Sometimes having it all isn’t enough…

Emma has everything she’s ever wanted. Her boyfriend’s just proposed and her career has finally taken off. And so what if her latest client just happens to be downright gorgeous? She’s getting married. Isn’t she?

Rachel’s married with 2.4 children (well, actually, 3) and life is all about trying to leave the house in a non-stained top. Once it was about skinny cappuccinos, cocktails and dynamic ad agency meetings. She wants her old life back, but can it ever be the same?

A sparkling, funny tale of two sisters and how often you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

Not Quite Perfect
Annie Lyons

After leaving university, ANNIE LYONS decided that she ‘rather liked books’ and got a job as a bookseller on Charing Cross Road, London. Two years later she left the retail world and continued rather liking books during an eleven-year career in publishing. Following redundancy in 2009 she realised that she would rather like to write books and having undertaken a creative writing course, lots of reading and a bit of practice she produced Not Quite Perfect. She now realises that she loves writing as much as coffee, not as much as her children and a bit more than gardening. She has since written another novel and is about to start work on her third. She lives in a house in south-east London with her husband and two children. The garden is somewhat overgrown. One day she hopes to own a chocolate-brown Labrador named John and have tea with Mary Berry.

Big thanks to my early readers for their insightful comments and huge encouragement: Gill Mclay, Viv Peters, Heather Williams, Fiona Veacock, Sarah Livingston, Jenice Collins, Jane Clements, Mary Vacher and Lisa Stevens.

Thanks to Sally Williamson, Nicky Lovick and all at Carina for their support and enthusiasm, and to Jenny Hutton for putting me in touch with them. Thanks also to Charlotte Robertson.

Many thanks to Chris Cleave for allowing me to use the phrase ‘angels and tigers’ from his brilliant novel, Incendiary.

Heartfelt thanks to my mum and dad for instilling in me a great love of books.

Finally, special thanks to Lily and Alfie for being a daily source of inspiration and to Rich for never allowing me to give up.

For Rich

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

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

Extract

About the Publisher

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Annie Peters 2013

Annie Peters asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

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

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

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472017123

Version date: 2018-06-20

Chapter 1

Emma Darcy wakes to the brain-imploding sensation of another hangover and wishes she had more self-control. She opens one eye and, finding the prospect of daylight nauseating, closes it again and rolls over with a groan. She wants the duvet to comfort her, to wrap its arms around her and cure her but all it is doing is making her feel sweaty and restless. She glances at the empty space next to her and moves into it, breathing in the musty aroma of man. She can already hear said man, also known as her fiancé Martin, in the shower, cheerfully murdering a Stevie Wonder song. She pulls the pillow over her head and prays for sleep or death or both.

The volume of the singing gets louder as Martin makes his way back into the bedroom and flings open the curtains. Ignoring her protests, he pries the pillow from her face and kisses her forehead. She opens one eye and attempts a weak smile. It doesn’t feel good.

‘Wake up, Bungle Bonce. It’s gone eleven and we’ve got to be at your parents’ in an hour.’

‘Nnnnnnnng’ is the only sound Emma can make.

‘Someone should have stopped after that first bottle of champagne, shouldn’t they?’ grins Martin, running a hand through his dark brown hair, still wet from the shower.

Emma can find no reason to disagree.

‘Magical Martin’s Hangover Cure coming right up!’ he whispers, stroking her cheek and gently kissing the corner of her mouth. ‘I hate to say it Em, but I wonder if you might want a shower before we head over to your parent’s. You smell like a barmaid’s apron!’ Emma aims a feeble punch in Martin’s direction, which he sidesteps with ease. He laughs and jogs down the stairs, whistling happily.

Emma marvels at this man: he drinks far more than she does and yet never seems to have any side effects. She seems to have a permanent hangover of late. It’s hardly surprising as ever since she and Martin announced their engagement a month ago it’s been a steady round of celebratory drinks and dinners with friends and family. Last night, it was just the two of them with a Chinese take-away and yet they still managed to polish off the champagne from Emma’s godmother, Rosie, plus another bottle and possibly something more potent in a smaller glass.

They had been in celebratory mood as Emma had picked up some honeymoon brochures and they had worked their way through them narrowing it down to a beach holiday in Bali or a safari in Kenya. They had then celebrated this decision by casting the brochures to one side and indulging in passionate sex on the living-room rug. As she fell asleep that night, Emma couldn’t imagine being happier. As Sunday morning dawned, she couldn’t imagine feeling worse.

While waiting for the shower to warm up, she shudders at the thought of lunch at her parents with a hangover, her sister, her brother-in-law and their three not particularly quiet children. She stands underneath the jet of water, its warmth slightly masking the feeling that her brain is trying to exit her body through her ears.

Martin is kind and presents her with a poached egg, which she nibbles, a cup of coffee, which she sips, and a glass of water with two paracetamol, which she almost inhales. She is feeling nearly human again as she staggers to the car for the short drive to her parents’ house.

Her recovery is short-lived as Emma’s mother opens the door and Buzz Lightyear leaps out in best Space Ranger form, fixing her with a determined eye, his stubby finger poised over his wrist-laser.

‘Prepared to be eliminated, evil Emperor Zurg!’ he squeaks.

‘Fuck!’ cries Emma in genuine surprise.

‘Gra-neeeeeee. Auntie Em said fuck. Again.’

‘Emma honestly,’ chides her mother.

‘Sorry. He just sort of scared me.’

‘Em’s a bit shaky today, Diana,’ says Martin, putting an arm around his fiancée. ‘She’s tired. She’s been working far too hard and then of course there’s the wedding to think about.

Emma rests heavily against Martin’s shoulder, grateful for his attempt at damage limitation.

‘Auntie Em, Uncle Martin!’ squeals Lily with unmitigated glee, darting down the hall towards them.

‘Ah my darling Pica-Lily.’ Emma scoops up her niece and tickles her delightfully chubby little ribs.

‘Doppit, doppit, doppit!’ shrieks Lily and then, ‘again, again, again!’

‘Let them come in, you horrible lot,’ interrupts Emma’s dad. ‘Gin and tonic, Mart? And maybe just a tonic for you eh, lovely girl?’ he says, wrapping Emma in a restorative embrace. She kisses him on the cheek and puts an arm around his middle as they walk into the living room, where Rachel is flicking through the Sunday newspapers.

‘I warn you, your mother’s current favourite topic is weddings,’ he whispers as he disappears into the kitchen to fetch the drinks.

Emma grimaces.

‘Who’s talking about WEDDINGS?’ says Rachel in a too-loud voice, giving her sister a playful nudge as she flops down next to her on the sofa.

Emma pulls a face. ‘Keep it down, Rach. I’ve got a hangover the size of Wales and could really do without Mum on my back today.’

‘What? I only said the word “WEDDING”’ smirks Rachel.

Alfie appears at Emma’s side and seeing his mother’s smiling face, decides to join in the game. ‘WEDDING! WEDDING! WEDDING!’ he cries with glee.

Emma gives her sister a look. ‘Could you ask him not to do that?’

Lily appears alongside him and starts to join in. Rachel grins at her sister and shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve lost control of my children,’ she says innocently.

‘Yes, well, not for the first time, Rachel,’ declares Diana, appearing behind them. ‘Emma, we need to talk menus, dresses and flowers.’

Emma and Rachel roll their eyes at one another as Edward returns with the drinks. ‘At least let them have a drink first, eh darling?’ he says, handing out the glasses and winking at the girls.

Diana adopts a look that suggests she is not to be trifled with. ‘Well Emma is the one who’s decided to get married. If she wants our help I think she needs to co-operate a bit more. Yes?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ says Emma with tired resignation.

‘And you can stop this conspiratorial “Mummy is a villain” thing, Edward. I only want what’s best for my family.’

‘Yes, dear,’ says Edward, suppressing a smile.

‘Right, I’ve made quiche and salad. I don’t expect the children will eat it as it’s not fish fingers but I’ve done my best.’

Rachel opens her mouth to protest but sees Emma looking smug and decides to change tack. ‘Sounds delicious. Let’s eat so that we can talk weddings,’ she says, looking victoriously at her sister.

Emma manages to pick her way through lunch feeling more and more miserable as her mother attacks each item on her list with the gusto of a military commander.

‘So Lily will be your flower girl and Rachel your matron of honour.’

‘Of course and I want Ella to be a bridesmaid too.’

‘Who is this Ella? Do I know her?’

‘She’s my best friend at work, Mum, and no, you’ve never met her.’

‘Yes, but don’t forget that Daddy and I will be putting money towards this so we don’t want people there we don’t know.’

‘Look, Mum, I know you’re doing this with the best intentions, but we haven’t even set a date yet. It is up to Martin and me.’ Emma’s painkillers are starting to wear off and she can feel a dull throbbing at her temples. She looks around for an ally.

Rachel is sitting with her arms folded enjoying every second of the spectacle while her husband, Steve, talks to Edward about football. Meanwhile, Martin is being coerced into the role of Captain Hook by the three children.

‘I’m only trying to help. I know how stressful these things can be and I’m just trying to take some of the pain out of it. By the way, my cousin Eunice has already said she will do the flowers and I think it has to be white lilies, yes?’

‘Mum, just stop it!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said stop it. You’re not helping, you’re interfering!’

Rachel is watching Emma wide-eyed and impressed.

‘Well really, there’s no need to be rude!’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that –’

‘I only wanted to help.’

‘I know but –’

‘I’m just trying to make it special for my little girl. I mean Rachel just eloped so I didn’t get the chance then.’ Her eyes are beginning to fill with tears and Emma is wishing she could dig a large hole and crawl into it.

‘Mum, please!’

The tension is broken by a piercing cry as Alfie falls off the lowest branch of an apple tree having been made to walk the plank by his determined older brother, Will. Chaos ensues and everyone runs over offering advice. Steve and Rachel bundle the hysterical patient into the car with Diana following them, barking instructions about where to park when they get to A&E. Edward reassures the distraught Will, and soon has him and his sister are distracted with a spot of blackberry-picking.

Martin looks sheepishly at Emma.

‘I hope you’ll take better care of our children,’ she jokes.

Martin wraps her in his arms. ‘I will always take care of my family,’ he says.

Sensing an exit plan, he and Emma take the chance to leave, but she is still wound up on the journey home.

‘I mean, what is she on? How many years exactly do you get for matricide?’

‘You probably won’t want to hear this, but I think she is just trying to help, Em.’

‘Oh why do you have to be so bloody reasonable?’

‘It’s why you love me.’

‘I know and I do feel bad because I guess she is trying to help and I’m just tired and hung over, but it’s our big day and I don’t want anyone hijacking it,’ she says resting her hand on Martin’s knee.

He smiles at her. ‘It will be fine, try not to worry. We’ll find a way to manage your mum. We probably just need to put her in charge of something like the cake or flowers or something.’

Emma feels a little consoled and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I knew there was a reason I was marrying you.’

‘What apart from my infinite charm and the fact that I’m so much better looking than Daniel Craig?’

‘Yeah, that as well.’ Emma’s phone beeps and she flicks it to read the text: ‘Hope you’re not too nervous re tomorrow. Get an early night, lovely. Exx’

Emma smiles at Ella’s message and is suddenly filled with nerves at the thought of what lies ahead tomorrow. She is pitching for a new book, which, given the buzz in publishing circles, is destined to become the next big thing. Her anxiety and waning hangover make her feel tired so she foregoes Sunday evening TV and a glass of wine for an early night curled up with Allen Chandler’s potential new bestseller. Martin comes up to find her and picks up some of the scattered pages.

‘The Red Orchid. Sounds a bit poncey.’

‘It’s not poncey: It’s going to be huge and I’m going to publish it.’

‘Well I hope you do, my sweet. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?’

‘Never,’ says Emma with a grin.

‘Would you like me to show you?’ asks Martin, prising the pages of the book from her fingers, kissing her hand and along her wrist.

‘I really should finish this,’ sighs Emma, as Martin works his way up her arm and onto her neck.

‘Well if you really have to,’ he adds, continuing to kiss her chin and face and the corner of her mouth.

‘Oh sod it. I’ll do it on the train!’ says Emma, casting the manuscript to one side, wrapping her arms and legs around him and pulling him down on top of her. There is an urgency and intensity to the movement so that minutes later they are pulling at each other’s clothes and Martin is exploring Emma’s body with his tongue: down the curve of her breast to one nipple where he toys a while, inciting and enjoying her reaction. Emma’s body rises and she lifts her pelvis in a moment of pure pleasure and lust. And suddenly, he reaches down, moves her underwear to one side and is inside her causing Emma to gasp and pull him deeper into her. Later, after they have both come and Emma has retrieved her underwear from the nose of an indignant looking giant toy frog they won on a trip to Brighton, they lay together like spoons, both heavy and warm with sleep.

‘I do love you,’ says Emma, reaching an arm up to stroke his face.

‘‘Course you do,’ says Martin and she can feel the grin on his face. ‘I’m bloody lovely.’

Rachel throws miscellaneous chunks of Lego and tiny dolls’ shoes into whichever receptacle is nearest.

‘Glass of wine?’ asks Steve.

‘Lovely,’ she answers without looking up.

He returns smiling, placing the glasses on the coffee table and stretching out an arm to her. ‘What a day eh? At least Alfie’s OK though.’

Rachel nods, accepting the embrace for a second and then pulling away. ‘Just got to reclaim the living room before I sit down.’

‘Sure, sweet-cheeks, you do what you godda do,’ says Steve turning on the TV and flicking to the sports news.

‘Maaaarm!’ yells a small voice from the top of the stairs.

‘Alfie,’ says Rachel in a weary voice.

‘I’ll go. You sit,’ says Steve.

Rachel accepts with gratitude, slumping onto the sofa and sipping her wine.

‘He’s fine. He’d just dropped Raggy,’ reports Steve on his return.

‘Good. Thanks. So, do you want to watch Grey’s Anatomy or The Wire? I’ve got them both on Sky Plus.’

‘Actually Rach, I need to talk to you.’

She looks at his weary face and realises how little she actually looks at him these days. The early months of their relationship had been spent memorising every part of each other’s face and body, but with time and children their faces became somewhat obscured as they were replaced by younger, smaller and more impatient versions of themselves. Looking at him now, she recognises the man she fell for, but his face is punctuated with more lines and his eyes are underlined with purple-grey shadows. She looked at her own face in the mirror recently and had been shocked when she realised that the lines were now caused by too much frowning rather than too much laughter.

‘OK, sounds serious. What’s up?’

‘Well –’ Steve looks unsure where to begin and Rachel is starting to feel a little worried.

‘You’re having an affair? With Kate Winslet? Again?’

Rachel’s attempt at humour makes Steve smile, but only just.

‘Yeah, but apart from that. It’s about work. They want to promote me.’

‘Wow, that’s fantastic! Congratulations! To do what?’

‘To open up a new office.’

‘Brilliant. Where?’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘What?’

‘I know. It’s a long way from everything but it’s a huge step up and a big pay rise.’

‘It’s in Scotland.’

‘I know, but it could be fantastic.’

‘How?’

‘It’s an amazing city.’

‘It’s in Scotland.’

‘I know.’

‘That’s north of here.’

‘Yes but –’

‘Where it rains.’

‘OK, but –’

‘A lot.’

‘Look, Rachel, I knew you’d be like this but I’d at least like to discuss it rationally.’

‘Oh, so I’m irrational now, am I?’

‘A tad.’

‘You want to drag your family a billion miles up north for the sake of your career?’

‘No, of course not, but we do need to consider our future and I am the breadwinner.’

‘Yeah and don’t I know it!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’ve given up everything for this family. Everything. You just don’t get it, do you?’

‘Not very often, no.’

‘Ha bloody ha. So that’s my lack of job and sex drive at fault, is it? I mean, do you ever actually think about me or what I need?’

‘That’s why I’m trying to talk to you. Why do you always get like this?’

Rachel can’t speak. She lets out an enraged yelp like a trapped animal and storms out. The phone interrupts her moment of fury and she snatches it to her ear.

‘Hello?’ she says.

‘Rachel, darling?’ trills her mother oblivious to her daughter’s tone.

‘Oh hi, Mum.’

‘We just wanted to check how Alfred is.’

‘He’s fine thank you. He’s sleeping.’

‘And what about my other naughty grandchildren?’

‘Naughty.’

‘Excellent. Now darling, listen, we need to take that sister of yours in hand. I thought a spot of dress shopping might be in order.’

‘OK.’ Rachel can’t even muster any glee at the thought.

‘Super. I’ll call Emma and set a date.’

‘OK. Mum?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Nothing.’

‘All right. Kisses to the children.’

‘Will do. Give our love to Dad.’

‘I will if I can ever persuade him to come out from behind the Telegraph.’

Rachel replaces the receiver feeling about three years old again and wishing that there was someone to look after her. She can’t remember a time when she felt anything less than exhausted. She loves her kids and Steve but can’t always find the energy to tell them. She feels so far away from her previous life of skinny cappuccinos and dynamic, creative ad agency meetings. Life now is all about trying to leave the house in a non-stained top and asking everyone if they want ketchup with their fish fingers.

She is still angry with Steve but is too tired for an encore. Unlocking the back door she retrieves the secreted packet of Marlboro Lights kept in the shed for occasions like this. Padding a little further down the garden and she curls herself up on a garden chair tucked out of the sight of the house, behind a sickly rhododendron. She lights up and inhales deeply, shivering against the chilly evening air. Feeling herself relax she gazes out into the night but can see nothing but the molten orange glow of her cigarette.

‘Gotcha!’

Rachel shrieks and then laughs as she sees her neighbour Tom’s amused face grinning over the fence.

‘You bastard.’

‘Good evening to you too, Mrs Summers.’

‘Good evening, Mr Davies. What are you doing, creeping round the garden like a pervert?’

‘Snail patrol,’ he says flashing torchlight over the fence. ‘It’s the only way to catch them, you see.’

Rachel looks amused.

‘All right, I know. It’s a sad life but I’m a single man with only my hostas for company. And I do love my hostas.’

Rachel laughs. ‘And there was me thinking you were coming to rescue a damsel in distress.’

‘Do you need rescuing then?’ asks Tom, suddenly serious.

In the half darkness Rachel can just make out his face. At first look it could not be described as drop-dead gorgeous, in fact it is slightly pudgy at the edges, but there is a twinkle in his eye that Rachel has decided is handsome and she has always wondered why he’s never been snapped up.

Steve and she had assumed he was gay until she’d been chatting with him for a bit one day and he’d said, ‘I’m not gay by the way.’ After that she’d worried that he’d heard them through their paper-thin walls and had felt guilty for gossiping.

‘I don’t really need rescuing,’ Rachel says feeling disloyal. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day.’ She recounts the saga of Alfie but doesn’t mention her row with Steve.

‘Ahh, you love it really.’

‘Do I?’ asks Rachel. ‘Do I really love all this? When will it all end?’ She loves the kids, that’s a given, and Steve has always been her best friend: ‘Sod ‘em all!’ they used to sing when times were tough. But now they barely have time for themselves, let alone each other.

Tom is eyeing her now, looking uncertain of what to do next.

‘Well, back to your snails, saddo,’ says Rachel, trying to put him at ease.

‘If you ever need to chat, you know where I am,’ Tom says, and Rachel is touched.

‘Rach?’ Steve’s voice echoes across the garden. ‘Are you out here?’

Rachel makes a face at Tom like a scolded teenager. ‘Yeah, what?’

‘Alfie wants you.’

‘Great. I can’t even have a sneaky fag now. See you later, neighbour.’

‘Bye Mrs S and remember what I said.’

‘Thanks.’

She stalks down the garden and into the house, ignoring Steve. When she enters Lily and Alfie’s bedroom, she feels a little sheepish as her maternal role suddenly washes over her again. Their room still has that sweet scent of young children. Rachel remembers the intoxicating smell of them as newborns and although it fades over the years, she still finds breathing them in, especially after a bath when it is restored, gloriously satisfying.

Alfie is blinking at her, holding out his fat palms. ‘Want Mummy.’

‘Alfie, you should be asleep. Is your arm hurting?’

‘No. All better,’ he says. ‘I am a big boy.’

‘Yes you are darling, but you need to go to sleep.’

‘Want Mummy,’ he insists and she cannot refuse. She lies down beside him and strokes his mop of hair.

‘Poo-ee, Mummy smells.’ Rachel remembers the cigarette.

‘Alfie love Mummy?’ she asks.

‘Naaaaooo,’ croons Alfie, teasing.

‘Boo-hoo.’ Rachel feigns weeping.

Alfie laughs. ‘Mummy, cry again.’

Rachel plays along for a bit, and then says, ‘Sleep now, baby boy.’

‘Mummy sing,’ demands Alfie and after a couple of rounds of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star his eyelids droop and Rachel creeps out.

Steve is watching the news as she skulks back into the living room, uncertain of what to say next. He flicks off the TV and pats the space next to him, eyes imploring. ‘Sit. Please?’

She does so grudgingly, not wanting to be the one to give way and hating herself for it.

‘Friends?’ he asks stretching out an arm like a peace offering.

Realising it would be churlish to refuse, she leans towards him. ‘Look, Steve, I know we need to talk but I’m just too tired tonight.’

‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we see if Emma or your mum can babysit at the weekend? We’ll go and have lunch, talk properly, get drunk and say sod ‘em all! Waddya reckon?’

Rachel chews her lip and looks at her husband. Dear dependable Steve, her best friend and constant; she finds it impossible to stay angry with him for too long. ‘Sod ‘em all!’ she says, kissing him on the cheek and feeling instant relief. ‘I’m going up. Are you coming?’

‘Just going to watch the end of Match of the Day 2,’ he says, picking up the remote and flicking on the television again.

She nods and pecks him on the cheek before climbing the stairs, exhausted by life and longing for the passion and energy of her twenties.

Chapter 2

The cavernous room is filled with a murmuring hubbub as two thousand or so publishers, authors and their celebrity guests look towards the stage in anticipation. Stephen Fry stands at the podium, smiling; wise and waiting for hush.

‘Esteemed guests, ladies, gentlemen and publishing scamps, it is my unbridled pleasure and bowl-clenching joy to announce that the winner of this year’s Best Novel Category is the astounding, Red Orchid by Richard Bennett.’ Thunderous applause. The crowd is on their feet. Richard rises to greet his public pausing only to kiss his beloved editor, Emma Darcy. There are cheers from the Allen Chandler table. Richard is greeted and embraced by Stephen Fry. A sea of photographers capture the moment with a myriad clicks and flashes. The applause is enthusiastic and heartfelt. Richard speaks to his people.

‘I would like to thank the judges for this great honour. I am truly humbled, but I have to say that I could never have achieved it without the singular devotion of one woman: Emma Darcy, this one’s for you, babe.’

Babe? Emma looks up confused as Richard grabs the microphone and starts to sing a heartfelt version of Dido’s ‘Thank You’. As she looks closely at his face, she is astonished.

‘Martin! Is that you?’

She is even more surprised when Stephen Fry picks up the backing vocals and the people in the room join in too, all turning as one to smile at Emma.

‘Oh. It’s another bloody dream,’ mumbles Emma as her brain tunes in to the song playing on her radio alarm clock. She opens her eyes feeling queasy at the thought of the day ahead. ‘Today is the one I day I will not, must not be late,’ she says to the room.

‘Drop you at the station, gorgeous girl?’ asks Martin returning from the shower and pausing to kiss his fiancée.

‘Brillo pads. Thanks, handsome.’

‘Can I suggest, endearing as it is, that you don’t use the phrase “brillo pads” in this meeting?’

‘Right-ho. Good point.’

‘Or “right-ho”.’

‘Understood,’ she says with a small salute.

On boarding the train, Emma makes a beeline for her favourite seat: second carriage from the front, facing forwards in a two-seater. She pulls out the manuscript and her notes. A few stops later a man listening to an iPod takes the empty seat next to her. They have a barely perceptible tussle over elbow territory, and she is just settling into her work when he cranks up the volume and starts to hum along.

Emma is considering making a comment when she notices that he is reading her notes. She snatches them to her chest, like a schoolgirl trying to prevent her neighbour from cribbing.

‘Sorry,’ he says grinning.

‘It’s fine but actually would you mind turning down your music please,’ says Emma trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

‘Sure. Sorry, again.’

Emma looks at him for the first time. He’s quite good looking in a public school sort of way. His smile reveals a dimpled cheek, which reminds her of Martin.

‘You must be busy, having to work on the train,’ he says gesturing at her papers.

‘Oh, I’ve got this pitch meeting today with an author. I’m an editor you see,’ she says proudly.

‘Oh wow. You’re an editor – that must be fascinating. Who’s the lucky guy?’

Emma smiles, enjoying some innocent flirting. ‘He’s a relatively new writer called Richard Bennett. His novel is amazing but I’ve heard a rumour that he’s a bit of a lothario,’ she says conspiratorially.

The train is making its final, slow passage into Victoria past the gasholders and dormant power station that Emma thinks makes this part of London look abandoned.

‘Men eh?’ smiles the man. ‘Well I hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble.’

‘Thanks, I’m hoping I can charm him.’

‘I have no doubt you will. Well good luck –?’

‘Emma. Emma Darcy.’

‘Emma Darcy. Like a character in a novel. I hope you get your book, Emma Darcy,’ he smiles and then disappears into the crowd of commuters. Emma gathers her belongings, takes a deep breath, and steps off the train into Monday morning chaos.

‘Want breakfast naaaaaow!’ yells Alfie.

‘Ok, Hitler-in-a-nappy. Mummy’s going as fast as she can.’ Rachel throws crisps, a drink and a packet of something claiming to be 100% fruit into Will’s lunch bag and counts down the seconds until the microwave gives its final ping. She snatches open the door to find that the milk has boiled over and Alfie’s porridge now resembles molten lava with a temperature to match. ‘Bollocks!’ she mutters as quietly as she can, emptying the rest of the carton of milk into the bowl in a desperate attempt to cool it down. It now has the consistency of slurry and Rachel knows that this will not pass the Alfie taste-test. She bins her first attempt and gives the microwave a cursory wipe before starting again.

‘Naaaaaow Mummeeee!’

‘Look, young man, either you wait or you work out a way of making it yourself. I’m doing my best, OK?’

‘‘kay,’ says Alfie uncertainly. ‘Mummy cwoss.’

‘I am not cross,’ and then she catches sight of his chubby jowls and blue eyes and smiles, ‘Mummy’s sorting it, sausage.’

‘Cuddle, cuddle,’ he implores, and Rachel gives in, nibbling at his soft little neck.

‘Nooo, Mummy,’ he giggles.

‘Right you, into your chair and, Lily! Will! Breakfast time!’

‘Coming!’ shouts Will. ‘Just got to take this penalty to win the World Cup for England.’

‘I’m having a poo!’ bellows Lily.

‘Breakfast in paradise, darling?’ asks Steve, grabbing a banana on his way through.

‘Oh yeah, baby, it’s like a week in Mauritius.’

‘Bless you, Mummy. Achoo!’ says Alfie mishearing.

Rachel removes the second batch of cereal from the microwave and pours a pot of something pink, gloopy and organic all over it.

‘Naaaaaooooo, Mummy, want bananaaaaa!’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alfred!’

‘Maaaarrrrm,’ shouts Lily, ‘I’ve run out of bog roll!’

‘Did you teach her to call it that?’ Rachel asks Steve.

‘Darling, I thought you were the queen of spade-calling. Got to dash.’

‘You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’

‘Lots to do, my sweet. Got to start early so I can be home on time. Let’s talk later. Properly? Over a bottle of something nice? Love you.’ He plants a kiss on her cheek and on each available child’s head.

‘Bye Lils!’

‘Bye, Daddy. Love you.’ Her voice is sweet and charming and then changes as she shouts, ‘Maaarrrm!’

‘OK, Lily. I’m coming!’

‘Mummy, banana!’ insists Alfie.

‘OK, OK. Will, please can you sort out your brother while I attend to your sister.’

Lily looks disappointed at Rachel’s entrance.

‘I want Daddy.’

‘Well, unfortunately you have Mummy.’

‘Oh.’

Five minutes later, the ladies of the house come downstairs to a suspiciously peaceful kitchen.

Rachel looks pleased and then horrified. ‘Will, what have you done?’ she cries, seeing that Alfie’s face is smeared with the remains of a packet of Giant Chocolate Buttons, which his obliging brother has tipped over his cereal.

‘What? He likes them.’

Rachel is about to open her mouth when her phone beeps with a text. It’s from her friend, Sue: ‘Fancy Baby Bump and Grind aka Bounce and Rhyme at the library at 10?’

Rachel fires off a reply: ‘In the absence of an offer from George Clooney, you’re on. Got to pop home after school run. Save me a tambourine.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘Shall I text Christa?’

The answer pings back: ‘Good idea.’

Christa, who has recently moved from Switzerland, is clearly pleased to be asked: ‘Danke viels. Roger and I would that love. Bis bis.’

Rachel smiles and takes a deep breath, making ready to coax, cajole and nag her family out of the house.

Emma walks into Allen Chandler’s impressive, marble lobby. She smiles at Derek on reception, who gives her a wink and a thumbs-up.

‘Hold that lift!’ orders a voice.

Emma turns to see Joel Riches marching through the door radiating an air of self-importance. He ignores Derek, who in turn shakes his head in disgust. Emma is tempted to pretend she hasn’t heard, but knows this won’t work. Joel is a persistent force in her life. Every book she publishes or pitches for, he’s there ‘thinking outside the box’ or ‘campaigning above the line’, ready to disassociate himself from things which don’t work and take the glory for things that do. As a member of the ‘say what you mean and mean what you say’ club Emma loathes him.

‘Hi, Emma,’ he says with a condescending lilt. ‘So Richard Bennett? It’s either going to be a huge opportunity or a complete drain on resources and the bottom line. Thoughts?’

Emma bristles at his patronising tone but answers as calmly as she can. ‘I think it’s a formative work for an emerging talent in a brave new world of modern fiction destined to win awards and generate sales and profit for the company,’

‘Well done, Emma. Good work,’ he says, which makes Emma want to stave in his head with the manuscript she’s holding. ‘Personally, I prefer something a little meatier. Did I tell you I’d read Don Quixote last summer?’

‘Several times.’ They have reached the twelfth floor and the lift doors open. ‘Got to dash, Joel. Got a book to buy.’

‘Good luck. Don’t be nervous. Mind you, I would be. Digby’s relying on this one.’

‘Tosser,’ mutters Emma under her breath as she makes her way into the open-plan office. Ella has left a small bunch of butter-yellow freesias on her desk with a card that says, ‘I know you can do it.’ Emma is touched, but at the same time feels a little inadequate as she doesn’t know if she would have been so thoughtful herself. Behind the lovingly placed flowers is a less lovingly placed Post-It note slapped onto her computer’s blank face. It’s from Miranda and it simply says, ‘Emma – please pop in at 9. Digby wants a word.’

Emma feels as if she might regurgitate her breakfast. It’s not that she’s afraid of Digby: He’s a pussy cat compared with the bottom-line obsessed powers that now run the company. But he is one of Miranda’s oldest friends and was a traditional, independent, gentlemen publisher, who launched a whole host of seminal works, as well as being the founding member of the day-long publishing lunch. Emma takes a deep breath and knocks on Miranda’s closed door with what she hopes is an air of quiet authority. There is no answer, so Emma inclines her ear towards the door, just as it is flung open by the literary powerhouse that is Miranda Winter.

‘Ah, Emma. I thought I heard something. Morning. Morning. And how is my brightest and best on this exquisite day? Come, my child, don’t be shy. Digby won’t eat you. He’s had his breakfast.’

Miranda’s office is a shrine to the great and good of publishing, books and reading. Her walls are adorned with photographs, sketches and mementos from her forty-odd years as the matriarchal founding editor of Chandler and now Allen Chandler. The world of books and publishing may have changed, but Miranda Winter is not a woman to be trifled with and the newer suits at Allen Chandler simply wouldn’t dare. They’re terrified of her and she makes them far too much money. The photographs of Miranda with everyone from John Gielgud to John Updike read like a history of cultural movers and shakers from the post-war years. Emma is particularly impressed by the rumours that Miranda has slept with most of the men photographed here, even the gay ones. They are like the photographic equivalent of notches on her bedpost.

As Emma enters the room, Digby is perched on the edge of Miranda’s dark oak monster of a desk, a pudgy hand pawing at one of his many chins. Although publishing today is a very different world to that of fifty or even twenty years ago, when lunch neatly segued into afternoon tea, cocktails and dinner, no one seems to have told Digby and he remains the very picture of old-school corpulence. He is suited by a little man in Saville Row and his Oxford brogues are always shiny. He prefers a dickey bow to maintain the air of an eccentric publisher and today his pink shirt looks fit to burst as his belly extends over his blue pinstriped trousers.

‘Ah Ella,’ he begins, raising his fat hands in a sort of waving gesture.

‘It’s Emma.’ She corrects him. ‘Ella’s the other one.’

Digby snorts with amusement as if having two people with vaguely similar names is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

‘Sorry, so sorry. Now, Emma, I know I don’t need to tell you how much our hopes are resting on you today. And I just wanted to say good luck. I know you can do it.’

Emma tries to speak but only manages a squeak of agreement.

Miranda leaps to her rescue. ‘Well, Emma and I will do our darndest to bring home the bacon, eh Emma?’

Emma nods vigorously, deciding that it is probably best to remain mute for now.

‘Quite so, quite so,’ says Digby with customary vagueness. ‘Well, the very best to you both. I look forward to hearing good news!’ And away he shuffles.

‘So tell me how you’re really feeling’ says Miranda when he is gone.

‘Honestly? I’m bloody terrified. I mean, this is this most exciting book I’ve read since Marquez. Do you really think we can get it?’

‘The agent is touting it hither and thither after the publisher with the most money, but I know we have more to offer.’

She looks at Emma with glassy eyes. It’s the look Ella and Emma call her ‘mirror to the past’. Ella always jokes that Emma is her protégé and it is clear that Miranda does see something of herself in Emma. At last year’s Christmas party, Miranda threw her arms around her and told her that she was like Boudicca, but they were all very drunk.

‘Ten o’clock then. We pitch our ideas, gush, enthuse and generally plump up their egos like sumptuous cushions. OK?’

‘Ok. Do you think Richard will go for it?’

‘Oh, it’s not Richard we have to worry about, darling. It’s the agent.’

The light is flashing on Emma’s phone when she gets back to her desk. It’s a text from Martin: ‘Good luck Mrs Almost-Wifey. Hope you get the book. I’m proud of you. Love M.’ She smiles but is starting to feel a bit sick and desperate to get on with it. She checks her watch: 9:34. twenty-six minutes to go. She leafs through her notes again and realises that her hands are shaking. The book is beautifully written and Emma desperately wants to be the one to publish it. She gives herself an internal pep talk: ‘You can do this. You are good at your job. You love this book and you want the world to love it too.’

The phone rings shattering the peace. Emma leaps up, knocking coffee all over her notes. ‘Fuck!’ she says involuntarily into the mouthpiece.

‘Emma?’ asks Miranda with no notable surprise at the outburst.

‘Yes? Sorry. I’m here.’

‘And so are they. Are you ready?’

Emma looks at the coffee-steeped notes and realises that she’s going to have to wing it. ‘I’ll come straight over.’

‘Fine. I’ll go and welcome them, roll out the red carpet as it were. And remember, you should be bloody nervous but it’s just another book. OK?’

‘OK,’ says Emma feeling anything but.

Miranda’s office is filled with the heavy perfume of pink lilies, mingled with the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Emma realises that she needs to pee, but daren’t leave the room now. The table is covered with a selection of Danish pastries. Her stomach groans appreciatively, but she decides against the risk of icing down her top and flaky crumbs on her upper lip. She can hear Miranda coming, jollying their guests along in a warm but business-like way. She decides that standing is the best option as sitting might seem somehow presumptuous or complacent or both.

The woman who enters first is known to Emma by fearsome reputation only: Joanna Uppington is ball-breaker number one of the publishing world. Emma is pretty sure she’s never smiled in her life. She is immaculate and tiny in her fitted, designer trouser suit. The only aspect to her that gives her any height (and which Emma suspects is the actual source of her power) is her hair with its impressive four-inch power-bouffant held in place with enough hair spray to finish off the ozone layer.

‘Joanna, this is Emma Darcy, our most talented editor.’

Joanna looks Emma up and down as if seeking to identify a new life form and thrusts out a bony hand like a poison dart. ‘And this is my most talented author, Richard Bennett,’ she retorts.

And there he is. Of course. As if God, Beelzebub and his wizards, and the spirit of Joel Riches were all conspiring as one against Emma. The man from the train.

Chapter 3

Rachel looks at the kitchen and tries to ignore the Weetabix-encrusted carnage. She presses the button on the washing machine, waiting with impatience for it to release the laundry. She can hear Alfie and Lily shouting their usual morning chorus of ‘I hate you’s’ and decides to let them resolve it for themselves, like the books tell you to. She unlocks the back door and picks her way across the dewy grass. She is just prising apart a mass of trousers and socks, when she hears the phone ring.

‘I’ll get it!’ calls Lily. Rachel curses. Moments later, her daughter pads into the garden.

‘My socks are wet and it’s Grandpa,’ she announces. Rachel accepts the phone and waves her daughter away with the international semaphore sign for ‘Go and find some dry socks.’

‘Hi, Dad,’ she says at last.

‘Morning, daughter number one. Your mother was fretting so she made me phone you,’ he says with a chuckle.

Rachel laughs. ‘I’m fine thanks, Dad. It was lovely to see you all yesterday, despite the apple tree incident.’

‘Yes and how is the little man this morning?’

Rachel can hear her mother talking in the background, directing operations. ‘He’s absolutely fine. No lasting damage. What’s Mum saying?’

Edward doesn’t speak for a moment, as he tries to listen to two separate conversations. ‘Sorry, Rachel. Your mother wants to know if you and Steve are all right?’ says Edward. Rachel hears her mother exclaim at his lack of subtlety.

She laughs again. ‘We’re fine. Why?’

‘She wants to know why,’ Edward reports back to his increasingly exasperated wife.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Edward. Give me the phone will you? Honestly, if you want something done in this family. Rachel?’ says Diana as she takes the phone.

‘Yes, Mum?’

‘Now don’t you “yes, Mum” me. I know what you and Daddy are like when you get together. I simply wanted to check that everything is all right between you and Steve.’

‘I’ve just told Dad we’re fine. Why do you ask?’

‘Steve has asked us to have the children on Saturday night.’

‘Oh right, yes, well we just want to have a little time on our own as a married couple.’

‘Yes all right, Rachel. There’s no need to be coarse. So I don’t need to worry then?’

Rachel contemplates this question and then immediately rejects the idea of telling her Mother about Edinburgh. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Well good, because I’ve got enough to worry about with this wedding of your sister’s. I’ll hand you back to your father.’

‘Rachel? Sorry about that. You know what your mother gets like when she’s been listening to the Today programme. Two hours of John Humphries and she just won’t let things go,’ says Edward.

‘It’s all right, Dad. I know.’

‘You know you can always talk to your old dad, if there is anything, don’t you?’

‘I know, Dad. Thanks. Look, I’ve got to go.’ Rachel replaces the phone and glances at her watch.

‘Kids! We’re –’

‘Yeah, yeah, we know. Late again!’ says Lily. ‘It’s OK, we’ve done our shoes and coats. We’re a bit more organised than grown-ups, you know.’

‘Well thank you, Lily,’ says Rachel through gritted teeth, grabbing her bag and ushering them out of the door.

It’s fortunate that Emma is not the sort of girl who blushes. She does her best to shake hands with Richard without betraying what can only be described as her almighty cock-up. Looking at him properly for the first time, she notices his dark brown eyes and the dimple that appears when the subject is amused. The subject is now extremely amused.

‘Hello, Emma. So good to see you. I feel as it we’ve met somewhere before? Or maybe not?’ He plonks himself down into the nearest chair, grabs a pastry and grins at her. Happily, no one else seems to notice this display.

‘Coffee anyone?’ asks Miranda.

‘Tea thanks. Lapsang souchong if you have it – with lemon,’ says Joanna.

‘Yeah. Coffee’s fine. Milk, no sugar thanks,’ says Richard folding his arms behind his head in a ‘so what can you offer me?’ type way.

‘Of course. I’ll get Andrea to do the honours,’ says Miranda disappearing.

Emma is panicking inwardly like a child whose mother has left the room, but she fights the urge to throw herself on the floor and beat the carpet with her fists, offering Joanna a seat instead. Joanna looks horrified and turns to inspect the chair, dusting it with a manicured hand and perching awkwardly, as if this is the first time she’s sat down in her life. All the while Richard is eyeing Emma with vast amusement.

‘So,’ booms Miranda on her return, ‘thank you for coming today. We’re tremendously excited about this book and hope you decide that Allen Chandler is the best home for it. Emma has prepared some data on the current market, our comparable titles and what we can offer Richard.’

‘Oh come on, Miranda, never mind that. This is a brilliant and original book. We all know that. Every other publisher is telling us that. Great. Fantastic. We’re thrilled. But what are you prepared to pay?’ Joanna’s voice is direct, fierce and as terrifying as her reputation. Emma gulps. No one speaks to Miranda like that. Her eyes betray thunder, but her smile remains fixed.

‘No Joanna, it’s OK, I think we should hear what Emma has to say.’ Richard’s voice is amused and almost mocking.

‘Do you?’ Joanna says in surprise. ‘Oh all right then. Let’s hear it.’

Emma’s heart is in her mouth. ‘Right, well I’ve prepared some data.’

‘Yes, yes. Miranda said that. Let’s see it.’

She passes round the pages.

‘Ooh, PowerPoint®. How modern!’ says Richard, and Joanna sniggers.

‘The first slide shows what we view as the benchmarks for this title and sales data to support,’ says Emma ignoring them.

‘Life of Pi? The Book Thief? Surely The Red Orchid is better than these?’ says Joanna looking unimpressed.

‘Well, I think so, yes. If you look at Allen Chandler’s own, comparable titles from the past five years we have exceeded sales of these industry benchmarks, and I see no reason why we can’t go even further with The Red Orchid.’

‘How?’

‘Well, it will obviously be picked up by the key retailers and reviewers.’

‘Ha! A Waterstone’s 3 for 2 and four inches in the Guardian does not a bestseller make.’

‘Well, then there’s the awards.’

‘Yes, but there’s no guarantee, is there?’

‘Of course not, but –’

‘What I want to know is, how are you going to make the UK’s most talented and original author since McEwan into an out and out bestseller?’

‘As I’ve said –’

‘But you haven’t said. It’s all hot air and promises you can’t keep, isn’t it?’

Richard is grinning, enjoying the spectacle, but for Emma it is turning into another fight with her mother. She is waiting for Joanna to tell her to go and tidy her room.

‘No, it’s not all hot air and promises,’ says Emma surprising everyone in the room including herself. Joanna looks at her sharply. ‘In the past ten years the fiction market has changed beyond recognition.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ yawns Joanna.

‘Publishers are under incredible pressure to deliver profit, but are being squeezed by the demands of agents and authors for ever higher advances.’

‘And I suppose that’s my fault, is it?’ Joanna wants to spar. Emma won’t bite.

‘There are a whole host of publishers who will offer you more money than they can ever earn just to win your book.’

‘And?’

Emma address her directly now, refusing to be cowed. ‘And, those with the fattest cheque books don’t necessarily have what you need to turn a book from an emerging talent to a bestseller to a classic.’

‘Oh please impart your wisdom. What would that be?’

‘One word: Passion.’

Joanna snorts with derision. Miranda is watching Emma with what she detects is a glimmer of pride. Emma takes courage from this and addresses Richard directly. ‘Your characters, particularly Alexander and Newton, are the lifeblood of this book. They leap out and grab you by the throat, and Alexander’s unrequited love for Stella is one of the greatest love stories ever told. It’s a story that will stay with readers for ever.’

Richard’s eyes are fixed on Emma now, calm and steady. He has lost his earlier cockiness. He opens his mouth to speak but Joanna butts in. ‘Listen, I’m sure you’re a great editor and it’s lovely to hear that you’ve read and loved this book. Ya di ya big deal, but what are ya gonna pay?’ She spits out the last six words with venom.

Miranda clears her throat. ‘Joanna, I think it’s time we drew this meeting to a close.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yes, so am I. I think we have been upfront, honest and seeringly enthusiastic for Richard’s book. If it’s all about the money, it’s not for us. Shall I see you to the lift?’ Miranda appears calm but the area of neck just below her ears has reddened.

‘But I thought –’ Joanna blurts.

‘Then you thought wrong. If other publishers are prepared to let you throw your weight around and patronise their editors, then more fool them. I, for one, am not.’

Joanna opens her mouth to speak but stops when she sees Miranda’s face. She raises herself up on her bony twig legs and pats her immobile hair. ‘Come on, Richard, let’s go to another, less short-sighted publisher.’ Joanna Uppington breezes out of the room on a waft of Chanel No. 5.

Richard is still staring at Emma.

‘Richard!’ shouts Joanna from the corridor.

Richard jumps up ready to follow, but stops at the door and turns to address Emma and Miranda. ‘I’m sorry, I have to erm, it was lovely to meet you –’

‘Richard!’ screeches Joanna again.

Richard holds up his hands and smiles like a defeated man. ‘Bye,’ he says and darts out of the door.

‘Tell me his written word is better than his spoken,’ says Miranda after a moment.

‘It is. Unfortunately,’ says Emma with a sigh. ‘Why does Joanna behave like that?’

‘Because, my dear, she is a bully and frankly we’re better off without them both.’ Her phone chirps and she glances at it, looking weary. Emma feels guilty. ‘It’s Digby. I better update him.’

Emma takes this as a signal to leave and tries to creep back to her desk unnoticed. She realises that the god of shit days has got it in for her as she turns the corner and Joel appears out of nowhere. Emma jumps. ‘Jesus, Joel!’

‘Ahh, thanks for the accolade, you can just call me Joel though. Sooo, how’d it go? Ooh. Not so good eh?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to see.’

‘Ouch. That bad eh? You should have asked me to come along, Em. I would have been happy to help.’

Emma bristles at his familiar use of her name. Realising that homicide is probably not the best course of action, she tries to muster some dignity and shambles back to her desk. Almost immediately, Ella is by her side confirming that the Joel bush telegraph is fully operational.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘we need Oreo cookie cheesecake and we need it now.’

The over-enthusiastic librarian has her hand up a surprised looking crocodile puppet as Rachel arrives hot and flustered at the library. As the highlight of pre-school entertainment in this town, the tiny space is packed with fifty or more mums and dads and their wriggly offspring. Rachel attempts to park her double buggy by the door.

‘Can’t park there, love,’ insists a red-faced man with a bunch of keys on his belt.

‘Can’t I?’ says Rachel irritated.

‘‘ealth ‘n’ safety innit?’ he insists.

‘Right. Fine.’ Rachel can’t be bothered to argue and steers the buggy round to ‘Large Print’. She turns round to see that Alfie has escaped, while is sister is still calmly disembarking. ‘Lily, where’s Alfie?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Lily with a complete lack of concern.

‘Oh shit!’

A large lady in her sixties who is dressed like a duchess tuts loudly in Rachel’s direction.

‘Sorry, it’s just that I’ve lost my –’

‘Boo!’ Alfie jumps out from behind a Catherine Cookson display.

The woman is unimpressed. ‘This isn’t a crèche, you know.’

Rachel wants to respond but Alfie is tugging at her leg,

‘Let’s go and see Joe, Mummy.’

‘All right, darling. Silly old bag,’ mutters Rachel.

Lily giggles. ‘Silly old bag!’

The woman looks around and Rachel smiles trying to look innocent. ‘Bye!’

After a row of ‘sorry’s’ and side-shuffles, she reaches Sue and Christa and their respective sons, Joe and Roger. ‘What did I miss?’ she whisper to Sue.

‘Just a couple of ‘Bobbins’ and an energetic ‘Sailor Went to Sea’.’

The librarian, a bony woman of indeterminate age, is now handing out musical instruments. Alfie shakes his sleigh bell enthusiastically resulting in a glancing blow to Roger’s bemused face.

‘Alfie! Say sorry.’

‘Sorreeee,’ sings Alfie with a grin.

Roger looks unsure, but then joins in as Joe takes this as a cue for an impromptu sword fight.

‘Boys! Stop it!’ commands Lily. ‘I can’t hear the lady.’

The boys comply and Sue smiles, impressed. ‘Got her mother’s way with men, has she?’

‘I wish. Wait until I tell you what Steve’s got lined up for us.’

‘I’m hoping it’s an all expenses paid trip to 5-star luxury beach resort with hot and cold running nannies but from your face, I’m guessing not.’

‘Ok, mums, dads, boys and girls, are we ready to be jingle-jangle scarecrows?’

‘Tell you over a latte,’ says Rachel with a rictus, ready-to-sing grin.

Emma lets Ella take her by the arm like some doddery old dear and they make the short walk to Auntie Mabel’s, the favourite haunt for any day when they’re in need of a consolation doughnut or celebratory bun. Emma has always thought it a shame that there is no Auntie Mabel: The proprietors are Simon and his partner David and they happily dispense cake and wisdom as a favourite auntie would.

‘Ohmygod. David? Look at that face. Bad news, is it sweetie?’ says Simon as the bell above the door signals their entrance.

Emma lets out an enormous sigh in response and nods, adopting the look of a dejected child.

‘Oh my darling, bring those puppy dog eyes here. Uncle Simon will make it better.’ He embraces her and guides them to a table covered with a red check cloth and tomato-shaped ketchup bottle. ‘Here, have Audrey’s table. I’m guessing it’s two caps and two cheesecake?’

‘Simon, you’re as perceptive as a girl and yet such a loss to the female race!’ says Ella.

‘Ah but gorgeous girl, I am seriously high maintenance and would spend much longer in the bathroom than you. Apart from that and the aversion to fannies, you’d turn me in a heartbeat.’

Ella giggles like a schoolgirl. When Emma brought her mother here for lunch, Simon had her eating out of his hand and Diana kept trying to hook her up with David: ‘What a catch he’d be, Em!’ Emma didn’t have the heart to tell her, but luckily Martin came along and she had another prospective son-in-law to fix her hopes on.

‘Are we in full-scale “don’t be nice to me” mode?’ inquires Ella.

Emma looks up at Audrey Hepburn gazing down at them in that ‘yes, I am more beautiful that you could ever hope to be but I won’t make you feel bad about it and could actually be your best friend if we met’ way. ‘I think we are,’ Emma replies.

‘Right,’ says Ella feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of having to insult rather than hug her friend.

David appears with their order. ‘Here we go. I’ve given you a dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream as well. All on the house today girls.’

Ella sees Emma’s lip begin to wobble and ploughs in. ‘Who wants to publish that kind of fiction anyway?’

‘I do,’ says Emma. ‘Can’t you do any better than that?’

‘OK,’ says Ella unsure. ‘Well it won’t make us any money and will just be a pain in the arse to get off the ground.’

‘Now you sound like Joel.’

Ella looks crestfallen. Emma knows she’s just too lovely for this kind of thing. Then she surprises her. ‘Well you’re a crap editor and it will better off at another publisher.’

‘Ella, steady on!’

‘Sorry, you know I’m not much good at this game. How about “the author’s probably a tosser”?’

‘Actually, that might be true.’

Ella raises her eyebrows quizzically.

‘Well there are the rumours that he’s a ladies’ man and he did seem to enjoy watching me squirm during the pitch meeting.’

‘There you go then,’ smiles Ella, pleased to have found a negative for her friend to cling to. ‘That probably explains why he writes about relationships so well.’

‘Yes, all right. Aren’t you supposed to be telling me about how much better off I am without this man and his novel?’

‘Oh yes, sorry. Well it has its flaws.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well the title’s a bit girly.’

‘Girly?’

‘Yeah, I mean how many blokes want to read a book with a flower in the title?’

‘OK, it’s a viewpoint. What else?’

‘Erm, it’s too long?’

‘Too long?’

‘A bit’

‘Do you think Tolstoy would have created one of the masterpieces of fiction if his editor had told him War and Peace was a bit on the lengthy side?’

‘S’pose not. Do you think you would stop feeling sorry for yourself with a gob full of cheesecake?’

‘Good point.’

Despite a noble effort from Ella and two more pieces of cheesecake, Emma returns to the office with a heavy heart and even heavier stomach. Her phone shows two missed calls from Martin. She calls him back. ‘Lo?’ she says in a flat voice.

‘I take it we’re not celebrating this evening.’

‘Oh Martin, it was bloody awful.’

‘You poor thing. Do you want me and Charlie to go round and sort him out for you?’

‘It’s a kind offer but I’d rather have a hug.’

‘Now that won’t be difficult. Listen, I’ll cook you your favourite tonight and we’ll drown our sorrows. Spaghetti Bolognese is it, madam?’

‘Thanks darling. I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

After a morning of trying children, a nagging mother and cheery singing, Rachel is ready for something far stronger than a skinny latte. However, the coffee shop does offer the next best thing with its promise of grown-up interaction and sugar-infused treats for the children to prolong this grown-up interaction. Despite its coffee chain décor of dark wood tables, fat dark brown sofas and sepia pictures of corpulent grinning ‘roasters’ and couples enjoying the coffees of their lives, Rachel has a fondness for this place. She has come here since Will was a baby and knows most of the baristas by sight. Plus they welcome the mothers of the town and don’t balk at mashed muffin or spilt smoothie. They have circled their buggies like wagons, bought their coffees and the children are distracted with cake. Rachel is recounting the details of last night’s argument with Steve.

‘Edinburgh?’

‘I know!’

‘Wow!’

‘I know!’

‘It’s an amazing city, really beautiful.’

‘Yeah, OK but I’m wallowing in self-pity here and you’re supposed to be helping.’

‘Right, sorry. It is bloody far away too.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And the weather’s shit. Al went to uni there. He loved it but always says the weather was appalling.’

‘Precisely.’

Christa laughs. ‘You English and your weather. It’s a national passing of time, isn’t it?’

Rachel smiles. ‘I just don’t want to bring up my kids so far from my family. Sorry, Christa, that was a bit insensitive of me. You must miss your family terribly.’

‘It is OK, Rachel. To be honest, I do not really get on with my family, not since my mother’s sex change.’

Sue nearly chokes on her muffin. ‘Her what?’

‘Ja, she was name of Wilhelmina and now she is just Wilhelm.’

Rachel notices Sue ram the rest of her muffin in her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

‘Mein poor father did not see it coming. I think it was the shock das killed him.’

‘God, that’s awful Christa,’ says Rachel unsure of what else to say.

‘Ja, that and the prostitute he was with the night he died. His herz was never very strong, you see.’

Rachel doesn’t dare make eye contact with Sue and pats Christa’s arm, trying to look earnest.

‘But I’m so sorry Rachel, you were saying about moving away from your family. Are you very close?’

Rachel thinks for a moment. She adores her father, her mother interferes but means well, and Emma is, well, her baby sister.

‘We’re as close as any family and I just don’t really want my kids missing out on the chance of those relationships.’

Sue has regained her composure. ‘What does Steve say?’

‘Well, he, erm,’ Rachel says, ‘actually, I don’t know. I kind of shouted him down and didn’t really ask him.’

‘Sorry, dear friend, I’m as ready as the next militant feminist to blame men for everything from global warming to why the plughole’s always full of hair, but even I think you need to talk this one through properly.’

‘I know, I know. You’re right. What would you do then, oh wise and rational one? Would you up sticks and go?’

‘No comparison, my friend. The family is all tucked up safe and sound in the North. I’d probably jump at the chance to be honest. I mean, London’s all right, but this south-east corner isn’t exactly Hampstead and you don’t really get the benefit of living in the big smoke with kids. I mean, when was the last time you went to the cinema or a gig?’

‘2003. Duran Duran reunion gig. Bloody fantastic. Anyway, I grew up round here and it’s not that bad. I bet more people get mugged in Hampstead.’

‘Maybe. I just don’t know if I want Joe to be a teenager around here. All those knives and gangs. I say think about it. Rationally,’ says Sue with a grin.

‘You’re supposed to tell me to stay,’ says Rachel crestfallen.

‘Rach, you know I’ll probably just take the kids to the pub and the bookies if you ever leave us, but all I’m saying is think about it.’

Christa is looking wistful. ‘It must be nice to have a husband who is there and who values your opinion. My Rudi is never here.’

‘He works for a drinks company, doesn’t he?’

‘Ja, he is Russian and spends a lot of time in Moscow. I think he has a mistress.’

‘Christa, that’s terrible!’

‘Ja, but I have my boy and Rudi would never forget his responsibility to his boy.’ She ruffles Roger’s ginger mop of hair.

‘Now, let’s have another coffee and perhaps some kuchen? My treat,’ Christa smiles broadly as if she has just given them details of a lovely holiday rather than a life in turmoil.

‘That poor woman,’ whispers Rachel while Christa is ordering for them.

‘I know. Fancy have a mum with a willy, called Willy!’

Rachel explodes with laughter. ‘Susan, you are going straight to hell!’

‘Yeah, baby and you’re right behind me!’

Chapter 4

Rachel stacks the plates from lunch into the dishwasher and listens, enjoying the sweet sound of silent children enjoying the chaotic capers of a talking dog and his hippy friends. Will has declared Scooby Doo to be a ‘baby’s programme’, but Rachel has noticed how he grasps one of Lily’s hands when the janitor dressed up as a ghost tries to spook the characters. She looks in on them now; three perfect forms with wide eyes and open mouths, rapt in a state of unbridled joy at the action playing out on screen, barely aware of her presence. Lily glances round.

‘Look, Mummy, Scooby’s going to have another snack!’

‘Oh my goodness! Is he? I bet that’s his third or fourth so far!’ says Rachel.

‘Fifth actually, Mum,’ corrects Will, ever hot on his facts.

‘Well enjoy, my darlings; Mummy is just going to do something on the computer.’

‘Can Alfie look too?’ asks Alfie, his eyes not leaving the screen.

‘In a bit darling, you watch Scooby with Lils and Will.’

Rachel takes her chance and sneaks away, tragically excited about a few precious moments away from motherhood, even if it’s just to pay some bills. She feels a mild thrill as the computer starts up and she connects to the internet, her mind filling with expectation at what she might find. It reaffirms that there is still a world out there, even if she often feels disconnected from it. It seems ridiculous that her house is filled with chaos and yet she feels so lonely and detached from it, like a character watching life play out before her. Rachel stares at the glowing screen, its possibilities welcoming her, inviting her in: Do you feel lucky? Just click here, madam. Not sure what you’re after? Just punch in a couple of words and we’ll do the rest.

She is methodical however and goes straight to her e-mails. She sends her sister a message asking about the book pitch and gets a response almost immediately: ‘Cock-up of the century. Too depressed to speak. Have just eaten my own body weight in cheesecake. How’s Alf?’

Rachel grins. She considers telling Emma about the possible move to Scotland but can’t face it. Instead she writes, ‘No lasting damage. Never mind about the book – bet it was a pile of crap anyway. Let’s go and drown our sorrows soon. R x’

‘Ok. Speak soon. Big hugs to you all. E x’

Rachel looks around her, trying desperately to remember what she is supposed to be doing on the internet. She finds her brain increasingly unable to retain this kind of information, like some kind of leaky bottle. The other day, she had stood in front of the fridge for a good five minutes before she remembered that she was looking for the cheese.

She glances to her right and notices that Steve has left his BlackBerry at home. She looks back at the screen trying to ignore the urge that is starting to overwhelm her. She looks back at Steve’s phone. Its blue flashing light seems to tempt and console her at the same time: Go on, have a look. No one will ever know. It’s not as if you’re going to find anything incriminating anyway.

Rachel shakes her head and turns back to the computer, desperately trying to remember what she was going to search for.

‘Oh bollocks!’ she mutters grabbing Steve’s phone and clicking it into life. She’s not sure why she’s looking or what she’s looking for, but almost without knowing it, she finds herself looking at Steve’s e-mails. One is from someone called Sam and is entitled ‘Coffee’.

Hmm, thinks Rachel, never heard of Sam before. She clicks on the message feeling a bit sordid for checking up on her husband.

Hi Steve, are you still OK for coffee at 11 today? Need to talk about rolling out training on new IT system to your team. Thanks, Sam.

Rachel sighs, feeling guilty for even suspecting infidelity when all Steve is doing is having coffee with some geeky bloke from IT. Suddenly, her eye is caught by an e-mail entitled ‘Edinburgh’ and she has clicked on it before she’s had the chance to question her actions. The message, from Steve’s boss, Doug details, ‘our discussions regarding a possible move to start up a new office’ and was sent a month ago. Rachel is outraged. She reaches for her mobile and punches buttons until she finds Steve’s office number. It clicks straight through to his voicemail. Rachel flings the phone across the room with a growl of anger. Her heart is pounding and she has scared herself by flying off the handle so readily.

‘Mum?’ Lily appears at the door looking concerned, but not surprised by her mother’s outburst

Rachel is caught off guard. ‘Darling, sorry, Mummy was just –’

‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ asks Lily interrupting her.

Rachel is irritated by the question. ‘No bloody idea,’ she says.

Lily looks unimpressed. ‘Don’t swear, Mummy. It’s rude.’

Rachel watches her go, amazed that this bundle of morality is her child. Her mobile chirps into life and she sees the caller ID. She stabs the button and thrusts the handset to her ear, ready for a fight,

‘Rach? Everything OK?’

Steve’s calm voice seems to fuel her anger. ‘No Steve, everything is not OK. Tell me, when exactly did you know about this move to Edinburgh?’

‘Rach, can we talk about this later?’

‘No, I want to talk about it now.’

‘Rachel, I’ve got a meeting and I’m going to be home a bit late. Sorry.’

Rachel continues, not wanting to miss her moment. ‘Over a month. Over a sodding month, Steve, and you didn’t have the balls to tell me.’

‘Look, Rach, I’m sorry, really I am, but is it any wonder I didn’t tell you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Listen to yourself, Rach, any excuse for a row, any chance for a fight and you’re there, aren’t you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Face it Rach, you do have the tendency to be a bit unreasonable. I was just trying to pick the right moment.’

Rachel is struck dumb for the second time that afternoon and furious that Steve is stealing her moment of thunder. ‘Steve?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Piss off.’ Rachel cuts him off before he can respond and immediately phones Sue.

‘Hi, love, are you OK?’

‘No, not really. Steve is being a prick.’

‘Had that rational chat then?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Do you want some company?’

‘Yes please.’

‘OK. I’ll be round in twenty minutes. I hope you’ve got a bottle chilling.’

Rachel stalks downstairs to a peaceful living room with the children slumped coma-like now watching Tom and Jerry. Rachel watches with them for a while. She’d always hated Tom, and found herself as a child, rooting for the cheeky chancer, Jerry. On watching again, she realises that he’s actually a pretentious little tosser and Tom is the eternally tortured soul, whom no one understands.

‘Unbelievable,’ she mutters to herself as she heads to the kitchen. ‘I’m empathising with a cartoon cat now.’ She checks the fridge first for wine and then decides to be an über-mother by preparing something wholesome for the kid’s tea. On further inspection of the contents of the fridge, she decides that another dose of Omega 3 via the medium of fish fingers will do them no harm.

As she scans the surprisingly tidy kitchen, her eye is caught by a picture Will did a month or so ago entitled ‘My Family’. It had made them laugh because he had drawn them all as Power Rangers. Rachel looks closely, smiling to herself, but this time notices the expressions on the faces. He has drawn himself, his siblings and Steve with enormous cartoon grins but she notices that her face is not smiling but slightly turned down. She tries to dismiss it with her usual humour, questioning whether he is a new Leonardo and is seeking to recreate the Mona Lisa, but something about it makes her feel sad and rather lonely. She is interrupted by a polite tap at the front door.

‘You took your time,’ she declares flinging it open.

‘I did?’ says Tom smiling.

Rachel is momentarily flummoxed. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else’

‘Oh.’ Tom looks slightly disappointed and then grins again.

‘No, it’s OK. It’s nice to see you. Are you all right?’

‘Fine thanks, Mrs Summers. I’m just playing Postman Pat. I took this parcel in for you this morning.’

‘Oh, thanks very much.’

‘Where’s Postman Pat?’ Alfie inquires suddenly at Rachel’s legs, peering up at Tom.

‘I’m here and you must be Alf Thompson. Hullo Alf!’ says Tom putting on a Postman Pat Yorkshire accent.

Rachel is impressed. ‘Good knowledge!’

Tom winks at her. ‘My nephews and nieces have trained me well. I can do them all, Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder.’

‘Where’s Jess?’ says Alfie, oblivious to the mild flirting which is going on above his head.

‘She’s at home having a rest. We’ve had a busy morning delivering all these parcels.’

‘Where’s your van?’ continues Alfie.

‘Er, round the corner.’

‘Ha!’ laughs Rachel. ‘You’re rumbled mate!’

Tom laughs. Alfie screws up his face with scepticism and runs back to the living room.

‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Rachel asks, surprising herself.

‘Erm, OK, why not? Only if I’m not in the way though.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can keep us entertained with your repertoire of children’s characters.’

Rachel leads him down to the kitchen just as her mobile starts to ring. It’s Sue: ‘Listen, darl, I’m really sorry. I’m not going to make it. Joe’s just thrown up everywhere. Can we speak tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Don’t worry. I hope he’s better soon.’

‘Take care, lovely, and talk to Steve. He’s one of the good guys, you know.’

‘I know,’ says Rachel feeling suddenly exhausted.

Rachel turns to find Tom filling up two wine glasses from the bottle he’s found in the fridge.

‘Sorry, I took the liberty.’

Rachel accepts the glass feeling suddenly shy. She is relieved when two sets of three-year-old feet come stampeding down the corridor. Alfie and Lily appear in a state of heightened excitement.

‘That’s him,’ says Alfie pointing at Tom.

Lily looks Tom up and down, like an old lady inspecting a joint of meat. ‘Why are boys so stupid? That’s not Postman Pat. It’s Tom from next door.’

It’s getting dark as Emma leaves the office, joining the flow of commuters in a hurry to get home because it’s Monday and no one goes out on a Monday. The sky has that London light-polluted glow which means it never goes completely dark, even at night. It’s chilly and a little rain has dampened the streets. Emma is feeling fed up and ready for a bath, a large glass of wine and the welcoming arms of her fiancé. She feels her phone vibrate in her bag. Fumbling through a mess of keys, lipstick and receipts, she locates it just in time, seeing Martin’s caller ID on the screen.

‘Hi, handsome. I’ve just left and I’m looking forward to my spag bol and maybe an encore of last night’s performance?’ says Emma with a smile.

‘Hey, Em,’ says Martin sounding guilty. ‘Thing is I forgot I’d said I’d play five-a-side football with Charlie. Any chance we could postpone it til tomorrow night?’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Look, Em, I’m really sorry and I’ll come home if you want me to. I know you’ve had a crap day,’ says Martin in a tone that is begging to be let off the hook.

Emma sighs, knowing that she’ll feel mean if she forces the issue. ‘No, it’s OK. You go. I’ll probably just head home and have a bath and an early night. I’m a bit knackered.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Sure you’re sure?’

‘Yes, you loser, now bog off to your little football game,’ laughs Emma.

‘OK, well spag bol tomorrow night and then how about that encore?’ says Martin. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘Apart from the washing-up. I’ll see you later, OK? Love you, Em.’

‘‘Course you do. I’m bloody lovely!’ she declares. She throws the phone into her bag and starts to trudge towards the Tube feeling like a lost soul.

‘Emma! Emma!’ The voice is an unwelcome interruption to her thoughts of home and at first she thinks it’s Joel. She spins round, her face set in a scowl. ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ says the voice’s owner. ‘I come in peace!’

Richard Bennett stands before her, an apologetic smile on his face, his hands held up in surrender. Emma is unsure what to do or say, so he jumps in. ‘Look, we didn’t have the best of starts.’

‘Slight understatement,’ says Emma arms folded. She’s let one man off the hook this evening, Richard Bennett isn’t going to have such an easy time. He looks floored for a moment and Emma would almost feel sorry for him if she weren’t so fed up. ‘Well, if that’s all you came to say, I would really like to go home now please.’

He blocks her path. ‘Look,’ he begins again, ‘come and have a drink with me.’

‘Why?’

Richard considers the question. ‘You want to know why?’

Emma detects that he doesn’t get turned down that often. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Richard’s brown eyes flash with amusement. ‘I’ll give you three reasons actually.’

‘Go on then.’

‘One, I am really very sorry for what happened today. Two, I thought your pitch was wonderful. And three, your boyfriend stood you up so you may as well.’

Emma is gobsmacked. ‘You were spying on me!’

‘No, I just came along at the right moment. So what do you say? One drink. I get to absolve my conscience and you get to spend an hour in the company of a glittering literary talent,’ he says grinning.

She considers her options. One drink can’t hurt and she is intrigued by this man. Even if he has an ego the size of Big Ben, he does write a bloody brilliant book and that’s always of interest to Emma. Plus it’s not as if she’s got any better offers and she could murder a glass of something crisp, dry and white. ‘Oh all right then.’

‘Brilliant,’ says Richard seeming genuinely pleased.

The nearest drinking establishment is one of those central London pubs that would have been lovely if they hadn’t let a eighties wine bar designer get his hands on it. The once dingy brown ceilings and walls, which always remind Emma of pubs she used to go to with her dad, have been replaced with a light airy space and pale wooden floor the size of a football pitch. The bar and surrounding tables and stools seem a little higher off the ground giving the impression that they have wandered into a giant’s kingdom.

‘What can I get you?’ drawls the ponytailed man behind the bar. Garen, as his name badge declares him to be, is surly but smart in his black shirt and silver tie with a Premiership footballer-type gigantic knot. The glass in which he serves Emma’s Sauvignon Blanc is the size of a goldfish bowl and could easily house the whole bottle. Richard’s Czech beer is the colour of gold with a price to match.

‘That’ll be nine eighty thanks guys,’ says Garen with as much cheer as he can muster. Richard waves away Emma’s purse,

‘You can get the next one,’ he says with a grin.

They find a seat and Emma takes a large gulp of wine feeling herself relax a little.

‘So,’ says Richard at last, watching her carefully.

‘So,’ replies Emma.

‘Look, I’m really sorry how things turned out today.’

‘Are you? You seemed to be thoroughly enjoying yourself. As did your cohort.’

‘Oh Joanna’s, you know, an agent. She’s a bit fierce, but she knows what she’s doing.’

‘Oh and what’s that? Eating editors for breakfast?’

‘OK, maybe she’s a bit heavy-handed, but we authors do need a bit of protection from you merciless publishers you know.’

‘Publishers? Merciless? How very dare you. We act with integrity at all times.’ Emma is getting into her stride now and the wine is making her feisty and flirty.

‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever,’ grins Richard making a sign with his fingers.

‘Well I act with integrity.’

He fixes her with a piercing look. ‘Do you know, Emma Darcy? I believe you do.’

It might be the wine or the dodgy lighting, but Richard is starting to remind her of some actor she used to fancy. She pats her cheeks, which are starting to feel warm and fixes him with a look. ‘Then why did you give me such a hard time?’

‘Well you weren’t very nice about me on the train.’

‘I didn’t know who you were then.’

‘And that makes it OK, does it? You listened to the tittle-tattle of others before you made up your own mind. That doesn’t show too much integrity, does it? Shame on you, Emma Darcy,’ he says with a superior smile.

‘OK, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s all lies,’ she says, daring him to contradict her.

‘Complete lies. I am actually very choosy both when it comes to girlfriends and editors.’

‘Well that’s very reassuring.’

‘I’m glad you think so. But enough about me, tell me about you. What’s your favourite book?’

‘One Hundred Years of Solitude,’ says Emma without hesitation.

Richard looks pleased. ‘Mine too.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Why would I do that? It’s not as if I’m trying to get you into bed. You’re attached and I respect that.’

‘Again, very reassuring,’ grins Emma.

Richard gives a little bow. ‘Favourite film?’

‘Il Postino. Yours?’

‘Cinema Paradiso.’

‘That’s definitely in my top five.’ They continue to talk and Emma is amazed at how quickly the evening passes and that she has managed to put away three glasses of wine before she notices the time. Her stomach is growling from emptiness and she is feeling decidedly woozy. ‘I really should be getting home. I was only going to stay for one,’ she says, fumbling for her handbag.

Richard sits back in his chair. ‘I’ve had a great evening, Emma Darcy, and the best is yet to come. Do you want to know the real reason I asked you here tonight?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Well, despite our faltering beginning, I think you understand my novel and you get what I’m trying to say. So, for that reason and the fact that you’ve got really nice legs, I want you to be my editor.’

Emma is blown away and slightly flattered by the leg comment. ‘What about Joanna?’

‘Oh she’ll come round. She’ll still get her fifteen per cent and she needs to keep England’s most promising new novelist happy doesn’t she? So, what do you say?’

Emma hesitates. Something deep inside her brain is trying to warn her off this one, but the wine and the fact that she has decided she quite likes this man makes her say, ‘I’d love to.’

‘That’s wonderful. I’m so happy,’ says Richard grinning. ‘Let’s have champagne to celebrate and if you insist on paying, I’ll accept. That was a joke by the way.’ He reaches for her hand, kissing it in a mock gentlemanly way, looking up at her as he does. Emma’s mouth goes dry. ‘The deal is sealed,’ he says.

Rachel plods down the stairs glancing at the wonky display of what Steve calls their ‘Rogues’ Gallery’ of family photographs. She looks at the pre-children photo of Steve and her at a friend’s wedding and notices, not only that she was half a stone lighter and Steve’s hair was several tones less grey, but that they look happy. It’s not the happiness of stories or romantic endings but the happiness of possibilities, of what might be; that pre-marriage, pre-children happiness, when you still think you might write that novel or open your own business. It’s not that she feels bitter that she hasn’t achieved these things, she’s just resigned to the fact that she probably never will.

Tom appears at the foot of the stairs wearing a pair of pink marigolds and clutching a tea towel. ‘All sorted?’

‘Yes, thanks. Have you done the washing up? You really didn’t have to.’

‘It was my pleasure. Along with my sad devotion to hostas, I also take a tragic delight in cleaning baked bean encrusted pans.’

‘Goodness, I married the wrong man,’ declares Rachel and then wishes she hadn’t.

‘Well, I should let you put your feet up.’

‘You don’t have to go. Steve probably won’t get home until midnight and if you go I’ll only watch some reality floozie’s TV show. If you want to be a friend to me it’s your absolute duty to stay and save me from such purgatory.’ Rachel fears she is sounding a bit needy.

‘Very well, you can save me from another night watching eighties sitcom repeats and I will save you from ITV4,’ says Tom immediately.

‘Deal. I’ll get the wine, you put on some music. Fancy a game of DJs?’

Tom looks bemused.

‘It’s a game Steve and I play. Each person selects a song of choice and the other person judges. Anything too pretentious or cheesy and you face a penalty, usually of a drinking nature.’

‘OK, but I warn you, despite my cuddly bear exterior, I am a bastard when it comes to competition and I rarely play fair.’

‘Hurrah, that’s fighting talk!’

When Rachel returns with the drinks, Tom has selected ‘Major Tom’ by David Bowie and is smiling and singing along.

‘Excellent choice but careful with the karaoke, sunshine, or you’ll be knocking this back’.

Tom laughs. ‘My dad used to sing this to me. He loved music but was completely tone deaf. It’s where I inherited my talent.’

Rachel laughs and is strangely touched by this shared confidence. ‘Do your parents live nearby?’

‘They’re both dead, I’m afraid, and in answer to your question, we grew up in Norfolk.’

‘Sorry to hear that’

‘Ah Norfolk isn’t so bad’

‘No, I meant –’

‘Rachel? That was a joke. It’s OK. It’s few years back now and they were older than your average parents. Dad got cancer and died within a few months and Mum couldn’t really survive without him. She had a heart attack about six months later. My older sister, Viv, and I always say she died of a broken heart.’

‘Oh Tom, that’s so sad.’

‘Yes it is, but they had each other for nearly fifty years and surely it’s better to have that kind of connection with another person?’

‘Better to have lived and loved? I’ve always thought so.’

‘Come on then, your turn. Bowie’s nearly finished. Surely you need to have a tune on or penalties will have to be faced?’

‘I see the man play to win, no? Right, try this one, mate.’ The opening tones of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Lately’ fill the room.

‘Nice move. Although of course, if you had chosen ‘I Just Called’ you would have been downing that bottle.’

‘True, but even geniuses have their off days.’

‘Indeed we do. So how are you then, Mrs Summers?’

Tom is looking earnest now and Rachel isn’t sure if she wants to take the conversation down this route. She’s enjoying a bit of flirtatious banter and doesn’t want to spoil it. She sighs and looks slightly vague. ‘Oh, you know.’

‘Ah, you don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that I really need to talk to Steve and haven’t had the chance.’

‘Hmm, sounds serious.’

‘Well, not as serious as Third World poverty, but important in our lives.’

‘Sorry, Rachel, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Tom looks slightly embarrassed and Rachel feels guilty.

‘It’s OK, really it is. Oh shit I’m making this into more than it is. Right, well Steve can’t be bothered to come home and talk to me properly, so you are officially my designated male for the evening.’ Rachel thinks Tom might be blushing, but she’s had too much wine to stop now. ‘Steve wants us to move to Edinburgh.’

‘Right,’ says Tom as if he’s waiting for the punchline.

‘That’s it.’

‘Right,’ repeats Tom, ‘and that’s bad because –’

‘Because it’s so far away from everything we have here; from my family, my friends. I mean, surely you’d miss me!’

‘Of course, of course,’ says Tom nodding with enthusiasm.

‘And he knew about it over a month ago and didn’t tell me about it.’

‘Ah.’

‘So I’m frankly furious and would like to discuss it with him rationally.’

‘I see.’

‘Well?’

‘What?’

‘You need to tell me why I should go and how great it could be and how unreasonable I’m being.’

‘Do you think you’re being unreasonable?’

Rachel considers this question. She knows the answer. ‘I just wish he could have talked to me about it earlier, discussed it properly, from the beginning. Not waited until it was a done deal.’

‘Well, on behalf of Steve and men everywhere, I would like to apologise for our general crapness. We are weak and feeble beings and essentially simpletons at heart.’

Rachel laughs. ‘OK, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be ranting at you.’

‘It’s OK. I have very broad shoulders.’

Rachel’s mobile starts to ring. ‘It’s Steve.’

‘Look, you go ahead. I’ve got to go on snail patrol anyway. And remember, don’t be too hard on him, he’s just a weak and feeble simpleton.’ Tom squeezes her shoulder and Rachel feels a little jump in the pit of her stomach.

‘Hell-o,’ she says uncertainly into the phone.

‘Rach, look I’m sorry. I should have spoken to you about the move earlier. I know. It’s just that we’re so exhausted and it’s difficult to find the right time with the kids and everything.’

Rachel listens to his voice and watches Tom leave, giving her a little backward glance and mock salute as he leaves.

‘Rach?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Can we start again? Please?’

‘‘kay’

‘I’ve asked your mum and dad to have the kids on Saturday. We can go for lunch and talk it all through properly? OK?’

‘OK,’ she agrees knowing she’s been unreasonable too. ‘Sorry for snooping. I sort of wish I hadn’t but I guess it’s better to have everything out in the open.’

‘I guess. OK, no more secrets and no more snooping. We’re a good team and we need to stick together. Listen, I’ve got about another hour to do here and then I’m coming home. Don’t wait up sweetheart. I love you.’

Rachel can hear him waiting for her reply. ‘I love you too,’ she says and she means it.

Chapter 5

It’s not until Emma has switched on her computer and made herself a coffee, that she notices the bottle of champagne on her desk. ‘We got it!’ shouts the note attached to its front. She races round to Miranda’s office. Digby is there.

‘Ah Emma.’ Emma is almost touched that he’s remembered her name. ‘Congratulations – wonderful news. We must have lunch to celebrate. I’ll get my secretary, er –’

‘Fiona?’

‘Ah yes, Fiona, to arrange. Quite so. Well I must –’

Lose some weight? Find a proper job? Finish my sentences properly? thinks Emma.

‘ – go to a meeting. Yes. Quite so. Well done – again.’ He shambles off.

Miranda sweeps over and folds Emma in a mother-hen embrace. ‘Well done, Emma. Passion never fails eh? At least not with authors.’ She holds Emma at arm’s length, studying her face as if considering a particularly tricky cryptic crossword clue. ‘Richard seems to have taken a shine to you.’

Emma tries to hold her gaze, but fails and pretends to study the photograph on the wall of Miranda as a young editor with Evelyn Waugh.

‘Just be careful, Emma. Creatives can be complex creatures, you know.’

‘I know. I’m just his editor. Strictly professional at all times. How much did we pay in the end?’ asks Emma, changing the subject.

‘Enough, but not as much as Joanna wanted so at least that’s some blessing. Richard is coming in to sign the contract this afternoon. I called The Bookseller and they’re sending a photographer to mark the happy occasion.’

‘Great’

‘See you later then and well done, my dear.’

Emma practically skips back to her desk and is delighted when she bumps into Jacqui, head of publicity and Joel’s sidekick. Emma observes that her scarlet nails are looking particularly talon-like and her pouting lips shine with matching lipstick and gloss.

‘Emma, darrrrling. I hear we got the booook – haauuuw splendid,’ she rasps sounding like the snake from The Jungle Book.

‘Thank you,’ says Emma smiling. Jacqui looks perturbed that she has mistaken her comment for congratulations.

‘We-ell, if yoou’ll excuuse me, I’m just orff to see Jooel.’

‘Oh lovely, I’ll come with you,’ says Emma. Jacqui frowns but says nothing.

Joel’s office is the size of a broom cupboard, but he does have an impressive view over the roofs and occasional spire of central London. Pictures of every kind of motivational speaker and business guru, whose flesh Joel has pressed, hang on his walls. His favourite is the one of Alan Sugar pointing accusingly out of its frame signed with the words ‘You’re bloody fired, Joel mate’. As Jacqui walks in his face lights up and then falls as he sees Emma behind her.

‘Jacqui. Emma.’ The two names are uttered in tones relative to his feelings for each of them.

‘Hi, Joel. I just wanted to check that you’d heard the good news? About Richard?’ asks Emma, grinning shamelessly.

Joel’s face remains fixed in a smile, but his eyes betray panic.

‘Oh, didn’t Digby tell you?’ says Emma without mercy. ‘We got it. Isn’t that fantastic?’

‘Congratulations, Emma. You must be delighted. I suppose Jacqui and I will have to do our best to market the unmarketable, eh?’

Emma is almost impressed by this neat left hook, but nothing can dampen her mood today. ‘I’m sure you will, Joel. See you later,’ she says, skipping back down the corridor like a schoolgirl who’s just got one over on the mean kids.

Diana Darcy looks at herself in the mirror and is satisfied. Despite the onset of grand-motherhood and the advent of her sixties, she senses that she is still a good-looking woman. Her mother taught her that to dress well is to live well, and it is a sentiment she carries with her still. Sometimes, when she is shopping in town or out with the children in the park, she notices the fat people, the unkempt, the careless and their appearance disgusts her.

‘Mum, don’t be such a snob!’ Rachel hisses as her mother wrinkles her nose at another overweight child in a tracksuit getting wedged at the top of a slide.

‘Rachel, dear, it’s just indicative of our society. I read about it in the paper. Overweight mothers breed overweight children. It’s tragic really.’

Diana pats her hair, fixes a bracelet onto her wrist and dabs a little of her perfume behind each ear. She checks her appearance once more, smoothing her skirt and removing a hair from her black cashmere jumper.

‘Ah, my vision, my life.’ Edward appears at the door, bowing in a mock-romantic gesture.

‘You old fool,’ laughs Diana fondly. ‘Right, I’m going to meet daughter number one and those recalcitrant children for coffee. What are your plans?’

‘Oh don’t worry about me. The Telegraph crossword beckons. Do we have any Kit Kats?’

‘No. No chocolate for you, not with your cholesterol,’ she scolds him like a mother with a sixty-two-year-old toddler.

‘Very good ma’am. Anything else ma’am?’

‘Yes. You can stop being cheeky and maybe put in those bulbs? It’s a glorious day. Much too nice to be sitting indoors.’

‘All right, my darling. Have a wonderful time. Send them all my love.’

The phone rings and Diana answers with impatience. ‘Hello?’

‘Diana, darling. It’s Rosie. Are you well? Good, good,’ she continues without waiting for Diana to answer.

‘Rosie, I’m just off out to meet Rachel.’

‘Of course, you run along, darling. I wanted to speak to Teddy anyway.’

Diana balks at Rosie’s use of this name. It’s a vestige of the past, of Edward’s university days, before he knew Diana. She hands the phone to Edward. He looks nonplussed and holds the phone to his ear.

‘Oh Rosie, it’s you. How the devil are you?’

Diana feels suddenly invisible as Edward is lost in conversation with one of his oldest friends. She knows it’s ridiculous to feel jealous after nearly forty years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, but somehow Rosie can provoke this feeling. She has tried to bond with her, but all the time she has this nagging sense that Edward should have married her instead. Rosie has it all; the brains, the career in Fleet Street, the contacts. She’s the mother the girls might have preferred; the one who can get them the jobs, the restaurant bookings and, even now, she’s wooing the grandchildren with trips to the Cbeebies studio and tickets to film premieres. Diana should be grateful and magnanimous, but she feels churlish and undermined.

She rallies herself now, pecking her husband on the cheek, mouthing ‘Be good,’ and sweeping out of the door without a backward glance.

She loves driving into town, finding a parking space and having a potter around the shops before she meets Rachel, who is always late.

‘I’ve got three children to manage, Mother. You’re just one person,’ Rachel observed when her mother brought it up.

‘Rachel, darling, you were never on time before you had the children.’ This is true and Diana was quite pleased by her quick-witted observation, which had made Rachel laugh.

She pulls into the car park situated behind a budget supermarket branch, which Diana can’t bring herself to use. Rachel laughs at her mother’s superciliousness, but Diana knows she is right. She doesn’t expect everywhere to be as nice as Waitrose, but she knows that they keep the lighting dim so people can’t see what they’re buying. Also, the entrance hall smells of urine, which to her mind can never be conducive to a happy shopping experience.

Diana finds a space by the exit. She is just placing a ticket on her windscreen when she hears two squeaky voices: ‘Granny, Granny, Granny!’ Diana turns at the cacophony of excited greetings to see Lily and Alfie waving frantically from their pushchair as a weary-looking Rachel plods across the car park towards her.

‘Rachel, you’re on time,’ she says with a wry smile.

Rachel rolls her eyes. ‘And good morning to you too, Mother.’

‘Just my little joke,’ trills Diana dismissively. She has never found smalltalk easy, particularly with Rachel, who often seems so quick to take offence. ‘Now who wants some cake?’

‘Meeeeee!’ chorus Alfie and Lily with glee.

They reach the coffee shop and Diana leads the children to a table, while Rachel places their order. Alfie and Lily scramble onto the furniture and Diana sinks into an armchair blinking at the sunshine, which is filtering in through the window. She looks over at her daughter and notices how tired she is looking. Her shoulders are hunched, as if she’s doing battle with life, not like the cocky teenager who used to give her so much trouble.

‘Here we are.’ Rachel puts down the tray with care just as Alfie kicks the table spilling milk from the too-full cups.

‘Alfie!’ shouts Rachel with more force than she intends. Two middle-aged women look over unimpressed.

‘It’s all right. There’s no use crying over spilt milk, as my mother would say,’ declares Diana, smiling at the women, trying to make up for Rachel’s outburst.

Irritated, Rachel hacks at a chocolate muffin with her teaspoon, setting the portions in front of the children, who fall on it like hungry lion cubs.

Diana sips her coffee and wrinkles her nose. ‘Too hot,’ she complains.

Rachel remains silent, but can feel her annoyance increasing by the second. Most people could make comments like this, but with her mother the negativity is suffocating. Rachel can’t remember the last time Diana paid a compliment. She takes a sip of her own coffee, burning the roof of her mouth, but refusing to acknowledge it.

‘I tell you what you should do,’ says her mother without any small talk, ‘you should bring the children over one day and treat yourself to a trip to the hairdresser’s’

‘Why? What’s wrong with my hair?’ says Rachel immediately offended.

‘Nothing, darling, nothing. It just looks as if it could do with a cut. You could make a day of it. Go to Bluewater, have some lunch and get yourself some new clothes.’ This body blow is dealt with a quizzical look at Rachel’s baggy grey jumper.

‘Look, Mum, I know you’re trying to be nice, but you sound like you’re criticising me.’

‘Well, if you don’t want to.’

‘No, I’d love to, really. Thank you.’ Rachel doesn’t have the energy for this conversation today.

‘So,’ says Diana, changing the subject, ‘how is my favourite son-in-law?’

Rachel’s reply is curt: ‘Your favourite son-in-law wants to move us to Edinburgh as it happens.’

‘What?’

‘That’s right. He wants your grandchildren to grow up on a diet of fried Mars Bars and in a climate more akin to the North Pole.’

‘Oh darling, but you can’t go, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Mum, we need to talk about it. Are you still OK to have the children this weekend?’

‘Of course. Oh Rachel, we’d never see you.’

‘I know, I know. Oh Mum, I just don’t know what to do any more.’ The tears spring easily into Rachel’s eyes and Diana is suddenly lost.

‘Oh look darling, there, there.’ She pats Rachel’s hand and smiles with embarrassment at the women on the next table, who are looking over nosily. ‘Come on, don’t cry. I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

Lily and Alfie have noticed their mother’s tears and Alfie starts to cry as well, his face a mess of chocolate muffin and snot. Lily offers her arms to her mother and scolds him. ‘Stop it, Alfie, and give Mummy a cuddle.’

Rachel can’t believe that her children are the ones comforting her instead of her mother. She wonders at how they must appear; her mother looking awkward and embarrassed and her, a crumpled mess with two small children covering her in sticky kisses and fierce little hugs.

Miranda’s PA, Andrea, has dressed one end of the boardroom with fresh flowers and bottles of Moët. At the opposite end, a table is lined with chairs, as if Allen Chandler is about to announce a major football signing or host the ratification of an international treaty. Miranda has e-mailed the company to make sure that Richard is welcomed properly into the fold and the designers, always first at the mention of free booze and Twiglets, are already gathering, making the place look cool and a little untidy.

When Joanna and Richard enter the room, the atmosphere prickles with excitement as if a couple of celebrities have just walked in. The assembled company part to make way for them and Emma notices a lot of the females nudging each other as they clock Richard who, with his floppy schoolboy hair and grinning demeanour, is looking undeniably handsome.

Ella sidles up to her friend and whispers in her ear. ‘Well, isn’t he just the dish of the day?’

‘Can’t say I’d noticed,’ smiles Emma.

‘Liar.’

Miranda is a stickler for punctuality, so the clock has only just struck three o’clock when she booms out her welcome: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to be able to gather you together today to witness a truly exciting event. As most of you will know, we have been working tirelessly to lure Richard to Allen Chandler. I am delighted to announce that he has accepted our offer. Richard, we normally get our authors to sign in blood but for you we will make an exception. Would you do the honours?’

A cheer goes up and Richard bows to the crowd, who laugh. The contract is signed and the photographer ushers Richard and Miranda into the shot. Emma is mortified when Miranda drags her into the frame and is amused to see Jacqui muscling in on the action too. Emma hears her spelling her name to the journalist.

‘That’s Moss, as in Kate Moss. No, no relation but thank you, people often wonder if she’s my sister.’

Emma watches as Joanna whisks Richard over to meet Digby, who embraces him tightly, much to Richard’s surprise. She is feeling a little light-headed due to a combination of early-afternoon champagne and last night’s excesses. She wanders over to the window to take in the view. She is suddenly aware of someone standing next to her and turns to find Richard at her side.

‘Hello, Emma Darcy,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hello, Richard Bennett. Welcome to the family. I see you’ve met Digby.’

Richard chuckles. ‘It was like being hugged by a bear. He seems like a decent chap.’

‘He is. Actually most people here are.’

‘Miranda terrifies me.’

‘So she should.’

‘And what about you, Emma Darcy? Do I need to be scared of you?’

Emma looks him in the eye. ‘Petrified.’

‘That’s what I thought. Well, I shall make sure I wear my thickest body armour to all our meetings. When is our first meeting by the way?’

‘How are you fixed next Monday? I thought we could meet at Kew seeing as it’s the backdrop for so much of the book.’

‘Sounds perfect. By the way, I just wanted to say what a fantastic time I had last night. I think we’re going to work really well together, don’t you?’

She looks up at him. He really is very attractive, just her type in many ways and if she were single then she’d probably be having some pretty inappropriate thoughts about him. As it is, she intends to just enjoy the ride. ‘Yes I do as a matter of fact.’

‘Right, well I have to be somewhere. I’ll see you on Monday. Looking forward to it.’ He kisses her on the cheek before he leaves.

‘Lucky cow,’ says Ella, nudging her friend as they watch him disappear down the corridor.

‘I know,’ laughs Emma, putting an arm around her. ‘I’m a very lucky girl indeed.’

Martin looks at the table and feels pleased with his efforts.

‘Chicks love candles and flowers. Chuck in the champagne and you’ve got yourself a night to remember,’ says Martin’s best friend, Charlie, helping himself to another chocolate digestive.

‘Yes, thank you, mate. With comments like that, I’m starting to feel sorry for Stacey. Now, isn’t it time you buggered off?’

‘I’ll have you know, my Stacey is very well looked after, thank you,’ says Charlie patting his groin.

Martin groans and rolls his eyes. ‘They say romance is dead and now I see they’re not wrong.’

‘Oi, I’m romantic! I’m always buying Stace flowers.’

‘Erm, I don’t think the ones with the orange discount stickers count, mate.’

Charlie shrugs. ‘They’re still flowers, aren’t they? Only mugs pay full price.’

‘Of course they do, Charles. Now, don’t you have a home to go to? Emma’s going to be back soon,’ says Martin, rearranging the flowers on the table like a professional.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. Muff before mates. I know.’

Martin ignores him. ‘See you later, Charlie,’ he says, wresting the biscuit tin from his grasp.

‘See you later, geeze,’ says Charlie, heading for the door.

Martin looks at the table again and checks his watch. Emma should be home in around half an hour so he turns on the oven and goes upstairs to the spare room to print out the details of the weekend away he is planning. He sits back in his office chair and feels happy. Charlie may mock, but he and Stacey are practically married and soon Martin and Emma will be settled too. He gathers up the printed pages and practically skips downstairs as he hears Emma’s key in the door.

‘Well, if it isn’t the sexiest, cleverest, most beautiful editor in the world.’ Martin folds her in his arms and kisses her on the mouth.

‘Mmm, I should almost fail to get a book and then succeed in getting a book more often,’ she says, pulling him towards her. ‘Shall we just skip the dinner and go straight onto pudding?’

‘All in good time, my little sexpot. I have many surprises for you first. Come in, come in.’ He leads her to the kitchen. ‘Look! I bring you good things to eat and flowers, candles and –’ he pulls open the fridge, swiping out a bottle, ‘champagn-a!’ he says in a mock-Italian accent.

Emma’s stomach does a little flip at the thought of her third dose of champagne in less than twenty-four hours but is touched by his kindness. ‘Thank you darling.’

‘And for my final trick –’ continues Martin, fanning out some printed pages in front of Emma like a magician. ‘Ta-da!’

Emma studies them. ‘What’s this? Wow! The Clevedon? For this weekend? That’s amazing. You spoil me!’ she cries, wrapping her arms round his neck.

‘Well, you deserve it,’ says Martin, stroking her face and kissing her tenderly. ‘I love you so much, Em. Now, sit down. Chef Love has a feast to prepare and you, my darling, have champagne to drink.’

Emma sits back in the comfy kitchen chair, propped up with mismatched cushions. She kicks off her shoes and accepts the glass of champagne Martin has poured for her.

‘Here’s to you, Emma Darcy, editor-extraordinaire. Congratulations.’

They knock their glasses together and Martin strides over to the work surface to check on the bubbling pot of bolognese. He lifts the lid and scoops up a spoonful, blowing it before taking a tentative taste. ‘Ooh, hot, hot, but oh so good,’ he grins. Emma laughs and sips her champagne feeling cosy.

‘So, who did you end up drowning your sorrows with last night?’ asks Martin.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, when I last spoke to you, you were on your way home, but you sent me a text at about ten telling me not to wait up.’

The lie is out of Emma’s mouth before she has a chance to stop it. ‘Oh, it was just Ella. We were going to go for one and ended up staying for more. How was the match?’ she asks, changing the subject.

‘It was great. I scored a hat trick,’ grins Martin proudly. ‘I’m top goal-scorer this season. Expecting an England call-up any day.’

‘I’m proud of you, darling. Hopefully that means I’ll get to give up this publishing lark and hang out with Coleen Rooney,’ laughs Emma as the phone rings. She picks it up and hears Martin’s mother’s voice.

‘Emma?’

‘Hello, Daphne. How are you?’ Emma has an uneasy relationship with her mother-in-law to be. She’s never been anything less than civil, but Emma knows she doesn’t really like her. It’s partly due to the fact that Martin is an only child and she’s fiercely over-protective, but she also once overheard her remarking to a neighbour that Emma was a ‘flibbertigibbet’. Rachel had snorted with laughter. ‘I’d take that as a compliment, sis. You should hear what Steve’s mum calls me.’ Emma knows she’s right but does want to get along with her prospective mother-in-law and she knows she tries too hard.

‘Well, I can’t lie Emma. I’ve had the most terrible bowel problems of late.’

Emma sits eyes-wide listening to Daphne’s very detailed descriptions. She does her best to avoid looking at Martin, who has picked up the gist of the conversation and is doing his best to make her laugh.

‘Well, that must be terrible,’ says Emma, biting her hand to stop herself from giggling. ‘I had no idea it could come out that colour.’ Martin mimics someone sitting on the toilet and Emma sticks two fingers up at him.

‘So, are you looking forward to the weekend?’ says Daphne abruptly changing tack.

‘Er, yes. Actually, I only just found out about it myself,’ she replies slightly annoyed that she wasn’t the first woman in Martin’s life to know.

‘Oh good, because we’re so looking forward to seeing you.’

Emma is confused and then notices that Martin is looking sheepish. She glances again at the hotel booking, realising that it’s just around the corner from his parents’ house. Daphne is twittering on about seeing her engagement ring and how much they are looking forward to her becoming their daughter-in-law.

‘Yes, we’re really looking forward to seeing you too. Martin’s just made me a lovely dinner, so shall I get him to call you later?’ says Emma eventually. She replaces the phone, fixing Martin with a look.

‘OK Em, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you and we’ll only need to pop round for half an hour or so.’

‘It’s OK,’ says Emma pecking him on the cheek. ‘It’s probably a good idea. Kill two birds and all that.’ She takes another sip of her champagne. ‘Now, where’s this dinner you’ve been promising me?’

Chapter 6

Rachel watches Will disappear in a flurry of seven-year-olds. He looks small and even though she knows he doesn’t give their partings a second thought, she still feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about him growing up. She turns away quickly, trying to avoid conversation with the other mothers, but fails.

‘Rachel! Hi!’ It’s Verity, the toothy, overly keen year two PTA representative. Rachel has made it her life’s work to avoid people with the word ‘representative’ in their title. Today she is particularly keen to be on her way as Steve is starting work late so that he can drop Lily and Alfie at pre-school. Rachel is eager to enjoy some quality time with this week’s Grazia and a skinny latte.

‘Rachel,’ says Verity again with a sincere smile, the ‘like me, like me!’ vibes oozing from every pore. ‘I just happened to notice that you hadn’t signed up to help at our annual Nearly New Sale.’

Rachel’s heart sinks. It’s not that she objects to helping at school events, it’s just that socialising with the school committee members is more competitive than the Olympics. Last term, she had nearly come to blows with another mother when she suggested that they buy some cheap costumes for the end of term production from the pound shop. The mother had told Rachel that she was ‘creatively repressed’ and ‘morally corrupt’ for not making Will’s crab outfit herself. Rachel had then spent a miserable weekend constructing a papier-mâché crustacean that Will had refused to wear. Since that day, Rachel had vowed never to let middle-class guilt get the better of her again.

‘Oh sorry, I didn’t see the letter home. When is it?’

‘It’s on Saturday.’

‘Oh, we’re busy, we have a family do,’ says Rachel too quickly.

‘Week,’ finishes Verity.

‘Ahh, I think we might have something on that day too,’ she says knowing she has been rumbled.

‘Really?’ says Verity her tone changing, ‘because it would be a shame if people didn’t make the effort for their child’s school, don’t you think?’

‘Erm, sorry, Verity, I really have to go.’

‘Fine, Rachel, that’s fine. Just don’t expect to be voted onto the school committee. Ever.’ She delivers this final utterance like a judge who has just issued the death penalty.

‘Fingers crossed,’ mutters Rachel and scoots out of the school gates. Her mobile rings. It’s Emma.

‘Tartface! What news?’

‘We got the book!’

‘You are kidding me? A thicky like you?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Seriously little sis, well done. That’s very good news. When do we celebrate? I could do with a night out.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about drinks tomorrow? At the Pickled Pig?’

‘OK, great. You can buy me a drink and tell me how clever I am.’

‘Don’t push it. See you around eight.’

Emma tosses her phone into her bag and returns to the manuscript before her. She really wants to get started on The Red Orchid, but has promised that she’ll wait until Miranda has read it through first. Saskia, the brilliant but slightly fluffy fiction designer, pokes her head over her pod.

‘Hieeeeee!’

‘Hello, Saskia.’

‘Coming to Joely-Joel’s meeting?’

‘What meeting is that? The one where he patronises everyone in sight?’

‘Noooooooooooo sill-ee!’ trills Saskia. ‘It’s our monthly review of all the scrummy books coming up in the next three months,’ she adds cheerfully, curling her hair around her fingers in the manner of a six-year-old. In fact, today she is dressed just like a six-year-old apart from the inappropriate T-shirt with the slogan ‘Spank Me Hard’. This is teamed with a red check puffball skirt, blue and green striped legwarmers and silver ballet pumps. Her hair is pulled into two bunches like a Pekinese dog’s. It probably looks very hip, but Emma shudders at the sight of her and the dawning realisation that her opinions are starting to align themselves with those of her mother.

The prospect of a meeting in the company of Poochy Poo and marketing’s answer to Goebbels makes Emma want to quit her job and do something more fulfilling, like treating sewage. She takes heart at the fact that Philippa will be there and although she never gets a word in because of her fool of a boss, she’s a silent, eyebrow-raising ally of sorts. When Emma reaches the meeting room, Joel is sitting at the head of the long table talking in a loud voice on his mobile.

‘Yep, yep, will do, OK, of course I can sort it. Speak soon, boss. Bye!’

Emma plonks herself next to Philippa.

‘On the phone to his mother again?’ she whispers with a wink. Philippa grins.

Saskia bounces in, her arms full of print-outs which she always refers to as her ‘children’. She takes her seat and Joel begins.

‘So the purpose of today is to review the past three months, look forward to the next three, see where we are and where we want to be. OK, people?’

No one speaks so Joel continues. ‘So, Emma. Talk us through the latest on these.’ He fans out copies of a crime series set in Cornwall written by an eighty-year-old female author. Joel doesn’t wait for her to speak. ‘You see, I think we should either bin these or look to re-jacket. Book Data seems to indicate around a twenty per cent sell-through, which is very poor.’

‘I don’t think three months of sales is enough to say one way or the other. I think we should publish at least six before we take any kind of decision,’ says Emma irritated.

‘Mmm,’ says Joel not listening. ‘Saskia has kindly mocked up some roughs. A bit less Miss Read and a bit more ‘read me’,’ he snorts vastly amused by his own joke. Philippa winces.

Saskia’s covers are horrific depictions of severed limbs, mutilated heads and general carnage.

‘Joel,’ says Emma, trying to remain calm, ‘the author is a lovely lady called Queenie and the books are really more Miss Marple than Slasher Central. I think we should continue as we are for the time being.’

Joel is riled. ‘Well, I think Digby would disagree.’

‘Well, Digby isn’t Queenie’s editor and while I am tasked with producing books that are fit for publication, I will have the ultimate say on covers, OK?’

‘Like I say, I think Digby might have something to say.’

‘And so might Miranda,’ retorts Emma aware that they are starting to sound like five-year-olds.

Philippa and Saskia shift uncomfortably in their seats. The rest of the meeting passes without further confrontation, but beneath it all Emma is seething.

‘I mean, who does he think he is?’ she complains to Ella on returning to her desk.

A beautiful array of pink and white lilies is waiting for her. She picks up the card. They’re from her godmother, Rosie: ‘Clever girl. Well done.’ Her phone rings. She picks it up smiling. ‘Hello-oo?’

‘Emma? It’s Mummy. You sound pleased with yourself.’

‘I am, thanks, Mum. Auntie Rosie just sent me the most gorgeous flowers.’

‘Oh.’ Her mother sounds perplexed. ‘Did I miss something?’

‘Oh sorry, I forgot to tell you. We got that book I was telling you about.’

‘Oh. Good. Well done. It’s a shame you didn’t think to tell us before your godmother. We’re only your parents.’

‘Sorry, Mum, and I didn’t tell Rosie. She must have heard. You know what she’s like.’

‘Yes I do. Anyway, Emma, Rachel and I are going to take you dress-shopping. How about this Saturday?’

‘Sorry, I can’t do this Saturday. Martin’s whisking me away for the weekend.’

‘Oh. Right. Is there anything else you haven’t told us? You’re not emigrating like your sister are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh well at least Rachel tells us things first. Your brother-in-law is planning to move them all to Scotland.’

‘What?’

‘Exactly. So when you’ve finished living your life in isolation from your family, maybe we could set a date to look for wedding dresses?’

‘Don’t be like that, Mum. Look, I’ll take a day off. Maybe Dad can look after the kids and we can have a girly day with Rach?’

Diana doesn’t want to give in, but Emma can tell she’s softening. ‘All right, let’s say Monday week.’

‘Perfect. Wow, that’s big news about Rachel. I’m seeing her tomorrow and I thought there was something up.’

‘Yes well, maybe you can try talking some sense into her. Goodness only knows I’ve tried.’

Rachel takes a sip from her Styrofoam™ cup of coffee and does a quick head count. Lily and Alfie are engaged in a stand-off with an older boy on the play-bus, while Will is scaling the rope climbing frame, SAS-style. She sees Christa and Roger and waves. Roger jumps out of his pushchair with great excitement and runs over to join Lily and Alfie.

‘Halloo,’ cries Christa kissing Rachel on both cheeks. ‘Could Sue not make it?’

‘Joe’s still poorly. How are you?’

‘Good, danke.’

‘Coffee?’ asks Rachel finishing her first and ready for another.

‘Nein danke, your English coffee tastes like scheisse.’

Rachel laughs. ‘It’s actually Nescafé which I believe is a Swiss company?’ she says with a grin.

‘Ja perhaps, but they are not as bad as your Pot Noodles, hey?

‘Touché! So, how are things with you?’ asks Rachel as they find a bench.

‘Fine. I think you and Sue were perhaps a little shocked by the things I told you on Monday, yes?’

‘It does sound like you’ve got a lot on your plate.’

Christa laughs. ‘I love you English and your metaphors. My life is really not so bad. Rudi is a good man really. He looks after us. We are going to have a wonderful family holiday next month.’

‘Oh lovely. Where are you going?’ asks Rachel thinking of Disneyland or a villa in Spain.

‘We are sehr lucky as that lovely Cowell man is letting us use his yacht.’

Rachel is amazed. ‘As in Simon Cowell?’

‘Nein!’ Christa snorts as if this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. ‘Nein, silly, his brother, Nicholas. He is not nearly as rich. He only has one yacht while Simon has, I think, six or seven.’

‘Well, that will be fantastic.’

‘Ja, for sure. You should come!’

‘Oh I don’t think so.’

‘Ja! It would be so much fun. There are always many famous people dropping in. Last year Paris Hilton was there and Bruce Willis. Paris was so sweet with Roger and Bruce is lovely. He told me to call him if Rudi and I ever split up.’

‘Really?’ says Rachel, wishing that Sue was there.

‘Well, you know. Have a think about it. Talk to Dave,’ she adds.

‘Steve,’ corrects Rachel.

‘Yes, him too. Roger!’

Christa strides off to rescue her bilious-looking son from the roundabout, which Lily and Alfie have been spinning a little too fast.

‘Mum! Look at me!’

Rachel looks over to see Will at the top of the climbing frame.

‘Well done, Will. Clever boy.’

She catches sight of Verity talking with intensity to another mother. She lifts her hand to wave, but Verity looks away, pretending not to see her. Rachel sighs as her phone beeps with a text. It’s Steve: ‘Dn’t b md bt gt 2 wrk l8 agn. Lkng 4wrd 2 w/e. Love u, sx’

Rachel punches a reply ‘OK. Going fr drnks wth Em 2mrrw.Pls cn u b on time, r’

Steve answers: ‘Wll do my bst. C u l8tr. x’

Rachel throws her phone into her bag and calls to the children. ‘Right who wants pizza? Mummy’s treat!’

Richard Bennett is feeling smug as he strides into the entrance hall of the Battersea riverside apartments. The lobby is tastefully decorated with modern-looking canvasses and the discreet lighting gives a warm glow that says ‘you really want to live here’. Richard breathes in the aroma of a new and untouched world, a million miles away from the piss and vomit stench of his East Dulwich flat’s corridor.

‘Mr Bennett?’

He turns smiling, ready with effortless charm. He is delighted by the form and features of the person before him. She holds out a perfectly manicured, soft hand.

‘Sophie Chancellor. Delighted to meet you. I think you’ll like what I’m about to show you,’ she adds with mild innuendo.

‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ Richard replies, knowing that this sounds corny, but also knowing that he is talking to a casual acquaintance. He has nothing to lose.

‘Please follow me.’

He follows her into the lift, enjoying a shameless view of Sophie’s perfectly sculpted behind, enveloped as it is in an hourglass-tight, knee-length skirt. As they travel to the ninth floor, Richard observes the curve of her neck and notices her checking him with a coy, sexy smile. They emerge from the lift and she leads him to the end of a corridor, then takes a sharp right, stopping at door number 915.

‘Here we are. Home,’ she says with a smile as she turns the key.

Richard pushes the door and is impressed. Every corner of the flat screams ‘I’m modern, I’m hip. You want me.’ From the granite breakfast bar and six-ring stove to the Bose stereo which blinks into life at the flick of a switch, it is everything Richard has longed for. All the endless research trips, the hours spent doing time at the British Library and the years writing, getting rejected, rewriting and then getting accepted as a proper writer, have been worth it. Richard turns towards the French windows that flank one side of the apartment and is breathless at the view. London in all its mish-mashed glory stretches before him looking wonderful. Richard turns to Sophie who is watching him carefully, allowing him to take in his surroundings.

Good at her job and probably a good shag too, he thinks.

‘You like?’ she asks in a teasing voice.

‘I do, but aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You haven’t shown me the bedroom.’

Sophie smiles and it’s the smile of someone who loves her job, who is control of her life and who knows how to play a man. She unbuttons her blouse, slips off her skirt and stands before him looking gorgeous in black lacy underwear and as Richard correctly suspects, stockings and suspenders. Even Richard is speechless, not quite believing how his day and his life are turning out. Sophie walks down the corridor glancing backwards and beckoning to him. Richard grins and shakes his head before following her to the bedroom.

The Pickled Pig represents the waning soul of twenty-first-century public houses the country over. It once served this corner of southeast London as a cinema until the big cinema companies invented places called multiplexes and it went out of business. It then became a pub and got swallowed up by one of the big pub companies. This caused the locals to moan until they realised that the beer was actually a lot cheaper than before.

Emma is the first to arrive and selects a pint of local beer before finding a booth, far away enough from the bar to be quiet, but close enough to the action to get a good view of the locals, many of whom have been here since opening time. She studies the black and white photographs on the wall depicting old Penge and a man named Angry Tony who made his living selling potatoes and bizarrely, coffins. The evening is grey and wet and she sees Rachel push her way through the swing doors and shake off her umbrella.

‘Man, it’s chucking it down,’ she declares as she locates Emma. ‘Right, what are we drinking?’

‘Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you too. It’s called Stinky Pete and it’s quite good. Try it.’

Rachel takes a gulp and licks her lips,

‘Hmm, not bad. Want another?’

‘No, I’m fine for now thanks.’

Rachel returns minutes later with her drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts.

‘Kids all tucked up?’

‘Yeah, but Steve still isn’t home, so –’

‘You left Will in charge?’

Rachel snorts. ‘Don’t be daft, Lily’s much more responsible! No, Tom is babysitting until Steve gets home.’

‘Tom?’

‘Our next-door neighbour.’

‘Oh, the dishy one.’

Rachel is surprised that she and her sister obviously have similar taste. ‘D’you think?’

‘Oh yeah, bit pudgy, but very cute. Like Russell Crowe.’

‘Steady on, he’s hardly a gladiator!’

‘Oh, so you have checked him out then?’ Emma teases.

‘So what if I have. I am a respectable married lady so it’s fine to look as long as you don’t touch,’ says Rachel in a superior tone.

‘I agree with the married bit,’ laughs Emma. Rachel flicks her sister the V-sign. ‘Anyway, sister dearest, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re moving to Scotland?’

‘Aha, you’ve spoken to mother then?’

‘Yes but still, Rach, I’m your sister. You could have told me.’

‘Why do you think we’re having this drink? I wanted to tell you face to face. Don’t be so sensitive.’

Emma is irritated by the brush-off, but is interrupted by Rachel’s phone. Rachel glances at the caller ID and rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘Steve’ as she answers with a curt ‘Hi?’ Steve obviously has a lot to say and Emma watches Rachel’s face as her look transforms from one of mild irritation to impatient anger. Emma waits for the backlash and isn’t disappointed.

‘No, Steve, you bloody listen. You said you’d be home in time and you weren’t. Tom offered and I actually do think it’s OK to leave our children with him. He’s been more supportive than you have lately. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to hang up and moan to my sister about you.’ She punches the end call button with a defiant ‘Tosser!’

Emma looks at her sister. ‘You’re really very cross, aren’t you?’

‘D’you think?’ says Rachel. ‘First he wants to move us up north, then I find out he’d known for ages and now he’s playing the alpha-male working all bloody hours while my brain is dissolving due to lack of proper use. I dunno, Em, sometimes I just want to walk out the door and never come back.’

Emma is a little shocked by the outburst. She knows Rachel can fly off the handle and she knows she’s found it hard to adjust to life as a stay-at-home mum, but she’s never heard her talk like this before. Giving up is not something the Darcy sisters do and she’s never seen her as angry as this with Steve either. She’d always had them down as rock-solid and immune to the kind of vitriol she’s seen other couples develop after so many years and so many children. She knows better than to wind up her sister any further and decides that softly, softly might be the way to go.

‘Come on, Rach, you don’t mean that.’

‘Don’t I? Oh God, Em, I don’t know what I mean these days.’

‘Have you tried talking to Steve?’

Rachel looks at Emma as if she’s just arrived from Planet Stupid. ‘Of course I’ve tried talking to him. All I ever bloody do these days is try to talk to my husband, but he’s never bloody there!’

Emma sees the error she’s made but presses on like a woman on a suicide mission. ‘Well, I can babysit one night if you want to go out, you know, to talk.’

Rachel realises she’s been ranting and looks at her baby sister. Emma’s face is twisted with concern and Rachel sees a shadow of the four-year-old agreeing to let Rachel cut her hair, just to please her. Their mother had not been amused when she’d come upstairs to find her youngest daughter resembling a child with alopecia, especially when Rachel had tried to clarify the situation with the words ‘It just fell out, honest.’

Rachel smiles at the memory and at her sister. ‘Thanks, Em,’ she says with as much softness as she can muster. ‘I think Mum and Dad are having the kids at the weekend so we can try and sort it all out. Don’t worry, little sis, I’m just knackered, OK?’ Emma looks relieved. ‘So what have you been up to? Tell me about this gorgeous new author of yours. I presume he is gorgeous? Congrats on getting the book by the way. Sorry, should have said that before’. She knocks her pint glass against Emma’s in a feeble toast.

‘He’s just a nice bloke who’s written a really good book.’

‘Wow, Em, sounds amazing,’ says Rachel, feigning a yawn. ‘Let’s hope they don’t get you to write the marketing copy.’

‘Ha, ha,’ says Emma. ‘Oh by the way, I think Mum’s planning a dress-shopping trip. Are you up for it?’

‘I’m always up for it! Now drink up, little sis, it’s your round!’ By closing time, they have both drunk at least one pint more than is good for them, but Rachel doesn’t want to go home.

‘Let’s go for a curry!’

Emma hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and the thought fills her with an overpowering hunger bordering on nausea, but she agrees. They stagger out into the drizzly night and across the road to the pink neon-lit Bombay Fantasy. The waiters’ smiles are patient and accommodating and they are quickly led to an enormous table adjacent to the only other diners: three sweaty city boys, their faces red from alcohol with shirtsleeves rolled up and ties abandoned. Their ringleader, a mid-thirties chancer with a receding hairline and an air of being funnier than he is, leers towards them: ‘All right ladies?’

‘All right?’ Rachel replies with bravado.

‘So what are two gorgeous ladies like yourselves doing out alone?’

Rachel is in her element. ‘Trying to avoid cretinous men, but failing miserably,’ she retorts fixing him with a disappointed look.

Chancer likes this response. ‘Ha ha, get you. Are you lesbians then?’ he asks, as if this could be the only explanation for Rachel’s sarcasm.

Emma matches her sister’s look. ‘We’re sisters, half-wit.’

‘Even better! How about we finish up here and you can shake your booties back at my gaff?’ says Chancer nudging his friends.

Emma is about to open her mouth but Rachel holds up her hand to stop her. ‘We-ell,’ she purrs, ‘that sounds like a very tempting offer. Are you going to buy us dinner then?’

Chancer grins. ‘Of course.’

‘Why don’t we get it to take away?’ adds Rachel provocatively.

‘Wahey!’ Chancer and his monkeys whoop in agreement.

Emma pretends to drop her napkin and hisses, ‘Rachel!’

Rachel bobs her head under the table. ‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting us a free takeaway. Trust me.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘Just meet me by the door in five minutes.’

They place their order. Rachel makes her excuses and goes to the toilet, flashing her cleavage as she passes the city boys, who wolf-whistle in appreciation. Emma attempts a smile and Chancer’s weasly, greasy-haired friend takes this as a come-on. ‘I think you’re in there, Jez,’ says Chancer with a nudge

Emma feels as if she might vomit and lurches to her feet. ‘I just need to go and check on my sister.’

‘You do that, darling.’

Rachel is talking to the waiter as Emma staggers up. ‘So those lovely men over there have kindly agreed to pay for our dinner. Thanks so much. Let’s go, Em.’

They make for the door.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re playing at?’ Chancer is on his feet now.

‘Run for it!’

Rachel grabs Emma’s hand and they sprint onto a bus that has just pulled into its stop.

‘You slags!’ shouts Chancer after them.

Rachel and Emma collapse onto the back seats and Rachel waves and blows kisses at their hapless pursuer, who is being ushered back into the restaurant by two burly Indian waiters, keen to obtain payment. The bus speeds off down the road leaving the city boys far behind them.

‘Ha!’ declares Rachel. ‘Another classic Darcy girl adventure! Em, are you OK? You look a bit green.’

‘Actually, I feel a bit –’ and she promptly vomits into the takeaway bag.

‘Oh, very nice,’ says Rachel, ‘you really can’t handle your drink, can you?’

They have only travelled two stops. The bus driver comes out of his cab.

‘Right, you two. Off!’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ll have to get off the bus.’

‘But she’s ill and we’re two lone females.’

‘Not my problem, love. She’s obviously had too much to drink. You’ll have to get off. You’ll stink out my bus.’

‘Oh charming, very gallant, chucking us out into the cold. Come on Vomiting Veronica. You can stay at mine and you owe me a takeaway.’

She leads a shivering Emma off the bus and they stagger all the way back to Rachel’s house. Rachel drapes her sister over the wall while she fumbles for her keys. She sees a light come on in Tom’s hallway and is half-pleased and half-mortified when he opens the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Summers, how was the pub? Are you drunk?’

‘As a skunk, Mr Davies, and this,’ she picks up her almost comatose sister and waves a floppy hand, ‘is my sister, Emma.’

‘A pleasure,’ Tom declares. ‘Need any help getting in?’

‘If you could help me get old Chunder-Cheeks into the lounge that would be great.’ Rachel opens the door and between them, they manhandle Emma onto the sofa. ‘Thank you. You’re a gent.’

‘No problemo. By the way, Rachel, I got the feeling Steve wasn’t too pleased to find me here tonight. I just hope I didn’t cause you any grief.’

‘Oh Tom, it’s not you. Steve just needs to get his priorities sorted and I need to talk to him like a grown-up, but we will, I promise. Now shoo, Doris at number thirty-two would love to see you skulking out of my house in the wee small hours, but I don’t want to get a reputation.’

‘Of course.’

Tom moves to pass her in the hall, turning to look at her as he does so. Rachel, slightly drunk and not wanting to appear unfriendly goes to peck him on the cheek but mistimes her attack and ends up planting the kiss on the right-side of his lip. To Rachel’s mind, your next action in this kind of situation is the borderline between fidelity and adultery. She is drunk, but decides to brush it off with an embarrassed giggle. Tom smiles and the moment passes without incident, but as she shuts the door behind him, she leans against it and lets out a sigh. What are you playing at Rachel, you fool? she thinks.

She tucks up Emma, leaving her a glass of water. She tiptoes upstairs to the half-lit darkness of the marital bedroom. She undresses quickly and wriggles into bed beside Steve’s steady breathing form.

‘Steve? Are you awake?’

There is no response, which Rachel takes as either no interest or genuine sleep. She lies awake for the next hour or so, her mind heavy with worry until alcohol and fatigue transport her to a restless sleep.

Chapter 7

Emma blinks at her screen unable to believe that she has caused herself this world of pain again. Her left eye is twitching with the effort of being open and her temple is throbbing with a dull echo, pounding the words ‘Too much beer! Too much beer!’ She squints at the over-bright screen and wonders if people would notice if she slipped on her sunglasses.

‘Having troubles there, missus?’

‘Ella, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to creep up on people like that?’

‘Sorry, my mother had a Stephen King obsession so, to be honest, scaring people was a family pastime. What was it last night?’

‘Beer. Too much. Don’t want to talk about it. All Rachel’s fault,’ stammers Emma, feeling bilious at the memory. ‘I think I puked on a bus.’

‘Euurgh, sounds like you might need one of David and Simon’s cure-all fry-ups.’

‘Please, Ella. Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?’

‘Hmm, not especially. Shall I leave you?’

‘If you don’t mind. Talking makes me nauseous. In fact, being upright makes me nauseous.’

‘Mmm, well I don’t think you’re going to like what’s coming down the corridor.’

‘Miranda?’

‘Worse. Joel.’

‘Oh crap. Have I got time to esc –’

‘Ah, Emma, have you got a minute?’ says Joel, striding into their midst.

‘Erm, I’m actually in the middle of something quite important.’

‘But you haven’t logged on yet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your screen? You haven’t logged onto your computer yet.’

Emma turns to her desk. ‘I know that. I’m an editor. I have manuscripts to work on,’ she says fumbling for the nearest pile of papers.

Joel is unimpressed. ‘Look, Emma, maybe you have time to waste but I don’t. I need an urgent discussion with you about this Richard Bennett book. Can we go somewhere private?’ He glances over at Ella, who is in the middle of a ‘loser’ gesture behind his back and has to wave her arms around as if batting a fly.

‘Got it!’ she grins and darts back to her desk.

Wearily Emma launches herself to her feet and follows Joel to a meeting room like a pupil about to be blasted by their headmaster. Joel is already sitting at the head of the table looking like a headmaster about to blast his pupil.

‘What’s this about then?’ asks Emma, wishing she could just curl up in the corner of the room and go to sleep.

‘It’s about this Red Albatross.’

‘Orchid’

‘I know but I’m calling it an Albatross, because that’s what it will be for this company’

Emma tells herself to stay calm. She tries to fix her eyes on a point and finds herself staring at Joel’s ear hair. She shudders.

‘The point is, this book isn’t going to work. We’ve paid far too much money, which we will never earn back. We have no guarantee that anyone will even like it, let alone shortlist it for a prize. And even if it does win, who says the punters will actually buy it? I mean the Booker’s all very well, but what does it actually deliver in terms of revenue and profit? You editors make it very difficult for us at the coalface, you know. So, as a precaution, Jacqui’s put in a call to Richard and Judy. I’m going to need your author on best behaviour at the Ivy next month, OK?’

Joel sits back waiting for Emma to show her appreciation. Emma Darcy has never been a girl to disappoint. Before she knows what is happening, she lurches forwards, grabs a handily place wastepaper bin and vomits, accidentally splashing Joel’s shoes. They look at one another astonished before Emma wipes her mouth with a tissue and makes for the door, bin in hand without a backward glance or word. She almost collides with her godmother Rosie, who is striding down the corridor arm in arm with Miranda, two extravagantly colourful powerhouses of energy.

‘Darling! I’m just having coffee with Mimms. Take you for lunch afterwards?’

‘Wonderful,’ says Emma with a smile. ‘I’m suddenly starving!’

Rachel feels one of her eyes open and realises that her eyelid is being lifted for her by a three-year-old’s finger.

‘Wake up, Mummy,’ sings a sweet angelic voice. When she attempts to close her eye again, its pitch and tone intensify. ‘Wake up, Mummy. Now!’

Rachel tries to open both eyes simultaneously and glare at her torturer.

‘Alfred, Mummy has got a headache!’

‘Yeah, Dad said you had too much beer,’ says Will, who has just wandered into the bedroom.

‘Oh he did, did he?’ mumbles Rachel, feeling an attack of ‘bad mother with a hangover’ syndrome coming on. ‘Where’s Lily?’

‘Downstairs, watching Milkshake. I turned it on for her,’ adds Will proudly.

‘Clever boy,’ says Rachel weakly ruffling his hair and checking her watch. ‘Oh bloody hell! We’ve got to get Will to school in twenty minutes.’

‘Oh bloody hell!’ shouts Alfie with glee.

Eighteen minutes later, Rachel has bundled herself and the children into the car and armed each of them with a banana. ‘A good, nutritious breakfast,’ she declares.

‘I wanted porridge,’ says Lily, doing her best grumpy princess face.

‘And I want two weeks in Barbados with George Clooney. Sometimes life is so unfair,’ says Rachel.

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