TABITHA SOMERSET WEBB is a fashion and lifestyle designer. She lives in Hampshire with her husband Gav, and her two daughters Betsey and Primrose. No Regrets is her debut novel.

@tabithawebbuk

tabithawebbuk

www.tabithawebb.co.uk

No Regrets

Tabitha Webb

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Tabitha Webb 2020

Tabitha Webb 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.

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008228279

Version 2020-06-06

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008228262

Dedicated to all my favourite independent women.

My mum Morwenna, my sisters Julie, Merryn and Imogen,

and my daughters Betsey and Primrose.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Stella

‘Shit! Shit!’ Stella cursed under her breath as she struggled to wrangle her two-year-old, Rory, into the lurid orange foldaway seat of the supermarket trolley. One of his legs was wrapped over the handle and a pudgy arm was trapped beneath; a second arm was caught in the brake handle; a second leg was wedged into the seat mechanism. There seemed to be a final additional limb she couldn’t account for; in it he gripped a long-melted and now leaking bag of gold chocolate coins. As she struggled to unravel Rory’s multiple limbs, her caramel Celine Micro-Tote bag, a perk from her former career, slipped to the ground and spilled its contents across sticky, germ-varnished vinyl flooring. She cursed again, louder this time. She was not having a good day. Actually she’d been having a bad week. Since at least Monday, her life had been a mess. Since the call from the credit card company. The call she was going to return as soon as humanly possible. Tomorrow, maybe.

‘Sorry!’

She was blocking traffic, blocking every other mother’s access to wholesome produce, messing with their minutely choreographed schedules. One tutted, another coughed, as they stepped over, around, and between the spilled contents of her beloved Celine.

‘Sorry! I am so sorry!’

A line of pastel-wearing young mothers – picture-postcard yummy mummies, who wafted in to complete their effortless weekly shop – and their pale celery-sucking progeny had formed; the clean-mouthed, rosy-cheeked children perched upright in their foldaway seats nibbling contentedly on gluten-free, dairy-free snacks as they were chauffeured along well-trodden and orderly paths through the aisles. Her own trips followed a less precise agenda. As if to prove the point, Rory began to screech. Stella knew from experience that she had about ten seconds until the whole supermarket witnessed her motherhood failure. Panicked, she quickly wrestled her snot-faced, chocolate-smeared child out of the seat and plonked him into the body of the trolley. He stopped screaming, sitting in open-mouthed disbelief at his demotion. His jaw began to wobble in preparation for another outburst, so she squeezed the contents of an almost liquid chocolate coin into Rory’s open fist, which he immediately shoved in his mouth. Ignoring the filth on the floor and happy she was wearing her trusty Pineapple Studios sweatshirt (it was Thursday so she definitely hadn’t been wearing it for more than three days – OK, three and a half), she used her forearm to sweep together the pile of lipsticks, chapsticks, moisturisers, hand sanitisers, used wet wipes, tampons, chewed toys, painkillers and belly-fluff into a pile.

Anxiously checking on Rory, she saw that he’d had enough of licking chocolate from his fingers and had moved onto the seat. Someone with tanned shoulders and a solicitous smile was standing beside the trolley.

‘Let me,’ she said, and pulled an industrial pack of wet wipes from her South American, hand-crafted Inca shoulder bag. It was the Van Nesses’ nanny. Stella had met her, briefly, probably at the school gates. Without any fuss, and most importantly without objection from Rory, starting from the mouth and working outwards down each limb, finishing with the handle of the trolley, she cleaned every chocolatey surface. ‘There. Who’s a clever boy?’ She ruffled his hair and passed the handful of dirty wipes to Stella. ‘There, he no longer looks, how do you say, as happy as a pig in shit?’

Stella laughed at the unlikely phrasing and the Spanish accent. She couldn’t remember her name, but she knew it had something to do with chocolate.

‘Thank you. I’m… err… Stella.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Stella stared at her, waiting for the shoe to drop, but the girl just stared at her, all big green eyes, Mediterranean skin, and electric red lips pressed into a cheeky smile.

‘I don’t remember your name.’

‘I know.’

Her lips parted, revealing a smile that would have been a dental hygienist’s dream. Stella could smell suncream: shea butter and banana with a hint of vanilla.

‘I’m Coco. I work for the Van Nesses.’

‘Yes. Of course. I knew that. Yes. Lovely to see you again, Coco. I love that top on you. Is it Tom Williamson?’

‘This? I don’t know. I borrowed it. I love the colour.’

She flicked at one of the yellow spaghetti shoulder straps.

That colour. That yellow colour, like a field of sunflowers, held such happy associations for Stella. It was exactly the same colour as the bridesmaids’ dresses she and Ana had worn for Dixie’s wedding. She still had a photo of the three of them: Dixie dressed in an embarrassing pink, like a prom dress, and Ana and herself, Dixie’s sun-kissed, smiling, co-conspirators. The marriage itself was obviously a catastrophe, but the wedding was as wild as any she had ever attended. There was still a gossip embargo on at least half the stories from the after-party. They would have been about Coco’s age back then, and Stella had been as young and hot and self-assured as Coco was now. She missed that feeling, but had she ever really been that hot?

‘Aren’t you cold in that?’

Coco laughed carelessly and pulled a hoodie from her bag. Stella caught a lemon scent.

‘Yes, a little. But it’s spring. It’s so important to get sun on the skin, don’t you think?’ She lifted her forearm and stroked the taut, satin flesh. Tiny blonde hairs stood up from the bronzed skin. Stella shivered. She stopped herself from comparing the tanned arm of the 25-year-old Spanish au pair with the pock-marked, UV-damaged epidermis of a 40-year-old mother of two who hadn’t had a shower or changed her clothes in about four days.

‘Lovely to see you again, Coco. How are the Van Nesses? I haven’t seen Penelope in weeks.’

‘Oh, they’re marvellous. Mrs Penelope Van Ness is on a retreat in Goa.’

‘How amazing! Well, lucky her. Say hello from me. Come on, Rory. Let’s try and get this horror show over before your halo slips.’

Rory’s eyes followed Coco as she laughed, oggling her as if she were chocolate-coated. Stella watched as she leaned down and kissed him. First on the forehead and then on the lips.

Stella had to stop herself slapping the girl away. The lips. Too much. Yuck.

‘He likes you. Very unusual.’

‘Kids love me. They know that I love them unconditionally,’ she said with great seriousness.

Eugh, thought Stella. Another new-age hippy lost in fantasy fairyland.

‘Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Lovely to see you, Coco. I’m sure I’ll see you again.’

She hurried her trolley and child into the fruit aisle as Rory tried to lean around her to grin at Coco.

‘I hope so. I’d like that,’ said Coco.

As they rounded the piled pyramid of potatoes, Rory lost sight of her and began to wail. Stella squeezed another coin into his mitt and began to surround him with food that he might – God willing – one day eat: carrots, celery, cucumbers, clementines. All the c-words. Rory sat himself down amongst the piling rainbow of fruit and veg and found himself some chocolate to lick from a receipt he’d found in the bottom of the trolley.

As she passed in front of the chilled dairy section, she caught a glimpse of Coco’s bare brown back in the biscuit aisle. She was filling her basket with Hobnobs, chocolate digestives and ginger creams. In addition to the yellow spaghetti top and the soft, grey lemon-scented hoodie (no doubt left in her bed by some 20-year-old surf instructor) now draped over her shoulders, she was wearing white trousers, spandex, whose stretch, when she reached down for a packet of Oreos, revealed she required no additional support or protection. Stella regretted her choice of tatty pink Sweaty Betty jogging pants, pants that had never broken into a run.

Stella ducked out of sight, not wanting to be spotted and forced to endure more conversation, but she couldn’t resist peeking back around the Kettle Chips installation to see what else she’d put in her basket. Three pot noodles. A box of raisin bran. A litre of vanilla ice cream. Another litre of ice cream, mango. Her posture was exemplary: her neck curved and proud like a ballerina; her shoulders square, arms and back toned, and Stella watched as, without hesitation, she bent at the waist to grab a loaf of brown bread and then four tins of red beans from the lowest shelf.

Stella swept a family pack of Kettle Chips into the trolley from the handy display and caught sight of her own clothing choices. On the front of her sweatshirt were tea and coffee stains, some splotches of grease, and she could now smell, not lemon, not shea butter, but instead, fish. Also she was wearing her mother-in-law’s hand-painted wellington boots. In fairness, they’d been nearest the door, and given there was a 50 per cent probability of rain on any day she was heading to the Common, they had felt like the sensible choice. But now, seeing Coco in all her wholesome, winsome, youthful vitality, she felt a soul-crushing shame and regret. Shame at her declining standards and regret that she’d never be able to bend from the waist and retrieve anything ever again from a bottom shelf. Instead she reached down to a lower shelf to retrieve some honey-roasted peanuts.

‘Stella? What are you doing down there?’

It was one of those shrill, Sloaney voices that expands to fill every space. It was the way, when her life was at its toughest, that Stella imagined her own voice sounded. It haunted her. She quickly grabbed an assortment of pumpkin, linseed and chia seeds, and a selection of pulses, and lobbed them into the trolley around Rory, trying desperately to hide the multipacks of mini-chocolate bars and super-sized chocolate treats, and the value pack of Kettle Chips. She knew there was fresh fruit and veggies somewhere under there.

Olivia Oysten-Taylor was wearing white. Of course. Not a normal white, but the kind of white that only exists in adland. She’d also gone for a sporty look.

‘Olivia. How wonderful to see you. You look superb. Like Billie Jean.’

They air-kissed.

‘I recognised you from behind immediately!’

From behind? thought Stella. What does that mean?

‘You remember Rory?’

Olivia leaned down close to him.

‘Why did I think he was called Tom? Lovely name, Tommy. So English.’

‘Tom is his brother. He’s in primary school.’

‘Aren’t you a handsome boy? Too adorable. Are you going to grow up to be a successful man like your lovely father, Jack?’

‘Jake.’

‘Of course. The lovely Jake.’

‘How is Rups?’ She loved to say his name. Rups, what kind of a name was Rups for anything other than a teddy bear. ‘Is Rups well?’

‘Fabulous. We’re just buying a little place in Vermont, a little autumn getaway. It’s just so hard to find somewhere fun to vacation in the fall, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, so true,’ said Stella, aware that Rory was getting himself into a state again. He was chewing on the foil casing from one of his disappearing coins, half of which was drying into the fringe that Stella now saw desperately needed cutting.

He reached out a friendly hand to try and touch Olivia’s precisely made-up face. She recoiled as if the smears of chocolate were toxic, not the harmless residue of a milk chocolate treat.

Stella wished she’d worn her sunglasses. If people stopped recognising her, she’d stop having these awkward and disturbing encounters. It was the one of the major issues with living in Wandsworth – you could never pop to the shops without the risk of bumping into someone you knew, which meant you were always supposed to make an effort when you left the house, even if that meant squeezing into the Sweaty Betty leggings she’d bought five years ago, just after Tom was born, and, until that week, never worn outside the house.

Rory was burbling, gleefully wiping his fingers on his jacket. This did not concern her. Long ago she’d learned to dress her sons in dark clothing to disguise their chocolate issues.

He screeched something that she understood as ‘coin’, but might have been anything. He could have been giving detailed feedback on her failings as a mother.

‘Shh, sweetheart,’ she whispered. She gave him a carrot, which he threw to the floor.

‘Strong-willed, isn’t he?’ said Olivia. She looked pristine. Perfectly applied lipstick. Eyebrows carefully etched in. Oh for goodness’ sake, she was even wearing an actual tennis skirt.

‘Hmm. Where are you off to looking so fabulous?’

‘I have found the most sublime tennis instructor. He’s a dream. He was on the tour back in the Nineties. French. Immensely talented.’ She mimed a feeble double-handed backhand. ‘Do you play?’

‘Tennis? Not any more. Not since I twisted my knee skiing in Klosters in ’97. I just can’t do all the sports any more. I have to prioritise.’

She reached towards an upper shelf for something beige and organic-looking. Quinoa. She smiled at Olivia as if she knew exactly what it was, and how best to prepare and serve it.

‘I really must keep moving, Olivia. Tom’s been asked to try out for chess club and I don’t want him to be late for Cantonese lessons.’

‘Ah ha, sáisáugāan hái bīndouh a.’

Stella looked blank.

‘Oh darling, it’s Cantonese. It means have an auspicious day. I always help Felix with his homework.’

‘Of course,’ Stella laughed. ‘Blye-blye.’

Olivia looked confused. Stella didn’t wait to explain that she was making a racist joke.

‘We must have you all round for Pimms and a play date. Just as soon as it gets a little warmer.’

‘We must, but I’m going back to work soon. It’s going to be so hard to fit everything in.’ It was the first lie that came to mind.

‘Oh, what were you? Were you in PR?’

‘I was a journalist. Fashion and celebrity.’

‘Really, a journalist, fashion and celebrity.’ Did her gaze flit disdainfully to Stella’s stained and smeared casual sportswear? ‘How wonderfully now. Were you vlogging? What is a vlogger? How exciting. Anyway, you must come over. We’ve got a new nanny and she makes the most divine sugar-free fairy cakes. Felix and Quentin and Sebastian and Honor just can’t get enough. We could see if she has a recipe for chocolate cake for little Ror-Ror. We’ve redone the whole garden with a gazebo and a water—’

‘Yes. Yes. We must—’ Stella waved as she left, ducking down to improvise a finish to Olivia’s invitation in a whisper to Rory: ‘… water buffalos and long-tailed egrets, a flock of flamingos, and a gigantic sign saying, Motherhood is not a competitive sport. You’re right, Olivia’s a bitch. We never have to see her again.’

Heaped around the chocolatey boy were layers of food products: wholemeal, wholegrain, certified organic through to seeds and pulses, then layers of confectionery and snack food, and at the very bottom, out of anyone’s reach and now compressed and distorted by the weight of junk, a medley of fruit and veg, mostly bruised by Rory and soon to be inedible. She really had to do something about her diet. She reached down for a jar of Nutella and felt something weaken in her back. A disc. God no, not a disc, not now. With a groan, tentatively, she pulled herself upright, and couldn’t help recalling the effortless fluidity of Coco’s bottom-shelf manoeuvre: Tuladandasana-Nutella, balancing stick with Nutella. Now there was a smart and specific goal she could set for herself. One day she would retrieve a jar of Nutella from a bottom shelf without the threat of total spinal failure. More yoga, she promised herself. Or maybe Pilates. She would do some research she decided; no point in making rash decisions.

Perhaps she should be buying more seeds and legumes? (She must look up ‘legumes’; they sounded so Whole Foods.) She searched the shelves for more seed-like products and immediately felt better. If she just bought a selection of ‘good’ foods – natural foods, lentils, wild rice, pine nuts, sunflower seeds – she could figure out what to do with them later. They would look good in her cupboard, and just the thought of buying them made her feel thinner. As far as she knew, there wasn’t a diet plan in the world that didn’t advocate seeds – perhaps she could roast her own in the oven and then put them in an old jam jar to snack on? This was definitely a possibility. She was sure she’d seen Victoria Beckham wandering around with some seeds and it seemed to work for her, even after four designer kids and two successful careers.

Rushing through the aisles, she kept an eye out for Coco, and another for Olivia. What a shame, she thought, that nowadays her friends were more like Olivia, not interesting like Coco? Coco might frankly be a bit weird, but Olivia… Olivia was everything she didn’t want to be, but was terrified she was becoming, but she also envied her. Thank god she still had friends like Ana and Dixie to keep her sane; sharing the chaos of their lives helped her convince herself that she wasn’t losing her mind, or wasn’t losing it alone at any rate.

She didn’t see Coco again, but Olivia, her back to Stella, fortunately, was paying for some bottled water at the six items or less counter when she saw to her delight that Rory had at some point managed to wipe four of his chocolate-covered fingers down the back of Olivia’s tennis skirt. The chocolatey stripes looked like shit in the bright lights of the supermarket. As if she’d run out of paper and used her hand before wiping it clean on her blue-white tennis kit. Her moment of joy was interrupted by the cashier.

‘Sorry, love, can you try it again?’

‘What?’

‘It’s not working.’

‘Oh, it must, surely.’ She felt the heat rising to her face and sweat begin to press through the pores across her top lip. She remembered with shame the unreturned voicemails from Barclaycard.

‘Wait, sorry. I’ve another,’ she tried to laugh. ‘Too many holidays, isn’t that the way?’

She found her personal bank card, and prayed to all the gods of organised family finance that she’d left some money in there.

‘That’s fine.’

The beads of sweat began to dry and Stella found consolation and distraction in the memory of Olivia’s stained whites.

‘Good lad, Rory. You’ll go far.’

Stella was still giggling at Rory when she emerged from the supermarket into a downpour. The oppressive darkness of the low clouds, the ubiquity of water all around them, filled her with blood-chilling dread and she promised herself that she’d return the calls to Barclaycard. For once, she knew that this cash-flow issue was probably not her failure. The Barclaycard was paid from Jake’s account. A wave of anxiety connecting the Barclaycard issue to Jake’s recent moodiness stopped her in her tracks but she shook it off and began to load the SUV while Rory grinned and proudly showed her his two newly minted chocolatey panda eyes.

‘Joker,’ she laughed as he screamed on being separated from his trolley.

Chapter Two

Ana

‘So, are you ready, Rex?’ called Ana, her long, dark hair dripping down her caramel back as she stepped out of the shower into their tiny mirrored bathroom. ‘Are we really going to do this? I really want it to be the right thing, for both of us, I don’t want you to feel… trapped.’

She scrunched her hair dry, wrapped herself in the towel, and padded into the wood-panelled Seventies galley kitchen where Rex was drinking a coffee.

‘Not that I have any idea where we’ll put it,’ said Ana, looking around their postage-stamp-sized studio flat. ‘I must water that plant.’ In the window of the kitchen, a spider plant, overflowing with hanging clones, was miraculously dehydrating. Weren’t they like cockroaches? Able to endure a nuclear winter, but not a Battersea spring. Part of Ana’s training for adulthood, and eventual parenthood, was built around a progression: the goal being to firstly keep a plant alive for longer than six months, then graduate to a pet and if both are still thriving 12 months later, a child. The spider plant was still alive. Her cat, Boris, a half-feral tabby, had moved out a few months before. Rex insisted he must have been run over, but Ana knew he was still alive: on more than one occasion she’d seen him hiding behind the bins. He’d pretended not to know her.

‘I told you before, Ana, if it’s what you want… what you need, then let’s do it. I will be there every step of the way.’

‘Really?’ she smiled shyly. ‘Even though it’s meant to be as stressful as divorce or losing a parent?’

‘I just don’t want to be like those people who become so obsessed with having a baby they can’t think about or do anything else. That terrifies me. If it’s meant to be, it will be. If not, we can buy a boat, sail the world, live the dream.’

‘You don’t like boats, Rex. You don’t even like the water.’

‘Actually I don’t like fresh water, hurts my contacts,’ he laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘I just love you. And if it’s you and me forever, then I will still be a very happy man.’ He threw his half-drunk coffee into the sink and headed for the door, attempting to pass her.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she asked, dropping the towel to the floor. A breeze rippled over her, goosebumps all over her nakedness; her nipples stood out. She worried her nipples were too long, but no one had complained, yet.

‘Oh god, are you ovulating now!?’ He enveloped her breast in his hand. ‘The perfect handful.’ He pinched her nipple between the knuckle of index and middle finger.

She felt down between his legs and took him in her hand. ‘More than a handful mustn’t be wasted.’ She laughed as he outgrew her hand. ‘Isn’t this just the best way to start the day? You telling me you’d rather be at work?’

Ana was worried they weren’t having enough sex. She always worried she wasn’t having enough sex, and now that their sex had a purpose, was part of her life plan, part of the having-to-do because if she didn’t do it now, she might never be able to do it, she was terrified it might become a chore. A good man was hard to find and Rex was a good man. She didn’t want to have to find another. They took so long to train. She pulled him into the living room and lay back on the leather sofa, spread her legs sufficiently that he could see into her, and dangling a finger over her clitoris, she teased. ‘You sure you have to go to work right now? This second…?’

‘Oh god,’ he sighed. ‘You make me so…’

She slid down the sofa a little. One finger became two.

‘You little minx…’

She watched, smiling mischievously as, without taking his clothes off, he unzipped his trousers, releasing his at-the-ready erection, and slid it into her in one smooth, wet motion. She gasped at the hardness, and felt a moment’s relief that he still fancied her so much.

‘Oh Christ, you are so wet…’ With his long, slow motions, not the longest or slowest she’d ever known, but long and slow enough, her head bounced against the back of their beaten-up old Chesterfield. Ana loved fucking him; he was gentle and kind, not a wild animal, but the sex was good. Not the best, but good. Yes, good enough. Better than most. Better, certainly, than most of her happily settled friends, she suspected, but not the best, no. The best was gone. Long gone. And Rex was the right decision. He was. It was not a decision lightly made. It was not a decision made without robust analysis, protracted discussions with the girls. It was not a decision made without a spreadsheet.

Rex grabbed her by the hair as his pace quickened, pressing himself harder against her. He was quickening and she touched herself so they would come together. Perhaps this time she’d barely need it. Perhaps, she thought, the decision to use sex for procreation could improve the sex itself. Now that would be an interesting finding. There was no column on her spreadsheet for that life hack.

‘Yes,’ he groaned, ‘now, come, baby, please,’ and they both let out a cry of pleasure as he came, his body jerking on top of her. He rolled off her, panting, his dark hair damp, and his shirt crumpled. She looked at him, thinking to herself that for a 45-year-old guy, he really wasn’t in bad shape – and the just-been-fucked look seemed to suit him. He was pretty scruffy anyway, with his unshaven face and unkempt hair, so this just seemed to complement his look. So far he’d avoided the middle-aged paunch and she hadn’t found any grey hairs, yet.

‘Now, anything else I need to do before I go to work,’ he said roguishly, smiling at her. ‘Just because I’m the boss, doesn’t mean I can be hours late every day!’ He jumped up, rearranged himself, leaned over to give her a kiss, and whispered in her ear, ‘Now sleepy angel, don’t you need to get that pert little ass to work as well?’

‘Actually I have an appointment with the gynaecologist this morning.’

‘Another?’

‘I just want to check everything’s in order. Nothing specific. Just a check-up. I’m nearly 40. I need to know the plumbing all works.’

‘There’s nothing I need to know?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘I’m sure everything is fine. How could it not be?’ He leaned down and kissed the dark triangle of hair. ‘A little extra kiss to send you on your way, and to make sure I don’t forget to think about you all day…’

‘You’re gross, go on, away with you,’ she shouted after him.

She lay there in the middle of their flat, still naked, as the first warm sun of spring moved across her. Rex was amazing, she knew that; she was lucky. He wasn’t a rock star, or even a country star, no, but she knew he would be a great dad and he would always be there for her – he was kind, caring and steady. Twenty years ago those words would have filled her with dread, but she’d grown up. Now he was what she needed. The time for – what was it Dixie called them – the time for ‘wild-cards’ was over. Her life had been simply mapped onto the decades. Teen: discover sex, excel. Twenties: ‘wild-card’ sex, transcend. Thirties, baby daddy sex, effortless. Forties: parental/missionary sex, functional and recreational. Ana was never going to get married. That was a decision she’d made long ago. If you never got married, you could never regret getting married. OK, so her life with Rex wasn’t the most exciting, but they had fun, they laughed, and as far as the happily-ever-after went, this wasn’t the worst outcome. The spreadsheet didn’t lie. And as long as they kept having sex, everything would be OK. Sex made everything OK.

Chapter Three

Dixie

Dixie’s Tinder life needed a spring-clean. She’d recently reset her age – again. She knew there was a limit to the number of times social media platforms permitted age changes, but she was going to be in Manhattan for a few days so, why not get some new selfies in the BA lounge then she could retouch them, add a bit here, lose a bit there… She could reinvent herself for a few days of fantasy fucking between the meetings and parties. Pouting into her phone as she primped her curly red hair, she congratulated herself on the Rimmel Radioactive Red lip gloss, and the mahogany tint she’d washed through her hair before last night’s party. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a magical light. She was, she thought, zooming in on an image, looking astounding, especially given the carnage of the night before. What was that guy’s name? Something to do with cars? Lancia? Lance! 0–60 in 4.6 but he’ll never get you to your destination. Dixie’s ex-husband, Carlton, had driven a Lancia. Enough said. Aunt Pearl had told her the marriage would never work, but being Dixie she didn’t listen. Being orphaned at a young age and brought up by your great aunt had its advantages, but Pearl had never managed to keep Dixie on the straight and narrow.

‘Would you like me to take a picture for you?’ came a low husky voice from behind her, shaking her out of her reverie.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘are you talking to me?’

‘Yes,’ said the warm voice, resonating like a cello. Dixie turned and was taken aback to see a tall, slim, dark-haired man with lively blue eyes and half a smile. ‘I wondered if you would like me to take a photo of you so you can maybe get a better angle. Did you want the Dreamliner in the background?’

Fuck, he’s hot, thought Dixie. A wedding ring, yes, but still, he was hot. But that could be good, couldn’t it? No crying when she didn’t want to see him again.

‘Dreamliner? So that’s what they call it. Good plane knowledge,’ she smirked, wondering if he was some kind of weird plane nerd. ‘Yes, a photo would be great, thank you.’

To her surprise he knew exactly what he was doing – held the phone high to get the right angle (makes you look thinner) and took about five pictures in quick succession so she could choose the best one. He must have a demanding wife, she thought.

‘Quite the expert,’ said Dixie, holding her hand out and flashing her green eyes. ‘I am Dixie, and you are?’

‘Freddie, nice to meet you. And where might you be headed? Off to meet your boyfriend?’

She hadn’t clocked him checking her ring finger. Player, she decided. Why not? she thought.

‘Oh, New York, just a few meetings. Nothing special. And you?’

She allowed her gaze to linger on his wedding band, seeing how he’d react.

‘Looks like I am heading east with you – we have offices in London so I regularly fly out. I love London, but I chose New York. London’s all water, and Manhattan, electricity.’

‘I totally know what you mean, there is something so energising about the place. Not to mention the awesome shopping!’ she said, but then checked herself, worried she was sounding far too enthusiastic. Let him do the work, she thought. ‘Anyway, it’s been nice to meet you, Freddie, and I hope you have a successful trip… and thank you for the photo – maybe see you on the other side.’ With that, she strode away, knowing damn well his eyes were following her decisive exit. Always quit while you are ahead, that was her motto. Leave them wanting more. Besides, her nose was running and tender, and elsewhere there was something leaking. She needed a restroom.

As the staff at the gate scanned her boarding pass, she heard the little beep and saw the red light that she longed for and, abracadabra, she was upgraded to business. So far, so good, she thought to herself – a hot man and an upgrade. Not bad for a glorified PA. She had worked for Peter Pomerov for nearly fifteen years. He had a Russian name, but a background as English as most Tory prime ministers: Eton, Oxford, The Bar. He trusted her like a wife – actually more. She did everything for him, arranging his travel, flying around the world managing his properties, and in return he had a way of orchestrating things like upgrades. They adored each other, and the truth was she would have done anything for him. He ran a family office, the complete history of which she remained unaware. He had his finger in multiple pies (but never hers!), and she was aware of how lucky she was to have landed such a great job with such a kind, tolerant and honest man. It was supposed to be a stopgap when she’d needed work while the divorce came through. She’d always dreamed of being an illustrator – she’d even started a children’s book fifteen years before – of using her brain and her artistic skills, but she couldn’t see an achievable career path, and with her messy divorce dragging on, she’d needed something simple and well paid. She’d been offered internships, but the money was virtually non-existent, and pretty soon the draw of mingling with men with money and power was something she took for granted, and she was unable to walk away. She needed money and men like she needed food and water. She was just increasingly happier with more money and many men. Like her ideal career path, the path to settled domesticity and monogamy was a road she couldn’t imagine travelling.

Having settled into her seat, unfortunately one of the central, side-by-side seats, she nearly choked on her champagne when someone collapsed into the aisle seat beside her and she turned and found herself looking into Freddie’s big blues. Next to her, but facing her, with a screen she could put up as soon as they were in the air; or, she thought, she could spend the next hours drinking and seeing how hard he’d try to seduce her, while she decided whether she wanted to fuck him. The latter was definitely more interesting, but she’d made herself a promise she would use the flight to work on illustrations for the long-unfinished book, and there were those selfies to photoshop. But they could wait… there was always tomorrow, and besides, she might not need Tinder, at least for a while. She watched him unpack his pyjamas and organise his personal space.

When finished he sat back and smiled at her. ‘Well, well, this has just made the flight a little bit more interesting. Cheers,’ he said, holding aloft his champagne.

‘I guess it has. Cheers,’ she toasted back, then, theatrically, tied her flaming red hair messily on top of her head, intentionally letting a few bits escape around her face. She smiled, watching him watch her.

It always occurred to Dixie how awkward these seats were, that you found yourself basically in bed, for six hours, with a person you had never met before. She’d had shorter relationships. Turn the wrong way and your arse would touch their leg, or you could fall asleep and snore with your mouth wide open. It was all so invasive of personal space. A sweating, overweight businessman was settling in right next to her in the other central seat. Thank god for the serendipitous delivery of an ageing Rob Lowe.

‘Can I offer you some champagne?’ the stewardess asked Freddie.

‘Yes please,’ he replied, ‘and I think my friend will need a refill before long. Keep it coming.’

Champagne in hand, Dixie decided things were looking up. This guy had all the moves, she thought, and I’ve got a few myself, checking the location of the nearest toilet.

‘So what is it you do then Freddie, or shall I guess…? I think you look like you wish you were in a creative industry, but that somehow passed you by, and you ended up enjoying the financial rewards of a more stable career… and now you are a lawyer, yes, an M&A lawyer… Making the world a better place, one merger at a time… how right am I?’

Freddie was laughing, his eyes glistening. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘quite the Mystic Meg, but no, I am sorry to tell you, I am a scientist, of sorts: gene therapy. We research degenerative conditions. I love what I do… although I appreciate it sounds very boring to someone like you.’

‘You are so wrong,’ spluttered Dixie. ‘I’m just a humble PA. It is so refreshing to meet someone with a brain, someone who loves what they do. Believe me, I have met enough lawyers to last me a lifetime, so someone who is actually helping people is inspiring. Unless, of course, the whole thing is just made up to try and impress me…’

‘Well, for now, that is for me to know, and you to find out,’ he said.

Dixie was starting to like this Freddie’s game. Maybe pulling on an aeroplane was a better way than Tinder to find her next hook-up.

When Dixie woke with a start, she was shocked to find them landing in JFK. She was sitting upright. She’d never even made the bed! She prayed to all the gods of personal hygiene that she hadn’t dribbled. Her hair was still piled on top of her head, just. Had she been snoring? Her sinuses were stinging and congested. Her tongue dry and hard like a cat’s. She’d had too much champagne.

Freddie was sitting there staring at her, grinning.

Must get my crap together, she thought.

She remembered laughing a lot. And the purser asking them to keep it down. Then it all became a bit of a blur and she hoped she’d just dozed off.

‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ he said, a little too affectionately.

‘Must have… d-dozed off,’ she stammered. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, always good to power nap and, you know, err, hit the ground running!’

‘Let’s blame the bubbles… Mind you, I will share a bottle with you anytime if you make more promises like last night… Though passing out mid-sentence – my sentence at that – is a new one.’

She felt herself turn crimson. Her embarrassment made worse by the fear she looked like a red-haired beetroot daubed in Radioactive Red lip gloss and smeared in smudge-proof Maybelline mascara. She pulled down her hair and shook it out to hide her face, before quickly tidying around her eyes and lips while she wondered what the hell had gone on.

‘Freddie, I assume you are teasing me. I am far too well behaved to make reckless promises while under the influence,’ she said, anxiously scrabbling in her bag for a Polo to lubricate her tongue and mask her booze breath.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I was rather looking forward to tonight. It all sounds quite racy. I assume you are a woman of your word?’

‘Absolutely,’ she laughed, thinking that this was definitely getting out of hand. What was she capable of promising while drunk to the point of blackout on a transatlantic flight? The only consolation was that she’d been trading promises, not favours. She glanced anxiously at the toilets. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d found herself in there.

God, why did she always do this? What was wrong with her! Still, the girls would love the story. So Dixie! they’d hoot. A handsome, married man, a bottle of champagne and six hours in a bed. What did they expect!

By now the jetty was attached and they were preparing to deplane.

‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Freddie.’

‘You too, Dixie Dressler.’

God, she’d told him her real name! What else had they discussed?

‘I’ll see you later then?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she smiled, styling it out, knowing she was on the point of escape. ‘Don’t be late!’

‘Seven at your hotel bar should be fine. I’ll text you if it changes,’ he said, waggling his phone.

‘Great. Listen, I must run.’

‘You don’t want to share my car service?’

‘No need.’

They kissed. His hand on her lower back, pulling her against him.

‘Laters, lover boy!’

As she strode into the terminal, she chastised herself. What was the point of having all these adventures if she couldn’t remember the detail? There was a flash of regret that she hadn’t had time to refresh her Tinder profile. Having botched face-to-face flirtation, she was going to have to rely on her well-used Tinder profile to keep her trip interesting.

Chapter Four

Stella

Rory was sitting upright in the Victorian bath, naked. She’d removed his clothes, showered and dried him and left him sitting there. It was literally the only safe space in the house. He could neither escape nor cause havoc. But he was not happy and he scowled as he watched her wet-wipe her face, arms and most of the brown graffiti from the front of her Pineapple sweatshirt. (Olivia was not the only victim of his chocolatey two-year-old wandering hands.) She tried to make her hair behave, primped, flatten, teased, but the humidity and infrequency of conditioning limited her ability to control it.

Her phone rang – Number Withheld – but she knew who it was.

‘God damn you people, can’t you leave a message?’

Leaning closer to the mirror, she plucked a single black hair that persistently re-appeared on her cheek. It was thicker than any hair she’d ever seen and reappeared overnight every two weeks. She was certain that each time it surfaced, it was a little stiffer, a little broader. Like her. It used to be funny, but Jake didn’t laugh much any more. Neither of them did. A ping from her phone told her there was another voicemail. How could this Barclaycard problem be connected to Jake’s extended absences, sullenness and quick temper? Or his unwillingness to discuss a vacation and his insistence that she didn’t need a nanny anymore? He was a partner in a law firm, not a very big one, but a partner, and their mortgage was big, but not unmanageable. She wanted a nanny. A nanny like Coco, who could mesmerise her volatile little terror, who had hair that shone like a gemstone, and skin that smelled of the tropics. A nanny who could fold herself in half without slipping a disc. She deserved it, didn’t she?

‘Do I?’ she asked the mirror. ‘Am I worth it?’

She doubted herself.

The phone rang again.

‘What?’ she spat. It was Jake.

‘Love you too, babe.’

‘Sorry. I’m having an existential crisis. Listen, Barclaycard keep calling. Do you know—’

‘Barclaycard. Oh that. Yes, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’

‘Good, but I can—’

‘Don’t… I’ll call them, OK? But, yes, the reason I called. New client. Late night. Etc etc. I’m sorry, babe. Not my call. Got it?’

‘You utter shit. Again? Didn’t we agree to have Jenny and Tim around for a drink? Actually, not we, didn’t you? When you spent the whole of Sunday afternoon cleaning the useless motorbike you never ride?’

‘I know. I’m sorry. There’s how I wish things were and how they are, and I have to be here. I’ll make it up to you. We can watch The X Factor together on Friday night. The whole show. Without interruption, mockery or general disparagement.’

‘Not possible. You hate The X Factor.’

‘I promise. Not a bad word. Concentrated silence and focused attention.’

‘You’ll control the kids?’

‘I’ll even control the kids.’

‘OK. But I might cancel Jenny and Tim. They’re our neighbours not our friends. I’ve enough friends.’ Stuck into the side of the mirror she had a framed photo of Dixie and Ana posing ridiculously as if applying make-up. Now that had been a fun night. ‘I don’t want any more, especially hangers-on. All that Jenny wants to do is social climb. She’s convinced I’m some kind of conduit to celebrities. I was a fashion journalist, not a society hostess. I was—’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be home late. And I’ll call Barclaycard. I’ll deal with it.’ And he was gone.

A spiralling conviction grew within her that something wasn’t right. Jake hated The X Factor. He hated all reality TV. He called it a virus. Whatever she tried to watch, he wrecked with smart-arse comments and satirical impersonations. It was impossible to enjoy TV with him around. She regretted being bought off with the offer to share something Jake could only destroy. Marriage was a mystery, she thought. You fall in love with someone for all their differences and then you come to despise those same idiosyncrasies. It was a freaking paradox.

She was worried. The Barclaycard was the housekeeping card, with which they collected points towards a holiday whose date still remained unfixed. The balance was paid off in full from the joint account. It must be a mistake, she thought. Jake’s salary went into the joint account. The mortgage payments came out of the joint account. There was plenty of money in the joint account. Of course there was. Jake would deal with it. She deleted the voicemail without listening to it.

Rory was staring at her from the bottom of the empty bath, soundless, and wearing a worried frown.

‘Oh baby, don’t stress. The world is full of automated fools. Daddy will sort it out.’

There was a pop like something had burst and then Rory’s mouth opened and she saw the trail of chocolate poo streaming between his chubby legs. He let out of howl of protest.

Half an hour later, she’d been forced to replace the irredeemably soiled Pineapple Studios sweatshirt with a totally inappropriate, but fortunately, clean blouse from Stella McCartney. It was a few years old and the pussy bow gave it a retro Charlie’s Angels look. It had once been her go-to work/drinks blouse. It had witnessed many forgotten but unforgettable Friday nights in Soho House. Back then she’d been flexing the magazine’s Gold Amex card and thought she ruled the world. The short-sighted arrogance of youth. She sighed. She missed the Nineties. She missed Friday nights.

She was determined not to be late to pick up Tom from school. The headmistress was losing her patience. That hideously judgemental look, the long nose, the glasses on a chain.

The truth was that since Jake had insisted she cut back on the nanny, Betty, a Belgian student built like a rugby player, whose mere physical presence induced in both Rory and Tom a kind of hypnotised lethargy that made them completely biddable, Stella had been struggling. It was not that she couldn’t get through the thousand and one tediously repetitive tasks, it was that they bored her into a kind of imbecilic incompetence. Every single mind-destroying chore served only to remind Stella of the woman she used to be: feared and respected for her concise insight and forensic ability to deconstruct fashion and outline trends, she was now wearing fashion from ten years ago (high fashion, but still) while serving as a scullery-maid-cum-Uber-driver to two ungrateful savages and an absent husband.

Applying a fresh coat of gloss to her chapped lips and reassessing her decaying epidermis – just in case she was forced to confront Olivia or one of her army of clones, or, heaven forbid, one of those hot single dads who sometimes appeared awkwardly trying to pick out their progeny from the streaming mass of uniformed delinquents who attended the local pre-school – she was reminded of her rash statement to Olivia that she was considering a return to work. It had of course been on her mind for months. She tried to ignore it because Rory was still young enough that his mother should be around. It would be too easy for the sneering Olivia and her frenemies to blame his behavioural difficulties on an awol mother, but he was two now and there was a vague and uncomfortable thought at the back of her mind that they might be better off with Bulky Betty or the mesmerising Coco even. They’d be clean. They’d be on time to arrive at and leave school.

She was a good mother. She knew that because she loved her children, but maybe someone else could be a better waitress and Uber driver. These were not her skills. She was a professional, a journalist, an acerbic and admired judge and commentator in a fast-moving industry. When she thought of Coco, she couldn’t help recall that smell, my god, it was angelic, and those arms. Perhaps, she thought, Coco might be at the school gates – one of the Van Nesses’ smug little prigs was in Tom’s class. Perhaps she could ask if she’d be able to help out? Rory was obviously smitten, which could only ease the transition. Everyone’s lives would be improved, she thought, as she bundled Rory into his pyjamas for the school run, if she got back to what she was good at, and left parenting to those with the skill set. Jake could hardly object if that was how she chose to spend her money. She pinioned Rory into his car seat, and emerged to a spring afternoon lit up by the sun and felt happier than she had for weeks.

Chapter Five

Ana

When the morning sun broke through the curtains at her bedroom window, Ana pulled herself together, gave her fanny a quick rinse, ran a hairdryer through her long brown hair, and pulled on her skinny jeans. It was Tuesday – a blue day – so with her beloved baby blue sweatshirt and her electric blue Stan Smith trainers, she felt armoured for the day ahead. Tuesdays were tricky – she was never sure how well blue went with her South American skin tone. She grabbed her bashed-up old canvas bag (blue, obvs) and dashed out of the door, being careful not to scrape against the gorgeous new orange and yellow retro wallpaper she had just put in the hallway. The flat may be tiny, but it was theirs, and she was thrilled with all the little improvements they were making. They were building something. Her favourite bit was their little terrace that overlooked the park opposite – it gave her the illusion of space, and she loved to sit there alone and people-watch for hours.

Ana bundled herself onto the overcrowded bus, nipped past some people arguing over a payment issue and stole the last seat on the top deck. London was still magical to her. Every morning for fifteen years she’d done this commute, watching the hustle and bustle below, drinking in the energy of it all whilst sipping the coffee she picked up from the local barista who always greeted her with a smile and her order, the same every day: Skinny Mocha Latte, half the milk, add a sweetener. The routine was comforting and even though she had worked in the West End forever, it still gave her a happy buzz. Even amongst the swirling chaos she could keep a stable centre. The bus jerked to a stop, jolting her out of her reverie and, barging through everyone, apologising as she went, she leaped off. She grinned to herself thinking she wouldn’t be able to do that when she was pregnant!

Ana entered the stark, minimalist surgery and looked around at all the women waiting patiently for their turn, hoping their dreams would come true, and she felt her heart sink. It was such a strange place, very modern with no personality and just a few copies of Country Life magazine lying around to distract them from the horror of the news they might receive. She twirled her turquoise pendant for reassurance. No one made eye contact, any conversation was hushed and the air was heavy with expectation. Everyone was here because they wanted a baby. It felt quite similar to going to an STD clinic where people either buried their faces in their phones or wore sunglasses trying not to be spotted. It smelled the same: stale air and disinfectant. Every woman had her own story. Ana had certainly had her fair share, though as a (mostly) serial monogamist, she’d had less call for their services than Dixie, who probably had a weekly appointment somewhere exclusive.

She looked around and felt sorry for them. She was different. She wasn’t desperate for a baby like these women were, she was just trying it as a punt. It wasn’t a make or break scenario for her, it was more like an experiment. She didn’t want to miss out, if she could help it. Everyone (mostly Stella, to be fair) told Ana how hard it was having a baby anyway, how exhausting it was, the sleepless nights, the loss of identity. Maybe they were right, thought Ana. Then on the flip side, maybe not having a baby was even harder. When you are one of the people without a child, you are judged, unintentionally left out, and scrutinised. As your friends move on with their lives and their children, you are left trying to forge a new life for yourself, not one ruled by mealtimes and kids’ clubs, but one simply ruled by shaping your own future. Of course the freedom of this is so liberating, but it doesn’t necessarily make it easy. But then no one is ever really content. Stella, with two children and a husband with a large income, was obviously miserable. So what does actually make people happy? she wondered, and then she felt herself start to panic with fear that she might never find the happy ever after. A cold sweat started to form on her brow as her pulse quickened.

Then she heard her name being called. She stood up, swallowed hard and strode into the doctor’s office. There was no turning back. She was dreading the questions.

An hour or so later Ana finally arrived at the office. She looked up with a smile at the big old Georgian building that had become like a second home to her. The auction house had been there for over a hundred years. The beautiful dark walls, high ceilings and intricate woodwork – the whole place was steeped in history and Ana couldn’t imagine ever leaving it. She found it utterly captivating, and she never tired of the art that surrounded her day after day. As Exhibition Manager, she was responsible for the optimal arrangement and co-ordination of all the London exhibits. It was basically interior design using works of art. Talk about a dream job.

As she walked into the foyer, she saw Jan at her old oak desk, gave her a smile, a coffee and a doughnut. She had decided to try to avoid telling anyone at work what she was up to. It would just be an added pressure that she didn’t need right now. She knew how tricky she could be and how annoyed she would get with people’s sympathetic stares and questions; she was a very private person, and she really didn’t like people knowing her business. The only person she did confide in was Jan, who missed nothing and was a fount of insights. They would sit and gossip about the hot art dealers, their sexy young secretaries, and who might be the highest bidder at each auction. What no one knew was that Jan’s knowledge of art after being at the auction house for over twenty-five years probably far exceeded some of the experts’. She knew every work of art that came in and out of the doors, and she could spot a fake a mile off.

‘Hello, beautiful Ana,’ said Jan without looking up, her bi-focals perched gently on her nose. ‘Got some good gossip for me?’

‘How did you know it was me?’ replied Ana, smiling.

‘Oh, I would recognise the squeak of those trainers a mile off. What’s up with you, honey?’ she asked as she looked up and gave her fond smile.

‘That’s what I love about you, Jan, you are practically a spy in your own right!’

‘So what brings you in so late today? Anything interesting?’

‘I wish!’ said Ana. ‘Although if I sit here long enough I am sure someone interesting will come through those revolving doors. You have the best seat in the house.’

‘That’s why I won’t let them promote me – I know more secrets about this place than anyone. They’ll have to prise me out one day… What’s up? I can see it in your face. Come on, I’m all ears. You’re not the kind of girl to buy me a doughnut and my favourite coffee without a damn good reason.’

‘I’m trying to have a baby,’ blurted Ana, mortified by the admission, and recalling that Jan was childless and that she’d never asked why.

‘Oh, Ana, that’s wonderful news,’ said Jan, her eyes slightly welling up. ‘What a relief! I thought those ovaries would dry up and you would miss your chance!’

‘Um, thanks, Jan. I think. Anyway, long story short, it’s not working. I thought we would have lots of great sex, I would just get pregnant, it would all work naturally, and I would be pushing a Bugaboo about within months. Now that’s not happening, I am starting to question everything. The gynaecologist was… confusing. I don’t know if this is how things are supposed to go. Is it me? Is Rex the right man? Do we deserve a baby?’

‘Do you love Rex, honey?’ asked Jan, staring at her over the top of her glasses.

‘Yes, of course, I mean—’ said Ana, slightly blushing. ‘Yes, I love him. Well, I think I love him anyway, in a isn’t-he-nice, aren’t-I-lucky kind of way. Which is fine, right? I mean how do you know if you ever really love someone? I would need Brad Pitt to walk in and offer to marry me to know if I really loved him!’

‘Oh honey, when you know, you know. You know, right? Listen, life is full of decisions and surprises. You want a baby, and let’s face it you’re no spring chicken, so maybe you just need to carry on with Rex. See what happens. Nature has a deciding vote. Try and have a baby, tick that off the list, and then see how you feel afterwards. Or if that sounds too dull, walk out of here and book yourself a ticket to Hollywood, knock on Brad’s door and see what happens. Let me know if you do the second option as I have always fancied a bit of Thelma and Louise so I might just come with you!’

They both collapsed into giggles, and then Ana said, ‘If only it were that simple, Jan!’

‘It is,’ said Jan. ‘Believe me, life’s only as complicated as you make it. I learned that a long time ago.’

There was a hint of sadness to Jan’s voice. Maybe Jan was right, maybe she was just overthinking everything. It was hardly like her life was bad, it was just changing. It dawned on her that she really didn’t like change all that much, and that was a fundamental problem.

‘Thanks, Jan – I had better get upstairs. I’ll get in trouble if I’m spotted here loitering with you again. They’ll think I don’t like my real job!’

‘Keep me updated, Ana, I worry about you and I like to know what’s going on.’

As Ana made her way down the long corridor to the elevator, she paused to stare at Rembrandt’s Danae that was waiting to go up for auction. She thought briefly that if she was a superstar’s wife, she might be able to start her own collection of incredible art. Imagining that, she felt much better about her life.

Chapter Six

Dixie

Dixie’s day passed quickly enough as she completed a tour of Peter’s New York properties and made sure the building managers were happy. Peter left her an envelope of cash to deal with any incidentals or issues and she enjoyed distributing his largesse. Her mind kept returning to Freddie and with every recurrence she felt a lurch of anxiety or excitement; whichever, it disturbed her. She was relieved that he hadn’t given her his number because she might have texted him and that was not her style. She was obliged to attend a cocktail party on Peter’s behalf, somewhere up near Trump Tower. She checked her phone. It would be nice to go with someone interesting. Oligarchs often have quite insistent friends. Grabbing a quick snack at the counter in Sushi Samba, and admiring the easy elegance of the Latino hostess, her phone pinged. ‘I’ll be at your hotel at 7 p.m. Try not to be too fashionably late. Fx’ Fuck, she had given him her number, but the butterflies told her that she was delighted she had, but what else had she told him?

She waited in her room until well after 7 p.m., sitting on her bed in her favourite black jeans and a low-cut emerald green top with slashed back, which revealed just enough to make people stare, but not enough to look like a street walker. She topped her outfit off with a pair of killer leopard print heels. Checking her hair again in the mirror, she knew that she looked hot. She was hot, she told herself, if red was your thing, that is. Before leaving she made sure everything looked acceptable if anyone was to come back with her, and strutted down to the bar. As she walked in and saw Freddie standing at the crowded bar, staring at her, she felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and wondered if she’d made too much effort. He was as handsome as she remembered him from her hazy aeroplane fog, and with his faded jeans and crisp white shirt, he looked the full package. His blue eyes danced kindly in the soft light, and his brown hair fell haphazardly around his face, helping to frame his razor-sharp jawline.

The bar was buzzing, and Freddie was on his first martini.

‘Good evening,’ he smiled as she approached. ‘I wondered if I would be drinking alone tonight, whether you were too good to be true. But here you are, a vision in green, and what’s more, awake, and fashionable, and late. There will be consequences.’

‘Good things are worth waiting for, aren’t they? Glad to see you made it yourself.’

‘What are you drinking? More champagne or something harder now it’s past seven?’

‘Vodka tonic for me please,’ she replied, as she perched on a bar stool. She loved America, loved the vibe of it, the friendliness, and was always excited to be back. It had such a different atmosphere to London, which she often found a little oppressive and unfriendly. London’s bars couldn’t compete with Manhattan’s. She often thought if she could find a way to move to the States and make her life work there, she would.

‘So here we are,’ said Freddie smiling. ‘Just you and me, and to think we only met about twenty-four hours ago on another continent. I think it’s time to get to know you. Let’s see, if you could be or do anything in the world, what would it be?’

She looked around. ‘If I could do anything, I would move to America. If I could be anything, I would be an illustrator. I would live on the East Coast and draw illustrations for children’s books.’

‘Children’s books? Now that surprises me,’ remarked Freddie. ‘Everything you do seems so 18 Cert. I really can’t imagine you sketching a picture of a happy toad trying to cross a road to get to a lost duckling on the other side.’

‘I like to be surprised, don’t you? Is the ugly duckling a story you know well?’ Dixie laughed.

‘No, but doesn’t every kids’ story have a duckling in it?’

‘Not all of them, Freddie, no, but maybe I should try adding a duckling to see if it helps. Isn’t the point that the duckling isn’t a duckling?’

‘See, I have helped you already. It’s the start of something beautiful,’ he said as he reached across her to grab an olive, his arm stroking her breast. His wedding ring glinted and the contact brought home to Dixie what she was doing there. She didn’t want to start messing with someone’s marriage. A drunken one-night-stand with a married man was one thing, but a proper date with cross-examination was another thing. She had no idea of Freddie’s intentions, but he was flirting, rather effectively. Maybe he was just a player who was looking for something exotic.

‘Is your wife at home?’ Dixie asked, surprising herself. Her question was followed by an uncomfortable silence and she watched as Freddie’s eyes closed. She could see them searching for something behind the closed lids. Without opening them he spoke.

‘I, err, lost my wife three years ago.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Illness. It’s been a tough time, but it’s beginning to get easier.’

‘Oh god, Freddie, I am so sorry, I had no idea.’

‘Why should you? It’s OK. It’s best just to get it out in the open anyway, otherwise I tend to find it can kind of ruin a night out. Anyway, that is all incredibly depressing. I thought you were taking me to a party!’

‘Oh good god, I am! I’d almost forgotten about that. I think we’ll need a couple of shots first to get us in the mood. Are you ready? Are you sure you want to? Russian emigrés live unusual lives. There will be Jeroboams of Krug champagne, vodka on ice and only just more prostitutes than plastic surgeons working the room.’

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

Two Bison Grass vodka shots later and they were both more relaxed about what lay ahead. Dixie was concerned she might have bigged the night up a little too much (she couldn’t of course recall what she’d actually told him), but after ambushing him like that, she wanted to make sure he had a damn good night out. The poor man – she couldn’t even begin to understand what he had been through and how he was coping. His loss made a mockery of her first-world concerns about where the next debauched indulgence was coming from and how she looked on Instagram or how many hits she got on Tinder. His evident pain scared her, and excited her. All that and he still managed to be kind and thoughtful, and light up a room with his smile. But she wondered what lay beneath, where all the hurt and worry was buried. No one ever left a tragedy unscathed, and as charming and engaging as he was, Dixie told herself to be careful and keep her distance. He was damaged goods.

The party was, as she suspected, underwhelming with sides of kitsch and cliché, but it was in the most incredible penthouse with insane views over Central Park. But the fact the party was half empty and full of boring old men and slutty-looking hostesses (she fitted right in!) just made the evening funnier. They both laughed and giggled all night long, standing by the caterer’s door stealing the best canapés as they came by and drinking as much booze as they could handle. Their hands met occasionally, a brush, a light touch, but enough for Dixie to feel the electricity between them. The only awkward moment was when she was obliged to introduce Freddie to Evgeny Mobachov and stumbled over the introduction, describing him as her ‘consort’. Where had she even found the word!? Evgeny quickly left them alone with a confused look and encouragement to make the most of all the facilities (whatever that meant!). She was sure that their evening was not quite what Peter had intended for her, but she really didn’t care. She just felt elated and free.

When they finally decided to call it a night, Freddie took her hand and offered to escort her back to SoHo. He stopped the cab a few blocks short, suggesting they walk a while. As they were strolling down Third Avenue, Dixie dreaming about what it would be like if she actually lived there, he suddenly grabbed her and pulled her into a dark side street that looked like something out of a cop show: empty bins rolling on the ground, steam drifting out of vents, and car horns blaring in the background. He slammed her up against the wall and started to kiss her with urgency and longing, searching her, wanting her, and she could feel him hard against her. She let out a moan of pleasure as he stroked her through her jeans. She wanted more but she felt so vulnerable. Nothing good ever happens in a dark alley. It was exciting and terrifying all at once knowing that anyone could be watching. With one deft move he undid her trousers and slipped his hand inside the silk, pressing into her wetness with his fingers. She was moist and ready, and as she reached for him, he pushed her hand away and immobilised her against the wall. As he kissed her, his tongue flicking and exploring hers, as the pressure of his finger grew, she could feel herself about to come. She wanted to resist but knew it was hopeless. She was out of control. He quickened his pace with the heel of his hand on her clit and his fingers deep inside her; she let out an uncontrollable groan as her body jolted against him.

‘So,’ Freddie said, eyes bright with excitement.

‘Where did that come from? I haven’t been finger-banged in the street in over twenty years!’

‘Expect the unexpected, young Dixie… I just wanted to give you something to remember me by. Just in case you were thinking about trying to forget me.’

‘Forget you? Now why would I want to do that,’ she whispered breathlessly as she rearranged herself, tucking her green silk shirt back into her jeans, totally thrown by the whole episode. Freddie, the scientist. Hmm, it seemed there was more to him than she’d first thought. Perhaps she had finally met her match.

He put his arm around her and lit a cigarette as they continued the three-block walk back to SoHo House. It was a cold night, but the sky was clear and even in the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps, there was a calmness between them, a funny familiarity like they had known each other for years, like they were old souls. As they reached the dimly lit lobby of the hotel, Freddie turned to her and kissed her on the lips and whispered in her ear a quiet, seductive ‘goodnight’, nothing more, and then disappeared into the back of a waiting cab before she’d had time to react. Dixie was stunned. She couldn’t believe he had just left, and yet it made her smile. Usually she was the boss, she was the one who pulled the stunts, but not this time. Expect the unexpected? What the hell? It left her wanting more and made her completely intrigued with him. In twenty-four hours her life had been turned upside down by a man with a dead wife. That was certainly not in the game plan. And when was she going to see him again? What was happening to her? Dixie Dressler never worried about the next date, unless it was how to elegantly avoid it!

She couldn’t rest. Her stomach was in knots and she lay on her king-size hotel bed doodling, pondering whether she really did to want to see him again, or whether she just enjoyed being surprised. She ordered herself a big bowl of fries, turned on CNN so she didn’t feel so isolated, and started to draw. Sketching was her escape, her personal form of expression. She often just drew without really even knowing she was doing it. She could draw anything that didn’t require her thought and commitment, but the minute it was her book, she couldn’t deliver. She was terrified of the judgement, of not being good enough. Coming around, she was surprised to see that she had drawn an illustration of Freddie. She had caught that wicked glint in his eye, that slightly foppish hair, the long searching fingers, and as she stared down at the picture and into his eyes, she knew she was feeling things that she really wasn’t very used to. She felt a little nauseous, like vertigo. Eventually she dozed off to sleep, wondering as she did where Freddie was now, and if he was wishing he was in her bed as much as she was.

Dixie was woken early by the traffic in the street below. Brakes screeching and horns competing through the double glazing. It was 9 a.m. The night’s exertions had overcome any jet lag. She jumped in the shower, chose a killer pencil skirt and clingy cashmere jumper, and headed downstairs to grab a cab. Heading down in the lift, she noted that she’d checked neither Instagram nor Tinder. She was irritated that there was nothing from Freddie, but then the receptionist handed her a piece of paper.

‘A gentleman left this for you early this morning.’

‘Thank you,’ Dixie stuttered, taking it nonchalantly while bursting inside.

It was a leaflet for an exhibition by an artist that she must have mentioned, and it was on only a few blocks from her hotel. On it he had written, ‘I thought you might enjoy this. Sorry I can’t join you, but maybe see you on the other side of the pond. Fx’

Initially she was disappointed she wasn’t going to be seeing him again in NY. But this was such a kind thought. Handsome and caring?! Too good to be true. That’s just the way the world works. Waiting while the doorman hailed her a cab, she posted a photo of the hotel frontage with a comment: Always expect the unexpected. Out of habit, or perhaps to try to distract her mixed emotions, she flicked through Tinder, swiping right on a few possibilities. None, she was irritated to note, anywhere near as hot or mysterious as Freddie. But she knew a smart girl always keeps her options open. No good ever came of getting too attached, too soon. Never.

Chapter Seven

Stella

Friday was another grey rainy day in London as Stella bundled herself and Rory up to head out to the bleak concrete playground – again. Tom was at school meaning there were no arguments and no choices. She couldn’t understand what Rory saw in the playground, but she was coming to believe his first word would be ‘swing’ and he was destined to be a pilot or maybe a paratrooper. He was absolutely fearless when it came to heights and seemed to have no attachment needs at all. He would just wobble off without looking back and if Stella didn’t pay constant attention, he would disappear over the horizon. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just let him go. Would he return in sixteen years, all grown up, a veteran of several wars, a member of the French Foreign Legion, thankful to Stella for her trust in his abilities, or would he be taken in by social services and Stella charged with criminal negligence? Thank god Jake was a lawyer.

Stella was having a tough morning. After a couple of days indulging fantasies of all the roles she might return to, she’d begun to make the first tentative steps towards going back to employment. Still having to hide from Jenny and Tim – she’d cancelled drinks by text, citing a vicious viral infection which had cost her her voice – she’d crept out to the newsagent while Rory was taking his 5–10-second post-lunch nap. To extend her alibi, in case of meeting either one of the couple, she’d donned one of Jake’s Crombie jackets, a thick striped scarf (Jake’s again), sunglasses and a faux fur aviator hat with drooping earpieces. Careful to use her own credit card to avoid further embarrassment or delay, she’d purchased all the fashion and celebrity glossies on offer: Grazia, Hello, Yes, Now!, So and Glamour. For research and to see if the editorial listings included anyone she recognised, anyone who might be a useful lead.

Seven years is a long time in politics, in a marriage, but in fashion journalism, it was an epoch. Where once every name would have been someone familiar, now it was as alien as this year’s X Factor entries.

Three names rang a bell with Stella, and not all of them were good. One she’d fired from Grazia for persistent lateness (industry code for a party girl with a narcotics problem). One she’d offended when she threw her out of her Christmas party, as she’d thrown up into Stella’s vintage Chanel handbag. But I mean, wouldn’t you!?

There was one name that stood out. Lucy ‘Left Eye’ Witherington-Smiley. ‘Left Eye’, obviously, because she’d lost an eye in an unlikely collision during a charity polo match at Cowdray Park. She had many faults, but she was a straight talker and was now editor in chief at Now! and features editor for the Mail on Sunday. She was a formidable woman whom Stella had given a significant leg-up, her first column in Grazia. They’d always got on as long as Stella could keep her gaze fixed on the moving and expressive right eye. The Left Eye was a no-go area.

Stella had fantasies that Left Eye would welcome her back with gratitude, reciprocating Stella’s contribution to her career, that a position would be made available or perhaps offer something freelance until another position opened up. The first inkling of a problem came as she flicked through the pages wearing her editor’s hat (figuratively, as she was still in the faux fur aviator). The nature of fashion had changed. The 18–24, and even the 25–35 age ranges were almost unrecognisable. There were references to brands she’d only vaguely heard of, certainly never worn. There were links and references to bloggers and vloggers and Pinterest and Instagram accounts she’d never encountered. She dismissed these first flutterings of doubt with the idea that once you can ride a bike, you never forget; it’s merely a matter of adapting to new terrain. The second wrinkle appeared when Lucy’s PA twice refused to put Stella through, and insisted, twice, that she spell her surname, in spite of Stella using her most casually presumptive tone to enunciate, ‘Hammer–Son. As in Hammer and Son. No, one word. Hammerson. Yes. Stella. No, Stella. Not Estella. Where am I from? It’s a personal call. She’ll know who I am. No, she might not have my number. Yes, yes, well, actually I’m a former colleague.’

‘From the last fucking decade,’ she spat, flushing hot and sweating. She threw the fur hat ineffectively across the room. She wanted to break something, something glass. The way that girl had spoken to her!

And, no, in spite of the passing of three tedious hours, Lucy had still not returned her call.

As she neared the concrete oblong, the cries, screeches, wails and weeping grew in volume. She was not ready for the shiny mothers fresh from their weekly microdermabrasion, their judging eyes. Seven years ago, before two children, two caesareans, and at least 2,500 chocolate muffins, 5,000 full-fat mochaccinos, equivalent bottles of cheap Rioja and value packs of cheesey puffs, Stella had had a trim(ish) waist, a thigh gap (almost), and fantastic breasts that defied gravity and opened doors (literally and metaphorically). Now she was wrapped up in thick duck down that camouflaged any physical outline. She’d wanted to wear jeans today, but the button wouldn’t close. She blamed the tumble dryer. She was certain there was an issue with the temperature gauge, too many of her clothes were shrinking.

She looked around at the grey rectangular space, chocka with kids, nannies and bug-eyed mothers side-stepping dog crap. She sighed and prepared herself. Stella found any kids that were not her own an irritant, and she loathed the cheery chumminess demanded as they buffeted and bullied her and her child. Snotty little vermin chasing around desperate for space. She remembered swearing that she would never be this woman, stood staring into the distance day after day pushing the swing, willing the hours away. But here she was. Her career vanishing behind her and a husband who was married to the law more than he was to her.

She remembered that she must ask Jake about the bank account. She’d tried to log in to the online joint account and her password had not been recognised.

Besides, she said to herself, did she really want to be a fashion journalist any more? It was so meaningless. What did she really want from her life? Rory was scowling at her until she pushed harder and sent him higher and they laughed together. She so wanted to be able to tell people she was more than a housewife, wanted to escape the side glances and sneers of the lycra-clad women at the school gates. She missed the respect she’d had when she’d been an editor. She’d set the agenda. It might only be in the realm of fashion and celebrity but she made the news, moved trends, mocked the unfortunate and celebrated the best. That was incredibly important to her, to her self-respect, and more than that, to her place in the world, her relationship to Jake. She shook her head, she knew she was whining, hoped it would pass. She pushed Rory hard, maybe too hard, and he flew high up, giggling. He didn’t notice but she scared herself with the force of her action and she pulled a frowning Rory from the seat and deposited him on the ground with a shove towards the merry-go-round.

Dark clouds were blowing in from the west. She was going to get wet later, she thought.

She was snapped out of her melancholy by the distant screams of ‘Mummy!’ And then she found herself running towards Rory who had fallen and was throwing himself around on the ground like he’d been shot. A striking young woman with glossy brown hair and olive skin was comforting him. It was the girl from the supermarket, Coco.

‘Ah, I thought I recognised this little hero. There, there, Rory.’ She leaned down and kissed his grazed knee with her full cherry lips, before facing Stella. ‘All better now.’

Good god, that smile! Stella felt her stomach lurch, like she’d just dropped six feet.

‘Yes, thank you, I must have lost sight of him for a moment, thank you so much,’ said Stella.

‘It’s no problem. He’ll be fine. Perhaps some chocolate, and all will be forgotten.’

‘Ah, the joys of being a toddler! Your tragedies are so easily corrected. Thank you again.’

Coco didn’t leave. She stood there, her Mediterranean beauty out of place in that grey concrete jungle. She giggled and began to play with Rory and her two charges. Her full red lips set off her white teeth, and her bright green eyes glowed as she laughed. Stella just watched in admiration. Coco reminded her of a wild bird, of what it would be like to be free and young. A wave of sadness swept over her as she felt a pang of loss of her own sense of fun and identity.

She turned to Stella and chirped, ‘I see you look as happy to be here today as you do most days. I think this must be your idea of hell.’

‘What, no, no not at all,’ spluttered Stella, oddly thrown by her directness. ‘It’s all a bit monotonous. I just need a pick-me-up, nothing a coffee couldn’t fix. You probably don’t have to come here every day!’

‘You are only truly blessed when you can find the face of God in a square foot of concrete. I see you here nearly every day, but you are often in a dream world so you never see me. Live in the moment, Stella. Don’t let life be something you wish away. But if it’s a coffee that will fix it, let me buy you one,’ Coco said, resting her hand enticingly on Stella’s arm and smiling mischievously, which was fortunate as it almost made up for the sanctimony.

‘Oh, you are very kind, but maybe not today. I haven’t even showered. I look a mess, and I’m probably not very good company. Besides, I am sure it is me who owes you a coffee! Maybe another day.’

‘OK, I understand, maybe tomorrow. We could probably cheer each other up. Come on, kids! Raymondo! Fleur!’ Coco yelled across the playground. ‘Let’s go!’ They ran to her without hesitation. She knelt down and kissed Rory on the top of his head, laid her hand again on Stella’s arm and sashayed away, her pert bottom flicking from side to side as she gave one child a piggyback and chased the other.

Who the hell is that girl, thought Stella. She was certain she’d never seen her there before. She was happy, hot and opinionated, and quite frankly, invasive of personal space. It was so unusual, un-London. Stella liked it. Feeling like she’d missed out on something, she scooped up her now-sulking child and dragged him down to the high street to her favourite coffee shop for a full fat latte and a muffin. Nothing mattered but to fill the void with super-fast carbs. The consequences would come later and she would deal with them then. It wasn’t like Jake was going to notice the increasing rolls of flab around her stomach. They hadn’t had sex in so long she barely remembered what a penis felt like. She could of course go to the gym, she thought, like all those uptight Yummies who turn up every morning in their gym gear, on their way for a coffee (she often wondered if they actually went to the gym or just strutted around in trainers and leggings to make people like her feel crap about themselves), or for a run, which people promised would be a cure for body and soul, but why should she? This muffin made her feel better, right now, and that was all that mattered. Rory didn’t agree. He threw his half-eaten croissant to the floor. His mischievous laugh was infectious and they giggled together.

Chapter Eight

Dixie

It had been five days since Dixie got back from New York. Not a word from Freddie. She was preoccupied with this thought as she fought off the jet lag. The time she generally spent on Tinder was now spent wondering why she’d heard nothing. Not even the courtesy of a text. Christ, he hadn’t even shown enough initiative to find and follow her on Instagram. He was either not playing by the rules or he’d lost interest. At different levels she knew both to be true. Perhaps she should have been more demur about the finger-banging, but what the hell, she’d enjoyed it, and so had he. She reminded herself that she was not some passive doll, that she could write her own rules. Dixie Dressler waits on no man.

She texted, ‘Thanks for the finger-guided tour of the back streets of NY. I know a few alleyways in London I could show you. How about Weds at 8 p.m., Dover Street Wine Bar? Dix x’.

And then she sat and waited.

And waited.

She bit her nails and checked her phone to make sure her text had gone, had been delivered. It had.

And then when she couldn’t bear it any longer, she threw on her trainers and went for a run along the river. She ran like a banshee. She was now furious with herself for sending the text. Her neediness shamed her. He was obviously still so messed up about the death of his wife, he was never going to be available for anything more than side-street shenanigans. She should have known it would never come to anything. Good men didn’t want women like her. Breathing heavily as she climbed the stairs back to her flat, she resolved to put him out of her mind. She had plenty going on. They’d both got what they wanted. A New York dalliance.

Peter kept a small family office off Regent Street. She smiled at the girls on reception as she strode towards the lift. She was wearing her red Alexa Chung heels and they made the most satisfying clack on the marble flooring. She was late, she was busy, and she was feeling much more herself.

One of the girls called her over. She couldn’t remember her name. ‘Dixie, it looks like you have an admirer!’

On the desk was the most enormous bunch of red roses she had ever seen. An envelope contained a simple card, ‘So glad you decided to text. I thought maybe it was game over. Thursday, south-west corner of Red Lion Square, 7.30? Fx’

She actually felt giddy, a torrent of emotions flooded through her. She felt herself blush. She never blushed. She chose to ignore his assumption that Thursday was just as easy for her as Wednesday, but she admired his confidence. Maybe there was something there. Maybe Freddie was someone a bit different. Maybe they could write their own rules.

‘So who is it, Dixie?’ demanded the receptionist. ‘Who is “F”?’

‘How do you know what the card says?!’ asked Dixie.

She shrugged and held up her hands in innocence.

‘You’re outrageous, and it is none of your business,’ she laughed.

As she manoeuvred the bouquet into the lift, she found herself smiling. Unfinished business, you’re right there, she thought, and pinched her legs together. Only forty-eight hours to wait, she thought, and we’ll really start to find out what that devious Freddie is all about.

On Thursday night Dixie left work earlier. She was excited. As she had sat at her desk, she had doodled every possible outfit combination. Sketching her clothing options, picturing things, helped her process her ideas. She had always used her sketching as a way to process her emotions. Her mother had died when she was young, and when her distant cousin, the great Aunt Pearl, had taken her in, her aunt had taught her to use it as a coping mechanism, and she had never looked back. Too slutty, too cool, too smart, too sexy, too Madonna-ish, too Elizabeth I, too Elizabeth II, too Amy Shumer, too fashionista, she’d thought as she ran through all the options. So in the end she settled on one of her favourite mini dresses, tights and some knee-high boots. Sexy, figure-tested combination.

She didn’t want to be the one waiting on the street corner, so she made sure to arrive her standard six minutes late. She saw him there as she approached, not on his phone like most people, but leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the world go by. He was dressed casually in a pair of low-slung jeans and a checked shirt, looking as hot as she had anticipated. Several passing girls gave him a second glance as they went by. Bitches, she thought. He’s mine.

He caught her eye as she approached. ‘Hey, hot stuff,’ he said. ‘You looking for a date?’

‘Did you try that on all those girls?’ she asked, indicating the girls now in the distance.

‘No, just the filthy redheads,’ he whispered in her ear, as he kissed her lightly in greeting. ‘Drink, or food and drink? I’ve booked both.’

‘Duh, food and drink,’ she said.

‘Perfect, a girl after my own heart.’

They set off and she was startled when he took her hand and pulled her into a doorway. He pushed her up against the door and started kissing her, first slowly, then with more passion. Oh god, she thought, not here, not again! Then he just pulled away.

‘Just wanted to break the ice,’ he said. ‘Get us back to where we left off.’

And they set off again. She was left just a little bit behind. She was very flustered. The swelling excitement in her stomach didn’t stop there. She was going to have to be on her game to keep up with this guy, and that wasn’t something she was used to. She was used to having the upper hand, to calling the shots, and she knew that was why this was so interesting. As she walked behind him, she found herself admiring his posture. He was tall and in charge. He also had a very tight ass, she just wanted to—

‘Everything all right, you look… hungry?’

She laughed off her embarrassment.

The restaurant was down some steep little stairs – nothing fancy, very understated and quite dark. There were candles burning on little wooden tables, and for the middle of the city it was very rustic. Like a secret you would only find if someone told you about it.

‘This is my favourite place in London for a steak – please tell me you eat steak. I love a woman who likes meat.’

‘I do eat meat,’ said Dixie. ‘I would have thought that you would have gleaned that…’

‘Well, you’re in the right place then.’

Without another word, he ordered a bottle of house red, two steak frites, rare, and a green salad, if it was included.

‘Quite the control freak,’ said Dixie.

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to get the boring bit out of the way so I could focus on you.’

‘Are you as in control as you appear?’ asked Dixie.

In that moment, she saw a flicker of doubt flash across his face, and he thought for a moment, then spoke slowly. ‘It’s impossible to control everything, but I try to control what I can, yes.’

Dixie was certain this was a reference to his wife. She reached out and took his wrist. The contact thrilled her. She could feel his pulse thumping under the light touch of her fingers. Was it something that a person ever managed to move on from? Would there ever be room for someone else?

‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked.

He looked down, flustered or confused.

‘Your wife?’ she said, instantly regretting bringing her into the room. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not my business and I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I forget for a moment and then…’ He covered her hand with his, sandwiching hers. He looked her in the eye, sadness emanating from his bottomless pools of sexiness. His stare was magnetic. She felt like she had known him forever, like the attraction was stronger than she was, and it terrified her. ‘I’m glad you did. Yes, her absence is always present, you know it’s there, like the moon, even when you can’t see it, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t live my life. What happened was bloody awful. No one’s life should be cut so short, no one should suffer like that, but I was lucky we had the time we did. She wouldn’t want me to become a monk. Even doing what I do, it’s hard to get my head around what we lost. Life is not fair, which is why we’ve got to grab everything good that passes us.’

‘Are you lonely?’ She didn’t know where the question came from.

‘Aren’t you?’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I always take things as they come, just go with whatever is thrown at me. I’ve never lost a man that mattered to me, not even my ex-husband!’

‘Tell me more,’ said Freddie.

‘Well, I got married when I was 23 and divorced when I was 24 to a man I was never in love with. It was a great party though, and I have no regrets.’

He laughed. ‘Well, that’s very honest – and surprising! To be completely honest with you, I used to be scared of everything, terrified, and watching someone you love suffer is the most petrifying thing in the world. But I don’t think I’m scared any more. I have nothing to be scared of. I’ve seen the worst that fate can deal, and I want to see where I end up.’

‘Live every day like it’s your last… but then I can never pay my bills at the end of the month! You know when that pair of D&G pumps are just begging me to buy them, and I think, well, what if this is my last day and I don’t buy them… I would regret it forever! Who wants to die with regrets?’

‘So how do you break that pattern? Will there be a handsome knight to come along and rescue young Dixie from her hedonism?’

‘Sure, there have been a few self-described knights, some handsome, some not, most flattered to deceive, but none of them were riding quite the right horse. Besides, I am a free spirit, I ride my own horse. I make my own way, I may not have climbed every mountain, but I’ve not missed out on much.’

‘Not many people can say that. So tell me, Dixie, what are the constants, what do you do when you are not getting fingered by strangers?’

She blushed again. He was so bloody direct. He held her stare. That was a look she wanted to capture on paper.

‘You know what I do,’ she answered, looking at him coyly. ‘I am a PA, open book, nothing glam.’

‘Oh yes, of course, what about that amazing doodle you did of that fat guy on the plane? Didn’t you talk about a book?’

Shit, she couldn’t recall mentioning her book. It was something so personal, she often kept it to herself. Fuck, she had to cut back on the drinking, she thought, taking a slug of claret to erase her discomfort.

‘I still have the doodle,’ he said. ‘It’s brilliant. I figured if I ever saw you again, it might be a nice memento of our first meeting. So have you found a place for the duckling yet?’

She giggled. ‘I am an illustrator, but an unpublished one, which makes me not an illustrator, just someone who doodles as a pastime.’

‘And your dream,’ he asked. ‘What’s the dream?’

‘To be published, I guess. I’ve been working on a book for a while. I just need to finish the last illustrations and find a publisher. All sounds so simple!’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Oh, you know, very highbrow, Freddie! It’s about a young frog learning to cross the road with his family. He needs to get the height of his leap just right. He watches his friends and their families as they make their first attempts, and struggles to work out the difference between those who make it and those who end up… There are no ducklings in this one, yet!’

Freddie burst out laughing. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘Why a frog?!’

‘Just because I love frogs and the colour green, that’s why. I don’t do complicated.’

‘Is the frog a fallen prince? Will the frog turn out to be a prince or don’t you do happy endings? No pun intended.’

When her eyes eventually left his, they were the last couple in the restaurant and it was well past 11 p.m. A waiter was sweeping between the tables. She was so caught up in the fascination of discovering a new person, gripped by sexual tension, that time had just flown by. Freddie insisted on paying, and as they walked out of the restaurant into the cold windy air, he put his arm around her and said, ‘Yours, mine or a shop doorway?’

‘You tell me,’ she said.

And with that he hailed a cab. ‘Your place. I want to see how you live.’

As they arrived at her little flat, she regretted leaving her sketches lying around the living room and the clothes crisis in her bedroom. She’d been certain that wherever they ended up, it wouldn’t be back at hers. At least she had wine. She always had wine, houmous and pitta bread in the fridge (otherwise it was empty).

She loved her flat. It was a pokey affair in the less desirable part of Chelsea, the other side of World’s End, but it was her safe place. Very few men had been so honoured, and only those acquired in that twilight after her memory had gone before she passed out. It was cozy and quiet and she’d taken years adding knick-knacks and bits-and-pieces from flea markets and boutiques. It was colourful and tiny, and it came with access to a small balcony where she would often go and sit day or night with a glass of wine and perhaps a consoling cigarette. She could sit unseen and watch the world go by.

‘Nice pad,’ said Freddie as he came up behind her, his hands idly wandering up her dress over her bottom.

‘Nice? I don’t do nice. IKEA is nice. This is not IKEA. If that’s what you want, you’re in the wrong place, fella.’

He kissed the back of her neck, while his hands continued their journey until they reached her breasts, where his fingers lingered over her nipples.

‘No. Not nice. Nothing flat-packed here. Everything feels made-to-measure and fit-for-purpose.’

He bit her neck once and backed off suddenly. ‘Some wine maybe?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, out of breath. ‘Sorry, the fridge.’ She was aching with excitement, she was wet, and her clitoris was swelling with anticipation. She worried what the hell would happen when he actually got her clothes off. She grabbed the white wine from the fridge and handed him a glass. He took a sip of the icy cold wine, pulled her towards him and kissed her, flooding her mouth with wine and his tongue, pushing his lean strong body against her. He lifted her onto the kitchen counter and pressed himself between her legs. They kissed and she lost awareness of everything else, enjoying him, nipping, nibbling, tasting; yes, she was hungry. But his hands didn’t move to touch her again. Just his tongue, his lips, the light stubble. And just when she thought she was going to have to beg him to fuck her, he undid his jeans and lifted her up to pull off her tights and now very wet knickers. There was no more foreplay. He just slid easily into her wetness, grabbing her waist for support. He was thicker and longer than she’d expected and the relief of feeling him inside her made her gasp. He was gentle but forceful, starting slowly, then getting faster, taking her with him.

And then he stopped.

He bent down to lick her, gently teasing her now-thick clitoris. She felt the climax coming and she wanted to share – she tried so hard to hold it back, she did, and just as she felt there was nothing more she could do, that she was helpless, he was back inside her, bigger than before, slamming her backwards as they came together. She heard herself cry out, and saw his head thrown back, his body bucking with pleasure. He collapsed with a laugh and kissed her as he retrieved his wine. They fell into a heap on the sofa, tangled up in one another, enjoying the moment of togetherness.

Dixie was surprised when Freddie stood up and straightened his clothes.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Dixie. Till next time.’ He turned to leave.

‘Oh,’ she said, trying hard to hide her disappointment. ‘You’re off? I can’t tempt you to stay?’ She let her legs fall apart.

‘Not this time, but thank you – I have an early start tomorrow, and I’m sure we could both do with a few hours’ sleep.’

‘Will I see you again soon?’ As she asked that, she hated herself, the neediness. She was not that sappy girl, who once fucked needed commitment and reassurance. She wasn’t.

‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ he answered. ‘Sleep well, my little redhead.’ He leaned down and kissed her and he was gone.

Ditched on my own sofa, thought Dixie. His sperm still wet on her thigh. That’s a new one! His glibness made her wonder how many women he’d slept with since his wife had died. Was this how he managed his grief? Using women for distraction? Or was she the first one?

She felt like they had shared so much in one evening. She’d loved every minute. He was different, but something about his need to wrong-foot her, to tease and withdraw, was dangerous, unpredictable. Being prepared for anything meant being prepared for disappointment, she counselled herself. But as she sat there, she found herself doodling a picture of the two of them at dinner, heads almost touching over the candle, like no one else in the world existed.