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A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Pernille Hughes 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Pernille Hughes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008307721
Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008307714
Version: 2019-04-03
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
To the naysayers.
In
Your
Face!
Chapter 1
This was decidedly crap.
Regardless of what the photographer insisted, Jen’s nose was very precise and if it smelt like cow crap, she’d gamble plenty on it being cow crap. He’d said the photo-shoot location wouldn’t be too muddy, hence her now crap-covered and immobile trainers. She evil-eyed his wellies. Git. So much for client-care. Any uncontrolled movement and she’d risk face-planting into the boggy mire he’d insisted was the only position from which to get the angle he needed. Pretentious inflexible git. Ankle-deep in the stink, she was fairly stuck and now Ava, one of her bosses, had turned up, wanting a word. Jen took a quick look at the ListIT app on her beloved iPhone: there were so many shots left to get and the light wouldn’t last much longer. Not that Ava would think or care about that.
Eight white-haired walking-booted men and women stood on the drier ground with their walking poles, looking thoughtfully into the middle-distance as if they were intrepid explorers, not in fact the Westhampton Rambling Society who were being paid with M&S vouchers for a marketing shoot. Ava coughed loudly in an unsubtle chivvy and Jen resigned herself to risking the journey.
It was hard work; a trial of strength, balance and swear words, as more than once she nearly toppled in her expedition to the shiny white Porsche Cayenne. Door open but sitting safely in the car, Ava was keen not to get her white jeans or pristine Hunters besmirched, her huge sunglasses pushed back to harness her long blonde-to-scarlet ombré locks. Ava and her sister-slash-business partner Zara rather fancied themselves as the Olsen twins of the organic sanitary-supplies world.
“Darling, far be it from us to question your choices,” Here we go thought Jen; questioning choices was their modus operandi, “but shouldn’t we be using more … aspirational models.”
“Aspirational? They’re ramblers, Ava, and we’re using them to promote incontinence pads.”
“Yes darling, of course, but they could still be a little more, well, let’s be blunt about it, attractive. Our customers won’t aspire to be them.” Oh Lord. Jen did not have time for this.
“Ava, nobody aspires to wear inco pads, organic or otherwise. The point here is to show ordinary people, so our customers can see incontinence affects normal people, and equally, normal people – not just the posh ones – can wear organic pads. That was the brief you approved, remember? I don’t think people believe celebrities experience incontinence, and we want people to believe our ads. We’re all about the honesty, aren’t we?” Jen ignored the grimace on Ava’s face. She’d seen it so many times she considered it a tic and best not acknowledged. Being marketing manager at Well, Honestly! for seven years had taught her plenty about tact and restraint.
A splat of something hit the inside of the rear passenger window and slid down the glass. A small chubby hand tried to wipe it away, spreading possibly yogurt, further across the pane. Ava’s head ducked towards the interior of the car.
“Are you behaving, Ferdinand? Remember what Mummy said; bad behaviour equals no iPad, no iPhone and no laptop.”
Turning back to Jen, Ava pursed her lips. “We’d best be off. These three are getting excited and Keane needs picking up from his Junior Krav Maga. Then it’s two hours to Glasto. Thank goodness Rupes has gone ahead to sort the yurt.” Jen knew Ava’s husband Rupert always went a day early under the guise of “prep” time, involving several of his mates and various herbal substances. Jen’s sister Lydia had seen it first-hand. Or else he was simply hiding from his four demon spawn. “So, if you’re really sure about the models?”
“I am,” Jen insisted, keen to get back to the shoot and hopefully home to dry socks this side of darkness. Ava still wasn’t looking convinced, but a wail from inside the car distracted her.
“Leave Ferdinand alone, Beckham. He doesn’t want you filming down his pants. Rooney, sweetie, no Lego up nosey.” Turning back to Jen, she started to sit back down in the driving seat. “I’ve left some things on your desk, darling. Just a few bits I didn’t get to finish up. Perhaps you’ll handle them on Monday?” Ava always took the Monday after Glasto off to “reflect”. “Think of the quiet you’ll have, just you and Aiden, with me out and Zara still in the Seychelles. Heaven.” Jen chose not to flag Aiden the Intern’s mouth-breathing was plenty loud enough to be disturbing. She was more dreading what the “few bits” might be. Ava’s ability to deflect work was tantamount to a Teflon coating, and past experience said there’d be far more than a day’s work there. Moreover, Jen had never once been able to pass anything back to Ava on her return. The only upside was she’d know it was done properly and wouldn’t come back to bite her on the bum. It might take longer, but at least she was in control, and as far as Jen was concerned control was the only way to dodge life’s curveballs.
“We’ll be off then, darling,” Ava said, giving the ramblers a last look and slight shake of her head. “Enjoy your weekend.” Slamming the door, she wheel-spun away, leaving Jen mud-sprayed from head to toe and wondering if this was really what she’d studied all those years for.
Having smeared the slurry from her eyes Jen trudged over to the photographer and updated her shot-list with a sigh. She’d be a while yet, but it was almost the weekend and that meant time away from the inco pads and time with her real passion. She could tuck herself away in the safe confines of her outbuilding and concentrate on the thing that brought her joy.
Some women loved to bake, some to knit, Jen Attison loved to brew.
*
The opening expletive caused Jen to spill beer all over her hand. She mumbled one of her own under her breath. The following litany of filth carried across the small courtyard from the open kitchen door to the outbuilding. It wasn’t quite the sound of summer as she imagined it. Being a Friday night, the town was bouncing, the pubs and wine bars full with locals and the weekend tourists, all making the most of the balmy evening; sitting out where possible, or moving down onto the beach. The seasonal warmth brought the joy out in them, their chatter and laughter filling the air, the distant echo of fun snaking down the warren-like alleyways and over the garden walls of the houses in the old town. Jen could clearly hear it from the comfortable seclusion of her small stone outbuilding; the singing, the Oi, Oi’s and the banter.
Jen looked at her phone. Eleven. She’d been expecting to pick Lydia up at midnight from the station. She had an alarm set. Yet here she was, spouting loud angry vocabulary that would make a fishwife blush and no doubt there would be more, so Jen braced herself.
“For fuck sake. Come out, you shitpin!” There was a silence from outside, as Jen waited, calmly finishing tapping the beer from the conditioning tank into the brown bottle she was holding. “Jen? Can you help me? Please?”
Jen sighed as she capped the bottle and placed it in line with the others she’d already filled since getting home. Slipping down from her stool, she looked out into the courtyard to see her sister, still swearing while crossly attempting to extract her ankle-strapped high heel from between two cobbles.
“Easy, tiger. The kids next door don’t need to know those words,” Jen said, crossing the distance.
“Where do you think I learnt them?” They both knew this wasn’t true. Lydia had merrily collected a ripe vocabulary as a child when visiting Jen at uni, sponging up the vernacular of the rugby team who Jen had bizarrely acquired as a fan club. A secret home-brew kit in your fresher dorm room and indiscreet dorm mates will do that for a girl. Proud of the words they were teaching Lydia, the rugby lads had virtually made the thirteen-year-old their mascot. Nine years on, her word choices reminded Jen daily of that lost circle of friends.
A firm yank released the heel, allowing Lydia to teeter the rest of the way to the outbuilding where the comforting scent of malt, hops, yeast and beer enveloped them. The outbuilding wasn’t tiny, spanning the breadth of the rear-yard wall, but given all of Jen’s paraphernalia, it felt cosy and snug nonetheless. With the help of an old kitchen she’d salvaged off Freegle, and the addition of a small mash tun and two fermentation tanks which she’d bought from eBay and struggled to fetch home because large metal vats did not fit in a vintage Ford Capri, Jen had transformed the space into her own mini-micro-brewery.
“Why are you back so early? You said the midnight train. And why didn’t you call me to collect you?” As usual, Lydia’s refusal to stick to agreements irked her. But that was little sisters for you, a law unto themselves. Sometimes – most times – Jen suspected Lydia did it just to wind her up. Leaving the door open for some fresh air and pulling the hair-elastic off her wrist, Jen dragged her unruly hair up in a ponytail. Given the warmth out, the outbuilding could get pretty toasty and her hair was due a cut – as her BookIT app would remind her any day now; Jen always made her next appointment as she finished the last. Same with the dentist, waxer, window cleaner, optician, chimney sweep, boiler servicer and financial adviser. She was organised like that.
“I’m twenty-two Jen, I can get home by myself. You don’t need to collect me.” Lydia perched herself up on the worktop opposite Jen’s bottling. The two of them were clearly sisters; same heart-shaped face, brown eyes and chestnut hair, though Lydia wore hers shorter and had far fewer frown lines, while Jen was hoping their freckles disguised hers.
A battalion of capped bottles sat neatly on the counter top, products of a one-woman production line of Jen tapping the new IPA from the conditioner into the brown glass bottles and sealing the caps on with the new capper Lydia had bought her for Christmas. She’d worn out the one her dad had first taught her to use, in the days when she had to stand on a kitchen chair to help him with his home-brew. It now sat on her shelf next to his photo. She owed all of this to him. Her fine sense of smell had come from him, along with her taste for beer – she’d been sneaking sips since primary school. His hobby had grown to become hers, even after she’d left home for uni. By then the hobby had become a passion, as she experimented with recipes and flavours. Gradually, it had formed her career plan. The brewing industry was a siren’s call to her.
“We agreed I’d collect you,” Jen said, sitting down to start her labels. This batch was destined for the County Show. She generally sold her beers at a few farmers’ markets, the money coming in handy for restocking supplies and raw ingredients for the next brew, but the County Show was a bigger deal. She’d reserved a stall and was hoping to shift the mass of boxes currently stockpiled in their lounge, but more importantly there was the brewing competition to be won. The last two years’ first prize rosettes hung above her head on the shelf. Jen wasn’t a particularly competitive person, but admittedly she loved the validation the rosette gave her. She could brew, and brew well. She had an excellent understanding of flavours – this wasn’t vainglory, the judges had said so – and in lieu of not having the career she’d dreamed of, it was wildly pleasing to have her skills recognised.
Jen pulled out several sheets of adhesive labels. Her friend Alice had designed them, simply stating Attison’s in beautiful cursive. The remaining space allowed Jen to neatly handwrite in the beer’s name and tapping date. Handwriting them rather than printing them added to the beer’s handmade touch, extending Jen’s notion of artistic creativity. Neat handwriting when annoyed however, was a bitch.
“No, we didn’t,” sighed Lydia, hoiking her skirt up her left thigh, undoing the Velcro above her knee before grabbing both sides and pushing her lower leg off. Placing the prosthetic beside her, damaged shoe still in situ, she began to massage the stump through its polyurethane sock. “You agreed with yourself. I didn’t get a say. As always. Can I have a beer?”
“On the shelf behind you,” Jen said, not looking up from her labels. This was a regular argument. Jen liked to collect Lydia when she got home from London, whether it was from work or from a date. She liked knowing she was safe. She didn’t want Lydia being jostled on the street or her leg getting avoidably chaffed. She didn’t see why Lydia couldn’t have trained at a local firm, but instead she’d insisted on applying to the graduate schemes at the accountancy globals in London. She’d stormed the interview process, which hadn’t surprised Jen one bit, because Lydia, swearing aside, was both quick and engaging. So while the location wasn’t Jen’s preference, it made her ridiculously proud of what her sister had achieved, when at one point it had looked as if there would be no future at all, and Jen allowed herself the commendation of not having made a total hash of bringing teen-Lydia up by herself.
“Need a hand?” Lydia asked, selecting a Golden Ale from the odds and ends shelf by her shoulder and uncapping it on the wall-mounted opener. “I’ve got two of those.”
Jen hated it when Lydia made those jokes, but didn’t say. Lydia got to deal with it however she wanted.
“It’s fine. But thanks.” The many rows of bottles in front of her said she had a couple of hours’ writing and sticking. Still, she’d been spared the trip to the station. She took a second to strike it off ListIT and cancel the alarm.
“Come on, Jen. I can write the labels.”
“Really, it’s all good,” Jen said, keeping a firm grip on the pen and sheets. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Having been through this before too, Lydia gave up, mouthed “Control Freak” at Jen’s back then leaned back to take a slug of the beer while her sister worked on.
“Got anything planned for the weekend?” Jen asked, finishing another sticker, peeling it off and sticking it neatly on the bottle. Each label would be perfectly aligned. Meticulous was technically correct, anal would have been Lydia’s word of choice.
“Hmm,” Lydia murmured, as she swallowed her mouthful. “Just popping out somewhere.” Jen bit her tongue to stop herself from pursuing it. She knew when Lydia was being deliberately vague.
“How was tonight’s date?” She moved swiftly down the labels. She might be a perfectionist, but she was an efficient one.
“Shite.”
Jen paused briefly then carried on, knowing it was better to let Lydia vent at her own pace. Lydia spun the bottle cap on the counter like a spinning top, before successfully lobbing and landing it in the corner bin.
“Are all bankers wankers, do you think? This one was so far up his own arse I’m surprised he could walk.”
“How’d you find him?” Jen hoped Lydia was laying off Tinder. Lydia’s dating calendar was busy enough as it was, but if not being used simply for casual hook-ups, Tinder seemed to Jen like people were fighting a “marriage material” tick-list from the off. Not that she’d say so to Lydia, but she worried that a missing limb might not count favourably in such a judgemental framework.
“Bloody Callie from work set me up with him. Said they went to sixth form together and he was a hoot. Uni obviously nixed that. He kept talking about his ex and even sent her a text at one point. And Callie had clearly told him about the leg as he was trying not to study it. Epic fail.”
“Drink choice?” Jen asked. Both sisters believed you could tell a lot from what men chose to drink. They’d worked out a fairly efficient shorthand over the span of Lydia’s many many dates.
“Lager. Kronegaard. Unimaginative wanker.” Jen hmm’ed in agreement. Danish brewing giant Kronegaard wasn’t the worst of the global beers out there, in Jen’s book, but his failure to recognise there was more to beer than mass-produced lager would forever be a black-mark against the guy. Their dad and his love of craft beer had seen to that.
“Ah well, better to know now,” Jen soothed. The thought of Lydia being hurt pained her.
“Definitely,” Lydia agreed. “He was rubbish in bed too. Hence the earlier train.”
So, that label wouldn’t be going on a bottle, the jog in the writing being enormous.
“You slept with him?” Jen asked, trying for calm, but getting more of a squeak.
“Well, I hoped to salvage something from the evening, but no. Crap all round. Not that we slept, but considering it was a speed shag, it was fairly catatonic.”
Jen took a long breath through her nose, reminding herself Lydia was an adult and entitled to place her body where she pleased, with whom she pleased. But it was hard. She felt somewhere along the parenting process she might have slipped.
“Speaking of dullards,” Lydia went on, “where’s the Bobster? Didn’t feel like helping you out here?”
“Robert’s on a golf weekend. I’m seeing him Sunday night. As always,” she said pointedly. This too was a broken record conversation. Lydia was having a dig. Jen and Robert had a long-standing but simple arrangement of dating on Sundays and Wednesdays. It suited them both, it fitted with his sporting commitments and she could work late or brew undisturbed. The fixed nature of the date-nights gave clear structure to their week. Perfect.
There was a long pause before Lydia gave flight to her thoughts. “Jen? Have you ever thought you might not be living life to the full? That you might be missing out?”
Jen paused, looking around her, at her bottles, the tanks, the sacks of hops and malt. She saw her tightly-run micro-empire, tucked secretly away in the back streets of the bustling town, safely away from randomness, and she initially couldn’t think what Lydia might mean. Then her Parenting mode kicked in and it dawned on her Lydia must be referring to herself.
“Lyds, lovely,” she said, putting her fountain pen down and giving her sister her full attention as she always tried to do when it came to “growing up” conversations, “is this a FOMO thing?” Lydia looked confused for a second, then opened her mouth to speak, but Jen beat her to it. “Honestly Lyds, as you get older you’ll see most events are overrated and actually happiness is easily reached if you keep your expectations simple and realistic. Just look at me.” Jen gave her a big smile and a pat on the leg for good measure, hoping her sister was reassured. Lydia exhaled abruptly, shook her head and roughly reattached the prosthetic before alighting from the worktop. Maybe not so reassured. She’d have to give Lydia’s fear of missing out issues more attention.
Still holding her beer Lydia muttered something that might have been Sleep well, but could also have been Bloody hell and stormed back to the house. With a sigh, Jen went back to her labels, enjoying the return of serenity. She’d deal with Lydia tomorrow. For now she’d savour the peace and simplicity of the life she’d constructed for herself. FOMO indeed. Sure, she’d made some sacrifices – a career in incontinence pads instead of brewing, for example- but needs must and there was no point crying over that. All things considered, Jen had everything Just So now and exactly where she needed them to be for a straightforward, no-surprises, quite-happy-thank-you-very-much life. Lydia couldn’t possibly be thinking of her – Jen’s life was solid. Where should she be missing out?
Chapter 2
Being a lawyer, Robert was fairly straight-laced (or “uptight” as Lydia would say), but now and again he did something quirky. Jen had first noticed this years ago in his office, as he sombrely went over the details of her parents’ wills, formally assigning Lydia’s guardianship to her. Still shell-shocked and grieving, her eyes had wandered to his pink and orange striped socks. They were a marked contrast to the sobriety of his tailored dark suit and the uber-traditional (Lydia would say “cliché”) polished leather and wood of his office decor. Jen regularly wheeled the socks out as a positive example when Lydia was on one of her “Robert is boring” attacks.
That Sunday evening, as Jen walked towards the beach, she suspected there might be a spot of quirk in the air. They normally met around seven at a local bar or at the golf club if he’d just played, but tonight he’d texted her to meet him at the family beach hut. Westhampton’s beach wasn’t one of those wild windswept moody backdrops with sand and marram grass, nor a bouncing surfers’ paradise a la Cornwall. This was a proper town beach with large uncomfortable shingle, candy-coloured beach huts and ice cream stands, but thankfully no pier chocked full with arcade machines. There were no features of particular natural beauty, and nothing really to write home about, which was why Westhampton had never quite made it onto the list of popular Victorian bathing resorts. But it was home – so Jen loved it, and as the flashier neighbouring towns were getting expensive, more and more tourists seemed to be coming. She smiled to see them this evening, as she walked briskly along the promenade, hands in the pockets of her khaki shirt dress. The lure of quirk had pushed her to make a change from her usual blouse and tailored trousers, but the pockets were non-negotiable.