Autumn is coming. Anything could happen…

Julia is contemplating an affair with ex-boyfriend Max after a chance meeting in the cereal aisle of the supermarket…and finding that he’s just as gorgeous as ever.

Miranda has got it all: expensive clothes, a huge house and her enormously wealthy husband, Doug. So why does she feel as if something is missing?

Faye is fed up of being treated like a child – she’s a teenager, and knows what she wants! She’s determined to escape her sleepy life at Primrose Cottage…

Three women, each with two options, needing to make one choice. When it comes to affairs of the heart, nothing is ever simple!

A perfect, feel-good read about love, life and family.

Available by Alice Ross:

Countryside Dreams

An Autumn Affair

A Summer of Secrets

Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty

An Autumn Affair

Alice Ross

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Alice Ross 2015

Alice Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474033619

Version date: 2018-07-23

ALICE ROSS escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

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

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

In her car, outside Primrose Cottage, Julia Blakelaw sucked in a deep breath and willed her racing heart to slow. Its worrying pace had continued the four miles home from the supermarket. Hopefully, though, she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and examined her reflection. Flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, and mussed-up hair met her gaze. She looked like she’d spent the entire afternoon having wild debauched sex. Which, of course, she hadn’t. In Julia’s routine life, Friday afternoons did not include wild debauched sex. They included the weekly shop at Waitrose, procuring all the necessary items to sustain a picky husband and even pickier seventeen-year-old twins.

Well, she couldn’t sit out here forever, she concluded, looking despairingly about the chocolate-bar-wrapper strewn interior of her ten-year-old Fiat Punto. Perhaps if she just breezed in and acted normally, no one would suspect a thing. After all, only the twins would be home, plugged into some electronic device, cocooned in their own little worlds. She could strip down to her undies, paint herself lime-green and stick a traffic cone on her head, and the chances of them awarding her anything more than a cursory glance would remain minimal. And even if she did fess up to having just bumped into an ex-boyfriend in the middle of the cereal aisle, it would elicit no more than a disbelieving snort or, more likely, a bout of hysterical laugher at the notion of Julia ever having had a Life Before Twins.

But, as distant as it now seemed, Julia had had a Life Before Twins. Granted, it was a bit short on the ex-boyfriend front. In-between the carrot-topped Nigel Clark when she was six years old – whose attempt to impress her by skewering worms had brought about an abrupt end to that relationship – and her husband Paul there had been only one significant other. One man who had swept her off her feet, made her laugh until she cried, made her feel like the most special, most desirable female on earth. And that man was Max Burrell.

It was almost twenty years since Julia had last seen Max but, as she’d trundled her trolley into the cereal aisle and spotted his profile, studying the line-up of healthy bran options, she’d recognised him immediately. She’d come to a juddering halt, stomach flipping over, legs turning to jelly as her eyes had carried out an involuntary physical inspection. He’d looked amazing, his lean frame clad in faded blue jeans and a grey V-necked sweater, the sleeves of which had been pushed up to reveal muscular, tanned arms. His dark-blond hair was shorter than she remembered, cut in a trendy, dishevelled style that displayed his killer bone structure. He really hadn’t changed at all. Unlike Julia. Her previously athletic form now languished under two stones of excess fat. And her once silky mane of flowing chestnut hair had somehow transfigured into an uninspiring mousy bob through which several strands of silver now lurked. Add baggy leggings, a washed-out oversized pink shirt, and not a scrap of make-up to the equation, and panic had blasted to smithereens the raft of other emotions that had skittered through her.

She’d been on the verge of orchestrating a nippy about-turn, when Max dropped the packet of healthy-something-or-other into his trolley and started up the aisle towards her. Rooted to the spot, Julia’s heart commenced a furious bout of hammering. Then he’d spotted her. His gaze snagging on hers. His mouth stretching into a devastating smile. And Julia’s head began to whirr as a barrage of memories assaulted her.

‘My God. Julia.’ Max’s grey-green eyes twinkled in the way that could always – and apparently still did – turn Julia’s insides to mush. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Before Julia could say a word, he abandoned his trolley and wrapped his arms around her.

Her nose pressed against his broad chest, Julia closed her eyes and drank in his male scent which, despite the subtle aftershave – and the twenty-year interval – was still as familiar as his profile.

He stepped back, his hands still clasping her upper arms. ‘How are you?’

About to pass out, Julia wanted to reply. Instead, she contorted her lips into some semblance of a smile. ‘Great. Fine. Never better,’ she spluttered.

‘Well, you certainly look it,’ he said, his gaze roaming over her in a way that made her resolve to dig out her Pilates DVD. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

‘I wish,’ she replied, with a self-deprecating laugh that she suspected made her sound slightly maniacal.

‘You look fantastic,’ he continued, the familiar lopsided grin causing a long forgotten sensation to slither down Julia’s spine. ‘So what have you been up to, in the last … what … nearly two decades?’

Julia stared at him blankly. What had she been up to over the last twenty years? And why did that sound like such a ridiculously long time, when in reality it had zipped by?

‘Oh, this and that, you know,’ she mumbled, raking a hand through her hair and wishing she hadn’t put off washing it that morning. ‘Bringing up children mostly.’

Max nodded understandingly. ‘Right. Of course. I heard you had twins.’

‘Er, yes,’ she croaked, her throat feeling like someone had emptied a hoover bag down it. ‘A boy and a girl.’

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘A laugh a minute,’ she retorted, thinking nothing could be further from the truth. ‘What about you?’ she asked, in an attempt to divert the attention away from herself. ‘What have you been up to?’

Max screwed up his perfect nose and lifted his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. ‘Working mostly. Management consultancy. I’ve been based in New York the last couple of years but have decided it’s now time to put down some roots.’

Julia’s heart skipped a beat. It would have been strange enough having this conversation in their home town of Bristol. Surely he didn’t mean roots … ‘Here? In Yorkshire?’

Max’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Possibly. I’ve just started a contract with a company in Leeds so we’ll see how it goes.’

Julia gulped and her pulse increased its already worrying pace. Whether from horror or delight, she wasn’t sure.

‘I take it you live around here,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘We haven’t been here long. We moved up with, Paul – that’s my husband … with his, um, job.’ Heavens, had that sounded as awkward as it felt? And since when had it become weird talking about her husband?

Max didn’t say anything but continued to look at her in a way that made her paradoxically want to flee from him, and snog him – at the same time.

‘It’s really great to see you,’ he reiterated.

‘And you,’ muttered Julia, panicking as she looked into those divine eyes and suspected the snogging urge might just win out. ‘Well, I, um, must be getting on. Family to feed and all that.’

Max nodded. ‘Of course. And … who knows … we might bump into each other again. In the cereal aisle.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ muttered Julia, shoving another hand through her hair and failing to recall any situation that had made her feel quite so strange in the last thirty-nine years.

‘Indeed they have,’ Max agreed, looking at her so intently that Julia thought she might internally combust.

Then, with another devastating smile, and a look oozing with meaning, he took his leave of her and continued up the aisle.

A good three minutes were required before Julia could coordinate her brain and legs into moving. The rest of her shopping had been carried out in an anxious fug, half of her hoping not to bump into Max again, half of her hoping she would. She didn’t. Probably just as well given that, even now, almost an hour later, her heart still thundered. But she really couldn’t spend the rest of the day in her car. Like it or not, she would have to go inside the house and face the fruit of her loins … the twins.

A bulging carrier bag in each hand, Julia entered the house via the side door that led directly into the kitchen. Her daughter, Faye, sat at the pine table, long, poker-straight, jet-black hair curtaining either side of her face as she flicked through a celebrity magazine.

‘Did you get my low-fat yogurt?’ she asked, not bothering to look up.

Resentment stabbed at Julia. Not that she expect anything else of Faye, but her lack of interest in her – and complete absorption in herself – seemed particularly poignant today.

‘Hello to you, too,’ she said acerbically. ‘And my day was fine, thank you. How was yours?’

From under her razor-sharp fringe, Faye’s heavily lined eyes flicked a look that suggested her mother may need certifying, before returning to the magazine.

‘I tell you what,’ suggested Julia in a too-bright tone. ‘How about you give me a hand to bring in the shopping and then you can see exactly what I’ve bought.’

By way of explanation, and without the effort of raising her head again, Faye held up her hands and wiggled her fingers, displaying freshly painted metallic green nails.

‘I’ll help in a minute, Mum,’ shouted through Leo. ‘But I’m at a critical stage here. If I stop now, I could be stuck on the same level forever.’

Stuck on the same level forever. The words slammed into Julia’s brain with such force that she dropped both the carrier bags. Leo’s packet of mini Mars bars slumped onto the floor, followed by a tin of tomatoes which rolled over the granite tiles. Those six words summed her up perfectly. While everyone around her got on with their lives, Julia remained well and truly stuck. Like a needle on an old record player, trapped in the same old groove, going round and round. Going nowhere. And it had taken the chance meeting with Max for her to realise it. While he had been jetting all over the world with his high-flying career, Julia’s life had drifted by in an uninteresting, unremarkable blur. In a few months’ time she would be forty. Practically middle-aged. The best years of her life behind her. And what had she done with them? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. Tears pooled in her eyes. How had she been so dense as to not even notice? How could she have been such a passive spectator, merely along for the ride, making no effort at all to direct …

‘Mum? Are you all right?’

Her daughter’s voice jolted Julia back to reality. ‘Of … of course,’ she blustered, deciding it wouldn’t be appropriate to share any of this with her offspring.

Faye looked unconvinced. ‘You seem a bit … weird. Has something happened?’

Julia pulled herself together with an overexaggerated, dismissive tut. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve only been to the boring old supermarket. What could possibly happen to me there?’

*****

Watching her mother scuttle out of the kitchen, Faye Blakelaw heaved a despairing sigh. Honestly. Sometimes she found it hard to believe that anyone could be so spectacularly uncool. The woman really was verging on the embarrassing. And why did she have to make such a fuss about the stupid shopping? Josie’s mother wouldn’t make a big deal of anything so mind-numbingly mundane. But that’s because Josie’s mother was the coolest mum on the planet …

When her parents had announced they were all moving to Yorkshire, Faye had been gutted. She loved her life in Bristol, had an extensive circle of friends, a buzzing social life, and a boyfriend of sorts – in a kind of laid-back, who-can-play-it-most-disinterested sort of way. Even school was tolerable. Which was just as well given the exorbitant fees. Faye did experience a slight pang of guilt when she totted up exactly how much her parents had spent on school fees over the years. But while the world of academia might be one in which her brother thrived, it most certainly was not for her. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She had. Very hard in fact. But her GCSE results last year proved what the whole family had known for some time: that while Leo was a budding genius, striding confidently towards his goal of becoming a vet, Faye would never hover above anything other than average.

‘Oh, we’re so proud of Leo,’ Faye recalled her mother gushing to a friend, when the family had gone out for pizza to ‘celebrate’ the twins’ results. ‘He got the highest grades in the school, you know.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ replied the friend. ‘And what about you, Faye? How did you do?’

‘Faye did her best,’ cut in her mother, before Faye had a chance to open her mouth. And the tone in which it was imparted left Faye in no doubt that ‘her best’ was simply not good enough.

Having once harboured dreams of becoming a vet herself – not that she’d divulged those dreams to another living soul – her lack of academic prowess now meant a serious reassessment of her future. But the reassessment was taking longer than she’d anticipated. She still had no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but she desperately hoped that something would turn up – something glamorous and exciting with her name written all over it. Something that might even make her a household name. So, for once, everyone – including her parents – would take notice of her – and not just her brother. That, at least, had been her vision in Bristol – a large bustling city buzzing with opportunity. So, naturally, when the Yorkshire announcement had been made, Faye had freaked. Yorkshire consisted of nothing but sheep and the smelly stuff produced by their back-ends. Glamour and excitement would be as alien to Yorkshire as ducks were to the Sahara. Or so she’d thought …

Sick to the back teeth of constantly being compared to her high-achieving brother, Faye had steadfastly refused to join the local grammar school Leo had been welcomed into with open arms. Instead, she’d eventually worn down her parents into allowing her to do her A-levels at the further education college in Harrogate – a soulless, modern building languishing at the opposite end of the architectural scale to the Victorian red brick of her alma mater. But Faye soon discovered that a pleasant façade and lush grounds weren’t the only things missing. Used to a rigid timetable, with every minute of the day scheduled, she found the college’s lack of structure daunting: the emphasis being placed on the individual to organise and motivate themselves. Unfortunately, Faye was neither organised nor motivated. After the first week, she’d been seriously considering packing it in, when, on the way to catch the bus home one day, a girl about her own age appeared by her side.

‘Hi. You’ve just moved into Primrose Cottage in Buttersley, haven’t you?’

Faye, weary with the whole worrying-about-her-future thing, didn’t bother to reply. Instead, she shot the girl a withering look and continued marching towards the bus stop, willing the day she passed her driving test and got her own car. Then she wouldn’t have to put up with losers who …

‘I live there too. At the other end of the village. In Buttersley Hall.’

Buttersley Hall? Faye almost stopped in her tracks. After the manor house, owned by the ridiculously posh Pinkington-Smythe family, Buttersley Hall was the largest, most stunning house in the village. Her interest peaked, Faye slowed to a more sedate pace and turned to look at her would-be companion. She wasn’t the usual type Faye would make friends with. For a start, she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up – not even mascara, which Faye wouldn’t be seen dead without. And her clothes were more BHS than Boho. But she was pretty in a kind of fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, jolly-hockey-sticks kind of way. And, with her long blonde hair – which Faye suspected would look better with a few highlights – in two loose plaits, reminded her of a milkmaid.

‘I’m Josie,’ she said, her lips stretching into a grin. ‘Josie Cutler.’

‘Faye,’ said Faye, managing a fleeting smile. ‘Faye Blakelaw.’

‘Are you going for the bus?’

‘Ah ha.’

‘I’ll come with you. If that’s okay?’

Faye shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Why not,’ she said, deciding she had nothing to lose. Unlike Leo, who’d immediately become ‘Mr Popular’ at the grammar school, Faye didn’t have a queue of people battering down the door wanting to be her friend at the moment. And if Josie turned out to be a nerd, she could easily dump her. Besides, it was worth a few hours of listening to anyone wittering on, if the end result was a look around the gorgeous Buttersley Hall.

Fortunately, Faye didn’t have long to wait.

‘Would you like to come over tonight?’ Josie asked a few days later. ‘We could have a swim, then order in pizza or something.’

Faye’s eyes grew wide. ‘Have a swim? As in a swim at your house?’

Josie looked embarrassed. ‘I know it’s a bit flash having a pool, but as it’s there, it seems daft not to use it.’

‘Of course it would be daft,’ Faye agreed. ‘And I’d love to come over. What time?’

‘My tennis lesson finishes at six, so come over any time after that.’

‘Great,’ said Faye, scarcely able to believe her luck. ‘See you then.’

Floating up Buttersley Hall’s long gravelled drive a few hours later, Faye almost had to pinch herself. The house resembled something off the telly: one of those Georgian piles on Sunday night period dramas. She didn’t understand what Josie’s dad did – something to do with a drinks company, Josie had attempted to explain. But whatever it was, he obviously made a mint. Josie had attended a school with fees three times those of Faye’s, but had left to do her A-levels at college so she’d have more time to play tennis – the great love of Josie’s life, much to Faye’s bewilderment. Voluntary engagement in any kind of physical exercise remained an alien concept to Faye. She’d concocted all kinds of excuses – some of them particularly inventive – over the years to avoid PE, but Josie, for some inexplicable reason, seemed nuts about tennis. She hoped to take some exams and qualify as a coach, which Faye couldn’t get her head around at all. Just as she couldn’t get her head around the fact that Josie had zero interest in make-up and hadn’t even heard of the Kardashians. Still, though, despite all of the above, Faye was beginning to think Josie was all right.

She marched up to the front door, three times the size of the door at Primrose Cottage, and rang the brass bell, excitement fizzing in her stomach.

A minute later, the door was whipped open by a woman. A very beautiful woman. With waves of lustrous, long, jet-black hair. Swathed in a multi-coloured sarong, she put Faye in mind of an Amazonian Miss World contestant. Looking slightly on edge, she regarded Faye with dark, perfectly made-up eyes and glossy red lips that showed no hint of a smile.

‘Yes?’

Faye balked. When she’d left home, she’d thought she looked pretty cool in her cut-off denims and halter-neck top. Now, though, she felt like a blustering, blushing school kid.

‘Er, hi,’ she blustered. ‘I’m Josie’s friend, Faye. Josie invited me over for …’

‘Oh. Right. Just a minute.’ The woman didn’t wait for Faye to finish. She spun around on four-inch gold heels, and stalked across the black and white tiled floor of the hall, coming to a standstill at the bottom of a winding marble staircase.

‘Josie,’ she hollered up the stairs. ‘Someone to see you.’

Still hovering in the open doorway, Faye watched, entranced, as the woman then turned to a full-length gilded mirror, inspected her lipstick, and whisked off down a corridor.

Josie appeared a few seconds later, wearing shorts and a bikini top.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that. Mum’s in a bit of a bad …’

Faye’s eyes grew wide. ‘That was your mum?’

‘Ah ha. Should we go straight down to the pool?’

Despite having been dying to see the pool all day, Faye had no desire to go there now. She wanted to stay in the house. And observe the vision that was Josie’s mum.

‘It’s the perfect place to escape from Mum,’ said Josie, as if somehow reading Faye’s mind. ‘I don’t know what’s up with her. She’s been in a foul mood for days so I’m trying to keep out of her way. You ready for a swim?’

‘Can’t wait,’ Faye heard herself replying.

The swimming pool at Buttersley Hall was every bit as impressive as Faye had imagined. Yet, despite its imposing proportions, and the fabulous setting of lush lawns, two professional-looking tennis courts, and the gloriously warm September evening, it was still Josie’s mother who held Faye’s interest.

‘What does your mum do?’ she asked, when Josie surfaced for air after swimming two full lengths under water.

‘Nothing,’ Josie replied, wiggling a finger in her ear. ‘She used to work as cabin crew for one of the big airlines before she met Dad and had me.’

‘She looks really … young,’ Faye said. Silently adding a stream of other adjectives, including gorgeous, stunning, amazing …

‘She’s thirty-seven. She had me when she was twenty. What does your mum do?’

Faye rolled her eyes. ‘Panders to my hideous brother’s every need. And nags me about stupid, boring things like I haven’t eaten any vegetables, and I should be doing my homework.’

Josie giggled. ‘She sounds nice. I’d like to meet her.’

Over my dead body, Faye resisted saying. How could she possibly take Josie back to Primrose Cottage when she lived in this demi-palace with a supermodel for a mother? Honestly. Life just totally wasn’t fair.

‘I’m starving,’ she announced. ‘Should we go and order some pizzas?’

‘Okay,’ agreed Josie.

Sitting at the island in the enormous kitchen at Buttersley Hall a few minutes later, swathed in a fluffy black towel, Faye eyed her surroundings approvingly. The sleek white units were enhanced with every in-built shiny, chrome appliance ever invented. Even the tap was uber-trendy, with several other gadgets hanging off it. This was the kind of kitchen Faye would love, not the washed-out green-oak effort at Primrose Cottage.

‘This kitchen is awesome,’ she said to Josie, who was sitting at the opposite side of the island, slicing strawberries for their smoothies.

‘It’s a total waste,’ huffed Josie, shaking her head. ‘It only ever gets used when Dad’s at home now. And that’s like never.’

‘Doesn’t your mum cook?’

‘Not these days,’ replied Josie. ‘She used to make some great stuff when I was younger but now she’s hardly ever home.’

Faye’s eyes grew wide. She couldn’t imagine life without her mother trying to ram some ghastly healthy concoction down her throat every evening. Josie really didn’t know how lucky she was. ‘So you can eat whatever you like?’ she asked enviously.

Josie nodded. ‘Which suits me fine, actually. I need loads of carbs for tennis and, since Mum became paranoid about her weight, she wouldn’t touch a carb if her life depended on it.’

‘Unreal,’ sighed Faye, wondering what she must’ve done in a previous life to deserve her miserable fate. Josie seemed to have it made here.

‘Josie, I’m just popping out.’

Faye’s head whipped around to find Josie’s mother standing in the doorway, now wearing tight white jeans and a glittering turquoise vest top.

‘Okay,’ said Josie, tossing the strawberries into the blender. ‘Oh, by the way, Mum. This is Faye Blakelaw. She just moved to the village a few weeks ago. Faye, this is my mum, Miranda.’

Two perfectly made-up, huge brown eyes regarded Faye again. ‘Hi,’ she said, with a fleeting smile this time.

‘Hi,’ gasped Faye, wondering how anyone could look so glamorous when they were just ‘popping out’. And what a gorgeous name. It was so … so … Sex and the City.

‘Oh. And Eduardo said to tell you that he’ll pop by tomorrow to sort out payment for my next block of lessons,’ Josie added.

Miranda’s shiny silver clutch bag fell to the floor.

‘Er, right,’ she muttered, bending down to retrieve it. ‘Well, I’d, um, better be off. I’ll see you later.’

‘Okay,’ said Josie. ‘Have a good time.’

‘Where’s she going?’ Faye asked, as Miranda disappeared in a cloud of expensive perfume.

Josie shrugged. ‘No idea. We used to be really close not so long ago. But now she does her thing, and I do mine.’

And that was the way, Faye discovered, that life operated at Buttersley Hall. Josie did whatever she wanted – and while the things Josie did were not necessarily the things Faye would have done, it all was still mind-blowingly awesome. Meanwhile, Miranda swanned about in fabulous clothes, looking fabulous and no doubt doing fabulous things. And all from their fabulous house with its fabulous pool. It was a gazillion light years away from Faye’s dreary life at Primrose Cottage, where her mother wouldn’t know Prada from Primark, and completely freaked if Faye happened to mention something as mundane as missing a class at college. But, of the two worlds, Faye knew which one she belonged to. Or should belong to. Which was why, ever since that first meeting with Miranda, she’d spent every possible minute at Buttersley Hall, feeding her obsession with the woman. An obsession of a purely educational nature. Miranda was Faye’s ideal role model. And Faye suspected that whatever she learned from her, however covertly, would stand her in much better stead than anything they could teach her at Harrogate Further Education College.

In fact, come to think of it, hadn’t Josie invited her over later that evening if she had nothing on? Faye reached for her mobile and scrolled down until she found Josie’s number. That she might smudge her nail varnish in the process didn’t matter one jot.

Chapter Two

Miranda Cutler pressed hard on the accelerator of her BMW convertible as she sped along Buttersley’s narrow country lanes. With the roof down, the cool October evening air whistled through her hair. She closed her eyes, wishing it would whip away all thoughts from her head. When she opened them again, she found the car hurtling towards a high stone wall. Miranda jammed on the brakes and pulled over onto the grass verge, her heart thundering. What the hell was she doing? She could have killed herself. Not that anyone would have cared. Herself included. An impromptu death would at least offer one escape route from the hideous predicament she found herself in. A hideous predicament entirely of her own making. She ran a hand through her hair and heaved an almighty sigh. How could she have been so stupid? She was thirty-seven, for God’s sake, not seventeen. She’d been around the block enough times to know how these things worked. And having unprotected sex with her daughter’s tennis coach, who also happened to be her best friend Lydia’s toy-boy lover, was definitely not on the list. But six pregnancy tests could not be wrong. So, the burning question now was what to do about it. The answer required minimal consideration. She had only one option. A termination. But where? She couldn’t go to her GP in Buttersley. She’d have to go private. Somewhere she could be completely anonymous. Somewhere like … London. And she wouldn’t tell a soul. She’d make out it was a shopping trip – a totally spontaneous one to avoid Lydia inviting herself along.

Miranda leaned forward and rested her head on the leather steering wheel. God. Just concocting the plan exhausted her, never mind actually implementing it. And, despite intending to keep the whole sorry business to herself, there remained the ordeal of facing Eduardo and Lydia, and, more importantly, her own husband, Doug, while pretending everything was perfectly fine.

Just thinking about Doug caused Miranda’s heart to sink. Not that theirs was a conventional marriage. Nor was Miranda’s a conventional life. And certainly not a straightforward one. From a young age, things had been complicated and, even after all this time, she could still recall, as if it were yesterday, the precise day the complications began …

‘Well, I never,’ declared her dad one morning, bowling into the kitchen in his bus driver’s uniform.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ asked Miranda’s mum, frying sausages on the gas cooker.

Her dad wafted the letter in his hand. ‘Apparently I’ve been left an inheritance.’

At the kitchen table, in the navy-blue skirt and sweater which compiled the uninspiring uniform of Jarrow Comp, thirteen-year-old Miranda whipped up her head from her teen magazine. ‘An inheritance, Dad? But we don’t know anyone who’s died.’

Her father plumped down on the chair opposite hers, his kind, round face flushed. ‘Well, actually I do. Vaguely. It’s my Aunt Maud – your grandad’s youngest sister. She emigrated to Australia in the 1960s. I remember Dad organised a leaving party for her and Maud turned up in a dress with kangaroos printed all over it. She was a funny old soul. Always wore bright orange lipstick. Never married. Probably as a result of the lipstick. But, according to this letter, she passed away last month and, as her only surviving relative, she’s left everything to me.’

‘Goodness,’ gasped Miranda’s mother, momentarily neglecting the sausages. ‘Does it say how much “everything” is?’

Her father shook his head. ‘No. I have to make an appointment with the solicitor to “be furnished with full details”. I’m on an early finish today so I’ll see if they can fit me in this afternoon.’

Miranda couldn’t concentrate at school that day. Not a particularly unusual occurrence. Her ambition stretching no further than a two-mile radius of her home town, she could see no point in equations, essays and experiments, her only interest in the scholarly world being purely of a social nature.

Shuffling along to their first class, Miranda related news of the inheritance to her best friend, Tina.

‘Oh my God,’ Tina gushed. ‘What if it’s millions? You could buy one of those really posh houses on the new estate. They’ve got bidets and everything. And you could go abroad for your holidays. America. That’s where I’d go. On Concorde.’

Miranda giggled. She hadn’t really thought about moving before. She liked their house. It was only a semi on the council estate, but it was lovely and cosy. And as for going abroad for their holidays, she’d never given that much consideration either, always looking forward to their annual family jaunt to Skegness. But she decided to play along with Tina just the same. ‘If it is millions, I promise I’ll take you to America on Concorde,’ she said.

Tina’s heavily made-up eyes grew wide, her mind evidently awhirl with possibilities. ‘And you know what else we could do? Go and see Duran Duran. They might even let us backstage if we tell them you’re a millionaire.’

Hmm. Now that was something that did appeal to Miranda. Very much. Excitement began fizzing in her stomach. And so the day continued, maths, biology and history completely passing them by as she and Tina concocted increasingly elaborate schemes of how to spend the inheritance – which grew larger with every passing hour. By the time Miranda arrived home later that afternoon, she thought she might burst with anticipation.

‘Well?’ she asked breathlessly, dumping her school bag on the floor. ‘What did the solicitor say?’

‘You’re not going to believe it, sweetheart,’ gushed her mum. ‘I still can’t take it in.’

‘Is it millions?’ pressed Miranda. ‘Can we go to America on Concorde and take Tina?’

‘Woah!’ said her dad, chuckling. ‘Come and sit here beside me, love.’

Miranda joined her father on the worn brown sofa.

‘It’s not millions,’ he informed her. ‘And there’ll be no jetting about on aeroplanes. Given that it’s money we wouldn’t have otherwise had, your mum and I have decided not to waste it on anything frivolous, but to spend it on you. To invest in your future.’

Sensing, by her dad’s earnest tone, that this ‘investing’ would also not include tickets to Duran Duran, panic began nibbling Miranda’s innards.

‘We’re going to use the money to send you to a better school.’

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Her mouth grew dry and for a few seconds she thought she might pass out. But perhaps she hadn’t heard properly. ‘A … a better school?’

‘That’s right, love.’

Miranda shook her head in an attempt to clear it. This was becoming surreal. Were they really having this conversation? ‘B … but what’s wrong with the Comp?’

‘Far too much, in our opinion,’ huffed her mum. ‘That school’s been going downhill for years. And now we have the money to get you out of there, that’s exactly what we’re going to do. We want to give you the best start in life we can, sweetheart. Send you somewhere that will bring out your potential. You’re a clever girl and I don’t want to see you wasting your life working in the factory like me.’

‘We obviously need to do a lot more research,’ her dad ploughed on. ‘But the solicitor has recommended the school his own daughters went to. It’s called Briardene in Derbyshire.’

Miranda spotted a glimmer of hope. ‘Derbyshire? But I can’t travel to and from there every day.’

‘You won’t have to,’ said her mum smugly. ‘It’s a boarding school, so you’ll be living there. It’ll be a fantastic experience. Just like something out of Enid Blyton.’

But Briardene, Miranda soon discovered, was as far away from the world of Enid Blyton as Jarrow was from Jamaica. From the moment she stepped into the marbled foyer of what had obviously once been a spectacular stately home, she felt as though she were on another planet. Her crimson uniform might be the same as those of the other girls, but there endeth any similarity. Her fellow incumbents’ rosy cheeks hinted at hours outdoors riding their ponies; their glossy hair reeked of expensive products; and their plummy accents wouldn’t have sounded out of place in Buckingham Palace. Plus they all exuded a confidence that wafted about only the truly moneyed.

Miranda wished Tina could see them – flicking locks; kissing cheeks; clunking hockey sticks, lacrosse sticks and tennis racquets. She’d find the whole thing hilarious.

‘Lady Bloody Mucks,’ she’d call them. Or words to that effect.

But Tina wasn’t there. She was at the Comp. Probably sporting an outrageous pair of earrings that would be confiscated within the first ten minutes, before being ordered to the toilets to wash off her eye make-up. Miranda had never been one of the Comp’s biggest fans, but at that moment she’d never wanted to be anywhere more in her entire life.

Miranda had never had a problem making friends in the past. In fact, she’d been pretty popular at the Comp. But she soon discovered that the cliques at Briardene were constructed with the same impenetrability as Norman fortresses. With her pitiful armoury of a strong local accent, a gangly awkwardness, and a blatant lack of upper-class breeding, she didn’t have a hope of infiltrating a single one of them.

Her weekly phone calls to her parents were strained. ‘I know it’s hard, love’ was batted back with depressing regularity. ‘But it’s for the best. You’ll soon settle in. You’ll see.’

But Miranda knew the chances of her settling into Briardene were as likely as a penguin calling the numbers in her mum’s bingo hall. In the absence of any better distractions, she threw herself into her studies. Despite the huge amount of money being invested in her education though, and her parents’ unwarranted confidence in her academic ability, she remained just as average at Briardene as at the Comp.

Its one saving grace was that she didn’t have to share a bedroom. Her little room on the second floor, with views over the extensive playing fields, became her haven. Every possible minute, she would scurry off there, close the door and block out the alien world behind it. Her walls were crammed with reminders of home – photos of her parents and friends, of happy times when she hadn’t a care in the world. The highlight of every day became the ritual crossing off of the date on the calendar. One day less at Briardene. One day nearer the school holidays and going home.

In fact, in the days before social media, Miranda’s only contact with her Jarrow friends was during the longed-for holidays. It soon became obvious, however, that she no longer belonged to that world either. Her attempt to modify her broad accent to fit in at her new school caused some consternation back home.

‘Listen to you. You’ve gone all posh,’ remarked Tina, when Miranda telephoned her during her first Easter holidays.

‘No, I haven’t,’ countered Miranda. ‘I’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten what I sound like, that’s all.’

A brief – and uncomfortable – hiatus followed.

‘Fancy going into town tomorrow afternoon?’ Miranda asked, desperate to rekindle the close relationship the two of them had always enjoyed. ‘Or we could go to the cinema.’

‘I, um, can’t,’ replied Tina. ‘Got to go to some, er, family thing. Sorry. Look, I’ll give you a call later in the week, okay?’

And before Miranda could reply, she hung up.

‘I thought you were going out with Tina today,’ her mum commented the following day.

‘She’s busy,’ muttered Miranda miserably.

‘Well, why don’t we go into town, then?’ her mum suggested. ‘We could do a spot of shopping. Have our lunch out.’

In the absence of any better offers, Miranda agreed.

Having mooched around the shops for a couple of hours, they were deliberating where to go for lunch when they spotted Tina over the other side of the road. Arm-in-arm with another girl from school.

‘Oh, look,’ said her mum. ‘There’s …’

Miranda felt as though someone had plunged a knife into her innards. Tears burning her eyes, she spun around and marched along the street in the opposite direction.

Back home, her mum did her best to cheer her up. ‘Don’t worry about Tina, sweetheart. Girls are fickle. They change best friends more often than they change their underwear. What about your new pals at Briardene? You’re always welcome to invite them here over the holidays, you know.’

Miranda gawped at her mother. She didn’t have any ‘pals’ at Briardene. And even if she had, how could she possibly invite anyone from there to a council house in Jarrow? The bathrooms in their stately homes would be bigger than the entire semi. And have bidets. Her mum didn’t have a clue.

‘Look, Mum,’ she pleaded, for what must’ve been the two-hundredth time. ‘I really hate Briardene. Why can’t I go back to the Comp? Then you and Dad can use all the money you’ll save to buy a nice new house or something.’

But for what must also have been the two-hundredth time, her mum shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we’ve made up our minds. I know it’s not easy settling into a new school. Especially at your age. But it’ll pay dividends in the end. Just you wait and see.’

Miranda didn’t want to wait and see. She didn’t care about dividends. She wanted her old life back. The life she’d loved so much – when she’d been happy and popular and carefree. In a world she’d belonged to.

Now she didn’t belong anywhere.

She was like a flailing fish out of water, desperately grabbling for air.

And it was all her parents’ fault.

And so passed the next three years, Miranda’s resentfulness towards her parents burgeoning with every one of them. After the first summer she’d given up begging to return to the Comp. Despite all her tears, reasoning and misery, her parents continued to insist that it was for her own good, and attributed the ensuing surliness to teenage years.

At sixteen Miranda announced she would be leaving Briardene.

‘But what about your A-levels? University?’ her parents entreated.

‘I’m not going to university so there’s no point doing my A-levels,’ Miranda batted back.

Disappointment settled over their faces. But Miranda was devoid of sympathy. What did they expect? She’d suffered long enough.

The day she walked out of Briardene for the very last time, she’d felt as though a ten-ton weight had been lifted from her young shoulders. Freedom loomed. But what to do with it? Until Briardene, she hadn’t much considered her future, subconsciously assuming it would involve a local job, a local lad, and a couple of kids. Now, though, none of that seemed right. She no longer belonged in Jarrow. She didn’t belong anywhere. Nor did she have any remarkable skills or talents. What she did have, thankfully, were her looks. When she’d started at Briardene she’d been a gawky, gangly teenager with braces and spots. But, just after her fifteenth birthday, things began to happen. She filled out – in all the right places. The braces came off to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. Her skin cleared. And, like a true student of the school, she grew her hair.

Feeling devoid of roots, she came up with what she considered the perfect career: cabin crew. At least Briardene had ensured she achieved all the requisite qualifications – her not-too-lacking list of GCSEs thankfully including maths and English. The minimum age for applications being eighteen, she bided her time working in shops and restaurants in and around Jarrow, gaining experience serving the great British public. Her parents, naturally, had been gutted. Having invested a small fortune in her education, they’d expected more. But Miranda refused to feel guilty. She’d done her bit. She’d stayed at Briardene for as long as she could endure it.

The most depressing result for Miranda wasn’t her status-lacking career choice, but the vast rift which now existed between her and her parents. They’d been so close once: a tight, loving family unit. Now they existed in parallel universes. And the most depressing part of all was that Miranda couldn’t imagine ever finding a way to mend the rift; couldn’t imagine ever forgiving them for subjecting her to Briardene.

Consequently, she spent as little time as possible in their presence, treating her bedroom exactly as she had her room at school. Spending every spare moment she could in there; crossing off the days on her calendar until her eighteenth birthday.

Tina and her other friends in Jarrow having long since deserted her, on her days off she’d catch the bus to Newcastle airport and watch the cabin crew strutting through the departure gate, soaking up every detail of their appearance, right down to the way they walked and talked. On the day of her eighteenth birthday, her application was in the post. And, after a gruelling round of tests and interviews, she was accepted. The day she received the news was the day Miranda felt her life was about to begin.

And so it had.

Based in Manchester, she’d left Jarrow without as much as a backward glance, taking to her new career like a duck to water. After only a few months, she was assigned the New York route, upon which travelled several regular faces. Doug’s included. Doug’s was a nice face. Not conventionally handsome, but with pleasant features, and kind brown eyes. Miranda correctly estimated him to be about ten years older than her, in his late twenties. At well over six feet, he literally stood out from the crowd, always immaculately dressed, and, unlike some of the punters who treated the crew as nothing more than skivvies, always polite.

She bumped into him one day outside Macy’s. He’d been returning to his hotel after a business meeting. Miranda had been shopping. He invited her for a coffee. She accepted. And, surprisingly, for the first time in years – ever since she and Tina had been close in fact – Miranda found herself relaxing in someone else’s company. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was about Doug that made her feel like that. It could have been any number of things: his easy-going charm; his kind brown eyes which, on closer inspection, twinkled with humour; the fact that he shared her working-class roots, but had relentlessly followed his vision of success. He was so clever; so capable; so grounded; so in control. And he knew exactly where he belonged.

After that first meeting, they made every effort to see one another as often as possible. Not half as often as either of them would’ve liked given their hectic work schedules, but often enough for an astounded Miranda to find herself pregnant four months later. She’d been on the pill, but with jetting all over the place, and the time differences, had obviously slipped up somewhere along the line. Surprisingly though, for one so young, and only just starting out on her career, the idea of having a baby or, more precisely, the idea of having Doug’s baby, appealed to her. She’d already decided to keep it, whatever his reaction. But, albeit slightly baffled by the news at first, his surprise had quickly turned to joy.

‘Why don’t we get married?’ he’d suggested, completely out of the blue, two weeks later.

An ecstatic Miranda hadn’t needed long to consider her reply.

Having no siblings, a limited social circle, and zero inclination to involve her parents, Miranda insisted on a small wedding. Doug agreed, whisking her off to Gretna Green where the marital party had consisted of the bride and groom, the registrar, and four American tourists.

On their return, Miranda moved into Doug’s apartment in Manchester where, a few months later, Josie joined them. Miranda had been slightly daunted at first at having such a tiny being completely dependent on her 24/7. Doug, though, in his easy, capable way, slipped effortlessly into his new role, and his work schedule settled into a pattern which involved only a couple of short foreign trips a month. For the best part of a year Miranda’s life was idyllic, often sparking memories of her own childhood. Of course she’d taken Doug and Josie to meet her parents. And while they’d cooed over Josie and did their best to make Doug welcome, the visits left Miranda sad and empty. Imagining how different things would have been had her dad never received the inheritance made her want to cry. But then again, had it not been for that same inheritance, she most likely would never have left Jarrow, never have met Doug, and wouldn’t have Josie.

Miranda started as the shrill tone of her mobile blasted through her thoughts, sending her hurtling back to the present. She whipped up her bag from the passenger seat and fished out the phone. Rather spookily, given her recent musings, her parents’ number beamed at her on the screen. Miranda pressed the End Call button. The last thing she needed today was to talk to her mother. Her only conversation these days revolved around lists of physical complaints. And Miranda, frankly, had enough complaints of her own.

Leaning back against the soft cream leather seat, she wondered how her parents would have felt if she’d carried on driving straight into the wall. She only saw them once a year now and made no attempt to disguise the fact that her visit was purely of a dutiful nature. She doubted they would miss her much if she was no longer there. In fact, she doubted if anyone would care, or indeed notice, if she was no longer there. She played no significant role in anyone’s life. Nobody needed her. Not even her daughter. Josie was a resourceful kid, who could happily look after herself. And Doug had his own life in which she featured only fleetingly. In a nutshell, she was of no use to anyone – which led her to conclude that perhaps she really should have carried on driving into the wall after all.

Chapter Three

Ask anyone who knew her, and they would all agree that Julia Blakelaw was generally an easy-going soul, phlegmatic and resigned to her existence. Since her run-in with Max in the supermarket a few days ago, however, Julia had demonstrated none of those traits. A deluge of discontentment and despair had swept away all other emotions. While never placing herself in the ‘Ecstatically Happy’ category, Julia had, however unwittingly, accepted her lot and got on with it. Since bumping into Max, though, it all seemed completely futile – a feeling exacerbated by a surreptitious rummage through her old photo albums. The albums she kept hidden in a battered old suitcase in the bottom of her wardrobe. The albums crammed with photos of her and Max.

‘Has my blue striped shirt been ironed?’

Propped up against the pillows still abed on Monday morning, Julia observed her husband, Paul, as he flicked through the rainbow of shirts in his wardrobe. Fresh from the shower, he had a towel wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t in bad shape for a man just the wrong side of forty, Julia concluded. Courtesy of his twice-weekly squash games, there wasn’t so much as a hint of a paunch. And the grey bits in his dark curly hair served only to make it more interesting. Totally unfair.

‘Julia. My shirt?’ he repeated. ‘Has it been ironed yet?’

Dragged out of her reverie, Julia shrugged. ‘If it isn’t there, then probably not.’

The look on Paul’s face told her this was not the answer he’d been hoping for. ‘But I need it.’

Julia heaved an almighty sigh and folded her arms over her chest. ‘Why? You’ve got thirty others to choose from.’

‘But I need that one. I’m presenting to the Board today and it’s the only one I feel really comfortable in.’

Julia rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the energy for an argument. ‘All right. All right. I’ll iron it.’

‘Thanks.’ He flashed her a smile as she clambered out of bed.

Well, at least that was something, mused Julia, tying the belt of her robe around her waist. ‘Thanks’ was not a word uttered with much regularity in the Blakelaw household. Her positivity, though, was short-lived.

‘And can you do it quickly?’ he added. ‘I need to be in the office half an hour earlier today.’

‘Right,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.

On the landing, she bumped into Faye.

‘Oh. If you’re ironing, could you do my denim skirt?’

‘Of course,’ said Julia, plastering a saccharine smile onto her face. ‘Anything else?’

Faye narrowed her eyes and screwed up her nose. ‘No. Just the skirt.’

Reaching the spare bedroom which doubled as an ironing room, Julia flung the door shut and plopped down on the bed, causing the mountain of creased clothes on it to topple to the floor. She’d spent the entire weekend running around after them all – as usual. But this weekend, it had felt so different. So … wrong. She rested her forearms on her thighs and dropped her head into her hands, anger and resentment spinning through her veins. Since when had she become such a doormat? Since when had she allowed people – and her own family at that – to treat her as nothing but a domestic slave? Once upon a time she’d harboured dreams, ambitions. She’d wanted to travel, have a successful career, achieve something – all the things that made life worth living. But that seemed a million years ago. What had happened to that lively, feisty girl? The girl who had been so full of energy, with a natural zest for life? The girl that had captivated Max Burrell …

Julia had scarcely believed it when Max had shown an interest in her. They’d both been seventeen, in the first year of sixth form. Julia – pretty and popular – had been academically capable, but nothing special. Unlike Max. He’d joined the school the year before, and in no time at all assumed his place as captain of the rugby team and star of the debating society, in addition to smashing all of the school’s athletic records. Undeniably brilliant, he was destined for great things – a dead cert for Oxbridge. Add devastating good looks to the package, and Max could have had any girl he wanted. But the only one he did want was Julia.

It had all started at a house party where Julia, losing her balance on ridiculously high stilettoes, had sent a huge glass of cider over Max’s trendy shirt. She’d been mortified, he amused. She’d thought he’d run a mile. He stuck to her like glue. Then, at the end of the night, he’d kissed her on the cheek and asked her out. Julia thought it must be a joke; an adolescent bet, with his mates sniggering around the corner. But it wasn’t and they weren’t.

Much to the apparent bemusement of the rest of the school, they soon became a couple, ‘Are you really going out with Max Burrell?’ being asked on more than one occasion; and ‘I can’t believe Max Burrell is going out with her,’ being overheard on several others.

Not that Julia was surprised. There were heaps of prettier girls in the school. Quite why Max had singled out her, she couldn’t fathom.

‘Because you’re gorgeous, genuine and funny,’ he insisted.

But, try as she might, Julia couldn’t get her head around it. Every time they went out she almost had to pinch herself to prove that it was real. Not only because she was actually with Max, but because of the way he treated her – gazing at her with a glint of tenderness in those grey-green eyes. Placing his hand on the small of her back each time he opened a door for her. And, best of all in Julia’s opinion, casually draping his arm over her shoulders whenever they walked down the street.

‘God, do you know how lucky you are, going out with him?’ her friend, Marie, begrudgingly muttered, when they’d glanced out of the window between classes one day to see Max striding across the school car park, all long legs and floppy dark-blond hair.

And Julia did know how lucky she was.

The day Max told her he loved her had been one of the happiest of her entire life. Three days before Christmas they’d been ice-skating at a park on the outskirts of the city. Julia, with unabashed bravado, launched herself into the centre of the rink and attempted to do a twirl. Things – perhaps understandably – not going quite as planned, she landed in an ungainly heap on the ice.

A split second later Max was at her side. ‘God, Julia! Are you all right?’

From her supine position, Julia gazed up at him. ‘My arm hurts but I don’t think I’ve broken anything.’

The look of concern on his face caused her heart to constrict. ‘I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you, Ju. I really can’t.’ He tenderly swiped a lock of hair from her forehead. ‘I love you.’

Those three words caused every other thought to rocket from Julia’s head. She forgot all about the pain in her arm, the other skaters, the loud music, and the fact that she was lying on a sheet of ice. For a few seconds, she and Max were the only two people in the entire universe.

‘And I love you,’ she eventually replied.

And she really did. Had for months but hadn’t dared tell him.

After that, the intensity of their relationship increased tenfold. It was like they were soulmates, destined to be together forever.

That same evening, with Julia’s parents out sipping mulled wine at a neighbour’s party, they’d lain on the sofa in her living room for hours, kissing and gazing into one another’s eyes.

‘I’d like to marry you one day,’ Max whispered.

And Julia thought, for the second time in only a few hours, that she might die of happiness.

Then, in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, university beckoned. York for Julia. Cambridge for Max. General consensus was that they didn’t have a hope in hell of keeping the relationship going. But they had. For a while, anyway. Until … until Julia made what she now realised was possibly the biggest mistake of her life.

‘Julia?’ Paul’s voice bowled up the stairs. ‘Are you going to be much longer? I need to leave in a few minutes.’

Julia swiped the tears from her cheeks, leaped off the bed and began rummaging through the pile of laundry for her husband’s blue striped shirt. ‘Nearly finished,’ she called back.

*****

Half an hour later, Paul Blakelaw’s heart sank as his gaze landed on the clock on the Jag’s walnut dashboard. Shit! Of all the days to be late, it had to be today. The day of the dreaded Board meeting. With his presentation first on the agenda. And now he’d hit the worst of the traffic, he’d be at least ten minutes late. Damn. If only Julia hadn’t taken so long to iron his shirt … Paul grimaced. God! That made him sound like a completely chauvinistic pig. Which he wasn’t. He was actually perfectly capable of ironing his own shirt – which, ideally, he would have done the evening before, if he hadn’t arrived home so late. But with him working such ridiculous hours, he’d come to rely on Julia for those kinds of things. Which didn’t make him a bad person, did it? He was, after all, doing his best to provide for his family. And he didn’t think he was making too bad a job of it. But Julia …

Paul slammed on the brakes as a bus pulled out in front of him.

… Julia had been acting really strangely over the last few days. Of course he’d asked her what was wrong, but the uninformative ‘nothing’ hurled back had made it perfectly clear she didn’t want to discuss the matter.

Crunching the gears as he slowed down at a junction, Paul shook his head and heaved a weary sigh. Until recently, he’d never much thought about his marriage. He and Julia just kind of drifted along. Like most couples, he assumed. Especially when there were children involved. But ever since turning forty – or, to be more precise, ever since his new assistant had started at the office just after Paul’s fortieth birthday – he’d begun to look at things a little … differently.

Which is why he really hoped Julia acting strangely didn’t mean she suspected anything.

Not that there was anything to suspect.

Not really, anyway.

*****

The best thing about college, Faye concluded, was that you had heaps of spare time. Spare time which could be utilised for studying, of course. But Faye had discovered it was much more fun lying – albeit fully clothed – on a sunlounger by the pool at Buttersley Hall, observing Josie’s tennis lesson.

Or, to be more precise, observing Eduardo during Josie’s tennis lesson.

Faye would have been the first to admit that her experience with the opposite sex could be deftly placed in the ‘limited’ category. In Bristol, she and Luke Molloy had been ‘going out’. Which, roughly translated, meant they were mates who occasionally engaged in a snog. But that was because, Faye suddenly realised, Luke was a mere boy. Eduardo, on the other hand, was a man. One hundred per cent testosterone – of the sexy Mediterranean variety.

From behind her aviator sunglasses, Faye watched as Eduardo’s muscular frame – clad in knee-length, baggy white shorts and a red T-shirt which looked three sizes too small for his broad chest, bounded around the tennis court. In addition to being a real live Adonis, the man was spectacularly fit. Although Faye supposed he’d have to be, to keep up with Lydia Pembleton – the scary lady with big boobs who’d apparently found him in Spain, packaged him up, and brought him back to Buttersley with her. Lucky cow.

Faye heaved an almighty sigh and folded her arms over her chest. Her chances of meeting any guy as hunky as Eduardo were as likely as her mum serving up a brand of American fast food for dinner in a sequinned mini skirt. Faye hadn’t come across any boys her age at all in Buttersley. And the ones she’d met at college were as dishy as a lump of corned beef. All of which could mean she was destined to life as a spinster. Like one of those sad old bats in those Jane Austen novels.

At the thought of Jane Austen, Faye experienced a stab of guilt. She had an English literature assignment to hand in tomorrow and she hadn’t even started it yet. She reached for her bag and pulled out a copy of Hamlet. Flicking through a few pages, she wondered how anyone could possibly find the Bard the least bit interesting. Maybe she should have chosen French instead of English lit. But that would only mean more boring stuff – in a boring foreign language. And what, frankly, was the point anyway? No matter how much work she did, her grades at A-level would still be rubbish. Especially compared to Leo’s inevitable bagful of A-stars. So she might as well not bother. At least if she didn’t try, she couldn’t be disappointed again. And there would be no humiliation like with her GCSEs. She tossed down the book and reached into her bag again, this time pulling out a copy of the latest Hello! magazine.

‘Hola, Faye.’

Faye whipped up her head to find Eduardo striding over the grass towards her.

‘You wait for me?’ he asked with a cheeky wink.

Faye felt her cheeks reddening. ‘No. I’m waiting for Josie.’

‘Ah, what a shame,’ he said, his sexy Spanish accent and the loaded look he shot her before carrying on towards the house causing Faye’s stomach to somersault and the flush in her cheeks to deepen.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Josie, suddenly appearing at her side. ‘I’d knocked a ball out of the court and couldn’t find it. You all right?’

Faye cleared her throat and shook back her long dark hair in what she hoped was a blasé manner. ‘Fine, thanks. How was your lesson?’

‘Great,’ replied Josie, plopping down onto the next sunlounger. ‘Eduardo’s an excellent coach.’

‘And pretty ripped too,’ added Faye. ‘How old do you think he is?’

Josie shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered uninterestedly, picking up the copy of Hamlet Faye had discarded earlier. ‘Twenty-six. Twenty-seven, maybe.’

Faye shook her head disbelievingly. That was another thing she couldn’t understand about Josie. The girl had minimal interest in the opposite sex. ‘He’s still pretty gorgeous, even if he is a bit old,’ she pointed out.

Josie wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose so. If you like that kind of thing.’ She thrust herself to her feet. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower. You can stay here if you like, or wait for me in the kitchen.’

Faye needed only a millisecond to consider her options. Waiting in the kitchen would greatly increase her chances of seeing Miranda. ‘I’ll come up to the house with you,’ she said, grappling around for her possessions.

In the house, Faye sat at the kitchen island while Josie went upstairs. Disappointed to discover no sign of Miranda, she turned her attention back to her copy of Hello! Flicking through the pages, she did a double take. The woman in the photographs, draped over an ex-footballer in his flashy Spanish villa, looked familiar. In fact, she looked exactly like Lydia Pembleton – Eduardo’s lover. But why on earth would Lydia Pembleton be featured in Hello! magazine? And with some ageing footballer? Before she could start reading the blurb, Josie entered the kitchen, hair dripping wet from her shower.

‘Oh no,’ she groaned, peeping over Faye’s shoulder. ‘I see Lydia Pembleton’s ugly mug is in that hideous magazine again.’

Faye’s eyes grew wide. ‘So it is her? But what’s she doing in Marbella with an ex-footballer? I thought she lived with Eduardo.’

Heading towards the huge American fridge, Josie shook her head despairingly. ‘She does live with Eduardo – but only when her ex has no need of her. The woman is a good friend of Mum’s and a total headcase. She used to be married to the guy in the photos – Darren Pembleton. Then he dumped her for some other bimbo, but still gives Lydia loads of cash. And whenever he’s feeling a bit lonely, he picks up the phone and she goes running. Her and Mum are forever flitting over to Marbella. They’re going again at the end of this week.’

Faye could scarcely believe what she was hearing. As if Miranda’s life wasn’t perfect enough, the woman mixed with celebrities. And in Marbella. ‘God,’ she huffed. ‘That’s, like, totally awesome.’

‘Awesome?’ echoed Josie. ‘I think it’s all a bit sad. God knows what Eduardo thinks of it all. But he doesn’t seem to mind. I suppose the pros outweigh the cons for him. He’s probably a kept man. And, with Lydia away so much, he can do whatever he likes. Should we make banana smoothies?’

‘Okay,’ muttered Faye, wondering how anyone could possibly find banana smoothies more interesting than all this juicy gossip. Honestly. Sometimes she really did wonder about Josie.

*****

Never, in all of Julia’s thirty-nine years, had she ever imagined having sleepless nights about buying low-fat yogurt and mini Mars bars. But, as Friday loomed, she wasn’t just suffering from a lack of sleep, but a surfeit of nerves mingled with, although she scarcely dared admit it, excitement. And all on the off-chance she might bump into Max again.

‘You okay?’ asked Paul, after she’d wiped down the kitchen bench for the sixth time.

‘Great, thanks,’ she replied, suspecting her bright and breezy demeanour was just a tad too bright and breezy, particularly after all the snapping and sniping she’d indulged in during the week. ‘Anybody want anything special from the supermarket today?’

‘No, thanks,’ muttered Leo, disappearing out of the back door.

‘Don’t get any more of those muesli bars,’ instructed Faye, shrugging her bag over her shoulder. ‘There’s one hundred and sixty calories in each one.’

‘Oh my God,’ gasped Julia, pressing her hand to her chest in mock horror. ‘If I’d known that, I’d have cleared the supermarket shelves of them and burned the entire lot.’

Evidently unamused, Faye tossed her mother a withering look before following her brother out of the door.

‘You haven’t forgotten I’ll be back late tonight,’ said Paul, swiping up his laptop case from the kitchen table. ‘Squash.’

Then, without waiting for a reply, he, too, was gone.

‘And I hope you all have a nice day, too,’ sang Julia acerbically, as the door swung shut, and a bubble of nervous anticipation began fizzing in her stomach.

She sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee from the cafetiere. How many times in the past had Max Burrell made her stomach fizz? Far too many to recall. But none more so than the first time they’d made love.

It had been the day Max passed his driving test. A stiflingly hot July day which seamlessly morphed into a warm balmy evening. Max borrowed his dad’s car and drove them out to the Cotswolds. Julia had found it slightly weird at first – sitting in the passenger seat with Max in control. But, in typical Max fashion, he handled the vehicle expertly, putting her at ease within minutes, and even executing a nifty bit of parallel parking outside a quaint village pub.

Making the most of the beautiful evening, they managed to find a table in the pretty beer garden, a couple of dogs basking in the still-warm rays, bees buzzing round the rainbow of flowers spilling out of pots, a toddler staggering about on unsteady podgy legs.

They ordered club sandwiches and fed bits of ham to the dogs who obviously deemed the possibility of a titbit worth momentarily vacating their sunbathing spots for.

‘I think I’d like a dog when we’re married,’ Julia informed him.

‘How about three dogs and six kids?’ Max suggested. ‘Or six dogs and three kids?’

They snorted with laughter.

‘We’ll need a big house.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ replied Max. ‘By the time we’re twenty-five you’ll be the top interpreter at the United Nations and I’ll be the best history teacher in the country.’

‘Gosh,’ gasped Julia, proffering a piece of bacon to her canine friend. ‘Can you imagine us at twenty-five? It sounds so … old; so grown-up. I wonder what we’ll be doing by then.’

‘As long as we’re together, I don’t care,’ said Max, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand.

Julia blinked back a tear. ‘Stop being so romantic, Mr Burrell. You’re making me cry.’

They finished their food, washed it down with orange juice, and wandered into the village.

‘Oo, isn’t it gorgeous,’ cooed Julia, drinking in the honey-coloured houses with their overflowing window boxes, and shiny door knockers. ‘Let’s have a look around and choose which one we’re going to live in when we’re twenty-five.’

Arms entwined, they explored the village, and several tracks leading off it. One of them brought them to a secluded copse of trees overlooking a small lake. A mother duck and six tiny ducklings busied themselves at the water’s edge. They sat down and watched them.

‘This is perfect,’ sighed Julia, flopping down on her back and gazing up at Max. ‘I think we should stay here forever.’

Max chuckled and lay down beside her. ‘Well, I think, at some point, someone might miss us. We don’t have to go back just yet, though. The night is still young.’

‘Good.’ Julia smiled mischievously. ‘Because I haven’t congratulated you properly on passing your driving test yet.’ Twining her arms around his neck, she pulled his face down to hers and began kissing him.

Kissing Max always made her tingle. All over. And the way he touched her … well, it set every one of her senses on fire. But they still hadn’t made love. They’d talked about it. And they’d come close on quite a few occasions. But they’d always stopped in the nick of time. Things, for whatever reason, hadn’t been quite right. Until this evening. With the heady combination of birdsong, ducklings, clear blue sky and still-warm sun, it was as if they’d wandered straight onto a film set – arranged especially for them. Things couldn’t be more perfect. And this evening Julia didn’t want to stop.

‘You sure about this?’ Max asked, when the kissing had led to other things. ‘I’ve brought a condom with me.’

Unable to speak, burning with longing for him, Julia nodded. She’d never been more sure of anything in her entire life.

Their love-making had been slow, tender, their gaze locked the entire time. In Max’s usual competent way, he’d made her feel safe, special, loved. Not to mention experience feelings she never would have thought possible. The entire thing had been better than perfect. It had been absolutely exquisite.

‘Well, I certainly won’t forget this day in a hurry,’ Max whispered afterwards, holding her in his arms and nuzzling into her hair.

Julia swiped a tear from her face and knew for certain that she would remember that day for the rest of her life.

The post thudding down on the hall mat snapped her out of her reverie. She lifted her cup of coffee to her lips.

It was cold.

By the time Julia arrived at Waitrose, she was a jittering wreck. She had, however, made more of an effort. Wearing her best jeans and a blue shirt, she’d washed and blow-dried her hair, and even added a swipe of blusher and a touch of clear lip gloss. She’d tried one of her lipsticks but it was so long since she’d opened it that it had gone all gooey.

She attempted to concentrate on the shopping, but all the while her eyes scanned the aisles for gorgeous ex-boyfriends. She lingered longer than was obviously acceptable in the cereal aisle, causing a bemused assistant to enquire if she required any help. Julia flushed scarlet and politely declined the offer.

By the time she reached the checkout, frustrated tears burned her eyes.

‘Did you find everything you needed?’ the checkout lady asked.

Unfortunately not, Julia wanted to wail. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied instead.

Pushing the loaded trolley out to the car park with all the finesse of a drunken hippopotamus, Julia reached her car and began stuffing the bags into the boot, without a care for their contents. It was her own fault, she told herself. As much as she’d denied it over the week, she’d been desperate to see Max again today. Hoping to see Max again. She’d set herself up for an almighty fall. And boy, had she fallen.

*****

In the squash club changing room Paul gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t look too bad for someone his age, he concluded, smoothing down his T-shirt over his almost flat stomach. Okay, so he had a few grey hairs, but who didn’t at forty? And a couple of deep lines had formed at the corners of his eyes, but he rather thought they added character. His teeth were pretty good, too, thanks to his six-monthly check-ups. But maybe they’d look even better if he had them whitened. He’d noticed something on the back of one of Faye’s magazines last week about some laser treatment that guaranteed …

‘Hi there, Paul.’

Startled out of his introspection, Paul mumbled some indecipherable greeting back to the interloper, before scuttling over to the bench to pick up his squash racquet.

What on earth was he doing? He’d never been vain before. He’d always prided himself on being smart for work, of course. Looking like an executive was part of playing the corporate game. But there any interest in his appearance had endeth.

Until his new assistant, Natalia, had started in the office.

In fact, until Natalia had started in the office, Paul had been a different man altogether. Completely focused on his work; drifting along in his home life; never questioning his existence. Taking it for granted, in fact, that, as you aged, nothing really excited you any more. But having a gorgeous, nubile, twenty-something by his side all day, whose sexy smiles and lingering eye contact suggested she found him attractive, had turned all of the above on its head.

Paul, nicknamed ‘The King of Spreadsheets’, now couldn’t look at a column of numbers without his mind wandering to Natalia’s vital statistics. Couldn’t settle in his own home without wondering what she was doing. Had begun taking an unhealthy interest in his shirts. And had started carrying out a detailed analysis of his life at every opportunity.

He’d never felt more restless, more invigorated, more out of control, and more bloody wonderful since university. It was like being eighteen all over again. And the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach each morning as he drove to work increased with every mile nearer to the office. It was a fabulous feeling he’d long since forgotten. The whole experience was better than any therapy – alternative or otherwise – and had re-energised him more than a ton of vitamin pills could ever hope to.

Not that anything had happened between him and Natalia. It really hadn’t. And it wasn’t his fault Natalia had invited herself along for a game of squash this evening. He hadn’t said anything to encourage her. Well, not much anyway.

‘Oh, so you play squash,’ she’d purred the day before. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving that a go myself.’

‘I could teach you if you like,’ Paul blurted out, before engaging his brain. ‘I’ll be going to the club tomorrow evening. Straight after work.’

‘Well, it just so happens I don’t have any plans for tomorrow evening, straight after work,’ Natalia replied, running her tongue along her bottom lip in a way that made Paul quiver with lust. ‘It’s a date.’

So excited had Paul been the previous night, that he couldn’t sleep. But, as the minutes on the clock clicked by, shards of guilt began piercing his bubble of euphoria. He was a married man. He had two kids. What the hell was he doing? By the time he hauled himself out of bed, he felt exhausted. And all day in the office he’d been a jittering wreck, jumping out of his skin every time the telephone rang, an email pinged in his inbox, or someone knocked on his office door.

And now … now he’d have to spend the next hour alone with her on the bloody squash court. Just the two of them. Wearing not very much clothing. Working up a sweat.

In fact, she was probably waiting for him right now.

Sucking in a deep breath, he yanked open the door to find Natalia leaning against the wall opposite, wearing the tiniest pair of white shorts, and the tightest cropped pink T-shirt, Paul had ever seen.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

Paul couldn’t reply.

Chapter Four

The dazzling Spanish sun was already high in the cloudless sky by the time Miranda pulled open the wispy bedroom curtains and stepped out onto the balcony. After the icy air conditioning of the room, the heat seemed stifling. Her head reeled and her stomach churned. Symptoms thankfully not attributed to morning sickness, but to the ridiculous amount of alcohol she’d consumed the previous evening: the only way she could endure yet another party. Her and Lydia’s third night in Marbella. Her and Lydia’s third night of partying. Not an unusual occurrence. Every trip to Marbella – and she and Lydia had made many – involved an incessant round of retail therapy, trips to the beauty parlour and social gatherings of the Costa del Sol’s rich and beautiful. Activities she normally enjoyed. This time, though, everything felt different. Surreal. Like she was looking at it all through someone else’s eyes.

And none of it made any sense.

‘You coming down to breakfast, Randy?’

Lydia’s voice hit her as sharply as the heat. Miranda looked over the balcony to find her friend peering up at her, surgically enhanced breasts straining against a miniscule pink sequinned bikini. With her overly highlighted hair woven into a mass of beaded plaits and her deep mahogany tan, she looked, thought Miranda for the first time ever, completely ridiculous.

‘I’m, er, not hungry,’ she called back, wishing, also for the first time ever, that Lydia wouldn’t insist on calling her Randy.

‘Well, at least come and talk to me,’ pleaded Lydia. ‘Darren’s taken the jet-ski down to the beach. I’m bored out of my tree here.’

Miranda sighed. She really wasn’t in the mood for Lydia today. In fact, she wasn’t in the mood for anyone. All she wanted to do was crawl back into bed and drift into another deep sleep; a sleep which would allow her to forget all her problems.

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ she heard herself saying. Returning to the room, she sucked in a few breaths of icy air, gasping as it sliced through her lungs. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked terrible: dark shadows under her eyes, sallow skin, and lank hair. She dragged herself into the en-suite, splashed some water onto her face, then reached for her make-up bag and attempted damage limitation. Ten minutes later, wrapped in a lilac sarong, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, she made her way downstairs, only to find her efforts had been in vain.

‘You look awful,’ Lydia pronounced.

‘Thanks. I feel it,’ muttered Miranda, the smell of coffee making her nauseous.

‘Getting too old for all this partying,’ cackled Lydia, shaking back her mane of plaits and causing all the beads to jangle.

Miranda smiled weakly, and slipped into the wicker chair opposite her friend. If only you knew the real reason, she resisted saying. That I am carrying your toy-boy lover’s child. Not that Lydia and Eduardo represented any great love match. As testified to by the fact that she and Lydia were staying in Darren Pembleton’s – Lydia’s ex-husband’s – luxury villa. And Lydia was sharing Darren’s bed. The relationship between those two was nonsensical to say the least. ‘Numerous infidelities’ by Darren had been cited in their divorce, before Darren upped sticks and moved to Spain. But, whenever he tired of his latest bimbo, he immediately called Lydia, who dropped everything and flew out there on the next available flight. Of course Miranda knew Lydia was well aware of Darren’s game. He used her when it suited him. But Lydia had her own agenda. And Darren fulfilled it perfectly. Lydia thrived on attention, glamour and sex. And Darren’s crowd provided all of that – with knobs on. Eduardo, meanwhile, kept Lydia amused in England. A role he fulfilled perfectly, according to Lydia. While he lived in her huge house, didn’t spend a penny of his own money, and, unbeknown to her, exchanged more than a few volleys with several of Buttersley’s attractive female residents. The whole set-up resembled a complicated TV drama. But then wasn’t life sometimes stranger than fiction? Miranda’s included.

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