by Alice Ross
‘Good morning, Ms Richards. And what can I do for you today?’
The huskiness of his voice and the languid way he looked at her, caused some serious sizzling in the pit of Annie’s stomach.
‘I was just wondering,’ she slid her foot up his shin, ‘what you would like for breakfast.’
Jake’s eyes grew a shade darker and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Funny you should mention breakfast. I was about to show you exactly what I’d like.’
Three hours later, her hair still damp from the shower, Annie skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Every part of her body ached but she felt absolutely wonderful. Jake had tumbled out of bed ten minutes earlier and driven into the village to pick up croissants for breakfast – even though it was almost midday.
She swiped up the various pieces of clothing littering the kitchen, shoved them in the washing machine, then picked up the phone to call Mrs Mackenzie.
‘It’s no problem, dear. We’ve had a lovely time and the quilt is coming along marvellously,’ said Mrs M, in response to Annie’s apology for not calling sooner. ‘Now, what about you two? Did you have a nice dinner?’
Despite being on the other end of the telephone, something in her tone made Annie blush.
‘We, er, did, thank you, Mrs Mackenzie,’ she replied, casting her mind back to the omelettes she and Jake had shared in bed at lord only knew what time.
‘Did you go anywhere nice?’
Oh god. ‘We just … we just stayed local.’
‘Ah ha. I see. Well, that’s nice, dear. You deserve a treat.’
Annie bit back a giggle. ‘Treat’ was certainly one word to describe what Jake had done to her last night.
‘And are you doing anything today, the two of you?’
Possibly having sex in the garden, Annie almost said. Because, now she thought about it … ‘I’m, er, not sure. Jake should be ba- I mean Jake should be here in about ten minutes. I’ll see what he wants to do then.’ She had a fair idea of exactly what Jake would want to do and it might well involve sex in the garden.
‘That’s nice. You two enjoy your afternoon and I’ll bring Sophie back after tea.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Mackenzie. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Och. There’s no need for any of that. I’m sure you’d cope just fine.’
As Annie set the phone back on the stand, she couldn’t believe how lucky she was. She had a wonderful daughter, fabulous friends and now Jake, hopefully, would be part of her life too. She had no doubt that what they’d shared last night was much more than a one night stand, much more than mind-blowing sex. There had been a special connection between them, exactly as there had been that time in her shop. And it was a connection she couldn’t wait to nurture.
She’d just flicked on the coffee machine when an orange face topped with a mane of overly-highlighted hair appeared around the door.
‘Only me,’ announced Lydia, sashaying into the kitchen. ‘Just wanted to let you know I’m back.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Annie, marvelling at how Lydia had managed to pour herself into the scrap of material masquerading as a tennis dress. ‘You most certainly are. How did it go with Dar–?’
‘And to introduce you to Eduardo.’ The smile on Lydia’s face would have given the national grid a run for its money.
Annie’s gaze moved to the doorway where an extremely good-looking man loitered, wearing baggy white shorts and a T-shirt two sizes too small for him.
‘I got him in Spain,’ Lydia informed her, in the same way one might say they’d got a nice pair of castanets.
‘Right.’ Annie nodded, looking first at Lydia, then at Eduardo, then back at Lydia, noting that the Spaniard appeared at least ten years Lydia’s junior. ‘Well,’ she said at length, closing the gap between her and Eduardo and extending a hand to him. ‘Welcome to England, Eduardo.’
‘Gracias,’ he said, shaking her hand firmly. ‘I very glad be here.’
‘Right. Lovely.’
‘Eduardo’s a tennis coach and an ace with the racquet.’ Lydia winked at the young man, before pulling out a chair and perching on it. ‘So, what’s new here? Anything exciting happened while I’ve been away?’
Apart from me having sex with Jake Sinclair under the kitchen table? Annie wanted to ask. ‘Nothing I can think of,’ she lied. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Last night. We had the most ghastly journey. Plane delayed and everything. Oh, and you’ll never guess who we saw on television while we were stuck in that hideous airport lounge.’ She raised two perfectly plucked eyebrows.
Annie stared at her blankly. She didn’t have clue but she’d wager it would be some two-bit celebrity she hadn’t even heard of.
‘Jake.’
Annie furrowed her brow. She couldn’t possibly mean her Jake. It must be another footballer or something. ‘Jake? Jake who?’
Lydia rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward. The effect on her cleavage was staggering.
‘Jake Sinclair, of course. Only that’s not his real name. He’s actually called Jake O’Donnell and he used to be a fund manager, the most successful in Europe apparently. He had his own business and made squillions, then he sold it a few years ago and since then he’s written three books – all bestsellers, and just signed a huge film deal.’
Annie gawped at her.
Lydia leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her chest. ‘Of course I’d always thought there was more to him than met the eye. Always had the feeling he was holding something back. The sneaky type, if you know what I mean. Anyway,’ she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. ‘We must be getting along. We’re off to play tennis – or something.’ And with a lascivious giggle and a flick of the hair, she was gone, Eduardo trotting along behind her.
No sooner had Annie sank down onto a chair, than Jake strode into the kitchen. The moment he set eyes on her, his smile slid from his face.
‘Annie, what’s wrong?’
‘You’re not Jake Sinclair.’
His brows knitted in confusion. ‘What-? Oh, no. I’m not. I was going to tell you all about that later.’
‘When later?’
‘Later today. Now. While we’re having breakfast. Brunch. Whatever you want to call it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘It didn’t seem important.’
‘But we spent the whole night together and I didn’t even know your name.’
Jake sat down next to her and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, Annie, does it really matter?’
Tears burned the backs of Annie’s eyes. ‘Of course it matters. You lied to me.’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t. Well, okay, perhaps I did. A bit. But I couldn’t tell you everything at the time. If I’d told you about the books when you’d first asked me – that evening you drove me to hospital – a dozen other questions would have followed, none of which I was ready to answer.’
‘You lied about your career. You told me you worked in finance.’
‘I did work in finance.’
‘You were the most successful fund manager in Europe.’
‘So? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘You didn’t tell me the truth.’
He reached for her hand. Annie moved it away.
‘I was going to, Annie. Honestly. I thought about telling you last night, but … well … we were otherwise engaged.’
‘So you think getting me into bed was more important than telling me who you really are.’
‘No, of course not. I just thought you’d listened to me enough for one evening.’
‘So I have to listen to the rest of it from Lydia Pembleton?’
Jake looked even more baffled. ‘Lydia? What’s she got to do with anything?’
‘She’s just been round to introduce her new boyfriend, and inform me that the man I spent the whole of last night with is not the man I thought he was.’
‘Oh, Anni
e, of course I’m the same man. Okay, perhaps I should have told you everything last night but … well … things got a bit out of control. But now you know and … is it really that big a deal?’
Annie couldn’t look at him. Memories of the evening Lance had announced his departure for Japan came flooding back to her. Memories of how betrayed she’d felt, how hurt, angry and foolish.
‘I’d like you to leave,’ she said.
Jake’s jaw dropped. ‘But surely there’s no need for that. Surely we can work this out. I admit I’m in the wrong and I should have–’
‘I’d like you to leave now.’
Jake stared at her for several seconds. ‘All right.’ He stood up. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
Two weeks on from ordering Jake out of the cottage, Annie’s emotions had been subjected to several cycles of the food processor. Sliced, diced, pickled and curried, they were no longer fit for analysis. Over the first few days she’d convinced herself she’d done the right thing: she should never have dropped her guard, never have allowed her defences to slip, never have considered lowering the drawbridge, permitting Jake access to the safe haven she’d so diligently constructed for her and Sophie. But, now … well, now she wasn’t quite so sure. If she’d done the right thing, why did it feel so spectacularly wrong? Like Jake had taken a part of her with him when he’d gone?
Portia’s comments had added further confusion. Annie had attempted to keep the conversation light, but Portia had seen through her immediately. In the end, Annie had told her everything – well, not exactly everything, but enough to put her in the picture.
‘Oh, Annie,’ she’d sighed. ‘You’re being far too hard on him. I remember the guy from years ago and I can assure you he’s nothing like Lance. And he didn’t really lie to you. Not in the same way Lance did. It sounds to me like he’s sorting his head out, that’s all.’
Jenny and Harriet were of the same opinion.
‘I knew it,’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘There was something in his eyes when he looked at you. He was dotty about you even before you’d had sex under the kitchen table. Why don’t you just give him a chance?’
‘Because he might let me down again. That’s what men do.’
‘Not all of them,’ Jenny insisted. ‘And certainly not Jake whatever-his-name-is-now.’
And she was right. The more Annie thought about it – and she’d thought about it a great deal - Jake was nothing like Lance. He was honest and decent and had been through a really crap time. It had just taken her this long to realise it.
The week following his exit, he’d tried to contact her. Annie hadn’t answered the phone. She’d shredded his unopened letter, deleted unread texts and scrubbed voicemails without playing them. And now he’d given up.
She didn’t blame him. Jake deserved someone better than her. Someone more compassionate. It was so long since she’d had anyone other than Sophie in her life, she’d completely forgotten other people had cares and worries and needs too. Consequently, she’d blown it with Jake and now had to live with the consequences. Which she could do. She’d coped perfectly well without a man for the last five years and she could do the same for the next five, and the next. The problem was, she really didn’t want to.
Now, though, was hardly the time for self-pity. This was the first day of their holiday and they were en route to Northumberland. For Sophie’s sake, she had to maintain a brave face. Easier said than done when everything seemed to be conspiring against her: the weather was abysmal – a federation of clouds overhead promising something not very pleasant later; the car had been making some strange spluttering sounds; Sophie had vomited all over the back seat and now, Annie discovered as she called into the agency office to collect the key, there was a problem with the heating system at the cottage.
‘But it should be fixed today,’ Janine, the bubbly office manager informed her. ‘Our engineer is on the case as we speak.’
‘Right. Great. Thanks.’ Annie attempted to sound positive, whilst debating if she should just turn the car around and head back home. But, given the spluttering noises, the smell of sick, the threatening weather, and the way the day was panning out, that probably wasn’t a good idea.
She plastered a smile onto her face before returning to the car. ‘Well,’ she said, jumping into the driver’s seat. ‘Now I have the key, we can really start our holiday.’
Two blank faces – one human, one canine – stared back at her.
The cottage sat on the edge of a village, directly across the road from the beach and next door to the kipper shop. By the time Annie parked the car outside, Sophie had fallen asleep. Poor little mite, mused Annie. She’d never known her be car sick before. But none of them seemed to be themselves lately. Not since Jake- She stopped the thought dead. She wasn’t here to think about Jake. She was here for a well-deserved change of scene and to spend some quality time with her daughter. And they would have a good time if it killed her.
Filled with resolve, she marched up the path to the front door. It was open. Annie popped her head inside and called out a tentative ‘Hello?’
‘Not be a minute, love,’ came back an Irish male voice from upstairs. ‘Just fixing the boiler.’
Annie bit back a sigh. After the awful journey, she really just wanted to unpack and crash out, but now she’d have to wait. ‘No problem. I’ll just … wait down here,’ she called back.
Pip, though, was evidently of another mind. Looking livelier than he had for several days, he bounded straight into the house and up the stairs.
‘Pip,’ called Annie. ‘Come down here at once.’
Pip didn’t respond.
Heaving another sigh, Annie trudged up the stairs after him.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll take him back down–’
She broke off as she reached the landing and a tall male figure stepped out of the bathroom, Pip dancing around his feet.
‘Jake!’ she gasped. ‘But how … I mean … how … what are you doing here?’
‘Fixing the boiler.’
His mouth stretched into such a devastating smile that Annie’s legs almost caved beneath her. Suddenly she forgot all about her crap day, all about the autumnal weather, all about her dodgy, smelly car. She was aware of nothing other than Jake standing a few feet away from her. ‘But how did you–?’
‘Put on such a fantastic Irish accent?’ His dark eyes twinkled. ‘My dad’s Irish.’
Annie shook her head as all her other emotions were swept aside by a rush of happiness. ‘How did you–?’
‘Know how to fix the boiler? My dad’s a plumber. I used to help him out in the holidays.’
Annie grinned, deciding she would very much like to meet Jake’s dad. ‘I was going to ask how you knew where we were. But … don’t tell me … Mrs Mackenzie.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot possibly divulge that information.’
‘Not even for a chocolate chip cookie?’
‘Are you trying to blackmail me, Ms Richards?’
‘Very possibly. Is it working?’
‘Very possibly,’ he said, taking her into his arms.
Did you love Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty?
Then turn the page for an exclusive extract from another brilliant story:
The Last Word by A L Michael
Chapter One
This cannot be my life, Tabby Riley thought as she finished her latest article. Four hundred words on the dire consequences of plucking outside your brow line. She needed ice cream.
Rhi was sitting in her usual spot in the middle of the living room floor and Tabby had to skip over the sea of papers and books surrounding her to get into the kitchen. She retrieved the Ben & Jerry’s and a spoon, then stood in the doorway, watching her housemate.
‘Do you think I’m a bad feminist?’ Tabby asked, recalling the last few articles on weight-loss, decoding male body language and how to dress like a pixie dream girl.
‘Yes.’ Rhi di
dn’t look up. ‘But I think you’re an excellent person. So could you hold out on whatever crisis you’re about to have until I finish this chapter? Please?’
It was hard to refuse when Rhi said ‘please’. It happened so rarely.
‘Sure, it was nothing.’ Tabby picked at the chocolate chips, suddenly not so in the mood for ice cream. ‘I just get so bloody tired of myself sometimes.’
‘Well, luckily I never do. Be a love and put the kettle on? I’ll be done in ten minutes. Warn the biscuit tin!’
And then Rhi was back in her zone, craned over, picking a pencil out of her blonde dreadlocked bun. She flicked down her blue-rimmed glasses and suddenly Tabby didn’t exist any more. Rhi’s ability to go from zero to studying in under ten seconds was something that had driven Tabby crazy when they were at university, but seeing as Rhi went to her job at the library and then came home to work on her Masters degree, while Tabby wrote articles in her pyjamas all day, it just seemed unfair to hold a grudge.
Everyone else was going somewhere. And Tabby couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to wear real clothes.
She clicked on the kettle, made herself a cup of tea, knowing it would be at least half an hour until Rhi would finish. She unlocked the back door and padded out into the poor little concrete excuse for a garden, hoping to see a little of the fading daylight.
Last year she’d tried to plant herbs – one of her article-inspired kicks – then promptly forgot about them. Their sad, weedy little skeletons drooped over the ceramic pot. Two previously white deck chairs and a plastic table they’d found in a nearby skip sat there like survivors of war. Tabby once again considered how maybe if she got the outward look of her life together, then maybe the real stuff would come along with it. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d written an article on that. She roughly wiped down one of the chairs, and stuck the mug of tea on the table. It wobbled precariously. Next door, the teen boys who thought starting a band called Dyspraxic Elastic was a cool idea practised their guitar solos. Five months on and they weren’t any better.
