by Emily James
10 Dates
By
Emily James
Copyright
Copyright 2017: Emily James
Cover Design 2019: German Creative
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, distributed, shared, or transmitted in any form or by any means uploaded to any type of file sharing or retrieval system without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Editing by: Randie Creamer [email protected]
This novel uses U.K English spellings.
ISBN: 9781521308608
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Ten Dares
Also By Emily James
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
For David—who makes me laugh every single day.
Chapter 1
NEW YEAR’S EVE
I’M BEGINNING TO REGRET coming to this awful, chintzy golf club, housing more pensioners than you can bash with a bingo board. Not that I’m ageist, or whatever the politically correct term is. It’s just that I had hoped for a more intimate and romantic location for Chris, after three long years, to declare his love for me and to finally propose. After all, he promised that as soon as his dating app was up and running, I would be his number one priority. Now that it’s been up and running for the last two years, tonight is my night.
“Joan, did you get a cake?” Chris hollers, an octave above the sound of George Michael crooning about last Christmas. He knows that I hate being called Joan, but he thinks it’s cute to shorten my name to my grandmother’s title.
“Of course, baby,” I reply, not letting it spoil my mood. I plaster on a smile, while I frantically search the room. I've been so busy mentally preparing myself for his proposal, albeit by swigging back large gulps of wine, I completely forgot all about the sodding cake.
“You did remember the cake? My baby needs cake. Please tell me you remembered.” Chris dramatically palms his face as if he can’t quite believe that he trusted me with this momentous task.
“Babe, I have the cake, don’t worry.” I wink at Chris and the creases lining his forehead relax.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, you know how important tonight is.” Pride gleams from his eyes and I smile. I can’t believe I’ve been so nervous.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I’ll be right back,” Chris says, heading off to the bar.
I start to rummage through my bag to try to find my to-do list. I’ve been stressed and forgetful since Chris dropped tonight’s party on me three weeks ago. I’ve been so busy organizing the food, the music, and the venue, I’m scared the cake slipped my mind. Normally, I would have been annoyed at being expected to organise and pay for everything but since this is our engagement party (well, it will be once he actually proposes), it only seems right I pay my fair share. Not forgetting, Chris must have had to fork out for the engagement ring, which is probably why my Christmas stocking was more like a sock.
I get excited when my hands find a crumpled piece of paper, only to find it's the receipt for the entertainment: Naughty Nineties. It was the best I could get at short notice.
I look around and check, wondering if I even did order a cake. Chris catches my eye and shakes his head, throwing me the, 'You're so crazy’ eyes, and then he goes back to schmoosing with some work colleagues and investors he’s invited along to the party. Never one to miss an opportunity, Chris has invited anyone and everyone in the app, entrepreneur, and marketing business. He is determined that—Sexy Talk Dating—will take over the world. Although after four years of him trying to make it a success, even I am starting to wonder if it will ever gain traction. I wash away the thought with another slug of wine.
“Melinda,” I hiss to my best friend, who's finally back from her bathroom break. I still cannot believe she managed to find a babysitter for her ever-expanding brood, especially on the hottest night of the year, but then she is fully aware how important tonight is to me. “Did you get the cake?” I check, even though I know Mrs. Organised would never forget such a detail.
All my emails go through Melinda; she just signs in, and adds any of my to-do's to her to-do list. She likes to organise and I, well, tend to forget, so she just pencils me on the calendar next to Tegan's ballet and Jakey's braces, and I never forget anything anymore. Simple.
Melinda used to be a Personal Assistant before she had her four children. Now she has an advanced degree in time management and crowd control as the Sergeant Major of her family home (and my life). She can whip even the most complicated or unruly task into perfect and organised calm. It is just one of the many reasons that I love her.
Melinda points a red manicured nail that matches her tight red dress over to a big square box that’s near the buffet that was demolished hours ago.
I hold my hands together and pray a thank you to her.
“As if I would forget. Joanie, you’re finally going to get married. It’s what you’ve always wanted, ever since you were a little girl. I just hope you don’t look too drunk on the photos when he finally proposes. You must have sunk a bottle and a half of wine waiting for him.” Melinda taps at her watch and drains the rest of her glass.
There’s now four empty wine bottles on our table, which is why I’m feeling a little less nervous and more than a little inebriated. It’s nearly eleven p.m. and the waiting is killing me. Chris still needs to say his speech and propose before the strike of midnight, when all our guests will want to raise a glass to toast our good news and then welcome in the New Year to the pre-recorded sound of Big Ben’s chimes. It’s how he always said he would do it, just as soon as the app was live, and we were in 'the right place.'
Of course, the first year the app launched it was too soon to focus on marriage, because when we did get married, Chris wanted to focus solely on our relationship. See, Chris is a forward-thinker; he wants to make sure the future is bright for us, that I’m well looked after when we get married and have a family. Just recently I have come to realise that the time is now and the proposal is well on its way. After all, he as good as said it when he moved in with me and sold his flat, 'freeing up some more cash.'
I take the last sip from my glass. “I’m going to slow down now,” I tell Melinda as I top up both our glasses. “It’s my nerves; they’re making me thirsty.”
I look at my watch, again. The faux gold is already chipping from around the face, even though I’ve only had it since Christmas day. It was a gift from Chris and is almost identical to the one I wanted. He calls it the ‘cost effective version,’ even with me having bought him the MacBook that he actually wanted.
Melinda studies me and takes a measured sip of her wine. Her hair is cut in a functional, low maintenance bob that somehow emphasises her set of enormous breasts that just won’t quit being perky and bouncy despite them having fed four kids.
“It’s not too late
to change your mind, you know. We could leg it out of here, take that bottle of champagne over there and just go. The mother-in-dragon isn’t bringing my terrorists back until tomorrow, so we could totally escape, change our identities, run away—I would help you, so long as we're back at my place by dinner time.” Melinda jokes, at least I think she does.
It’s fair to say that she is not Christopher Morris’ biggest fan. In fact, she makes no secret of the fact that she doesn’t like him, and she mocks him at every opportunity.
I think it began when Chris cheated on me with my upstairs neighbour, Barbara, back when we first got together. In Chris's defence, we had only been together two weeks and he was on a lads’ night out, but still, Melinda takes no prisoners when it comes to loyalty. What Melinda doesn't see is Chris’s passion and dedication. I mean, in some ways she does have a point, a lads’ night out is no excuse for cheating, but he was very sorry, and he has made up for it ever since. He doesn’t even make eye contact with my neighbour anymore. Melinda often jokes that Chris’s app is crap but she doesn’t get that it’s a tough market, and Chris has invested every penny he has in it. I just hope he knows when to move on and work on something else.
“Shots o-clock!” Mikey, our rogue third-wheel sings as he places a tray with too many shots to count onto the table in front of us. Mikey climbs over and swings his hips in order to squeeze in between Melinda and me. As he attempts to part the Red Sea, a scattering of glitter rains down on us from Mikey's glitter ball white shirt.
Mikey is camp like a row of tents and, quite rightly, makes no apologies for it! Melinda and I both adore him for his fierce and fun ways. Tonight, for example, Mikey is wearing tight leather trousers and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to provide a teaser at his rock-hard pecs underneath. He wears his highlighted hair in a soft, swept up quiff, which he calls a flat-twist Mohawk. Mikey doesn’t usually do carbs, but he’s making an exception tonight as he takes a swig of his wine. He's high maintenance, and not at all what you might expect for a high-ranking pilot.
Chris had waggled his brows and rolled his eyes when he saw what Mikey was wearing tonight, but I think it’s because he struggles to understand him. It doesn’t help that Mikey flirts outrageously with Chris, and in response Chris jerks and leaps from whichever direction Mikey attacks. He then usually sprints from the building as if it's on fire, flustered and embarrassed.
“How many shots did you fucking buy?” Melinda yells at Mikey as she gleefully rubs her hands together.
I look over at Chris, to check he didn’t hear her use bad language. Chris doesn't agree with women swearing, and I know it will totally piss Melinda off if he so much as tuts in her direction. I’m safe though, he’s still chatting to a local radio station host, topping up their champagne. They seem to be drinking the good stuff, unlike me, Melinda, and Mikey.
“I’m sorry, but this party blows, and not in a good way." Mikey passes me a tongue-in-cheek grin.
I nod. “I can't even defend my own engagement party.” I sigh. “It's not at all what I expected.”
Back when Chris emailed me to announce we were having a party, I eagerly replied with a list of everyone who needed to be here tonight. My parents retired to Spain when I went to University. Sadly, they won’t be witnessing my special moment. I had planned to video call them, but it seems this place is a black hole for Internet connection. Either that or, when I decided to wear my contact lenses tonight—so I'd look better in the photos—I didn’t take into account that my eyes would water like little cry babies and my thumbs would refuse to coordinate with the touch screen on my phone.
"I need to be drunk to cope with this,” Mikey tells us as he pushes dark, evil looking shots towards us. “I mean, who invited these people. Suit over there looks like he just got sprung from the funeral home,” Mikey points, yelling across the table.
I let out an involuntary giggle because he’s not wrong. “That’s just Chris’s dad, and he does work at a funeral home, which, by the way,” I lower my voice knowing I can get a bit rowdy after a few drinks, "is why Chris and I both have such excellent funeral plans.”
This information is too much for Mikey and Melinda and they both start to fizzle and spit with laughter. Melinda smacks her hand on the table and Mikey hugs himself. They snort loudly and it attracts a few glances.
After I stop giggling, I nudge them both. “Come on, I’m getting engaged soon. That man will be my father-in-l... oh no...”
I down my shot in one and Mikey places another straight in its place, which I suck down too.
Chris's dad is a serious drawback to our relationship. Still, I think, not everyone sees their in-laws regularly. Perhaps we could move...
Melinda and Mikey each do a shot too, and then the nineties mishmash of Christmas pop songs is replaced by static as Chris hits the microphone with his hands.
As he stands, slightly shorter than average, on the small raised platform in front of the buffet, I think back to what first attracted me to him.
It had been a rough night. Another long-term boyfriend had just dumped me. I was feeling unattractive and unappreciated. Chris had walked into the bar in his black suit, the same suit he's wearing now, his 'lucky suit,' he calls it. He'd flattered and complimented me and told me all about his app idea. He was impressed I had my own place, a plush apartment that my grandparents left me. I had a full-time job and stood on my own two feet. I might only work in accounts, but he respected my dedication to turn up on workdays and receive a regular, dependable income.
Chris coughs into the microphone, as if he is unsure it is working. Then, he looks up and sweeps the room with his head and smiles at the crowd. His eyes finally rest on Dean Bright, the CEO of Bright Communications.
I sit up taller in the crowd and wait for Chris's eyes to find mine. I can't believe it's actually happening. He's going to propose, after three long years. I'm thirty-three this June. However, I will not be a thirty-three-year old spinster. Nope. Not Joanie Fox!
I wiggle in my seat unable to keep still as Chris croons the usual, "Testing, testing," noises down the mic.
Most of the crowd has spent the evening making good use of the free bar. They mostly stand in suits and skirts looking squiffy and awkward. My bet is that this is lower brow than their usual haunts. Nevertheless, Chris wanted them here and what is important to him is important to me too.
“Doesn't hurt people to know you're serious and committed,” Chris had said earlier. It makes sense if you think about it. What better way is there to advertise a dating app than on the back of a strong, healthy relationship?
The crowd are getting bored and one of the younger, more inebriated entrepreneurs starts to wolf-whistle and shout that Chris should ‘just get on with it' as we watch Chris wrestle with the mic stand, which is placed at the height for a six footer, and bless Chris he's a few inches shorter than my five-feet-four.
"Well, hello and thank you," he says as though speaking to an applauding crowd. "I want to start by saying Happy New Year. It means the world to me that you've all come so far tonight to celebrate this special evening. I know, when I invented – Sexy Talk Dating – I had a vision, a vision in which hot, beautiful people, like us," Chris sweeps out his hands, palms up, as if hosting a game show, "can meet sexy, like-minded professionals, like us." Chris laughs and thumbs his chest. He looks more nervous than I’m used to seeing him. He takes a sip from his champagne glass and realising that it's empty, he awkwardly tilts his head to ease his nose from the rim.
Chris goes on to tell the audience about his vision for his company, to migrate from the south coast to the city, to buy a huge apartment overlooking the river... I've heard a lot of this over the years, so I tune out a little and down my third shot.
"Why is he taking so long," I moan in Mikey's ear, as Chris continues to talk about his vision, the inspiration that struck him and how he's never looked back.
It's a quarter to twelve and I don't know how much more the crowd is willing to sustain o
f this nonsense.
"Get on with it!" someone hollers from the back of the room.
"So, without further ado, Joan will you please come up here?" Chris’s voice is a high-pitched squeal as it echoes through the speakers.
I stand with only the slightest need for support, straighten my classy—with a side of cleavage—little black dress, and shimmy up onto the stage. I’m so focused on my task, on getting to the stage with the audience watching, I stumble just a little and misjudge the top step, but I make it in one piece and most importantly, still standing. I hear Mikey wolf-whistle and heckle as he stirs up the crowd. I know both he and Melinda have prepared speeches.
I pause near the middle of the stage and turn to face my soon-to-be betrothed. Chris is now holding a giant bottle of champagne. He's babbling into the mic still. Something about dedication, commitment, and stamina, but the stage lights are making me feel dizzy and a bit sick.
I look around for a single face to focus on, hoping that one constant might make the room stop spinning, but the lights are too bright and the one hundred or so faces are all just blank, cream voids framed by kaleidoscopic hair.
Chris picks up his chatter and I hear the audience chuckle at something he said. I turn to pay attention. His face has a moonlike quality to it; the spotlights highlight the craters of teen acne that he covers with a little of my foundation make-up. His chatter continues, but I can't understand his voice because I'm too worried I might faint or throw up. Or, throw up on the descent into a faint.
The room suddenly stops spinning as Chris's voice holds me to account.
I gulp in preparation.
"So, it is with thanks to the support of this wonderful woman, who I am going to miss like crazy, that I'd like to announce... I'm heading to New York to take—Sexy Talk Dating—to the Big Apple, to send it global!"
I blink a few times and watch Chris smile at the crowd and thrust his fist into the air in triumph.
There's a small round of applause.
