The Pollyanna Plan

by Talli Roland

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Talli Roland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477870174

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920605

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Another rejection, Emma Beckett muttered, shaking her head. With the swipe of a key, she dismissed the loan application on the screen in front of her. The tiny company was asking for an amount twice its annual earnings! What on earth possessed people to be so blindly optimistic? If only the business had lowered its expectations and requested something more reasonable, she might have been able to help. As it was, their pie-in-the-sky figure had done them no favours.

  Rolling her aching neck to ease the pain, Emma glanced over at the clock on her desk. God, twelve already? The morning had flown by in a welcome blur of mortgage and loan applications, with plenty more awaiting her judgement. In this economic climate, people were increasingly desperate for money, and the requests came thick and fast. As an underwriter, Emma needed to stay detached and base any decision on set lending criteria. No emotion—just logic. The ideal job. Hell, the ideal life.

  ‘Emma, my dear, you’ve been here since six. Why don’t you go for lunch and get some fresh air? It’s a beautiful day.’ Henry’s husky voice interrupted her thoughts, and she smiled up into her boss’s whiskered face. Ever since starting at Gladstone Insurance ten years ago, he’d been like a father figure, always checking that she’d taken her lunch break and wasn’t working too many hours. On a few occasions, he’d practically dragged her from the building, ordering her to go home and get a social life.

  The thing was, she didn’t want fresh air—not that anyone could call London air ‘fresh’. Just this morning, the paper had said smog levels were rising. She didn’t need a buzzing social life, either. The fewer people around, the lower the risk of being hurt—intentionally or not. Emma’s fiancé, George, and her best friend, Alice, were more than enough.

  But Emma knew from experience that Henry’s suggestions were actually orders, and if she didn’t follow them, he’d badger her until she did. Turning to look out the window, she was surprised to see it was a beautiful day. A deep blue November sky framed the City of London’s cluster of metal and glass buildings, and sun poured into the narrow streets below. It had been dark when she’d come to work this morning, and she’d barely lifted her head since.

  ‘Okay, okay, Sarge,’ Emma said to Henry, grinning as she pulled a mock salute and then shrugged on her coat. ‘You can go back to your office now. I’m on my way out.’ At the very least, she could pop in to visit George, maybe bring him one of those hideous spinach pastry things he loved. Her fiancé worked as an actuary at nearby Aquarius, developing risk models for the large insurance company. His office was just around the corner, but he’d been so busy, she hadn’t seen him since…Emma’s brow wrinkled as she tried to remember. Last week, maybe?

  That was fine, she told herself, twisting the engagement ring on her finger back and forth as the lift whooshed downwards. They didn’t need to see each other every day to know their relationship was solid. On paper, they couldn’t be more perfect: healthy, young (well, youngish—Emma had just turned thirty-two, so they’d have to get started on babies quickly, as the risk of genetic mutations increased every year), solid jobs, and property owners. They’d got on well for the past two years, with no arguments, and things had progressed in a reassuringly smooth manner. Getting married, as George pointed out over an after-work dinner, made sense taxwise, too.

  Sure, it hadn’t been the world’s most romantic proposal, but with six out of ten marriages ending in divorce, there was no point mooning over how they’d be together forever or how each was the love of the other’s life. Statistically speaking, they’d probably both go on to have another marriage after this one.

  Lots of people found this way of thinking depressing, Emma knew. People like Alice, who firmly believed in love at first sight and had a string of broken relationships to show for it. But thinking realistically was the only way to cope with what life could throw at you, and Emma counted herself fortunate she’d found someone who shared her outlook.

  She strode down the packed street, pushing between busy City workers tapping on BlackBerrys or barking into shiny iPhones. The buzz of Europe’s financial heart made her feel part of a giant machine that kept the world’s economy ticking. Alice always asked how Emma could bear sitting behind a desk for fourteen hours, but the truth was she loved routine. The sameness of the day and the familiar guidelines wrapped her in a cloud of comfort. It was the only time she could actually relax—at least since her dad’s death had thrown her adolescent world into disarray.

  Inside the French patisserie that charged a fortune to breathe the buttery air, Emma pointed to the foul croissant George always raved about, despite guarding his waistline with an iron will that would put Stalin to shame. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’

  She snuck a look at her watch. Twelve fifteen. If she hurried, she could drop off the treat, give George a quick kiss, and be at her desk by half past.

  Smoothing an errant curl that had escaped from her tightly pulled chignon, Emma rejoined the crowds outside. The sun warmed her back, but the air was cool, and she drew her grey blazer closely around her. She was about to round the corner to George’s office when she glimpsed his familiar blond hair and black pinstripe suit in a nearby café.

  Emma squinted as his features came into focus: aquiline nose, straw-coloured locks waving back from a high forehead…what the hell was George doing, leaving the office at lunch? As long as she could remember, he always ate at his desk. Well, at least this’d save her the time of going to Aquarius. Smiling, Emma tugged open the door of the café, the smell of fried food hitting her like a slap in the face as she pushed between the tables towards him.

  ‘Hi, George, I was…’ The sentence died as her mouth dropped open. Her fiancé wa
sn’t alone. There, squeezed beside him on a narrow banquette meant for one person, was a brunette with glossy hair. Her plunging blouse displayed creamy cleavage—creamy cleavage George was ogling so intensely whilst stroking the woman’s arm and murmuring God-knows-what into her perfectly proportioned ears that he didn’t even notice Emma was now right beside them.

  An incredulous laugh bubbled up inside as Emma took in the scene before her. Sure, she knew two out of ten relationships ended due to infidelity. But if things did peter out, she’d always assumed practical life circumstances would be to blame—kids leaving for college, growing apart over time—and not down to what could only be described as canoodling. And they weren’t even married yet! Didn’t most men wait until they were hitched to start cheating?

  George lifted his head, surprise flashing across his face as he spotted Emma practically hovering over them.

  ‘Emma!’ He tried to move away from the woman at his side, but the banquette was too small, and he smashed himself against the ketchup-smeared wall. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing?’ Emma’s voice came out smooth and calm, and she wondered why she wasn’t angrier. Some people killed in a rage after spotting their loved one cheating! Instead, she felt…disappointed, as if George had defaulted on their agreement. She nodded towards the brunette, now gazing back with a defiant expression. ‘Guess I know why you’ve been so busy lately.’

  George attempted to climb from the booth, but the woman beside him refused to budge. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘Because when I spot my fiancé groping another woman, logic usually tells me it’s not just an out-of-office meeting.’

  George’s mouth flopped open. Emma could almost see the gears in his head turning as he tried to come up with an answer to combat her words. Like her, though, he lived in the realm of logic, and nothing he could say could negate the obvious.

  ‘Here.’ The spinach pastry skidded across the table, landing in front of the brunette, who backed away like it’d crawled from the toilet. Granted, it did smell that way.

  Emma swivelled the platinum band on her finger as her mind clicked through what to do next. Did she really want to break their engagement? Well, there was no point wasting time. Bottom line: the last thing she needed in her life was someone who didn’t stick to agreements, someone who’d let her down. The grease from the pastry had soaked through the bag onto her hand, making the ring slip off easily.

  ‘Take this, too.’ Emma placed the band on the table, noticing her fingers were shaking. It was shock at the betrayal, she told herself. Nothing more.

  ‘Emma…’ George reached out to take her hand, but she quickly stepped away.

  ‘Goodbye, George.’ Refusing to meet his eyes, she turned and scurried through the café, back into the busy street, the crisp air welcome against her flushed cheeks.

  A sharp pang hit when she realised their steady relationship was over. George had been a reliable presence in her life, and she’d thought their future was all mapped out. Emma forced her legs faster and faster, eager to return to Gladstone and the comforting world of numbers and percentages.

  At least those could be trusted.

  ‘The bastard!’ Alice said later that night, when Emma had finally been kicked out of the office by the Polish cleaner making threatening actions with the broom. Alice had just finished a shift waitressing at pseudo–Tex-Mex restaurant LocoLuca in Piccadilly, and the two of them were perched on high stools at the bar, munching stale nachos and drinking tequila-heavy margaritas with the leftover ‘strawberry’ slush. ‘Who knew he even had it in him? He’s such a cold fish.’

  Emma slurped her drink with so much force she got an ice-cream headache. A cold fish? Well, yes, he was…but she’d liked that about him. Everything had been calm, collected and orderly. None of this mad rush of emotion that always seemed to lead to trouble—at least based on Alice’s experience.

  As the pain in Emma’s head eased, memories flooded in of when she’d first met George at a conference on risk models for corporate mortgages. He’d struck up a conversation with her at the hotel bar, and over a discussion of interest rates, indemnity and repossession, he’d asked her out for dinner later that week. And eventually, with no great fanfare or fireworks like Alice preferred, they were together.

  Not any longer, Emma thought, slurping up more of the sickly sweet liquid. Ugh. Weren’t margaritas meant to be sour?

  ‘At least you hadn’t set a date for the wedding yet,’ Alice continued. ‘Unpicking all those details can be horrendous.’ Engaged no fewer than five times in the past ten years, Alice knew what she was talking about. She’d been gunning to make it six, but the latest relationship with an extra she’d met on the set of EastEnders had crashed and burned, despite her claims he was ‘the one’.

  ‘Yeah, thank God.’ George had only proposed two months ago, and they’d both been too busy to even think of confirming a date. The only fallout Emma would have to deal with was telling her mother the engagement was off, but that wouldn’t be hard to handle. They hadn’t been close since Emma’s father died, and her mum had only met George once, on one of the rare times she’d come into London. From her carefully neutral response, Emma had got the impression she hadn’t been enamoured.

  ‘You probably don’t want to hear this, but I think it’s for the best, you two have split,’ Alice said. ‘Now you can find someone who actually wants to spend time with you, you know? Someone with a life and other interests besides work.’

  Emma swung to face her friend. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? I don’t have a life or interests outside of work, either. That’s why George was perfect. He really got that.’

  ‘Well, okay, you don’t. Not right now, anyway.…’ Alice’s voice trailed off. ‘I know you love your job, and you’re great at it. But there’s more to life than work! You spend so much time there, you might as well move in.’

  ‘I wish.’ Emma laughed. ‘It’d save me the hassle of commuting.’ Grimacing, she envisioned her barren flat in the leafy, safe area of Little Venice. It was located in a whitewashed terrace down a side street from Regent’s Canal, and she’d fallen in love with the lofty ceilings and original crown mouldings.

  At first, Emma had promised herself to do it up exactly how she’d always imagined a place of her own. But work had swallowed her whole, and as time marched on she realised investing money and effort into something she’d sell eventually wasn’t practical.

  Alice rolled her eyes, and Emma thought again how unlikely their friendship was—and how, surprisingly, it had survived nevertheless. They’d met their first year at University College London, thrown together as roommates in the cramped student accommodation. Eager to escape the claustrophobic confines of life with her mother and stepfather in the Surrey village of Virginia Water, Emma couldn’t have been happier.

  On the other hand, Alice had spent the first week homesick for family back in Norwich, relying on Emma to guide her through. After a few months, Emma’s role had been replaced by the plethora of boys vying for her beautiful blonde friend’s attention. But the two of them had forged a strong bond that remained despite their differing paths: Emma into the solid, reliable realm of insurance, and Alice into the capricious world of acting, where she struggled to secure roles beyond fringe theatres and was forced to work at LocaLuca to pay rent on her dingy flat-share. Emma shuddered as she took in the dusty sombreros and fake cactuses. Nightmare.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ she sighed, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Another early morning calls.’

  Alice narrowed her blue eyes. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? I know you said you were, but you can crash at my place, if you like.’

  Emma pictured the loud chaos of Alice’s flat, where people traipsed in and out all night. No way. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine. See you t
omorrow.’

  ‘Call if you need anything.’ Alice lifted a slender hand.

  Navigating across Piccadilly Circus towards the Tube, Emma assessed whether she really was okay. It wasn’t every day you discovered the man you were about to marry snuggling with another woman. A wave of disappointment at George’s traitorous actions swept through her, and she shook her head sternly. Enough. Life had a way of throwing curve balls, she knew that. The sooner Emma accepted the change in her situation and reformulated plans for the future minus her ex-fiancé, the better.

  Anyway, statistics showed 70 percent of relationships founded on infidelity failed. Good luck to George and his new woman, Emma thought, clattering down the stairs to the Tube. She’d had a narrow escape.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Over the next week, Emma embraced the pile of work on her desk like never before, heading to the office for six in the morning and staying as late as possible without being threatened by the grumpy cleaner’s broom. For once, Henry didn’t come by to insist she take a lunch hour or inhale a lungful of polluted air—he had his head down, too, and whenever she spotted him in the corridor, he appeared as exhausted as she felt.

  Although the days passed in a welcome blur of loan applications, nights were sheer torture as Emma wrestled with her duvet, eyes wide open, waiting for sleep to come. Eventually, she’d trudge to the lounge and camp in front of the flickering telly, praying the mind-numbing show on hair products would knock her out. Instead, she’d sit for hours, watching women get extensions clipped in, transform their locks from dry to luscious, and be sprayed with some kind of Miracle-Gro guaranteed to turn tresses to Rapunzel manes in no time. How could people believe all this? Emma wondered. Optimism was a dangerous thing.

  When she’d finally drag herself to bed again, her brain tumbled over with images of George and that final scene in the café. She wasn’t upset, of course—in fact, they’d seen each other so infrequently she didn’t even miss him—but George’s daily texts and voice mails claiming he needed to talk grated on her nerves. Why couldn’t he leave her be to deal with what happened and move on, the same way her mum had left her alone after her dad died? Emma had deleted the messages, trying to force George from her mind.