Will you…date me?

Delilah James, singleton and smoothie-addict, has six months to find a date for her oldest friend’s wedding. Oh, and to prove to her ex, best man Ben, that she has totally moved on since he dumped her out-of-the-blue nine months, eight days and seventeen hours ago…

So, with her two BFFs playing Cupid, Delilah launches herself into the high-tech, fast-paced and frankly terrifying world of dating. Luckily there’s the hot new guy at work, Adam Sinclair, to practice her flirting on – even if, as a colleague, he’s strictly off-limits!

Yet time’s running out and date after disastrous date forces Delilah to tell a little white lie – and invent a fake boyfriend! But will her secret crush on Adam ruin everything? Does she even care about Ben anymore? And is it too late to untangle her web of lies and take a real date to the wedding…?

A laugh-out-loud, feel-good romantic comedy perfect for fans of Jane Costello and Mandy Baggot!

Also by Jennifer Joyce:

The Mince Pie Mix-Up

The Wedding Date

Jennifer Joyce

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Jennifer Joyce 2016

Jennifer Joyce 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 2016 ISBN: 9781474047449

Version date: 2018-07-23

JENNIFER JOYCE

is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee’s knees typing on THAT. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their bunnies Cinnamon and Leah and Jack Russell Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram. You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, on Twitter at @writer_jenn and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

Thank you to my family for all your support, especially my mum, June and sister, Michelle, who have been patiently listening to me waffle about my writing for quite some time now. I’m not saying I’m going to stop waffling or anything, but thank you.

My husband, Chris is another waffle-listener, so massive thanks to him, especially as he rescued me from dating hell back in 2001. Thank you to our daughters, Rianne and Isobel, just for being you. Thank you to Charlotte Mursell and the HQ Digital UK team for helping me to make The Wedding Date into an actual, readable book.

Thank you to the wonderful people I’ve met through social media: Team Novelicious, the authors who take the time to chat to aspiring writers and offer encouragement (it means A LOT. Seriously) and all the book bloggers and book nerds who love to share their enthusiasm for reading.

Finally, thank you to all the readers who have taken a chance on my books. I still can’t quite believe people have plucked my book from all the squillions of books on offer. I only hope you enjoy The Wedding Date as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

For Chris, dating-hell-rescuer, and our daughters, Rianne and Isobel

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Delilah

Text Message:

Ryan: My, my, my Delilah. Why, why, why Delilah?

Delilah: Bog off, Ryan

Ryan: You and your pussy cat lips!

Delilah: That’s the wrong song, you dweeb

I hitch up my skirt – why oh why did I choose to wear the tightest pencil skirt known to man this morning? – and scuttle along the pavement as the bus trundles towards the bus stop ahead. At least I’m wearing my ballet flats, as even attempting to run in heels would have been impossible. If I’m honest, the flat shoes weren’t part of a logical, well-thought-out plan. I didn’t know I’d be pelting along the main road, eyes fixed on the quickly approaching bus, as I’d dragged on my pencil skirt this morning, my toothbrush poking out of my mouth as I multi-tasked my getting-ready-for-work. Ah yes. That’s why I’d chosen the pencil skirt. It was the first thing my fingers made contact with as I stuck a hand in the wardrobe, fumbling for an outfit – any outfit – as I brushed my teeth with the other hand. I’d slept through my alarm (not my fault. Totally the responsibility of Dan the Barman for supplying me with drink after drink the night before. I mean, the guy was just doing his job and everything, but he should have known the consequences, really). So I was running late. Majorly late. And the ballet flats were just there, their sequins twinkling at me from the shoe rack. I’d shoved them on my feet before hurling my body into the bathroom to spit (in the sink), rinse and dump my toothbrush in the pot on the side.

So the ballet flats were quite a fortunate choice as I find myself running (as best as I can in the damn pencil skirt) towards the bus stop. I’m almost there. I can make it. As long as the driver isn’t a complete bum-wipe and puts his foot down, I can make it. I just need to –

Waaaah! Wonky pavement! I’m stumbling. Nope, I’m full-on falling. Arms flailing, strangled cry, thud. I’m on the ground. My knee is throbbing like a mother fudger and the bus is sailing past. I look up in time to see the smile twitching at the corner of the driver’s mouth, his eyes glinting in a mean-scumbag kind of way.

‘Oh, for fu–’

‘Are you all right, lovey?’ There’s a hand on my shoulder, which only makes the whole situation worse. Oh yes, it can get worse. Not only am I late for work (and now running even later), I’ve fallen to the ground with a witness. Not only have I hurt my knee (which really is stinging, FYI), I’ve also hurt my pride, which everybody knows is much more painful.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I’m willing the owner of the voice to leave. Just go. Take your concern and skedaddle. Nothing to see here, ma’am. Nobody fell and humiliated themselves. ‘I’m fine. Ow!’ I’ve attempted to stand but it turns out hurt pride isn’t more painful than physical injury after all. I stumble as pain shoots from my knee, causing a little bit of swearing to escape my lips. But sod it. This hurts.

‘Come on, lovey. Come and sit down for a minute.’ A hand on my elbow steadies me and guides me towards the bus stop (which is only a tiny little hobble away. I would have made it if I hadn’t tripped over the chuffing pavement). ‘Oh dear. You’ve cut yourself.’

I look down at my knee. She’s right. My tights have ripped at the knee, displaying a bloody patch. My knee starts to sting even more now that I’ve seen the damage.

‘Let me see if I have a plaster.’

My Good Samaritan is an elderly lady with wispy white hair and sagging jowls. She must be at least ninety and it takes her a good thirty seconds just to pop the clasp on her handbag with her gnarly fingers. She smiles at me as the bag opens and it’s a kind smile. As witnesses to my mortifying pavement-hugging go, it could have been worse. A lot worse. What if it had been Katey-Louise who’d seen me fall? She wouldn’t have helped me up and she wouldn’t have been rifling through her handbag for a plaster. At this moment in time, she’d have been busily uploading the footage from her phone to YouTube.

‘Hmm, let’s see.’ Items are removed from the handbag and placed on the bench in between us: a navy blue umbrella with white polka dots, neatly folded and secured with the Velcro tab, half a packet of Polo mints, a mini pot of Nivea cream. ‘I’m sure I have some. You never know when you’ll need a plaster.’ Keys, jangling with a million keyrings, a mobile (blimey, it’s an iPhone. Go, super-tech Granny), a hairbrush with wispy white hair caught up in the bristles. ‘I’m sure…’ A bingo marker (red) and a biro (blue). ‘No, sorry, lovey. No plasters. I don’t even have a clean tissue for you.’

‘It’s ok. Really.’ I stretch out my leg, wincing and gritting my teeth with the pain that follows. Blood is oozing onto the non-ruined part of my tights. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure? That was quite a nasty fall.’

Like I need reminding. I was there. It hurt. A lot.

‘I’m sure. But thank you.’ I feel a bit bad for being so grumpy. It isn’t this sweet old lady’s fault I’m such a doofus. ‘Would you like me to put your things back into your bag for you?’

‘Thank you, lovey.’ She smiles at me again. ‘My hands aren’t so good any more.’

I put the items back into the handbag carefully, not throwing them in like I would with my own. The old lady chats away as I do so, introducing herself as Maude and telling me about her three cats, Daisy, Fluffy and Pickle. Which reminds me. I should probably introduce myself to you. I’d have done it sooner but I was a bit caught up with the whole bus-run-splat saga. You know. You were there.

So, I’m Delilah James, middle child of Raymond and Nancy James. I’m twenty-four and, for reasons beyond my control (mostly financial), I still live at home with my parents and younger brother, Justin. I meant to move out, really I did. I couldn’t wait to spread my wings and fly the nest, but life doesn’t always work out the way you planned it. For example, when I was ten my life plan was to audition for Pop Idol when I was old enough, win (obviously), become a famous pop singer and marry Mark from Westlife. Which didn’t work out at all because:

a) I hurt my own ears when I sing;

b) The show stopped after two series; and

c) Mark from Westlife is gay, which is the only reason he wouldn’t marry me, obviously.

Still, you pick yourself up and move on. Or not, in the case of my residential status.

I was supposed to move out of Mum and Dad’s as soon as I left school. My best friend Lauren (more about her later, I promise) and I had it all planned out. We’d get part-time jobs to fit around college and we’d move into a little flat together. It would be so much fun. There would be no boring old parents to boss us around and tell us to eat vegetables and stuff. We could laze around in our pyjamas all day (when we weren’t at college, obviously) and have Friends marathons every weekend. And, best of all, I wouldn’t live with my annoying little dweeb of a brother.

Perfect!

At least it would have been perfect if we’d managed to find jobs to fit around college. Who knew there was so much work involved in A Levels? Plus, people can be pretty snooty about hiring sixteen-year-olds and paying them a fair wage. Lauren and I decided to postpone out flat share until after college. It was the proper, grown-up thing to do. Except Lauren went one step further in the proper, grown-up decisions and went off to university, leaving me – and our flat share plans – behind. She returned of course, but by then I was loved up with Ben (more about him later, unfortunately) and I assumed we’d do the whole getting-married-and-living-together thing. We didn’t and yet I’m still living at home with the parents instead of flat sharing with Lauren. And why? Because I’m a fool, that’s why. Ben and I split up nine months ago but there’s a stupid part of me that’s still clinging onto the hope that sometime soon he’ll come to his senses, realise he’s been a complete pea-brained imbecile in dumping me and we’ll get back together and live happily ever after.

So, that’s me in a nutshell. I could tell you that I have scarily inadequate general knowledge, that I adore musicals and have a slight addiction to smoothies, but you’ll figure all that out soon enough anyway.

Chapter 2

The Office

Text Message:

Delilah: I’m dying, Lauren. Really, truly dying. I can’t face work when I’m this hungover

Lauren: You can’t face work when you’re not hungover

Delilah: That’s so true. Rescue me, pleeeeeease

Lauren: I would but I’m at work too. I’ll treat you to a smoothie tonight

Delilah: You’re the best!

I hobble off the bus, waving to Maude as it pulls away again. She gives a gnarly-fingered wave back, smiling that kind, sweet smile as she disappears from view. We had to wait twenty minutes for another bus, so I’m majorly, majorly late for work now. Trying not to cry (both from the pain in my knee and the fact that I’m hobbling to work, hungover, on a Monday morning), I make way across to the business park, hobbling towards the uninspiring concrete block that is Brinkley’s – my place of work.

Brinkley’s is a biscuit factory, but don’t get too excited. Working at a biscuit factory isn’t nearly as delicious as it sounds, at least not when you work for Neville Brinkley. When I applied for the position of office junior after my A Levels, I assumed I’d be up to my eyeballs in free biscuits. Sampling the products had to be a perk of the job!

Wrong.

There are no perks at Brinkley’s, unless you count bitchy co-workers and nepotism. Which any sane person wouldn’t.

I make my way past the factory to the Portakabin that houses Brinkley’s office staff. It’s ugly and grey with tiny, useless windows that don’t seem to let in any natural light at all. We have to have the strip lighting on at all times – even during the height of summer – which isn’t good when you’ve got a raging hangover from a night at the pub with your mates.

‘What time do you call this?’

I’ve pushed open the door (reluctantly) and stepped into the office, only to be shrieked at by Katey-Louise. My ears can’t handle her at the best of times, so they aren’t best pleased right now. If they could, my ears would pop off the sides of my skull and bog off home to my bed.

‘You’re late.’ Katey-Louise stalks across the office and stands right in front of me with her hands on her hips. I’d love nothing more than to reach out and place my palm across her stupid little face and push her away. She’s invading my space and I don’t like it. I don’t like her.

Katey-Louise screws up her mouth. ‘I’m reporting you.’

Snitching little witch.

‘Give her a break, Katey-Louise. She’s obviously had an accident.’ My colleague Adam – the only colleague I actually like – gets up from his desk and manoeuvres Katey-Louise out of my personal space and leads me towards my desk, slowly. ‘What happened? Are you ok?’

I want to be brave, really I do. But I’d also quite like a bit of sympathy and a valid excuse for being late (having a hangover doesn’t cut it, apparently). So I sniffle a bit and wince as I sit in my chair. I may be overegging it slightly, but my knee does hurt and there is quite a bit of congealing blood.

‘I was pushed over.’ Not entirely true, but it’s better than admitting I tripped over an uneven bit of pavement. Especially with Katey-Louise hovering.

‘Pushed over?’ Katey-Louise snorts. Which is fitting as she’s a snide little pig. ‘Who by? A school kid? Did they try to steal your dinner money?’

‘No.’ I stick my chin in the air. ‘It wasn’t a school kid. It was a bloke. A big bloke.’ I stretch my arms wide to demonstrate. ‘And he didn’t try to steal my dinner money. He tried to steal my handbag.’

‘You mean that one?’ Katey-Louise juts a finger towards the handbag still hooked over my shoulder.

‘Yes, this one. I said he tried to steal it. But I fought back.’

‘That was very brave.’ Adam crouches down and lifts my leg slightly to get a closer look. I hiss, and not for added drama this time. ‘But you got hurt. Next time just give them your bag.’

No chance. I’ve got my phone in there with the photos from The Saturdays concert Lauren and I went to. I should really get them printed off but I never get round to it. Until I do, the muggers can jog on.

‘Ooh, looks nasty but I think you’ll be ok. We’ll clean it up and put a plaster on.’ Adam smiles at me and I get a bit fluttery in the tummy. Adam Sinclair is more than little bit gorgeous. Before he joined the company as head of social media six months ago, the office was complete dullsville – but it’s funny just how much a handsome face can brighten a place up.

‘You don’t think I need stitches or anything?’ Being patched back together with a needle and thread isn’t a pleasant thought but at least a trip to the hospital will get me out of work for an hour or two. More if A&E’s packed to the rafters.

‘No, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.’ Adam turns to Katey-Louise, who immediately begins fluttering her unnaturally long eyelashes (they really are unnatural. She has them glued to her peepers once a week) and sticks out her chest. Floozy. ‘Can you grab the first aid kit?’

Katey-Louise blinks at him, but in a confused rather than flirtatious manner this time. ‘The first aid kit?’

‘Yep. Green box? Has plasters and bandages in it?’

‘I know what it is.’ Katey-Louise taps Adam playfully on the arm. ‘But where is it?’

‘You don’t know where the first aid kit is?’ Adam rises to his feet, frowning at Katey-Louise when she shakes her head. ‘You’re the office’s first aider. You’re supposed to know where the first aid kit is. It’s your responsibility!’

Katey-Louise steps back, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘Don’t shout at me. It isn’t my fault.’

Adam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. I don’t blame him. There’s no point trying to reason with Katey-Louise. Nothing is ever her fault. Or her responsibility, come to that. As the boss’s daughter, she thinks she can coast through life looking cute and pouting. Which is proving to be true. With no qualifications, experience or knowledge of what the job entails, Katey-Louise is head of marketing at Brinkley’s. It’s a wonder the company hasn’t gone under.

And the nepotism doesn’t stop with Katey-Louise. The whole office – apart from me and Adam – is made up of Brinkleys, from Managing Director Neville Brinkley and his wife Denise, to offspring, Katey-Louise and Jasper. Jasper is head of IT, which is just as laughable as Katey-Louise’s role. Jasper doesn’t know anything IT-related beyond Facebook and Minesweeper. He’s currently sat at his desk, headphones planted over his ears as he clicks away at the Minesweeper grid, grunting every time he clicks on a mine.

I didn’t even realise people still played Minesweeper until Jasper joined our team.

‘Do you know what?’ Adam had stalked across the office, but he’s returning now with the green plastic box. ‘It is your fault. Your dad sent you on that first aid course. The one you asked him to.’

‘That’s because I wanted to go to Liverpool for a few days. One Direction were playing at The Echo Arena and my friend Tansy-Mae managed to get tickets. They were sold out in Manchester.’ Katey-Louise says this as though it explains everything; her dad paying for the course and accommodation (we couldn’t have Katey-Louise travelling there and back daily on the train, could we?) and her return without any first aid knowledge whatsoever.

‘Just make yourself useful and go and make Delilah a cup of tea.’ Adam plonks the green box on my desk and opens it up while Katey-Louise stands there, open-mouthed. I don’t think she knows where the kettle is either.

‘Maybe you could bring me a biscuit too? Sugar is good for shock.’ Yes, I am milking this scraped knee for everything it’s worth. It isn’t every day I’m treated with kindness in the office.

‘Good idea.’ Adam looks at me, his lips twitching. He’s the only decent one in the office. He doesn’t have any authority, which is a shame, but it’s nice having somebody on my side.

‘I think a Fudge Sundae would be best,’ I say. They’re my favourite of the Brinkley’s brand and as rare as hen’s teeth in the Brinkley’s office. Neville is loath to give out freebies – we’re only given a bag of seconds at Christmas.

‘Dad isn’t going to be happy.’ Katey-Louise is calculating whether to do my bidding; to give in and serve me would be humiliating, but the pleasure of telling her dad that I’ve been wolfing the stock is tempting. She decides landing me in it is the better option and slinks away in search of the kettle and biscuits.

‘Where is Neville?’ The office is oddly empty, with only the four of us present (although Jasper may as well not be here). ‘And Denise?’

‘Neville’s gone to that brand-building conference, though I think it’s just an excuse for a jolly.’ Adam lifts a flap of my tights and I hiss again. ‘Sorry. I think I’m going to have to cut away a bit of your tights. You don’t mind, do you?’ I shake my head. They’re ruined anyway. ‘Denise is over at the development kitchen. They’re almost ready with the new line.’

Which means Denise is stuffing herself with delicious new biscuits.

‘Are you ready?’ Adam has a small pair of scissors hovering over my tights. I nod, thankful I shaved my legs before going to the pub last night.

Chapter 3

Francesca Holden (soon-to-be Radcliffe)

Text Message:

Francesca: Hello, darling! It’s been soooooo long since I saw you! Let’s meet up soon!

Delilah: I’m free at the weekend

Francesca: This weekend is no good for me – Jeremy is whisking me away to Venice!

Delilah: The weekend after?

Francesca: Also difficult! I have a client meeting on the Saturday and a christening on the Sunday. Sorry!

Delilah: No problem. Let me know when you’re free and we’ll meet up

Francesca: I’ll have a good look through my diary and let you know!

You’d think falling bum-over-boob onto the pavement would be the low point of my day, but you’d be wrong. There is far worse to come and this Monday will forever be known as The Worst Monday Ever. At least to me.

With my cut knee now clean and covered in a plaster, I’ve spent the morning working my way through my in-tray, which is as boring as it sounds and isn’t helped by my raging hangover. With my thumping head and throbbing knee, my body is now a one-man-band of drumming.

‘The salted caramel shortbread is going to be a hit,’ Denise announces as she deigns to join us shortly before lunch. It must be a hard life for the woman, being paid to stuff herself with biscuits. ‘Has Neville called while I’ve been out of the office?’

‘How would she know?’ Katey-Louise asks as Denise directs the question at me. ‘She’s only just got in herself.’

Denise arches an eyebrow at me. There’s a tiny shortbread crumb stuck to the corner.

‘She’s exaggerating,’ I tell the crumb, unable to tear my eyes away from it. ‘I was only a tiny bit late and I have a valid excuse.’ Denise and the crumb wait for my explanation. ‘I had an accident.’ I swivel in my chair and stick out my leg to showcase my plaster.

‘She was mugged,’ Adam says.

‘Mugged?’ Denise had been observing my injured knee with disdain but she sits up straighter now. The eyebrow crumb plops off onto the carpet. ‘Have you phoned the police?’

Whoa, hold on there, missy. I’ve quite enjoyed the attention my busted knee has garnered but involving the police is going a bit too far. What if they check the local CCTV cameras and discover I’ve been telling porkies?

‘There’s no need. They didn’t take anything.’ I give my blonde hair a nonchalant flick. ‘I fought them off.’

‘Them?’ Katey-Louise’s eyes narrow until they’re totally obliterated by the ridiculously long false eyelashes. ‘I thought there was only one mugger?’

‘Him. I fought him off.’

‘It doesn’t matter how many there were,’ Denise says. ‘You have to report it to the police. What if he strikes again?’

‘He won’t.’ I can be pretty confident in my statement, what with the mugger being a figment of my imagination.

‘He might!’ Denise’s eyes widen. ‘What if he attacks my Katey-Lou?’ Denise picks up the phone off her desk. ‘What’s the number for the local station? Or should I phone nine-nine-nine?’

‘You should do neither.’ Leaping out of my chair – which causes my knee to double its throbbing tempo – I grab the receiver and replace it before Denise’s fingers can reach the buttons. ‘I’ll pop into the station on my way home.’

‘Good idea.’ Thankfully Denise lets it go. My little fib was about to spiral out of control so I’m glad I’ve managed to rein it back. It’s almost like a forewarning of what is to come but I don’t take heed.

Limping back to my desk, I return to my in-tray, which somehow looks just as overflowing as when I arrived at the office earlier this morning. My next task is one of my least favourite; inputting the absences from the previous week into the payroll report and making sure we have a sickness or holiday form on file to cover it. It usually involves chasing up managers and supervisors on the shop floor so I’m glad of the interruption of my mobile phone, even if it does earn me a glare from Denise. I flash her my plaster and her face softens slightly.

My oldest friend’s name flashes up on the screen and it’s as I press to answer the call and place the phone against my ear that I remember my plans with Francesca.

‘Delilah, darling!’ Francesca cries before I can utter a word. ‘I am so sorry. My meeting ran over and I’m only just leaving the office. But I will be there, I promise.’

I’m supposed to be having lunch with Francesca. Right now. I forgot all about it but I can’t cancel as pinning Francesca down is like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. It may be a breeze for Mr Miyagi but it’s near impossible for the rest of us.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not there yet myself. I’m stuck in traffic.’ I pray that the rest of the office will remain silent and not give the game away. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

My second lie of the day. My third will be a biggie.

Francesca is already seated by the window of the café we’ve arranged to meet in, a huge mug of frothy coffee and an untouched sandwich sitting in front of her as she flicks through a magazine. She doesn’t spot me until I’m standing right in front of her.

‘Delilah, darling!’ Flicking the interior design magazine closed, Francesca springs out of her seat and envelops me in a sweet-smelling hug, a delicious mix of fruity shampoo and designer perfume. ‘It’s so good to see you. You look great!’

‘Thank you.’ Francesca always looks so well presented, leaving me feeling like a tramp in comparison, so I’m glad we’ve arranged to meet during the week as my work clothes are at least more presentable than the old, worn jeans and Converse that I favour at the weekends. Of course I don’t look as sophisticated as Francesca, but that’s never going to happen, no matter what I wear. Francesca is an interior designer – and pretty successful too. She always knows what look suits every single occasion and she’s like a walking advertisement for the sophisticated, glamorous business she’s created. She started off designing for friends of her parents and her business grew from there. I know for a fact that I’d never be able to afford her services.

‘You look amazing,’ I say and then feel like a fool. Francesca always looks amazing. ‘I’ll just grab some lunch and join you.’

I join the queue at the counter, which is snaking towards the exit. Being lunchtime, the café is pretty hammered and I’m worried that I’m holding Francesca up. We hardly ever meet up these days and when we do, it’s only for a fleeting coffee or glass of wine before Francesca has to dash off to see a client or associate. I’m amazed she’s still sitting with her magazine by the time I return to the table. I’ve bought myself a sandwich and coffee and treated us to a cherry and oat slice each.

‘Not for me, thanks.’ Francesca flashes me an apologetic look as I slide one of the cakes towards her. ‘Not this close to the wedding.’

‘How are the plans coming along?’ I sit down opposite Francesca and eye my cake. Should I leave mine too, in an act of sisterly solidarity?

‘We’re getting there.’ Francesca bites her lip nervously but I know her wedding will be perfect. With her father’s money behind it and Francesca’s flair for design, it’s going to be amazing. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the wedding, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Is she going to ask me to be a bridesmaid? It’s pretty unexpected as although Francesca and I have been friends since we were six, we’re no longer particularly close. We were the best of friends throughout our early childhood but when we went to separate secondary schools – Francesca to the posh, all girls’ school while I enrolled in the bog-standard local high school – we started to drift and forged new friendships. We’ve kept in contact all these years and we went through a stage of double-dating when I was with Ben, but it will never be the same. But maybe one of her bridesmaids has had to pull out for some reason and, as her former best friend, I’m the next best thing?

‘It’s about Ben.’

My heart starts to gallop at the sound of my ex’s name. I can’t help it. I’m truly pathetic. ‘Ben?’

Francesca’s eyes drop to her mug and when they finally meet mine again, they’re full of apprehension. ‘Jeremy’s asked him to be best man.’

Oh, sod it. I grab my cherry oat slice and shove it into my gob, not even giving my sandwich a cursory glance.

‘Are you ok, darling?’ Francesca leans forward in her seat, resting a hand on my arm as I chomp away like a demented cow. I’m sure they’ve used superglue instead of syrup in these bloody oat slices. I nod, still chomping furiously. I manage to reduce the clump enough to swallow, albeit painfully. My coffee is still too hot to drink but I gulp down half the cup anyway.

‘It’s to be expected, really,’ I say, though I wasn’t expecting it at all. Although Ben was Jeremy’s best friend, I’d assumed Jeremy would ask his brother to be his best man. Since Jeremy had been his brother’s best man last year, it seemed fitting – and polite – to return the favour. Of course I knew Ben was going to be at the wedding, but I assumed he’d be a regular guest and therefore easy to avoid if I needed to. Part of me hoped Francesca and Jeremy’s wedding would be where we got back together. It would be quite poetic, really; we got together through Francesca and Jeremy – why not rekindle our love through them too?

Actually, this could be a good thing. A very good thing.

Francesca gives my arm a squeeze before she relaxes back into her seat. ‘I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I’ve been meaning to but I kept putting it off. I didn’t want to hurt you or make you feel like I was taking sides, because I’m not. Ben is a good friend of mine and I adore him, but that doesn’t mean our friendship has to suffer. Or at least I hope it doesn’t.’

Francesca looks at me with wide, moist eyes and part of me feels sympathy towards her, being stuck in the middle and everything. But part of me wants to tell to her bog right off. Ben dumped me – cruelly and completely out of the blue – and yet she adores him. What kind of friend does that make her? Lauren thinks Ben is a prick – and pretty vocally too. That’s friendship.

‘Ben is Jeremy’s best friend,’ Francesca continues when I fail to open my mouth to respond. ‘I can’t ignore him.’

‘But you think he was wrong to dump me, don’t you?’ Being stuck in the middle is one thing, but I can’t sit here with this woman if she’s completely on Ben’s side.

‘Of course, darling!’ Francesca reaches for my arm once more, giving it a tight squeeze. ‘The two of you were perfect for each other. I really don’t understand what went wrong.’

Nothing went wrong. Nothing at all. We were happy… and then Ben wasn’t, in the blink of an eye.

‘I wish with all my heart that it had worked out for you guys, but it didn’t and we have to make the best of the situation. I wanted to tell you face-to-face about Ben being best man, to give you a bit of warning. I know you’ve both moved on and everything but it’s still only fair that I let you know.’

‘Moved on?’ I’m sure I can feel the oat cake making its way back up again.

‘You didn’t know?’ Francesca’s eye widen momentarily before they drop to the table top. She peels the crust off her sandwich before dumping it back on the plate.

‘Know about what?’ I prompt when she refuses to make eye contact or elaborate.

‘About Ben,’ Francesca says and I have the horrible feeling I’m not going to like what comes next.

Ben

Text Message:

Delilah: I’ve met the man I’m going to marry! He’s so cool and funny and GORGEOUS! I’m in love. Proper L.O.V.E

Lauren: Have you been watching Grease again? You do know Danny Zuko is fictional, right?

Delilah: It isn’t Danny this time (though he will always have a special place in my heart). This one is real! His name is Ben and he is The One

I met Ben at Francesca’s twenty-first birthday party almost four years ago. The party was being held in a gorgeous, ridiculously grand manor house in the countryside. Francesca had hired the whole house for the weekend and had planned activities such as clay pigeon shooting, archery and tennis tournaments – and movie marathons in the huge cinema room in the basement. There was access to the pool, gym and sauna as well as a chef to cook for us. The reception rooms were transformed into an exclusive club for Francesca’s mates, with cocktails and champagne on tap, plus a band and DJ to entertain us. Francesca sure knew how to throw a party, even back then.

‘Great party, Francesca!’ I flung my arm around my primary school bestie and planted a kiss on her cheek. I was a tiny bit tipsy after sinking several delicious but lethal cocktails. ‘I’m having the best time. I’m glad we’re friends, you know.’

Francesca slipped her hand around my waist and guided me away from the bar. ‘Me too. We don’t catch up often enough, do we? We must make more time for each other. You haven’t even met Jeremy yet, have you?’

I didn’t know who Jeremy was. Had I met him?

‘Here he is.’ Francesca used her free hand to grasp hold of a nearby bloke. He was around our age and quite handsome, if a little toothy for my taste. ‘Come and meet Delilah James. Delilah, this is my boyfriend, Jeremy.’ She leaned away from me then to rest her head on Jeremy’s shoulder.

‘Pleased to meet you, Delilah.’ Jeremy held out a hand, which I shook, creating a people-triangle. It felt a bit odd so I let go of both Jeremy and Francesca. ‘I hope you’re enjoying the party.’

‘I am.’ How could I not? ‘So how did you two meet?’

Francesca tilted her head to gaze lovingly at Jeremy and a spike of loneliness shot through me. I’d been single for quite a while (just three months, now I think about it, but when you’re twenty-one, that’s a lifetime and makes you feel like a bit of a loser).

‘Jeremy works for Daddy. Luckily he already thinks of Jeremy as the son he never had, so he doesn’t mind.’ Francesca giggled as she raised herself up on her tiptoes to kiss Jeremy’s cheek. ‘They get on so well. Don’t you, darling?’

‘We do. He’s a great guy.’

My lip, against my wishes, began to curl. He’s a great guy. What a bum-lick. I willed my lips to remain in their benign smile, to not wreck this for me (I didn’t fancy trekking into town to catch the train home in the dark if I was ejected from the party), but they were soon distracted by the appearance of the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. Including film stars. John Travolta, Gene Kelly, Jamie Foxx – they had nothing on this man. My mouth gaped open as he passed, my eyes following him, memorising him. Francesca followed my gaze and, to my utter mortification, she flung out a hand to grab him by the sleeve. I quickly closed my mouth and checked the corners for drool. None – phew!

‘Ben! Come and meet my good friend, Delilah James.’ Francesca tugged him into our little group. ‘Delilah, this is Jeremy’s best friend, Ben Martin.’

‘Hello.’ I gave a little wave like the dork that I am. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

Lovely to meet you? I’d be curtseying next. I told myself to get a grip, and bloody fast.

‘It’s lovely to meet you too, Delilah James.’ God, his voice was dreamy.

‘Great party, isn’t it?’ My voice was a bit slurry from the cocktails and lust.

Ben nodded and looked down at my hand. Oh God, I wasn’t offering it to him to kiss, was I? ‘But you don’t appear to have a drink. Come with me.’

Francesca winked at me as I scuttled after Ben. He’d taken my hand (and it felt amazing) and was striding towards the bar. He was a much faster walker than me, but it meant I got to have a good old look at his bum as we dodged the crowds (and it was gooood).

Ben ordered glasses of champagne for us and it didn’t really matter that he hadn’t asked me what I wanted first. I was pretty sure I’d have picked a glass of champagne to have a break from the cocktails anyway. Pressing a glass into my hand, he took hold of the other and led me away from the bar, snaking out of the crowded room and into the kitchen, where the chef was busy grilling gourmet burgers. My stomach gurgled in appreciation of the yummy smells but Ben continued on his path, passing through the kitchen and out into the garden. Never mind. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

The garden was massive, stretching much further than my eyes could see (and not just because my vision was on the hazy side due to the cocktails) but we only moved a few yards to a fairy-lit gazebo.

‘I thought it might be nice to sit out here. It’s a bit hectic in there.’ Ben sat on the bench inside the gazebo and I followed suit. ‘It’s difficult to talk inside and I get the feeling you’d make fascinating company, Delilah James.’

‘Oh,’ I squeaked. Fascinating? Me?

‘Tell me about yourself.’ Ben turned on the bench so his gaze was directly on me, urging me to speak. What should I tell him? He was under the assumption I was fascinating but the truth was quite the opposite. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m an admin assistant.’ I pulled a face. ‘Bit boring, really.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Ben grasped my hand and I felt myself go a bit giddy at the touch. ‘Nothing is boring about you, I can tell.’ Ben was in for a disappointing evening then. ‘What kind of company do you work for?’

‘It’s a biscuit factory.’

‘See!’ Ben’s face became animated, almost boyish. ‘A biscuit factory! How awesome is that? I love biscuits. What’s your favourite kind? Mine’s chocolate chip.’

‘I like chocolate chip too.’

Ben grinned and leapt to his feet. ‘Let’s go and ask the chef to bake us some biscuits right now. Chocolate chip!’

‘I think he’s busy with the burgers,’ I pointed out but Ben shrugged.

‘I’m sure he won’t mind. Come on, Delilah James.’ He held out his hand and I took it. I knew then that I’d always want to hold this hand. ‘I was right about you. You, Delilah James, are the most fascinating girl at this party.’

And the funny thing was, when I was with Ben, I felt like the most fascinating girl at the party. We ate chocolate chip cookies and sipped our champagne in the gazebo, we went for a midnight dip in the pool and made use of the plush, four-poster bed in the room Ben had bagged earlier. In the morning we ate pancakes together and explored the extensive gardens even though it was drizzling, and spent the afternoon back in the four-poster. When the time came to leave, Ben insisted on giving me a lift back to Woodgate instead of catching the train and when he said he’d call me, I believed him.

Ben was everything I wanted in a boyfriend; kind, attentive and reliable. If he said he would call on Sunday at eight, he would call on Sunday at eight. There were no games with Ben, no deciphering the boy code to figure out what he meant. It was easy with Ben. We fit.

‘Ben’s smitten with you, you know,’ Francesca had whispered to me the next time we met. We’d got together as a foursome with Jeremy and Ben, which we would do quite a bit over the next three years.

‘I’m smitten with Ben.’

And I was. I really was. I thought we’d be together forever. This was it, my very own The One. I wanted to break out in song like my favourite musical heroines. Life with Ben was perfect. Until nine months ago, when he decided it was no longer working for us.

‘But it’s working for me,’ I’d pointed out. Nothing had changed. We fit just as much as we always had.

‘But it isn’t working for me, Delilah.’ I was no longer fascinating Delilah James to Ben. Just plain old Delilah. ‘I want more from life than a stale relationship.’

Ben may as well have slugged me in the stomach. ‘You think our relationship is stale?’

Ben had snorted. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No!’ It was perfect. Had been perfect until two minutes ago. ‘What do you want me to do? I’ll do it. Anything.’

‘I don’t want you to do anything,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t want you at all.’

And then he’d gone. Left without a goodbye or even a parting glance. Ben didn’t want me. But I wanted him and I still do, which is why I’m dreading the words that are about to come out of Francesca’s mouth as we sit in the café.

‘What about Ben?’ Why did I ask? Why didn’t I just get up from my seat and walk out of the café in blissful ignorance?

‘He’s met someone else.’ The words I had been dreading for the past nine months made my head swim. But there was more. ‘And they’re engaged.’

Engaged? In the measly nine months we’d been apart, Ben had found, dated and proposed to another woman? While I’d been daydreaming about our reunion, he’d been marching full steam ahead into a new life without me?

We weren’t getting back together, were we? Not at Francesca’s wedding. Not ever.

‘Delilah, darling?’ Francesca’s hand was back on my arm, squeezing gently. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you knew. It’s been all over Facebook.’

‘I’m not friends with Ben on Facebook.’ He’d wanted a clean break. No phone calls or texts, no contact on social media. He’d erased me from his life completely.

‘I feel terrible,’ Francesca says, her grip tightening on my arm so much it starts to hurt a little. The sharpness helps me to focus.

‘Don’t.’ I shake my head, attempting to dislodge all the old feelings that are whooshing to the surface and threatening to topple me off my chair. ‘Of course he’s moved on. It’s been nine months.’ Nine months, eight days and seventeen hours, to be exact. ‘Like you said, we’ve both moved on.’

Lie number three of the day, but this one is absolutely necessary. Ben and Francesca are clearly still chummy and I don’t want word getting back to him that I’m a complete mess without him. I won’t weep, even though I think Ben is a great, big turding scumbag for getting engaged so soon after ditching me. I will remain strong and poised, even if it means lying through my teeth.

‘You have?’ Francesca’s hand is snatched away from my arm as she claps her hands together. ‘That is brilliant news, darling! I thought it would be awkward, you know, with Ben and Eden and everything, but now you’re with someone too it won’t be awkward at all!’ Eden? Ben’s new fiancée – ugh – is called Eden? ‘I’m so happy for you, darling. So happy. You will bring him, won’t you?’

‘Bring him where?’

‘To the wedding.’ Francesca giggles. ‘I can’t wait to meet him. I’ll rejig the seating plan, so it won’t be a problem.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’ Really, there’s no need at all. My imaginary boyfriend doesn’t take up much space at all.

‘Nonsense! You are one of my oldest friends and I want to see you happy and settled. I’ve always felt a bit guilty about Ben, you know. You met him through me and ended up heartbroken, so I’m glad you’ve found somebody else. Is this it, do you think? Is he The One?’

Francesca’s eyes sparkle as she leans across the table towards me, eager for details of my fictitious boyfriend.

‘Could be.’ I grin at Francesca, the lie slipping off my tongue quite easily. ‘He’s amazing and gorgeous and we’re having so much fun together.’

‘I can tell. Look at you – you’re glowing!’

Fictitious men have that effect on me.

‘So what’s his name?’

My grin slips a little. What is his name? What name screams sexy and gorgeous and a million times better than Ben Martin?

‘Oh.’ Francesca pounces on her handbag as it begins to buzz. She whips out her mobile and yelps. ‘I have to take this. Excuse me.’ Francesca dashes away, giving me a bit of breathing space to conjure a suitable name. Danny is the obvious choice. Danny is cool, he has swagger and looks very much like John Travolta in his heyday. Or how about Billy? In Chicago, Billy Flynn is suave and successful and pretty damn irresistible. And then there’s bad boy Cry-Baby, but I don’t think I’d get away with that one, no matter how hot Johnny Depp is.

‘I’m so sorry but I have to dash.’ Francesca returns – briefly – for one final sip of coffee and to grab her jacket and magazine. ‘But let’s meet up again soon, yes? I want all the details. Bye, darling!’ Francesca drops a kiss onto each cheek before she scuttles from the café.

So I need a boyfriend to take to Francesca’s wedding then. And I have six months to bag one.

Chapter 4

The BFFs

Text Message:

Delilah: I am dying, Lauren. Head is going to explode. Stomach is going to explode. I feel explode-y

Lauren: Germs or beer?

Delilah: Beer. Too much beer. Can’t get out of my pyjamas. Super-glued on

Lauren: Want me to come over in my pyjamas? We can slob out and watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks

Delilah: This is why you are my very best friend (but don’t tell Ryan I said that)

Lauren McIntosh is one of my best friends (I’m greedy and have two. Ryan is the other – more about him in a minute). We’ve known each other since our first day of secondary school, when we were shaking in our knee-length skirts (and they really were knee-length back then. We hadn’t discovered that they were totally uncool and we must roll them up to bum-cheek-skimming length to survive school). I was sitting at a table at the front of our form room (like the skirt situation, I didn’t know that you must endeavour to sit as close to the back of the room as possible yet) when a girl stopped by my desk. She was quite short and skinny with her ginger hair plaited into pigtails at the side of her head.

‘Scary, isn’t it?’

I was bloody terrified but I gave my own hair (blonde and loose around my shoulders) a flick. ‘I’m fine. Not scared at all.’ I caught this new girl’s eye and gave a wobbly smile, my show of courage completely failing before it had properly begun. ‘I’m lying. I’m so scared. Do you think we’ll get bog-washed?’ I’d heard so many horror stories about high school that I didn’t expect to last the day without serious injury and/or humiliation.

‘I hope not.’ The girl bit her lip and her big green eyes started to get a bit swimmy. ‘Can I sit here?’ She pointed at the empty seat beside me and I nodded, grateful that I wouldn’t have to sit on my own (I did already know that sitting on your own was a bit sad). ‘Thanks. I’m Lauren, by the way.’

‘Delilah.’ I moved my pencil case over, to make room for Lauren’s.

‘Like the Tom Jones song?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah.’ I heard that a lot. I heard the song a lot as people thought it was hilarious to sing it to me on a regular basis. They still do that now, but it’s mostly the older generation or my friends when they want to wind me up. For a while, I had a burst of ‘Hey There Delilah’ by Plain White T’s but that’s mostly fizzled out now.

‘Do you know anybody here?’

I looked around the room and shrugged my shoulders. ‘Sort of. Some of them went to my primary school but they’re not really my friends.’

Lauren twisted a ginger plaited pigtail around her finger. ‘I don’t know anybody. We just moved here over the holidays.’

‘That sucks.’

Lauren nodded, her twisting becoming more and more erratic. ‘I haven’t got any friends at all.’

‘You’ve got me,’ I said and that was that. Delilah and Lauren, BFFs.

Lauren is waiting for me in The Farthing, our pub of choice for most occasions. Partly because it’s close and partly because the barman is so damn cute. I’ve called an emergency meeting of the BFFs to discuss my dilemma with Francesca, her approaching wedding and my big, fat, lying gob. I order a round of drinks, having a little flirt with Dan the Barman while I’m there (it would be rude not to) before joining her at our usual table.

‘Ryan not here yet?’

Lauren shakes her head and takes a sip of her red wine. ‘He isn’t bringing that awful Kelsey with him again, is he? Where does he find these women?’

‘His mother.’ Lauren and I share a look, both knowing what an utter pain in the bum Ryan’s mum is. Ryan’s choice in women is never good enough for Eleanor Ford so she’s taken to setting him up with ones she deems suitable. ‘Kelsey wasn’t that bad. Ryan’s dated worse women.’ At least this one didn’t mistake Lauren and me for the hired help.

‘She made us lose the quiz last night.’

‘Lauren.’ I place a hand on her arm. ‘We always lose the quiz.’

‘But she thought Vientiane was the capital of Legos!’

I try – and fail – to hide a smirk. ‘But who is thicker? Kelsey for thinking Legos is a country or us for believing her and writing it down?’

Lauren doesn’t have an answer – or at least one she is willing to admit to – so she takes a couple of long sips of her wine instead. ‘What’s so urgent anyway? It’s supposed to be a gym day.’ I’m alarmed when I realise Lauren is wearing her gym gear – she doesn’t think we’re actually going to the gym after this, does she?

‘I can’t go to the gym. My knee.’ I lift the hem of my pencil skirt to show off the plaster Adam applied this afternoon. My bloody, ripped tights are bundled in the bin back at Brinkley’s. I’d managed quite well once it had stopped stinging after Adam applied some nasty-smelling ointment, but I can feel my limp returning. It has nothing to do with the prospect of the treadmill and cross-trainer, of course.

‘What happened?’ Lauren asks.

‘I fell over running for the bus this morning.’ I could have told Lauren the mugger-lie but her porky-pies detector is pretty sharp. ‘The pavement was all wonky. Hey!’ I sit up straighter, only remembering at the very last second to wince. ‘Do you think I could make a claim?’

Lauren is a solicitor. She focuses on divorce, but I’m sure she could give me some advice.

‘Probably. People claim for tripping up over their own shoes laces these days.’ Lauren peers at my plastered knee. ‘So how bad is it?’

I wince and groan. ‘So bad, Lauren. Adam was ready to take me to A&E for stitches. You should have seen all the blood. You could practically see my kneecap once all the blood was cleaned up.’

Lauren cocks an eyebrow. ‘Delilah…’

Uh-oh. I’ve laid it on a bit too thick. ‘But it isn’t as bad as it looks. No stitches required.’ I cover the plaster with my skirt in case Lauren decides to whip it off and examine my knee herself. ‘But I don’t think I’m up to the gym. It hurts.’

‘Why don’t you just do something gentle?’

Gentle? At the gym? ‘Like what?’

Lauren thinks for a moment. I can practically see the cogs turning in her brain, but we both know it’s useless. If there was a gentle option at the gym, we’d have used it every time.

‘Fine, we’ll miss the gym this once.’ Lauren takes another sip of her drink. She doesn’t look too put out about missing her workout, but then why should she? Lauren and I go to the gym twice a week but our main motivation isn’t to be fit and healthy (that isn’t even a minor motivation, in fact). We only go so Lauren can ogle Courtney, the gorgeous fitness instructor. She’s had a massive crush on him for ages and has roped me into her perviness.

‘So what’s this meeting about then?’ Lauren asks me but I’m not ready to divulge my stupidity just yet. I don’t want to have to confess all twice.

‘Wait until Ryan gets here and I’ll tell you.’

As though on cue, Ryan Ford, Best Friend Number Two (but not in a toilet-y way), wanders into the pub. Alone. Good. The less witnesses the better.

I’ve known Ryan for as long as I can remember, as he and his family moved into the house next door when I was two. According to Mum, the Ford family – Ryan and his parents, Eleanor and Phil – moved in one sunny Saturday in June. She remembers that it was sunny because she says she was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a bikini top (I can’t imagine Mum wearing a bikini. She won’t even strip down to a one-piece on holiday any more) and it was around a month before my birthday. She and Dad were discussing plans for my third birthday and Mum suggested, because it was so warm already, that we could have a pool party.

‘But we don’t have a pool,’ Dad had pointed out.

‘We’ll buy one of those inflatable paddling pools and dangle our feet in.’ Which we did. Thankfully I can’t remember it. ‘Ooh, hello there! Are you our new neighbours?’

Eleanor and Philip had appeared beyond the back garden fence and Mum pounced to introduce herself. The house had once belonged to an elderly couple who banged on the wall if you dared to sneeze, so Mum was pleased that a young family was moving in. Ryan was already in their back garden, kicking a football around. She pictured the seven of us (Ryan and his family, plus Mum, Dad, me and my older sister, Clara) getting together for barbeques and dinner parties.

It didn’t happen. Eleanor is a snob and she took one look at Mum’s cut-off shorts and bare midriff, stuck her nose in the air and scarpered into the house. She declined Mum’s offer of a casserole that evening (no thank you, we’re very fussy about what we eat) and Ryan wasn’t allowed to come to my pool party (my Ryan is a very chesty child. I don’t want him catching a chill). The dinner party invites never materialised.

Mum said she wasn’t going to mention how the house next door became vacant as it was quite grisly. The elderly neighbours had died in the house – the old fella in the armchair downstairs and the old girl in their bed – and the bodies weren’t discovered for at least three weeks (and only because Mum rose the alarm due to the lack of banging. When she played Dad’s T. Rex at top volume and there wasn’t so much as a tap on the wall in return, she badgered the local coppers until they investigated). She wasn’t going to tell Eleanor for fear of upsetting the woman, but it all slipped out over the garden fence when they were both pegging the washing out.

‘I do hope the smell hasn’t lingered,’ Mum said as Eleanor grabbed her half-full washing basket and scuttled back inside.

Ryan and I weren’t destined to be friends. Our mothers certainly weren’t. But Ryan was sent to the all boys’ prep school so I, being a girl, became a bit of a novelty. I haven’t been able to get rid of the dude since.

‘Ladies.’ Ryan flashes a charming grin as he saunters over to our table. Luckily both Lauren and I are immune to the magnetism that seems to draw women to him. We’ve seen Ryan at his worst (his worst being the time he threw up an entire kebab in the gutter on the way home from the pub, retching so hard bits of meat flew out of his nose. You can’t fancy a bloke after that).

‘The lovely Kelsey not with you?’ Lauren’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, which isn’t like Lauren at all. She likes to tease and she can be a bit cheeky but she isn’t usually quite so harsh.

Ryan grins down at us. ‘It was a good night last night, wasn’t it? What did you think of Kelsey? She’s a right laugh, isn’t she?’

Lauren and I exchange a look. It’s one thing slagging the girl off behind Ryan’s back, but we can’t do that to his face. Honesty is good within a friendship. Total honesty not so much. Because as much as I defended Kelsey earlier, I have to admit that she was really, really annoying. And not just because she’s as thick as piggy poop (who am I to judge? My specialist subject during the pub quiz is our drinks and keeping them topped up). Kelsey seemed to have a fondness for chewing gum and chomped on it like a cow constantly, with disgusting sound effects. She was also fond of swearing, which isn’t such a bad thing (we all like a good swear, right?) but when you have a sentence with nine words and six of them are swears, you have a bit of a problem.

I’m surprised at Eleanor, to be honest. She usually sets Ryan up with dull girls from well-to-do families. She isn’t so much helping Ryan to climb the social ladder – she’s dragging him up the ladder against his will. But Ryan seems to like this one, so as his friend, I have to support him – right?

‘She was funny. Especially with that Legos thing.’ It’s the only thing I can think of to say. My only other thoughts of Kelsey are the monotonous slapping of chewing gum against teeth.

‘Laos,’ Ryan says. ‘She meant Laos.’ He nods knowledgably, as though the answer had been on the tip of his tongue last night. We all know he’s Googled it since. ‘But you liked her, yeah?’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’ I look at Lauren and she nods vigorously.

‘Great girl. Loads of fun. I hope you’re bringing her next week.’

‘Brilliant.’ Ryan’s grin widens. ‘Because I’ve invited her to join us. She’s on her way.’

Lauren and I eye each other as Ryan backs away towards the bar. We can’t leave now – it would be too obvious – but we don’t want to stay either.

‘One drink,’ Lauren hisses once Ryan has turned away from us. ‘We’ll drink up quickly and then make our excuses.’

The door opens and we both turn, groans ready to rumble from our chests, but it isn’t Kelsey this time. It’s a bloke; big, balding and not chewing gum.

‘Here we go.’ Ryan sets the drinks down on the table and sits himself down opposite us.

‘Thank you.’ Lauren takes her glass and gives her throat a little clear. ‘You know, Ryan. We can’t actually stay long tonight. I think we’ll have to go after this drink.’ Lauren takes a huge gulp of her drink, downing almost half of it in one go.

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘I’m not feeling too good.’ Lauren rubs at her stomach. ‘And Delilah’s hurt her knee quite badly.’

‘Have you?’ Ryan turns to me, concern wrinkling his brow. ‘What’s happened?’

‘She fell flat on her face,’ Lauren says and I nod.

‘Went down like a sack of spuds.’ I flash my plaster as proof.

‘She thought she was going to need stitches,’ Lauren says. ‘In fact, I think we should go now. You need to rest that knee. It was all swollen and nasty earlier.’

I look longingly at my pint, but then I think about Kelsey working her way through an entire packet of Wrigley’s and I push the thirst aside. ‘It is pretty sore, actually.’

Ryan suddenly bursts out laughing and I throw him an evil glare. My pain is amusing to him?

‘Will you two relax?’ Ryan titters to himself as he raises his pint to his lips and takes a sip. ‘Kelsey isn’t really on her way. I was just winding you up.’

‘What?’ Lauren and I both cry, which only makes Ryan laugh even more.

‘Why would you do that?’ Lauren asks.

Ryan chuckles. ‘Entertainment. Purely for entertainment. It was obvious that you two didn’t like Kelsey – the feeling’s mutual, by the way – so I thought I’d wind you up.’

‘Kelsey didn’t like us?’ The cheek! We invited her onto our team, put up with her vile gum-chewing and she didn’t like us. ‘Why not?’

Ryan shrugs. ‘She didn’t really say, but if it’s any consolation, she didn’t like me much either.’

‘She said that?’

‘She said we had no chemistry, which is pretty much the same thing.’

My spidey sense starts to tingle. ‘Did you bring her to the quiz to put her off, knowing she wouldn’t like us?’

‘Maybe.’ Ryan takes another sip of his pint. Sneaky git. ‘So what’s this special meeting all about then? What’s so urgent that you’ve made Lauren miss ogling the hunky fitness freak?’

So this is it. I take a fortifying sip of my pint while I determine if there really is no other way around this. Nope, there isn’t.

I spill all to my friends.

Chapter 5

Project Wedding Date

Text Message:

Lauren: Got my invite for Lydia Jenson’s wedding. That’s 5 people from our year at school who have got/are getting married!

Delilah: You got invited???

Lauren: Want to be my plus one?

‘So let me get this straight.’ Ryan observes me for a moment, drumming his fingers lightly on the table top. ‘Ben is engaged so you want a boyfriend to take to Francesca’s wedding so you can prove that you’re over him? Even though you’re not?’

‘Exactly.’ Why can’t Ryan be this smart when it comes to the weekly pub quiz?

‘I think it’s a great idea.’ Lauren looks stunned at this admission, as though she never thought in a million years that she’d agree with my crazy plan. Which is fair enough – I’m stunned she’s agreeing with me too. ‘It really is. It’s about time you got back out into the dating scene.’

‘Whoa, whoa. Hold on there, missy.’ I hold up my hands before Lauren gallops way ahead and has me married off before you can say ‘catch the bouquet’. ‘I’m not looking to get back into the dating scene. Not really. This is going to be purely superficial. I want it to look like I have a boyfriend, that’s all.’

Lauren observes me for a moment and I begin to squirm under her scrutiny. ‘Wait a minute. I know what this is really about.’ Lauren nods as she confirms her thoughts internally. ‘You’re hoping that by turning up at the wedding with somebody new, Ben will finally realise what he’s missing out on and fall at your feet, begging for forgiveness and another chance!’

‘I am not!’ Am I? Well, maybe a smidgen. But that isn’t my main motivation. ‘I just want to prove to Ben and everyone else that I’m over him.’

‘So you’re going to dupe some poor sod into thinking you’re in a relationship with them before parading him in front of your ex?’ Ryan asks. ‘Why do you even need to have a boyfriend – real or otherwise – to parade in front of Ben?’

I should have known Ryan wouldn’t understand. He’s never been in a relationship long enough to have his heart broken. He’s been dumped – plenty of times – but never by someone he truly cares about.

‘You should have seen the pity on Francesca’s face when she realised what a loser I am. Ben’s moved on and I’m still stuck in the same place I was nine months ago. Imagine how I’m going to feel when I see that look replicated by the hundreds of guests Francesca will have invited. There’ll be people there who I used to know through Ben and I don’t want them to feel sorry for me. I just want to be able to walk into that church with my head held high.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t go to the wedding on your own,’ Lauren says, frustratingly not getting my point at all now that the idea of a real, bone fide boyfriend has been snatched away from her.

‘I can’t turn up alone! I’ve told Francesca that I’m proper loved up with my gorgeous boyfriend.’

‘So say you broke up. Couples do, you know.’

I wonder whether Ben and Eden will break up. The thought gives me a warm, glowing feeling inside. I hope she dumps him so he’ll know how it feels to have your heart torn out, tossed on the floor and stomped all over.

‘I can’t – won’t – turn up on my own. Francesca’s changing the seating plan and everything. Plus, Ben’s going to be there with Eden. I need to show him that I’m over him.’

‘But you’re not,’ Ryan – unhelpfully – points out.

‘Which is why it’s even more important to pretend that I am.’ Duh.

‘I think “important” is pushing it,’ Lauren says.

I stick my chin out. ‘It’s important to me.’

Lauren’s face softens and she takes hold of my hand. ‘Then we’ll help you. Let’s find you a hunky temporary boyfriend.’

‘Thank you.’ I’m relieved I don’t have to do this alone. I haven’t dated anyone other than Ben in almost four years and I don’t know where to start.

‘So where’s good to meet men?’ I’ve been out of the game for so long that the rules are fuzzy.

Lauren swivels her head left and right. ‘How about the pub?’

I look at the other patrons of The Farthing – most of them are over fifty. Some over eighty. Not quite what I’m after.

‘Not them,’ Lauren says, seeing me eyeing Kenneth, one of our fellow pub quizzers. ‘Who do you flirt with every week?’

Lauren and I look at each other, goofy grins on our faces. ‘Dan!’ I leap out of my seat. I can’t believe it never occurred to me before. Dan the Barman is the perfect contender for shiny new boyfriend. He’s quite a bit shorter than I am but he’s cute and funny and extremely flirtatious. He’s been working at The Farthing for ages – a couple of years at least – and we’ve always had an easy rapport. I’ve never taken our flirting seriously as I was either with Ben or still hung up on him, but maybe now the time is right.

I’m locked into my seat for the next hour or so through fear. Dan is just metres away behind the bar, laughing at something one of the regulars has said as he pulls a pint. He has a nice laugh; throaty and a little bit evil, like there’s a naughtiness hidden behind his cute exterior. Yes, I bet Dan can be very naughty indeed.

‘Are you going to go and talk to him or not?’ Lauren takes a pointed look at her watch. ‘We have to get up for work in the morning.’

‘When has that ever stopped us before?’ There have been many late nights in The Farthing over the years, whether it happened to be a work night or not. ‘And yes, I am going to talk to him. When I’m ready.’

‘What’s the rush anyway? Apart from thirst?’ Ryan lifts his empty glass and gives it a shake. ‘Francesca’s wedding isn’t for another six months – why do you need a boyfriend right now?’

Lauren and I exchange a look. Duh! ‘Because I need it to look authentic. I’ve told Francesca that I’m in a relationship now. I can’t turn up with a bloke I’ve only been on two dates with, can I?’

‘I suppose not.’ Ryan shakes his glass again. ‘So you’d better go and chat to Dan then. Grab us a pint while you’re there.’

Mentally prising away the fear glue, I force my body out of the chair and make my way to the bar, which has filled up considerably. The landlord has jumped behind the bar to help out, meaning I’m in danger of being served by Colin instead of Dan so I hang back, pretending to study the lunch menu scrawled on the board beside the bar.

‘You’re a bit late for food,’ Dan says, leaning his elbow on the bar. ‘Can I offer you a packet of nuts instead? Or a packet of cheese and onion?’

You can offer me much more than that, me laddo.

‘Oh, no. Thank you. I’m not hungry.’ It takes an age to spit that handful of words out. I’m suddenly tongue-tied and flustered, the flirty side of me overshadowed by nerves. Can I really do this? Can I bag myself a date with Dan the Barman?

‘Thirsty then? Because I don’t have much more to offer.’

I bet you do, tiger. Let’s start with those skinny jeans. Get them off, right now.

‘Um, yeah. Two pints and a red wine please.’

Why am I such a dweeb? It’s not usually like this between us, I swear. It’s the pressure. It’s putting me off my stride.

‘How did you do last night?’ Dan has grabbed a couple of pint glasses and is busy filling one with lager.

‘Do?’

‘The quiz.’ Dan nods towards the back of the pub, where The Know It Ales are still celebrating their victory twenty-four hours later. Smug gits.

‘Oh. Terrible. Really terrible.’ There’s no point sugar-coating it. Everybody knows we’re never destined to make it any further than the very bottom of the leader board.

‘Never mind.’ Dan places one full glass on the bar and starts to fill the other. ‘Did you have a good weekend otherwise?’

‘Yeah, pretty good.’ I hope Dan doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Other than taking part in the pub quiz, I’d done little more than lounge in my pyjamas and watch a film with my folks. Mum let me choose a musical for us to watch, as long as it was either ‘Annie’ or ‘The King and I’ so she could gush over the shiny heads of Daddy Warbucks or King Mongkut of Siam (she has an obsession with bald celebrities). I don’t want to tell Dan this, obviously, as I need to appear fun and alluring if I want to secure a date.

‘You?’ It’s better to steer the focus away from myself and my rather sad weekend. And quickly.

‘I was working mostly. It’s lucky I love my job, hey?’ Dan winks at me as he places the second pint on the bar. He turns away from me to pour Lauren’s glass of red wine. I don’t have long left. In a few seconds I will pay up and return to my table dateless.

‘What do you like to do when you’re not working?’ Please say something interesting. Don’t be a stamp collector or a wanderer of antique markets (apologies if you are either of these things, but they don’t float my boat and I don’t think I have it in me to pretend convincingly).

‘I’m in a band.’

Oh. That’s pretty cool, actually. ‘What do you play?’

‘Drums.’

I picture Harry Judd from McFly. Nice. Very nice. ‘Are you any good?’

‘Me or the band?’

I hand over the money and give what I hope is a coy one-shouldered shrug. ‘Both.’

Dan smiles. His eyes crinkle up and an adorable dimple appears in his right cheek. Swoontastic, right? ‘We’re pretty good. At least I think so. You should come and hear us play some time.’

‘I’d love to.’ I probably answer a tad too quickly. He’s barely finished his sentence, which makes me appear overly keen, but so what? Dan has asked me out – sort of – which is exactly what I want.

‘Great. We’re playing The Wheatsheaf on Bolan Street on Friday. Do you know it?’

‘Yes.’ I will Google Map it. ‘What time?’

‘We start at nine but we’ll be there earlier than that if you’d like to meet for a drink before.’

Yes, yes, yes!

Delilah James, you have yourself a date. Project Wedding Date is under way.

Chapter 6

The Worst Date Ever

Text Message:

Delilah: Have you SEEN the new barman?

Lauren: Hot, right?

Delilah: So hot!

Lauren: He has a dimple. I love a dimple

Delilah: Dimples are so cute and did you see his bum when he bent down to pick up that 50p?

Lauren: Good call dropping that, by the way

I’ve never seen Dan outside of The Farthing. I only ever see him outside of the bar when he goes on the odd glass-collection round. He seems much shorter in The Wheatsheaf. Not Santa’s helper-short, but he only just reaches my chin and I’m not even wearing heels. I’d agonised over outfits this evening – did I go for a dress, trousers or skirt? Casual or dressy up? Heels or flats?

‘That one’s easy,’ Lauren had told me. She’d helpfully popped round after work to help me prepare. ‘Dan’s a bit… vertically challenged, remember.’

So I’d gone for a pair of nude ballet pumps (thankfully), black skinny jeans and a floaty top. Not too casual but not too smart either. It was the Baby Bear of the fashion world.

‘You made it! Brilliant!’ Dan holds out his palm and I look at it for a moment before it dawns on me that he wants me to high-five it. I place my palm on his briefly before snatching it away. ‘Let me get you a drink and then you can meet the guys.’

I’ve never been to The Wheatsheaf before as it’s a bit out of the way. My first impression is that it’s quite dark. And a little bit dingy. It also seems to be missing its patrons. Apart from me and Dan, there is only a lone barmaid, bored and staring into space.

‘Hey, Donna.’ Dan hops up onto a stool at the bar (I’m surprised that he makes it. The stool is almost as tall as he is). The barmaid springs to life, her heavily made-up eyes wide and fluttery.

‘What can I get you, Dan?’ Donna’s eyes flicker to me and she scowls before beaming at Dan once more. She leans towards him, flashing a sizeable cleavage. It looks like Daddy Warbucks and King Mongkut of Siam are tucked down her top. ‘Your usual?’ She cocks an eyebrow at me. Yes, she’s saying. I know Dan’s usual. Do you?

I don’t, actually. I’ve never seen him drink anything at The Farthing. Not even a glass of water.

‘Please.’ Dan turns to me. ‘Usual?’

Ha! Dan knows my usual, Donna.

‘Yes. Thank you, Dan.’ I do a bit of fluttering myself but stop when I realise I look like a berk.

‘Two pints, please. And one for yourself.’

Donna’s eyebrows are raised at me as she passes to grab a couple of glasses. He’s buying me a drink too, they’re saying. This isn’t over.

‘Come on, let’s go and meet the others.’ Dan hops back down from the stool and grabs his pint, leading me to the back of the pub and through a door marked private. There’s a room beyond with a ratty old sofa, a precarious pile of old, dusty portable TVs and several boxes of crisps. There isn’t a window so the room is stuffy as it’s crammed with bodies, junk and instruments.

‘This is Mickey, Tris, Leona, Gary, Doodle and Munch.’ Dan introduces his friends, who nod and murmur greetings. ‘Guys, this is Delilah.’

Doodle and Munch grin at each other before they break out into song, serenading me with ‘Hey There Delilah’ by Plain White T’s. I smile and giggle as though it isn’t the twenty millionth time this has been done to me.

‘Leave her alone now.’ Dan grabs my hand and leads me through the assault course of the room. ‘Have a seat.’

I look down at the scabby sofa with its stuffing hanging out of old, fraying wounds. It smells of something I can’t identify. Something bad.

‘I’m all right standing. I’ve been sitting down at work all day.’

‘I don’t blame you for not wanting to sit on that.’ Leona, the only other girl, nods towards the stinky sofa. ‘That thing smells like somebody ate shit and threw it back up again across the cushions.’

And what a delightful image that is.

‘I really would rather stand for a while.’

Leona shrugs. ‘Fair enough. If you do want to sit down though, you’re better off sitting out in the bar.’

‘She can’t, can she?’ Doodle asks. ‘Not with Dan anyway. Donna’s out there.’ Doodle shakes his head at Dan. ‘You shouldn’t have banged her, man. That bitch is never going to leave you alone now.’

Dan has the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable, which only makes Doodle throw his head back and laugh his puny little head off.

‘Leave it, will you?’ Dan asks, but Doodle does not. He ups his game and starts to do impressions of Dan and Donna in the act, using Munch as a prop. To be fair to Munch, he isn’t at all happy with the arrangement.

I look at the time. There are almost two hours until the band are due to start their set. It’s going to be a long night.

The pub has started to fill up a little more by the time we escape the suffocating storeroom. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be out of there. I thought the smell of the sofa was bad, but then Doodle and Munch tried to outdo each other with farts and I would have quite happily shoved my face into the sofa cushions and inhaled deeply to mask their stench. At one point Munch had grabbed the seat of his jeans and waddled out of the room, declaring that he may well have shat himself. He couldn’t be sure and we haven’t seen him since.

‘I’m sorry about them,’ Dan says as we shuffle out of the storeroom. We’re carrying bits of drum kit, so it’s a slow walk to the corner of the pub where the band will play shortly. ‘They’re ok once you get to know them.’

‘It’s ok.’ I have to remind myself that I’m on a date with Dan and not his mates, otherwise I’ll drop the drum I’m lugging across the room and leg it. ‘They’re not that bad, really.’

‘They’re a laugh, aren’t they?’

Is Dan being serious? ‘Mmm.’ I’m not committing either way. It’s far too soon to pick faults with his mates.

‘I’m sorry about Donna too.’ Dan and I dump the kit in the corner before returning to the dreaded storeroom to pick up more. It still stinks. ‘I didn’t think she’d be working tonight. She doesn’t usually do Fridays.’

‘It’s fine.’ It’s none of my business, really.

‘It only happened once and I was completely off my face. I couldn’t even remember it but Munch filmed it on his phone.’

‘He filmed it?’ We pick up more bits of drum and shuffle out of the cupboard. ‘How did you not notice him in your room?’ I have visions of Munch crouching in Dan’s wardrobe, his phone poking out of a crack in the door. The weird little degenerate.

‘We weren’t in my room. We were out there.’ Dan nods towards the back of the pub. ‘Out in the alley. It was so dark you can’t really tell it’s me but I recognised my trainers.’ He sticks out his foot, displaying a pair of trainers that must be three-hundred years old. ‘And you can’t miss Donna and her big gob.’

Dan starts to tinker with the drum kit and I excuse myself to pop to the loo. This date is not going at all as I expected. I thought it’d be fun to hang out with Dan outside of The Farthing. We’ve always got on so well and he seemed fun and charming, but I’m seeing very little of that now. I don’t like this Dan and I really don’t like his friends.

‘Looking forward to the show?’

I jump at the sound of the voice as I leave the stall. I hadn’t heard anyone else come in but Leona is standing at the grimy mirror, the contents of her makeup bag tipped into the sink. She’s busily applying eyeliner, thick and neat with an elaborate flick at the corners.

‘Yes.’ At least I was, until I met the band. ‘How long have you been together?’

Leona screws the lid on the eyeliner, swapping it for mascara, which she applies liberally. ‘Since school, so about five years.’

‘Five years?’ My stomach does a funny jumpy thing. ‘How old are you guys?’

‘Me and Gary are twenty-one, the others are twenty.’ Leona applies a final coat of mascara before topping up her blusher.

Twenty? Dan is twenty? I thought he was older – my age at least – but he’s practically a boy. It explains the childishness, at least.

‘He likes you, you know.’ Leona gathers up her makeup, shoving it into her cosmetics bag. ‘I can tell. He’s sort of lit up since you’ve been around. Do you like him?’ Leona zips up her bag and turns to face me. She purses her lips and I feel myself wilt under her scrutiny.

‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘He’s a great guy.’

‘Dan’s the best.’ Leona checks her reflection one last time. ‘Not my type though. I prefer tits.’ Turning from the mirror, Leona marches out of the loo, but not before she’s given my boob a squeeze as she passes. I gape at her, not sure whether it actually happened or I imagined it. Did she seriously just fondle my boob?

‘Nice, by the way.’ Leona winks at me before the door swings shut behind her.

It’s official. This is the worst date ever.

Chapter 7

Mum, Dad & Pretend Gym Sessions

Text Message:

Mum: Hello? Delilah? Are you there, love?

Delilah: Mum, this is a text message. You don’t have to check if I’m here. Just say what you want to say.

Mum: Right you are. I’m at the shops. Does Lauren want to come for her tea tonight? And does she like Crispy Pancakes?

Mum and Dad – Raymond and Nancy James – have been married for over forty years. Mum was eighteen when she married Dad but they didn’t have their first child until she was thirty-two as they were having so much fun together. They travelled the world and even spent a year in a tiny camper van as they drove across Europe. They had no ties or responsibilities so they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They’d party until dawn, have a quick kip and party some more. I can’t quite believe this when I look at my parents but they have photo evidence.

My sister Clara was a surprise (but a good surprise, they insist. I often wonder whether that’s true myself) and while they enjoyed the challenge of being parents and saw it as a new and enriching experience in their lives, it was another five years until I came along. I’m twenty-four now but Mum still sees me as a four-year-old in white frilly ankle socks and carrying a Danger Mouse lunchbox to school. It’s only in the last three months that I’ve convinced her to stop making me a packed lunch to take to work (thankfully not in a Danger Mouse lunchbox) and she still thinks fish fingers are my favourite food. Now, I’m not dissing fish fingers. They’re a fine food and nothing cures a hangover quite like a fish finger sandwich, but my tastes have broadened since I gave up the white frilly ankle socks. Ben used to take me to a seafood restaurant in town while we were together and there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for a lobster roll.

‘How was work, love?’ Mum asks as I flop down at the kitchen table. I haven’t even bothered to take my jacket off and my handbag is still slung across my chest.

Rubbish. Work was absolutely ball-achingly rubbish and I’ve felt the urge to stab Katey-Louise in the eye with a sharpened pencil on several occasions. I refrained, obviously, but only just.

‘Like that, is it?’ Mum asks when I simply lift my eyes to meet hers and let out a puff of air. ‘Well, that’s Mondays for you. But it’s over now – the boring bit, at least. Are you off out with your gentleman friend again tonight?’

I’d stupidly told Mum about my date with Dan, though I hadn’t revealed any of the gory details.

‘No, not tonight.’ Not ever.

‘Never mind. You’re getting back out there again and that’s the main thing.’ Mum flicks on the kettle and starts to arrange cups on the counter, dropping in teabags and spooning coffee and sugar accordingly. ‘It’ll do you good to date new people. It’s been a while since you and Ben broke up.’

Before he dumped me, she means. “Broke up” sounds mutual, which it definitely was not.

‘It hasn’t been that long.’

‘It’s been nine months, love. That’s an awfully long time to be on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own.’ I stick my chin out. ‘I have my friends and I have you and Dad.’

Mum smiles, her lips giving a half-sympathetic, half-amused twitch. ‘You know me and your dad love spending time with our little Delly.’ I groan. Nobody but Mum and Dad call me Delly, but that’s still two people too many. ‘But we’re getting on a bit now. We’re old farts. You should be out there, enjoying yourself. Getting blind drunk and flashing your lady area when you fall down in the gutter. I know people think it’s a travesty with the nation’s youth binge-drinking, but it never did me and your dad any harm.’ Mum’s face lights up with a beaming, I’m-reliving-my-past smile. ‘We had such fun, you know. Your dad was such a fabulous dancer. So sexy! All the girls were jealous that he married me, you know.’ Mum’s smile falters as she catches my eye and she’s brought back down to Earth, back to our kitchen and my failed love life. ‘That’s what I want for you, Delilah. I want you to be happy. That’s all I want for my children.’

‘And I am happy.’ Sort of. It’s difficult to be truly happy when the love of your life is engaged to another woman. ‘But I’m not ready to date anybody new yet.’

‘It didn’t go well with your new chap then?’

Understatement alert! I simply shake my head. I’m not ready to confide in Mum just what a disaster my date with Dan – my first date since Ben – had turned out to be.

‘It looks like you’re staying in with me and your dad tonight then.’ Mum turns as the kettle clicks off and pours boiling water into the cups. ‘There’s a Bruce Willis film on so I thought we’d watch that.’

Mum isn’t a huge fan of Bruce Willis but she does have a thing about pointing out how sexy bald celebrities are whenever Dad is present, to show that she isn’t at all bothered by his thinning hair. She recently went through a phase of making us watch ancient repeats of The Crystal Maze and practically salivated whenever Richard O’Brien was on screen.

‘I’d love to stay in and watch you perv on Bruce Willis, but unfortunately it’s a gym day. Lauren will be picking me up soon.’

My busted knee is no longer a valid excuse to avoid the gym and it’s lost its powers on Denise too, unfortunately.

‘Is that a brew I can smell?’ Dad, home from work, plods into the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. He wraps his arms around Mum’s waist and kisses her noisily on the cheek.

‘How was work, love?’ Mum adds milk to the drinks and places them on the table. Our family has always spent a lot of time either in the garden or in the kitchen. Mum and Dad don’t like to be cooped up and the kitchen offers the most light and a fantastic view of the garden through the French doors. When it starts to get a little bit warmer, the French doors will be flung open and the other rooms in the house will only be used when absolutely necessary.

‘It wasn’t bad.’ Dad sits down at the table, cradling his hands around his cup of coffee. ‘Some kid tried pocketing a stash of Snickers so I took him into the office and threatened to phone the police.’ Dad is the manager of one of the local supermarkets and seems to spend an inordinate amount of time dealing with sticky-fingered youths.

‘And did you phone the police?’ Mum opens the oven to check the food inside. The delicious aroma of shepherd’s pie fills the kitchen and my stomach rumbles. Why oh why did Lauren have to develop a crush on a guy at the gym? There is no way I’ll be able to eat Mum’s shepherd’s pie before a session.

‘Nah. The lad started blubbering and that’s enough for me.’ Dad blows on his coffee and takes a tentative sip. ‘And I told him, if you’re going to nick a chocolate bar, at least make it a Twix.’

‘Oh, Ray.’ Mum grabs a tea towel and whips Dad lightly with it. ‘You shouldn’t encourage them.’

‘I’m not, but if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’

I leave them to it, taking my cup of coffee upstairs to change into my gym kit.

‘Was it really that bad?’ Lauren asks as we stroll along side-by-side on the treadmills. This is the first time I’ve seen Lauren since The Worst Date Ever as I was too humiliated to relay what happened to my friends the next day and there was no way I was turning up to the pub quiz last night. Lauren and Ryan went without me and, for the first time ever, they didn’t come last. They came second-to-last, which isn’t anything to get mega excited about but it’s still an improvement. I’m not sure what to make of it. Does my presence bring down the intelligence of the group as a whole? Or was it a badly-timed fluke?

‘It really was that bad.’ I cringe just thinking about my date with Dan. ‘Worse, even. His friend soiled himself, for goodness’ sake!’

‘What were the band like? Any good? Because if they were anything like McBusted, a little poopy pantage is forgivable.’

‘Oh, Lauren.’ I sigh, long and heavy. ‘They were awful.’ The band consisted of drummer Dan, two keyboardists, Gary and Doodle (who shared the same keyboard and played it between them, sometimes seemingly at random), acoustic guitarist Mickey (whose guitar had a missing string), lead singer Leona and tambourinist, Tris. Munch didn’t seem to have a role other than leaping around and being a bell-end.

‘It was like at primary school, when the teacher hands out instruments and there’s just noise. I half expected them to burst into “The Wheels on the Bus”.’

Lauren presses her lips together and I know she’s desperately holding in a giggle. I’m mad at her for half a second, annoyed that she finds my misery entertaining. But then I picture Munch performing a flying kick, making contact with the edge of a nearby table and falling flat on his back before being showered with some poor bugger’s pint and I find myself sniggering. I catch Lauren’s eye and that’s it, we’re pissing ourselves laughing on the treadmill, clutching the rail with one hand and our stomachs with the other.

‘So you won’t be going on a second date with Dan then?’

‘Absolutely not.’ The laughter drains away now. ‘What am I going to do? How am I going to face him at the pub?’ Some may say that finding a new local is a bit drastic, but I’m not convinced I’m one of those people.

‘How did the date end? Did Dan think it was a success?’

I close my eyes but it makes me feel dizzy on the treadmill so I open them again. ‘He thought it went great. He wants to see me again.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t say anything. I pretended I had a phone call, said there was an emergency with my gran and ran.’

‘He probably knows you don’t want to see him again then.’ Lauren’s voice is matter-of-fact, absolutely sure with no wriggle room at all. ‘That’s the oldest trick in the book. You’re in the clear. The only thing you need to do now is find a replacement.’ Lauren suddenly yelps and batters the buttons on her treadmill, which quickly picks up speed. By the time fitness instructor Courtney wanders by, Lauren’s legs are pelting away, her ginger ponytail rhythmically swinging in time with her pumping arms. She stares straight ahead, her breathing controlled.

‘All clear,’ I say once Courtney is out of view. Lauren hits the emergency stop button and slumps against the machine, wheezing and panting and praying for death.

‘I need to sit down,’ Lauren rasps, so we step off the treadmill and make our way to the rowing machines. We move in rhythm, but there’s no effort involved at all.

‘So you need to find a new man to date.’ It’s ten minutes later and Lauren can finally converse without wheezing. ‘Anybody here who takes your fancy?’

Of course there is. I wouldn’t endure this torture twice weekly if it wasn’t for the room full of buff blokes.

‘He’s pretty cute.’ I casually glance at the guy warming up by the weights. He’s tall and toned without being overly muscly.

‘Good choice.’ We watch as he stretches towards a high metal bar and leaps up to grasp it. Lauren shakes her head as he starts a series of chin-ups.

‘Nope,’ I agree as he grunts and gurns away, his face stretching into the most unattractive poses.

‘That’ll be his sex face,’ Lauren whispers and we both start to giggle. ‘Try again. What about him?’ I turn to where Lauren is gawping and spot a giant of a man. He’s as wide as he is tall, with bulging biceps and calves the size of oak trees. ‘Think how intimidated Ben would be if you turned up with that big boy.’

‘I’m intimidated by that big boy.’ I can’t do it. I’d be too terrified to speak to the bloke. If he looks across and sees us gawping, I’ll pee myself.

‘What about Mr Treadmill?’

We both look back towards the treadmills, where one of the regular gym members is pounding away, clocking up the miles as sweat pours from his face. He has a towel around his neck, which he uses frequently to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. We see him here all the time but he never uses any other equipment. Just the treadmill, over and over again. He was on the treadmill when we arrived and he’ll still be there when we leave.

‘I want a date that takes place outside of the gym,’ I say. ‘And one that doesn’t involve running and buckets of sweat.’

Lauren tuts. ‘You’re so fussy.’

‘Would you date him?’

‘Nah.’ Lauren stops her pitiful attempt at rowing. ‘But then I’m not desperate.’ She grins as I swat her. ‘I’ve had enough. Shall we go and get a smoothie?’

‘Yes!’ I leap up from the rowing machine, using up more energy than I have in the hour that we’ve been here.

I’m hoping the perfect guy will present himself in the juice bar, all clean and sweat-free and easy to talk to. But there’s only me and Lauren in there so I make do with an orange and pineapple smoothie. I guess the gym isn’t the ideal place for me to meet men anyway. They’ll expect me to be fit and willing to exercise. What if he wanted to go jogging on Sunday mornings? Ugh. It’s exhausting enough pretending to exercise with Lauren twice a week – I really don’t want to actually exert myself.

‘So if not the gym, where?’ Lauren asks.

I shrug and take a long suck of my smoothie. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to give me some pointers. You’ve been single for longer than I have.’

‘Thanks for the reminder.’ Lauren sticks her tongue out at me. ‘What about work? You seem to like that Adam guy.’

‘Adam’s great. He’s funny, kind and gorgeous, but he’s just a mate. Plus, I work with him and that can get messy, especially when I end it after the wedding.’

‘So you’re really still just going to use the guy as a front? No actual romance?’

I shake my head. ‘No romance. I don’t want a future with the guy, just a wedding date.’

Lauren takes a sip of her smoothie. She’s opted for a classic strawberry and banana. ‘Don’t you miss it though?’

‘Miss what?’ I miss Ben, but that’s pretty obvious.

‘Having a boyfriend? Having fun, dating. Sex.’ Lauren sighs. ‘I haven’t had sex in so long.’

It’s been eight months since I’ve had sex. A month after we split up, Ben broke the no contact rule and we’d hooked up. I’d foolishly thought we were getting back together but it turned out it was just a ‘for old time’s sake’ fumble and I’d been too embarrassed – not to mention crushed – to tell anybody about it. But still, it showed that Ben was still attracted to me so a tiny remnant of hope clung on.

‘Why don’t you do anything about it?’ I ask, ensuring the spotlight remains on Lauren’s sex life and not mine. ‘You hardly ever go on dates any more.’

Lauren takes a long slurp of her smoothie until she ends up noisily hoovering up the dregs in the bottom of the glass. ‘I guess I’m just not interested in dating random guys,’ she says once her smoothie has been depleted.

‘You’re interested in Courtney,’ I tease. ‘Why don’t you talk to him?’ Despite having a massive crush on Courtney, Lauren has never actually had a conversation with the man.

‘I’m happy to ogle from afar.’ Lauren hops off her stool and grabs her gym bag. ‘Come on, let’s go and meet Ryan at the pub and we can think of more ideas for Project Wedding Date.’

Chapter 8

Kitchen Skills (or lack of)

Text Message:

Dad: Takeaway tonight – Indian, Chinese or pizza?

Delilah: I thought Mum left you instructions for making lasagne?

Dad: She did. And when she gets back from Aunty Liz’s we’ll tell her it was delicious but not nearly as good as hers

Delilah: Fair enough. Chinese then please

I haven’t spent much time in the development kitchen at Brinkley’s. I glimpsed inside it during my tour of the buildings on my first day but other than that it has never been a place I’ve been required – or permitted – to go to. The kitchen is stark with grey flooring and chrome appliances and worktops. The lack of natural light means the room is lit with headache-inducing strip lighting. The room is so uninspiring it’s hard to believe such delicious products are created here.

‘I’ve set aside a workspace for you over here.’ Karen, who works in development, points out the space at the far end of the kitchen. Neville arrived back from the brand-building conference full of ideas (and beer, judging by the lingering hangover) and, inspired by what he had learned, Neville has loosened the Brinkley purse strings and injected some much-needed cash into the firm’s social media efforts. One of Adam’s ideas was to set up a blog (yes, Brinkley’s really is in the dark ages when it comes to social media. Before Adam arrived in the office to rescue us from technological suicide, Brinkley’s didn’t even have a Twitter account) and Karen has agreed to give us a hand for the afternoon. We’re going to develop some recipes using Brinkley’s biscuits and post them onto the blog. Katey-Louise had originally wanted to play the role of glamorous assistant to Adam but she took one look at what she would have to wear to comply with health and safety rules and dropped out. So now I’m playing the not-so-glamorous assistant in my overalls and hairnet.

‘I printed out a lemon and ginger nut cheesecake recipe.’ Adam places the printout and a bag of ingredients on the stainless steel counter.

Karen gives it a quick glance and nods her head. ‘Looks easy enough. Delilah, why don’t you crush the biscuits while Adam melts the butter?’

Crushing the biscuits is a lot of fun, especially as I pretend the ginger nuts are Ben’s face.

‘I think that’s enough.’ Karen places a hand on my arm to stop me whacking the bag of biscuits with my rolling pin again. There would have been nothing but ginger nut dust if I’d been left to my own devices. ‘I always picture my ex-husband.’ Karen winks at me before she moves on with the recipe.

The next steps of the recipe aren’t as much fun as the biscuit bashing, but Adam, Karen and I have a lovely afternoon in the development kitchen. It’s nice to be away from the Brinkley crew for a couple of hours and the freedom allows me to enjoy myself. Adam and Karen are a laugh and we joke around as we make the cheesecake. Adam takes a few photos as we go along, which he’ll add to the blog and Instagram when we get back to the office.

‘And that’s it,’ Karen says once we’ve spooned the filling on top of the biscuit base and added a bit of lemon zest for decoration. ‘We’ll leave this in the fridge overnight and then it’ll be ready.’

‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Adam says. He looks relieved that we haven’t burned the kitchen down to rubble. ‘Have you got any other ideas of things we could make out of Brinkley’s biscuits?’

Karen pops our cheesecake into one of the fridges. ‘Rocky road bites would work really well and they’re so easy to make. We could also come up with a new ice cream flavour. That’s always fun. We could have a go now if you’ve got time?’

Using Brinkley’s shortcake biscuits and chopped up strawberries, we make a strawberry shortcake ice cream that smells divine. While the mixture is in the ice cream maker, we make a start on the rocky road bites.

‘I should make some of these with my nephews,’ Adam says, licking a splatter of melted chocolate from his wrist.

‘You have nephews?’ I don’t know that much about Adam. We’ve chatted in the office and here in the kitchen, but it’s been about our hobbies and film and TV and now food we like. I don’t know anything personal about Adam. Like if he has a girlfriend. Or a wife.

‘Two of them. Isaac and Luke.’ Adam’s face lights up as he says the names and I can tell he adores them. I half expect him to whip out his wallet and show me their photos.

‘How old are they?’ We haven’t finished making the ice cream yet but I decide to get a head start on the washing up, filling up the sink with hot soapy water. Karen has popped out of the kitchen for a breather, which I assume is a code word for a sneaky cigarette break.

‘Isaac’s four and Luke’s just turned three.’ Adam joins me at the sink with a tea towel once he’s placed the trays of rocky road into the fridge. ‘They can be a bit of a handful but they’re good kids.’

The conversation moves away from Adam’s nephews as we wash and dry the equipment we’ve used, moving back to the familiar ground of entertainment. Adam tells me about his favourite films, which are mostly action but with the odd comedy thrown in and I tell him about my love of musicals.

‘Which is your favourite?’ Adam asks as he places a clean, dry mixing bowl on the side. I take a moment to consider my options. It’s a tough choice as there are so many great ones to choose from.

‘I love the glamour of the older musicals like My Fair Lady and Singin’ In the Rain but I also love the fun of the newer ones and the revivals like Hairspray.’ I tilt my head to one side as I scrub at a particularly stubborn clump on a wooden spoon. ‘But I think my absolute favourite has to be Annie – the original – as it was the first one I watched. My grandma bought me the video one Christmas and I was hooked.’ I’m half tempted to break out into the chorus of “Tomorrow” but manage to restrain myself. ‘It makes me feel like a little girl again whenever I watch it.’

‘Wow.’ Adam takes the wooden spoon from me and wipes it dry. ‘You put a lot of thought into that.’ He’s grinning at me, so I’m pretty sure Adam is only teasing but my cheeks start to feel hot. Ben always said my love of musicals, and Annie in particular, was juvenile. Perhaps he was right.

‘I’m going to check on the ice cream.’ I dry my hands on a towel before switching off the ice cream maker and checking the consistency. I’m not entirely sure what we’re aiming for but it should be done about now so I pour the mixture into a large tub and pop it into the freezer.

‘This has been fun,’ Adam says when I return to the sink with the ice cream maker’s mixing bowl and paddle. ‘We should think of some more recipes to put on the blog. It beats being squeezed into the office.’

‘Don’t you like being squeezed up against Katey-Louise?’ I’m blatantly fishing to see if he fancies her and want to bite off my tongue as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The last thing I want is to make Adam think I fancy him. Because I don’t. Obviously.

Ok maybe a teeny bit, but only from afar. I can appreciate a gorgeous man without wanting to hop into the sack with him, can’t I?

‘She seems nice enough but she’s a bit young for me. How old is she? Twenty, twenty-one?’

‘Nineteen.’

Adam’s eyes widen. They’re a beautiful, rich brown framed by thick, dark lashes. I’m not paying particular attention to his eyes (or any other body part) but they’re hard to miss when they’re popping out.

‘Wow. Nineteen.’ Adam gives a sigh. ‘To be nineteen again.’

I can’t help but laugh at his serious tone. ‘You sound like you’re a pensioner. You’re still young. Relatively.’ I stick my tongue out at Adam and he whips me with his towel. ‘Seriously though, you’re what? Early thirties?’

‘Very early. Thirty-one.’

‘See. That’s barely out of your twenties.’ I finish washing the ice cream maker equipment and empty the water out of the washing up bowl. ‘There’s plenty of life left in you, I’m sure.’

‘I hope so.’

I grab a towel and help Adam to finish drying. Once everything is put away and we’ve wiped down the counters, we join Karen in a little room off the kitchen where she’s now sitting with a cup of tea.

‘All done?’ Karen asks. She’s sitting on the sofa with a magazine, her shoes kicked off to one side and her hairnet slung over the arm of the sofa. ‘Help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee. I wish I could offer you a biscuit but they’ve all been wolfed down.’ She surreptitiously swipes at a few crumbs on her white overalls.

‘Thanks but I should be getting back to the office.’ Adam holds up the camera he’s looped around his neck. ‘I need to get the photos and recipes uploaded on the blog. I’m hoping the cheesecake one will be ready to go live tomorrow.’

‘I’d better be getting back too.’ I’d have quite liked to sit and skive with a cup of tea for a few minutes, but it won’t look right if Adam returns without me. This is his project after all and I’m only assisting him.

‘Thanks for all your help,’ Adam says to Karen. Her eyes are firmly on her magazine and she doesn’t lift them as she raises a hand to wave goodbye.

‘No worries. Give me a shout if you need any more help in the kitchen.’

The development kitchen is only a short walk away from the Portakabin office but Adam and I take our time, stretching out the time we have left before we join the others as much as possible. This is it; our little project is pretty much at an end. Tomorrow Adam will take the ice cream and rocky road out of the fridge and freezer to take some more photos for the blog but he won’t need my help for that. So it’s back to the real world of work, which for me means plenty of filing, typing up letters and emails and answering the phone while pretending Katey-Louise isn’t fluttering around the place.

‘Any exciting plans for the weekend?’ Adam asks as we wander across to the Portakabin.

‘I have plans,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m not sure how exciting they’ll be. My friend’s a PE teacher so I’m going to watch his pupils take part in a five-a-side tournament.’ This is Lauren’s idea, and not because she wants to support Ryan. The five-a-side tournament is, apparently, the perfect place for me to meet a potential Wedding Date.

‘I want to take a grownup as my date, not a pubescent boy,’ I’d pointed out and Lauren had looked at me as though I was dense.

‘I’m not expecting you to date the players. I’m talking about the spectators, you doofus.’

So I’m going to be spending my Saturday morning on a muddy football pitch instead of hanging around the house in my PJs.

Joy.

‘How about you?’ I ask Adam. ‘Any plans, exciting or otherwise?’

‘I’ll be looking after my nephews.’ Adam reaches for the Portakabin door and holds it open for me. ‘I might even give the rocky road recipe a go with them.’

Hanging out with a couple of kids? Suddenly that muddy field seems a lot more alluring.

Chapter 9

Jumping Straight Back Into The Dating Game

Text Message:

Ryan: Code Red

Delilah: Eh?

Ryan: Code Red. I’m on a date with that girl I met on Twitter. Code Red means she’s a fruitcake so you need to phone me with an emergency so I can get out of here

Delilah: Do your own dirty work! Pig!

Ryan: Come on, Delilah. Please!

Ryan: Code Red!

Ryan: CODE RED!

‘See anybody you fancy?’

Lauren and I are standing out on a muddy field, pretending we’re not utterly miserable as Ryan’s football team plays against another local school. Ryan is in his element, jogging up and down the perimeter while yelling encouragement to his pupils. This isn’t my favourite way to spend my Saturday mornings but Lauren and I try to support Ryan whenever we can’t think of a reason to get out of it and, it turns out, when I’m on the hunt for a man.

‘I keep telling you, this isn’t about fancying anybody.’ I blow on my fingers to try to warm them up but it doesn’t work. ‘I’m not looking for an actual boyfriend.’

‘I know, I know.’ Lauren rolls her eyes. ‘You’re looking for a temporary love interest.’

‘Love doesn’t even come into it!’ My heart isn’t going anywhere near this project. It’s in tatters enough as it is.

Lauren lets out an exasperated puff of air. ‘It’s a figure of speech.’ We both jump as a roar erupts around us; Ryan’s team has scored a goal. We cheer along and pretend we’ve been paying attention to the match. ‘But you have to find the guy attractive, right? You can’t date somebody you don’t fancy.’

‘I can.’ And I will – it’ll probably make this whole project easier. Nothing muddies a plan like raging hormones.

‘What if you met somebody seriously hot and he asked you out?’

‘I don’t know.’ I haven’t had to face that dilemma as I haven’t really found anybody ‘seriously hot’ since Ben. I’ve found men cute and charming and I’ve even had a bit of cheeky flirting going on with a few, but that’s just a bit of fun.

Ryan looks our way so Lauren and I jostle about a bit and shout out a few ‘nice shots’ and ‘come on, boys’ to show our enthusiasm for the match.

‘What about that guy over there?’ Lauren asks once Ryan’s attention is back on the field and we can act naturally again. ‘He keeps checking you out.’

‘Who?’ I have a good look around at the spectators but Lauren grabs me by the arm and pulls me in close.

‘Don’t make it so obvious,’ she hisses. ‘But the guy with the red trainers.’

I look down at the ground until I spot them. I’m suitably impressed when my eyes trail up the body. ‘I suppose he is pretty cute. Is he seriously checking me out?’ My answer comes when he turns to face me and gives me a wide smile. ‘Oh, cripes. He’s coming over.’

Any hint of bravado leaves my body as the bloke comes to a standstill in front of me.

‘I haven’t seen you here before, have I?’ It’s only a tiny fairy step up from the gag-tastic “do you come here often?” line but I find myself forgiving him, mainly because he’s cute and could be a contender for Project Wedding Date. Lauren and I don’t make these trips to the football pitch a regular occurrence but we do occasionally turn up and I haven’t noticed him before either. But then I have been walking around in a bit of a daze since Ben. Deciding to date again – in whatever form – has obviously opened my eyes to cute guys again, which can only be good news.

‘That’s my nephew, Lewis.’ He points out one of the boys but I can’t tell which one – they all look the same to me – but it’s one of Ryan’s lot and not the opposition.

‘We’re here with the boys’ PE teacher.’ I point out Ryan, who is yelling something across the field and waving his arms about.

‘But he’s just a friend,’ Lauren chips in. ‘Delilah’s single.’

My cheeks burst into flames. I’d forgotten how excruciating dating can be. It was never like this with Ben, which proves how right we are for each other.

‘Delilah? Nice name.’ I swear to all that is holy that if this guy starts crooning Tom Jones at me, I’m walking away. But he simply smiles while I go a bit redder in the cheeks department.

‘Do you have a name?’ Lauren asks and I glare at her. Does he have a name? No wonder she’s single too if this is how she initiates conversations.

Instead of backing away never to be seen again – which he should – he laughs and nods his head. ‘I’m Jack. And yes, before you ask.’ He half turns towards Lauren but keeps his gaze on me. ‘I’m single too.’

‘It’s like fate!’ Lauren looks past us, towards the football pitch before placing her hand on Jack’s arm. ‘Will you excuse me? I think Ryan’s trying to get my attention.’

Ryan isn’t trying to get her attention at all. When Jack and I look out onto the pitch, Ryan is caught up in trying to break up a scuffle between the opposing teams.

‘Does your friend play Cupid often?’ Jack asks as Lauren weaves her way through the crowd.

‘Fortunately not.’ My cheeks are still quite warm but the fact that Jack hasn’t run a mile is quite promising. Could Jack be it? Could he be my plus one for Francesca’s wedding? I try to see him through Ben’s eyes and conclude that yes, Jack is a pretty good contender. He’s taller than Ben without towering over me ominously, handsome without being arrogant (I have to admit – begrudgingly – that Ben had a tad of arrogance about him) and he seems like pleasant enough company.

‘She means well,’ I say and Jack nods effusively.

‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’ Jack nods a bit more. ‘She seems like a good friend.’

Ben never really liked Lauren. He said I became loud and uncouth whenever I was with her, which is totally unfair. I can be loud and uncouth without Lauren’s encouragement, thank you very much.

‘I should go and find Lewis.’ The whistle has been blown, signalling the end of the match. Ryan’s team has won two-nil. ‘But I’d really like to see you again.’

‘Yes,’ I decide. ‘I’d like to see you again too.’

Jack’s snowed under with work at the moment so I don’t get to see him until the following week. We’ve sent texts back and forth and Jack has phoned me a couple of times but it’s good to see him again and confirm that I didn’t imagine how cute he is. Yes, he will definitely look good as my plus one. Jack picks me up and tells me we’re heading to a lovely little restaurant in the countryside. It takes quite a while to get there but Jack assures me it will be worth it.

‘What do you think?’ Jack asks when we finally arrive at the secluded pub restaurant.

I look around the small, dark room. It isn’t quite what I was expecting but it’s a quaint little place with a proper open fire. ‘It’s cosy. And quiet.’ Quiet is an understatement. There’s only one other customer; an elderly man in a tweed jacket and mud-encrusted wellies who’s nursing a pint of bitter.

‘Good.’ Jack winks at me. ‘That means I get you all to myself.’

The landlord wanders out from the back of the pub and looks taken aback to see new customers in his establishment. He blinks at us before asking what we’d like.

‘You serve food, don’t you?’ Jack asks. He takes his phone out and tries to open his internet browser but there’s no signal here. ‘It said you did on TripAdvisor.’

I’m surprised at Jack’s words. From the way he’s been talking, I assumed he’d been here before, several times. I thought it was his favourite place to dine.

‘Aye, we do food.’ The landlord nods and leads us to a table by the fire, producing a menu which consists of a single laminated sheet of paper. ‘Are you having a starter?’

There is only one starter available: soup of the day.

‘What soup is it today?’ I ask as I shrug off my jacket.

‘Heinz tomato, love.’

We decide to have a starter plus a main course of sausage and chips for me and egg and chips for Jack. Neither of us fancied the third and final choice of liver and onions.

‘I’m so sorry about this,’ Jack says as the landlord heads off to the kitchen. ‘It has five stars on TripAdvisor, I swear.’

‘I thought you’d been here before.’

‘I have but it was a couple of years ago. They must have changed hands since.’

‘Never mind.’ Jack looks so crestfallen but the location of our date isn’t what’s important. As long as we have a nice evening together, that’s all that matters.

And we do have a nice evening. The food is edible and we have the added bonus of a drunken serenade by the man in the wellies as we eat. Jack and I chat about our lives and work and Jack tells me about his nephew, who is in Year Eight at Ryan’s school.

‘Do you want kids of your own?’ I ask and Jack nods. We’ve finished our meal and the landlord has taken away our dishes but we’ve remained by the fire where it’s cosy. The landlord has disappeared again and with the only sounds coming from the back of the pub where the man in wellies is attempting to woo a wilting pot plant with a ballad and the crackle from the fire in front of us, we could be in our own little cottage.

‘One day. I love kids. I just have to meet the right girl first.’ Jack chooses that moment to lean in and kiss me, to convey that maybe, given time, I could be that girl. ‘I’m sorry. Was that too soon?’

‘No, it’s fine. Really.’ It’s an odd sensation being attached to lips that don’t belong to Ben. Jack’s lips feel different and the fuzzy feeling is missing from my tummy, but it’s a pleasant enough kiss and I wasn’t expecting – or wanting – fireworks anyway.

‘I think this could be it,’ I tell Lauren. We’re once again standing on a muddy field as Ryan’s football team tear up and down the pitch. It’s freezing so we’re bundled up in thick coats, hats, scarves and gloves to ward off the cold. We’d usually find some excuse to stay at home (in the warm) but I’m hoping to see Jack again. We agreed to see each other after our date but Jack has been busy with work again and we haven’t had the chance to meet up.

‘The kiss was that good?’ Lauren asks and I give her a chiding look.

‘No, Lauren. The kiss was ok but you know I’m not looking for Mr Right.’ I’ve already found him but unfortunately he’s set on making Eden Mrs Right and not me. ‘Why are you so fixated on seeing me settled down? What about you?’

‘What about me? I don’t need a date for Francesca’s wedding.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’ I take a furtive glance around the field but Jack doesn’t seem to be here. ‘I’m talking about you finding yourself a boyfriend. A real, permanent one.’

Lauren gives a wave of her hand. ‘I’m fine as I am.’

‘I don’t think you are.’ I sneak another glance for Jack. ‘You’re as hung up on Courtney as I am on Ben.’

Lauren gives a humourless laugh. ‘I am not.’

‘You really are.’ I take another look around the crowd gathered on the side lines. ‘Oh, there he is!’ I’m up on my tiptoes when I spot Jack loitering at the back. Grabbing Lauren’s arm, I start to drag her through the crowds but stop abruptly when I see that he isn’t alone.

‘Who’s she?’ Lauren asks but I shrug. ‘His sister?’ Lauren thrusts a thumb at the pitch. ‘The kid’s mum?’

All the tension that has been building up in my body and making my shoulders rise higher and higher leaves my body in a sudden rush. I visibly deflate, only just managing to stay upright as my suddenly floppy body makes for the muddy ground.

‘Of course it’s his sister!’ Still, I’m in no rush to go over there. As much as I enjoyed my date with Jack, I really don’t want to meet his family. I melt back into the crowd, taking Lauren with me.

‘Um, Delilah.’ I feel the resistance as Lauren stops, her body refusing to be led back to our original spot. ‘I don’t think that’s Jack’s sister after all.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask but one look at Jack tells me everything I need to know. It seems the mystery woman enjoys Jack’s kisses much more than I did on our date.

Chapter 10

The Pub Quiz

Text Message:

Delilah: What’s the capital of the Faroe Islands?

Dad: Are you at the pub quiz? Because that’s cheating

Delilah: Dad! I wouldn’t cheat! I’m not even at the quiz. Lauren and I are planning a holiday and we were thinking of the Faroe Islands and wanted a bit more info

Dad: Where in the world are the Faroe Islands?

Delilah: In the sea? Just tell me the capital. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!

Dad: The capital is F

Delilah: Funny

Dad: The capital to that is also F

I’ve calmed down about the whole Jack-kissing-another-woman thing by the following day. I mean, it’s no big deal, is it? We’d been on one measly little date – that hardly constitutes a committed relationship. Besides, being upset by the kiss is a tad hypocritical of me when essentially I’m just using Jack as a prop to prove that I’m over my ex and not for an actual relationship.

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