by Cate Woods
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Cate Woods
Also by Cate Woods
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2018 Cate Woods
The moral right of Cate Woods to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78648 527 4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Cate Woods made the most of her degree in Anglo-Saxon Literature by embarking on a career making tea on programmes including The Big Breakfast, Who Wants to be a Millionaire and French & Saunders. After narrowly missing out on the chance to become a Channel 5 weather girl she moved into journalism, where she interviewed every famous John, from Prescott to Bon Jovi, ghostwrote a weekly column for a footballer’s wife and enjoyed a brief stint as one half of Closer magazine’s gossip-columnist duo, ‘Mr & Mrs Showbiz’. Cate left the magazine world in 2009 to pursue a full-time career ghostwriting celebrity autobiographies and novels. She lives in London with her husband (not Mr Showbiz) and two small children.
Also by Cate Woods:
Just Haven’t Met You Yet
Praise for Cate Woods:
‘Laugh-out-loud funny and life-affirming. A must read’ Closer
‘A witty tale you’ll gobble up like a Valentine’s doughnut’ Heat
‘An enjoyably easy read with engaging characters, witty dialogue and a couple of plot twists I didn’t see coming’ Daily Mail
‘A hilarious romantic comedy that every woman will identify with. A heartwarming read with an ingenious twist’ OK! Magazine
‘A riotously funny novel . . . we loved the snappy dialogue, and the smart observations on the trials of relationships and dating really resonated. However, it’s some clever plot twists that make this such a satisfying page-turner’ iBooks
For my sister Vicky
Prologue
Five Years Ago
‘Girl, I am gagging over your look tonight. That headscarf – I die! Vintage Pucci?’
‘Oxfam discount bin.’ I grin, striking a pose. When a drag queen compliments your accessories, you can be pretty sure you’re doing something right.
‘Well, that was 20p fabulously spent, Miss Barb. Pussy is on fire!’
She bends down to give me a theatrical air-kiss on both cheeks: in wig and heels, self-styled ‘door bitch’ Madame Kiki Beaverhousen must be pushing seven foot. She lifts the rope and I slip under, sensing the mass scowl from the line of people waiting round the block who’ve just watched me shamelessly queue-jump.
‘See you inside,’ I say, waving to Madame Kiki, and disappear into the darkness beyond the doorway. All the signs are there: tonight is going to be fun.
As I make my way down the velvet-lined corridor, my step unconsciously falling in time with the music, excitement bubbles up inside me. I pass a large gilt mirror and pause to check my reflection. It took me two hours to get ready, which I guess is pretty standard for a Thursday night – after all, Thursday is the new Sunday, which was once the new Saturday, which used to be the new Friday . . . or something like that.
As well as the headscarf, I’m wearing a full-length pink kaftan with a jewelled neckline, armfuls of bangles and a pair of gold platform sandals (it’s quite a casual club night, you understand, so I didn’t want to overdo it), plus my signature make-up look: winged eyeliner, strong brows and pale, matte lips. Okay, I suppose it’s not my signature make-up look – I stole it from Barbra, the divine Ms Streisand: my style icon, role model and all-year-round girl crush. My wardrobe of vintage and charity shop finds is entirely inspired by her own from the Sixties and Seventies. The woman is a goddess.
My Streisand obsession started over ten years ago when I was in my early teens. I have been blessed with a magnificent megalith of a nose, an impressive slab of nasal architecture that I’m now rightly proud of – although try telling a self-conscious fourteen-year-old who just wants to look like Britney Spears that big noses can be beautiful. I’d come home from school in tears one day, after yet another nose-based bullying, when my wonderful father sat me down and put on the film The Way We Were. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There, on the screen, was MY nose, slap-bang in the middle of the face of the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. My nose was getting to kiss Robert Redford! My nose was wearing the most fabulous pale-pink halter-neck jumpsuit! My nose was a star!
It was a life-changing moment, and it was then I decided that when I grew up I was going to be Barbra Streisand. And while I might not have her life – I’m yet to achieve the superstardom or multiple zeroes on my bank balance – I most certainly have her look, which in turn has led to me borrowing her name, too. To my work friends at least, I’m universally known as ‘Barb’.
The corridor opens out into the bar and I spot a group of people I know. This club is currently a favourite with the fashion crowd: even if I turn up on my own, I know there’ll be plenty of familiar faces here. I start working my way through the throng towards them.
‘Barb! How are you, gorgeous?’
Tomo, a male model I’ve known for a few years – you probably know him, too, from countless ad campaigns – looms out of the crowd and wraps me in a bear hug.
‘I’m just going to say hi to Riva, Delphine and the others,’ I say, gesturing to the group by the bar when he pulls away.
‘Okay, but first I’ve got a little proposition for you.’ He reaches for my hand. ‘Come with me . . .’
Models, male and female, tend to fall into two camps: they are either fetishised for their weirdness (these are the ones who look more alien than human – fashion simply adores a freak) or worshipped for their flawless beauty. With his achingly handsome face and
gym-honed body, Tomo sits firmly in the latter category. He’d be an absolute nightmare to have as a boyfriend because he gets hit on constantly (by both men and women), but he’s a great mate, plus we often end up in bed together anyway – and tonight, as he steers me towards a quiet corner of the bar, I’m guessing he has mischief on his mind.
‘So I was thinking,’ he says, snaking his arm around my waist, ‘how about my favourite photographic assistant and I give this place a miss, and head straight back to mine?’
I look at him, eyebrows raised; I guess when you’re this good-looking you can afford to be brazen. ‘But I haven’t even had a drink yet.’
‘Well, I’ve got vodka in the freezer and champagne in the fridge, and if madame would like anything else, I will call my PA and get her to courier it over to the flat.’ He pulls me closer and drops his voice to a husky murmur. ‘How about it? I promise I’ll make it worth your while . . .’
I chew my lip, thinking over this undeniably tempting offer. ‘I really shouldn’t, T, I’ve got an early start in the morning – Jay’s shooting Nadia for Harper’s. Besides,’ I add, my armfuls of bracelets clanking in corroboration, ‘I think I’m a bit overdressed for a private party at your place.’
Tomo leans towards me, until his perfectly symmetrical face is so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath, and whispers: ‘But that’s exactly what I was thinking . . .’
Looking into Tomo’s dark eyes, and at his full-lipped mouth that I know from experience is highly proficient at kissing (and other oral pursuits), I’m this close to giving in – but it’s already gone midnight, and I’ve got to be in the studio tomorrow for an eight o’clock start.
‘Next time,’ I manage with an apologetic smile.
Tomo fixes me with his trademark sex-look for a second longer, then shrugs. ‘You’re no fun anymore, Barb,’ he says, but there’s a grin in his voice and as we weave our way back towards the bar he loops his arm through mine. ‘So how’s work?’
‘Oh, you know, brilliant and shit in equal measure.’
‘I don’t know how you hack working for Jay. I heard he was doing a shoot for Vogue the other day and he had a fit about the model being too fat. She was, like, sixteen or something, and he was screaming at the editor while this kid was sitting right in front of him!’
‘Yep, I know, I was there.’ I shake my head, despairing over my charmless boss. ‘And people let him get away with it because he’s an “artist”! He’s just brought in this new rule that his female assistants have to wear nail varnish, because someone told him that’s what Mario Testino does. I’m having to paint my nails every night because as soon as I start lugging the camera equipment and lighting around, they get chipped.’
‘Well, look at it this way: once you’ve worked with Jay Patterson, your photography career will be sorted for life. That’s got to be worth a daily manicure, right?’
Later that night I’m standing at the bar waiting to order a round of drinks. It’s been a brilliant night – my face aches from laughing – but I can’t be late for work; this job is far too important to me. I’ve told myself that I’m allowed one more vodka, a quick dance with Tomo (possibly also a kiss if I promise to behave) and then I really do have to go home. I’ve lost track of time and pull out my phone to check how late it is. When I look at the screen my hand flies to my mouth in shock.
Oh my God.
It’s nearly 3 a.m., which means I need to be up again in four hours – but the really disturbing thing is the seventeen missed calls from my sister Tabitha. When I left our flat earlier this evening she was already on her way to bed. What the hell has happened?
‘Another vodka tonic, Barb sweetheart?’ asks the barman.
But I’m already turning away, fighting through the crowd so I can get outside to phone her back, panic flooding through me as I elbow my way towards the door. I try to think of a reason my little sister might need to get hold of me so urgently, but none of the possibilities I can come up with are reassuring.
After the heat of the club, the chill November air slams into me like a physical force. Gathering my kaftan tighter around me, I dial Tabitha’s number and she answers immediately.
‘Annie! Oh, thank God.’
Her voice is squeaky and breathless, as if she’s on the edge of hysteria.
‘Tabby? What’s wrong? Where are you?’
‘I’m at home. Annie, the . . . the police are here. I . . .’
She breaks off, collapsing into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Tabitha, talk to me! Please! Tabby?’
But there’s no reply, just the heartbreaking sound of her crying, and after a few moments an unfamiliar male voice comes on the line.
‘Is this Ann Taylor?’
This use of my real name while I’m in full Barbra mode would usually grate, but right now I’m too panicked to care. ‘Who is this?’ I ask, voice trembling. My heart is racing, and I reach for the wall to keep myself upright. ‘What’s happened to my sister, is she hurt? Please, what’s going on?’
‘This is Sergeant Clive Ellis, Miss Taylor.’ His tone is grave. ‘And I’m afraid I’m going to need you to come home right away . . .’
1
Present Day
I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. It’s been bugging me since I got on this bus, an unsettling niggle that I’ve left something important at home, and at each stop I’ve had to fight the urge to sprint back and check. To be honest it’s taking the shine off this journey through the glorious sights of rainy south London – and the Stockwell one-way system is so lovely at this time of year.
Of course, the reason I’m feeling like this is because I know that I have left something important behind: my daughter Dorothea, aka Dot. She of the tiny shell-pink fists and bewitching smell. This is the first time I’ve been out of our flat without her since she was born, which was only twelve weeks ago, but time creeps by at three-toed sloth speed when you’re measuring your days in naps and breastfeeds. When I left her in the capable arms of my best mate Fiona a little while ago, closed the front door and took my first steps along our street unencumbered by buggy or changing bag, I kept checking behind me, furtive and twitchy, like I’d just been shoplifting in Boots. I managed to make it to the bus stop, but then the guilt kicked in. Oh good God, the guilt. From the outside I might have looked like your average badly dressed shoplifter, but inside my head the lunatics were taking over the asylum.
How can I have abandoned my baby? She’s probably lying in her cot right now screaming for me while I swan off to go shopping – and not even shopping for her, shopping for myself! I am a bad mother. Bad and selfish. I’m going to scar her for life. She’ll grow into an emotionally stunted psychopath who won’t be able to form healthy relationships or hold down a job and most likely will end up in prison, and it’ll all be my fault because of that one time I went shopping and left her at home.
I’m seriously regretting reading that book on attachment parenting.
Anyway, I felt so wretched about all this that I nearly turned around and went home, but then the bus drew up and I forced myself to get on board, mainly because I knew full well that Fiona, who is a tiny yet fearsome Northern Irish woman, would be ‘ragin’’ if I ‘wimped out’.
There were no free seats so I resigned myself to standing, but then I realised that I could actually sit upstairs – no buggy! – and with more of a thrill than you’d think possible in the circumstances, I found myself a seat on the top deck. As the bus pulled away I turned my attention to the world outside, and as I gazed out of the window, my head propped against the smeary glass, it suddenly struck me how familiar the world looked: apart from some tired-looking Christmas decorations still looped around the streetlights, nothing much had changed since I last took this journey into town. I suppose there wasn’t any reason why it should have changed – it had only been a few months, after all – but it’s a shock to discover that while you’ve spent the past three months
transforming beyond all recognition, the rest of the world has just been . . . business as usual.
I found this strangely reassuring. Dot’s birth catapulted me into the strange and scary universe of motherhood, a place where there were few certainties and even less sleep – and not even Alexa could provide the answers. But now here I was going shopping, sitting on the top deck of the 137, doing all those things I used to do before my world suddenly went mum-shaped. Annie Taylor is still here, folks! She’s alive!
And now, as we trundle over Battersea Bridge towards the bright lights of Zone 1, my guilt over Dot is fading just a little, and I’m beginning to feel excited about the prospect of going shopping. For the first time in three months I am out in the big wide world on my own. Yup, it’s just me and my long-neglected Visa card, hitting up the John Lewis ladies’ wear department for some sexy lingerie.
Yes, I do know that John Lewis might not be the best place to look for sexy lingerie. My mate Jessica (who is in a dating frenzy post-divorce, so is an expert on such matters) insisted I go to Agent Provocateur, but apparently the assistants come into the changing room with you to fit the bras, and I’m really not up for that level of attention. There’s a strong danger that if they get too ‘hands-on’, my boobs will go off like sprinklers, spraying milk over the racks of pom-pom mules and nipple clamps. Not to mention, I’m not supposed to be wearing underwired bras due to the breastfeeding, and even the thongs are underwired in that place. All in all, John Lewis feels like a far safer bet.
It’s been a while since I thought about my body as anything other than a twenty-four-hour milk vending machine, but the reason I need something racier than my beige maternity bra is because this Saturday Luke and I are having our first post-baby date night. We’re going for dinner at our favourite local restaurant, and then it will be full-speed ahead on the seduction highway, destination: Shag Town.
I can’t say that sex is the first thing I want to do right now – sleep is actually at the top, middle and bottom of my list, dominating my every waking thought and even some of the sleeping ones too (I actually dreamt I was having a lie-in last week; it was wonderful – then Dot started crying and I woke up and discovered it was 2 a.m.). Also, I’m a bit worried about the intercourse part of proceedings, primarily because I’m not that confident about the state of things down there.
