry comes ru
nning in looking panicked.

  “So you manage to make Jane’s birth on time but not mine?” I grin as I stand up to hug him.

  “I flew to yours,” he says, giving me a kiss.

  Like he’ll ever let me forget: He reminded me on my birthday, at Christmas and on Mother’s Day, telling me it’s my present for the next ten years.

  Just then, Ben comes out, and he’s beaming. “Is she going up to the labour ward?” I ask. I’m excited for a new baby, one that I can cuddle but hand back as soon as it needs feeding or it poos on me.

  “No,” Ben says, and my heart sinks. She’s got ages to go? She didn’t seem like she had ages to go. “No,” he says again, and that’s when I realise he’s holding his phone towards me, and I see a picture of a beautiful baby who looks just like Jane.

  ~~~~

  Heading home, we collect the kids from my mum and dad’s house. As the front door flies open, all the children come at me at once, the older two flinging themselves on me at full speed. Then there’s George—still with only four teeth—tottering precariously in my direction, staying near the walls and stopping himself on them every few seconds. A feeling of sadness sets in my stomach as I watch my baby boy, aware that he’s growing up. Sometimes I feel like, what with all the drama, I’ve not had the chance to enjoy him.

  We head out to the garden while Mum and Dad fetch drinks. I rest my head on Henry’s shoulder and am about to ask him if perhaps we should have another baby when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Penny.

  “Dottie, you have to come over now! I’ve just had a call. We’ve been offered a huge opportunity.” She is breathless with excitement.

  “Oh my God, what is it? What is it?” I squeal, jumping up and down.

  “I can’t tell you over the phone. Just get here as fast as you can! Where are you?”

  This is big, I can feel it.

  “At my mum’s. I’ll be there in five!” I kiss Henry on the head and gabble “Penny” and “exciting news” at him, and he nods.

  When I get to Penny’s house, I let myself in and head upstairs to the little office she’s created.

  Penny is sitting at the desk, staring intently at her computer screen. She’s jiggling her pen up and down impatiently. When she sees me, she pushes her chair back and runs towards me.

  “What, what, what?” I ask, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

  “Imagine the biggest thing you said you wanted to happen,” she says. Hrm, there are a lot of big things I’ve wanted to happen.

  GEAR wants to stock my clothes?

  Hugh Grant wants me to star in his next movie?

  I’m going to get discovered as the next singing sensation?

  I take a guess. “Does a celebrity want their kid to wear our clothes in a magazine shoot? But we’ve not even launched the website yet.”

  “Better than that.”

  Better than that?!

  “He saw one of the promo photos on Instagram…”

  “WHO, WHO, WHO?” I wail. “Who saw one of the photos?”

  “Richard Curtis!” Penny can barely control her voice. “He wants to talk to you about being a stylist for the kids on his latest movie!” She squeals and jumps up and down.

  I just stand there, mouth open.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  “As in, Love, Actually, Notting Hill, Four Weddings, Richard Curtis?” I trill.

  She nods, and together we jump up and down. This is amazing. But I can’t stop the nerves that are settling in the bottom of my stomach at the image of Mabel greeting me at the door in her PJ top and a pair of Arthur’s jogging bottoms.

  If I can’t get my own kids dressed, how the hell am I going to dress other people’s?

  A Note from Aimee Horton

  Hello!

  Thanks for reading Perfect Mishap! I hope you enjoyed Dottie’s latest adventures (she’s always up to something, isn’t she?) and got plenty of laughs. If so, I’d love it if you left a review at your favorite retailer. If you do, they’ll send me a bottle of gin. Just kidding! Even better, your review might help other readers discover it. Just a couple sentences saying why you enjoyed the book will do the trick! Thank you, your words count!

  I’d also like to invite you to join my mailing list to keep up with my latest news and sales on my books, and get a free ebook of Perfect Mix-up (normally $2.99)! You can sign up here: http://bit.ly/aimee-gin-news

  Cheers,

  Aimee

  P.S. Read on for a sneak peek at Perfect Christmas, where our zany friend Dottie gets herself into more wild adventures!

  Acknowledgements

  As always, the first thanks go to my boys (Gordon, Hendrick, Bombay, Miller and Aldi), for their patience, their understanding, and also the material they provide on a daily basis. Without them I wouldn’t have a notebook full of plot ideas. NOT REALLY! I mean Matt, Theo and Larry. Sort of.

  Tomy—without your baby monitor I wouldn’t have known that if you change channels you could pick up other people’s monitors…

  Kerry, Jordan and Chrissie. Thank you for letting me splurge, you’re the reason I made each word count target. As is Twitter, Instagram and Facebook—although they make it take a little longer.

  Lauren, Tatie, Lauz and Jelly, thank you for putting up with me. I know at times I’m a total grumpy cow. Thank you for letting me be, or pulling my head out of my backside.

  Mum, thank you for being my best friend and reading everything for me to make sure I don’t sound like a total loser.

  Finally, Vicki and Adria. Thank you for believing in me, for dealing with the daily (hourly) “ARE YOU SURE” emails, and for helping Dottie become a better read.

  About the Author

  Aimee is from Lincoln, England, where she enjoys drinking gin and spending time with her family (and she won’t tell you which of those she prefers doing). As a child, one of her favourite parts of the summer holidays was to devour all the books in a little book shop in Devon. She continued reading at lightning speed right up until having children. She now reads with eyes propped open by match sticks.

  And keep up with Aimee online:

  Newsletter: http://bit.ly/aimee-gin-news (and get Perfect Mix-Up for free—normally $2.99)

  Website: PassTheGin.co.uk

  Twitter: @AimeeHorton

  Facebook: AimeeHortonWrites

  Instagram: AimeeHortonWrites

  Email: mrs@aimee-horton.co.uk

  Other Titles by Aimee Horton

  Check out the rest of the Perfect Disaster Series, featuring Dottie Harris:

  Perfect Mayhem: Bridget Jones meets The Nanny Diaries in this modern-day diary of a new mom.

  Perfect Christmas, a humorous novella about Dottie’s Christmas gone horribly wrong.

  Perfect Mix-Up, a funny short story highlighting the differences between the British and Americans.

  Perfect Disaster, a romantic comedy that takes us back to when Dottie met Henry—and the disaster that ensued! (Coming 2017)

  Read on for a sneak peek of Perfect Christmas…

  But first, find out just how British Dottie is in…

  Perfect Mix-Up

  Dottie Harris is as British as they come, which is exactly what endears her to us. But when her pregnant American cousin comes for a visit, Dottie is a frazzled disaster who can’t seem to overcome the language barrier.

  Perfect Mix-Up is a funny look at parenting from both sides of the pond, and the surprising number of confusing language differences that entails.

  Get it for free! Join Aimee’s new release mailing list and she’ll send you a free ebook of Perfect Mix-Up: http://bit.ly/aimee-gin-news.

  Aimee Horton

  Christmas Eve

  I stand in the dining room doorway and give a happy sigh of pride. Pulling my phone out of my pocket I snap a couple of pictures and upload them to Facebook, into my already bulging Christmas album. Now that the tables are all set for tomorrow’s big dinner, I am finally starting to feel in control of e
verything. It looks better than I ever imagined; you can’t even tell there are three different tables. What’s more, unless you look really closely, you can’t even tell that two of them are plastic outside furniture.

  That’s right, my dining room is filled with our normal dining table, two white plastic patio sets borrowed from my friend Jane and a last minute buy from eBay. If I’m honest, it didn’t look great to begin with, but after much searching, the Internet came up trumps. Not only did I find a beautiful Christmas tablecloth that covered all three tables, but chair covers to match.

  Leaning forward, I adjust the position of a tea-light holder, and faff a pile of sequins shaped like holly out a bit more.

  Perfect.

  I’m so excited. It’s my first ever time hosting Christmas, and I’m feeding eleven people. There’s my mum and dad. My brother, Oscar, his wife, Laura, and their teenage daughter, Lexi. Then there’s Henry’s mum, Maria, and her third husband… Charles, I think. I can’t keep up, to be honest. Finally there’s us four. I’ve never cooked a Sunday roast for more than us lot let alone Christmas dinner, and somehow, eleven people are coming to witness it. But luckily it won’t be a disaster; I’ve built a spreadsheet.

  The kids have spent the day in front of the TV eating chocolates, and I’ve spent the day peeling veg and wrapping pigs in blankets. I’ve even had time to make an amazing chocolate log from scratch. All I need to do tomorrow is put things in the oven at the right times, and we’re onto a winner. Even the presents are wrapped—usually we’re still wrapping at nearly midnight. I can’t believe how organised I am.