About the Author

ZOE MAY lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.

Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes

As Luck Would Have It
ZOE MAY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Zoe May 2019

Zoe May 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008330941

E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008321628

Version: 2019-05-23

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title page

Copyright

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

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

This is not how my life was meant to be.

How is it that at 32 years old, I’ve somehow wound up in my childhood bedroom? I’m sitting at the same desk where I revised for my GCSEs and I’ve been ticking off a to-do list compiled in a pink sparkly notebook I discovered gathering dust in the back of a drawer. My bedroom is like a museum exhibit entitled ‘the habitat of a 13-year-old girl’. It’s frozen in time. There’s a Take That poster on the wall, for goodness’ sake! And not one from their reunion tours, a genuine Take That poster from back when the band was young. When I was young. God, I feel like such a relic.

I cross out the last item on my to-do list – ‘Send Katy press cuttings’ – with a long satisfying swipe of my purple glitter pen. Did I mention that I’m using a glitter pen? It’s one of those ones with a random tuft of fur at the end. That’s just how I roll. Katy is a celebrity make-up artist and she’s one of my clients, because believe it or not, I run a fashion and beauty PR agency. And no, I haven’t always run a PR agency from the comfort of my childhood bedroom. I’m not a total freak. I used to have an office in Camden in this seriously cool co-working space filled with tech geniuses, cutting-edge fashion designers, artisan coffee sellers and general hipster entrepreneurs. And then there was me. Not quite hipster, but not quite geek. A businesswoman. Unlike a few of the people there who rolled in at midday and ‘brainstormed’ over team-building games of ping pong, I was really committed. But then shit hit the fan. And now I’m back at home, living in a terraced house with my mum in the quaint Surrey village where I grew up, and instead of a cool Camden office with shabby chic exposed brick walls and co-workers lounging around on expensive bean bags, I’m surrounded by wallpaper printed with tiny hedgehogs wearing aprons (not even joking) and the closest thing I have to colleagues is a row of Beanie Babies lined up on the windowsill, their colours having faded from decades in the sun.

When I say shit hit the fan, what I really mean is my ex, Leroy, cheated on me with a girl from the gym where we met. In fact, Leroy wasn’t just my ex, he was my ex-fiancé. Even saying his name makes me cringe. Leroy. What was I thinking going for a guy called Leroy? Did I really think I could marry him? Imagine standing at the altar saying, ‘I take thee, Leroy, to be my lawfully wedded husband’. Bleurgh. His name was obviously a red flag. Everything about him was a red flag actually, from the tattoo of Dr Dre on his shoulder to the way he made these horrendous grunting noises when he did bench presses like he was experiencing some kind of demonic possession. And then there was his ridiculous job as a furniture upcycler, which essentially involved buying old chests of drawers for a tenner from car boot sales, painting them blue and then selling them on for a five quid profit to someone who probably needed to go to Specsavers. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit harsh. Sometimes Leroy made a ten-pound profit. Sometimes even fifteen. Basically, he wasn’t exactly going places. And yet somehow (I blame pheromones) that didn’t matter to me. I decided that his furniture upcycling was trendy and cool and creative. I told my friends that he ‘wasn’t really an office person’ which, looking back on it, was just a nice way of saying he was pretty much unemployable. I’d stress how Leroy ‘liked to work with his hands’ as though he were an artisanal god. Ha. Artisanal he was not. A god he was definitely not. But he did like to work with his hands. He loved that. He certainly loved working his hands on Lydia – the annoyingly chipper personal trainer he started seeing while we were still together.

I know I sound bitter but I’m not. I mean, not that much. Okay, a bit – but can you blame me? I thought Leroy was the one. I was willing to overlook a Dr Dre tattoo for crying out loud! It didn’t matter because we were together. We were in love. We were going places. Leroy moved into my flat and somehow –through many frenzied sexual encounters and a lack of respect for reproductive biology – I ended up pregnant. P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T. When I saw those two red lines, I knew this was a problem that had to be solved. When you’ve spent your entire adult life avoiding pregnancy, that’s just how you see it, right? At least you do when you’re me and the only experience you’ve ever had of looking after something living is the time you bought a Venus flytrap and managed to kill it within two weeks. I ran through my options:

 Morning-after pill (probably too late)

 Abortion (eek)

 Buy another test in the hope that this one was faulty (fingers crossed)

I ran to the shop and bought another test, but the damn thing wasn’t faulty. I was pretty sure it was too late for the morning-after pill so that left me with one option: an abortion. Abortion. Even the word made me shudder, but I braced myself to talk to Leroy about it. We’d get through it together.

But then that annoying furniture upcycler went and upcycled my mind, didn’t he? He turned me from an IKEA desk – good for work, reliable, decent and functional – to a rainbow-coloured child’s table, that with a few clicks and manoeuvres could turn into a cot. In Leroy’s eyes, I could become multi-purpose, a businesswoman and a mum. He made me feel like anything was possible. As long as we were together – a team – we could make it work. The timing wasn’t ideal, but we’d find a way.

To begin with, it was all going swimmingly. Leroy was so excited about our baby coming that he started buying the most adorable things – miniature Converse trainers, a tiny tracksuit, a rattle. He even came to antenatal classes with me without grumbling, and I started to feel like this pregnancy might be a gift. The catalyst needed to give my life and mine and Leroy’s relationship a bit more substance. Until then, I’d just been a businesswoman and a party girl, and I thought that with the arrival of a baby, my life might start to mean something more. And then Leroy proposed and even though it wasn’t the most epic proposal ever (a cheapish ring presented midway through eating a calzone at Pizza Express), I still felt like everything was starting to work out. That all the pieces of my life were coming together like a completed jigsaw. But then suddenly, pretty much overnight, Leroy’s whole attitude changed, and he became completely hands off. Literally. He stopped wanting to come anywhere near me in the bedroom. He said he felt weird about ‘disturbing the baby’. I mean, he was well-endowed but not disturbing-the-baby-by-piercing-my-womb big. I could tell it was about more than that.

Leroy quit coming to the antenatal classes. He stopped buying things for our baby. He stopped hanging out at my flat like he’d been doing the whole time we’d been together and went back to his tiny studio, claiming he ‘had a ton of work’, but there’s only so much time you can spend upcycling furniture. When that excuse got old and I asked him to come home, he said he ‘was feeling under the weather’. I didn’t know what was going on, but I desperately missed him, so one evening, I dragged my pregnant arse over to his place, with a carrier bag filled with Lemsip, Jaffa Cakes (his favourites) and even a box of gourmet cupcakes, only to find Leroy wasn’t under the weather at all. He was under Lydia. Leroy had forgotten that he’d left a spare key at my place and when he didn’t answer the front door, I assumed he might be too ill in bed. I burst into his flat and headed to his bedroom, only to find him having such wild passionate sex that he clearly hadn’t even registered my knock at the door. It took so long for him to notice my presence in the room that I began to feel like I was witnessing some kind of live sex show, and gawping in horror throughout the whole thing. Finally, Leroy spotted me and sprung apart from Lydia – but our relationship was over. I yanked the cheap ugly engagement ring he’d given me off my finger and flung it in his face. That was when it first dawned on me: I was going to be a single mum.

‘Natalieeeee!’ My mum’s voice bellows up the stairs now, interrupting my thoughts, which is probably a good thing since they weren’t exactly going to the best places.

‘Yes?’ I call back. The fact that my mum and I are still communicating like this – down a staircase in a similar way to how she used to call me down for dinner – is a little cringeworthy. Okay, it’s really cringe-worthy, but my mum’s been a life-saver recently. She let me move in with her when I realised I couldn’t cope with looking after my baby alone while trying to keep my business going. And living rent-free at home has allowed me to save up for a deposit so that my daughter and I can have our own little home at some point.

‘Come down here!’ she shrieks.

‘Okay!’ I call back, placing my glitter pen on the desk, before heading downstairs.

My mum’s got my daughter Hera downstairs and it’s been a few hours since I saw her, which is a long time for me. Even if Leroy turned out to be a complete waste of space, I have to give him credit for helping me make the World’s Most Perfect Baby. My little Hera is adorable, and I’m not just saying that because I’m her mum. She really is a gorgeous baby. She has the biggest brownest eyes, the longest lashes, a cute button nose and the prettiest little rosebud lips. She’s so uniquely beautiful that I wanted to give her a unique name. I chose Hera because it’s the name of the queen of the Greek gods – a powerful, strong, leading woman, just like I want my baby to grow up to be.

I head into the kitchen and immediately spot Hera sitting in her highchair, playing with her favourite toy – a teddy that somewhere along the line was dubbed ‘Mr Bear’.

‘Hello angel!’ I coo, giving her a kiss on the head.

Hera immediately drops Mr Bear and reaches out for a hug. My heart melts. It never gets old. I pick her up and hold her close to my chest, rubbing her back and bouncing her up and down while she plays with my hair. It’s only then that I notice that my mum is leaning against the kitchen counter fully made up and wearing a party frock she bought last week from TK Maxx. It’s pink, embroidered with gold fuchsias, and she was incredibly happy to get it for 70 per cent off. She’s munching on a cracker with brie, carefully cupping one of her hands under it so the crumbs don’t fall on her dress.

‘How come you’re wearing that?’ I ask, gesturing at her dress and noticing her face of full make-up. She’s gone all out with blue eyeshadow, lashings of mascara, blusher and bright red lipstick.

‘It’s Mick’s fundraiser!’ my mum says through a mouthful of cracker. ‘Remember?’

‘What?’ I head over to the counter and take a cracker from the open packet on the side.

‘Mick’s fundraiser. At the village hall?’ My mum eyes me expectantly, as though waiting for the penny to drop but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

‘Remember? We’re going!’ My expression is blank. ‘Oh Natalie! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? Baby brain isn’t meant to hang round for a year after you give birth!’ She tuts, reaching for another cracker.

I roll my eyes indulgently. ‘Seriously Mum, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What fundraiser?’

‘Down the village hall. Mick’s annual fundraiser for Cancer Research. It’s been happening every year since you were 12. Held on the anniversary of his wife’s passing. Maggie, remember? The fifth of May. Ring a bell?’

‘Oh that,’ I reply, finally realising what she’s on about.

Mick has been our neighbour my whole life. He lives just a few doors down in a narrow terraced house just like ours. Our village is incredibly close-knit. Chiddingfold is a small place. There are only a few thousand residents and most of us know each other or know someone who knows someone we know. Sadly, Mick’s wife Maggie died from breast cancer around twenty years ago and Mick has been organising a charity fundraiser every year since in her memory. The whole community gets together in the village hall. There’s a buffet, drinks, an auction of donated items, a disco, and one year there was even a talent show for the kids. It’s a great event and it’s certainly been going on for a long time, but it’s hardly the highlight of my social calendar. It’s not exactly been at the forefront of my mind.

‘You used to love that fundraiser!’ my mum reminds me as I chew my cracker and feed a little bit to Hera.

She’s right. I used to love the fundraiser. I used to love the cake stand selling the prettiest cupcakes ever, the most chocolatey brownies and the fluffiest, most delicious Victoria sponge. The village hall would always be decked out with streamers and bunting and there’d be a massive bowl of non-alcoholic fruit punch for the kids and real punch for the adults. I used to love the disco, which was overseen by a Rick, a guy who worked at the Spar but doubled up as ‘DJ Bubble’ for the fundraiser. His rousing catchphrase was ‘DJ Bubble, you’re in trouble!’ which we all loved when we were kids even though, looking back, it was totally awful. He’d play what I used to think were the best sets ever but were probably just the top tracks from Now That’s What I Call Music 6. One year there was even a smoke machine. Oh, and there was a raffle that everyone used to get so excited about. I used to love the raffle, even though the best thing I ever won was a John Lewis spatula.

‘Yeah, I did love that fundraiser, Mum, but the last time I went I was a kid! How am I meant to remember the dates of events I haven’t been to for nearly two decades?’ I ask exasperatedly before shovelling another cracker into my mouth.

‘It was on the calendar,’ my mum comments, nodding towards the calendar on the wall, where in red marker pen in today’s box are the scrawled words ‘Mick’s fundraiser’.

‘Right, so I’m supposed to just check the calendar every day to see if there are events I’m meant to be going to?’

‘Umm, yes love, that is what calendars are for!’ My mum laughs.

I love my mum but she’s impossible sometimes.

‘You could have told me, Mum. You know, reminded me or something. Verbally?’ I suggest.

She simply shrugs. ‘Oh well, I forgot.’ She looks at her watch. It’s a gold and silver bracelet-style one she always wears for special occasions. ‘We’d better head off. It starts in half an hour.’

‘Mum, I can’t go! What about Hera?’ I remind her, stroking Hera’s head.

‘She’s coming with us, love! Mick’s included loads of prizes in the raffle this year for baby stuff. There’s a baby rocker up for grabs. Even a baby forklift truck. Hera might win!’

‘Hera has a rocker!’ I point out. ‘And she doesn’t need a forklift truck!’

My mum just shrugs. ‘It’ll still be a fun outing!’

‘I don’t know, Mum, Hera will get tired. You know what she’s like after late nights,’ I remind her. Hera can get pretty loud and cranky the following day if she doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.

‘We’ll put her in her buggy, she can relax, and then we’ll duck out early. We don’t have to stay for the disco! Oh come on, Natalie, Hera can handle a little outing. And it would do you good as well,’ she says, giving me a pointed look as I grab another cracker.

Ever since I moved back home, my mum’s been on at me to get out more, and it’s not that I’m anti-social, but I honestly don’t see how I can. I have a business to run and when I’m not working, I’m taking care of Hera. My mum offers to babysit but she already looks after Hera while I’m working, and I feel bad asking her to do any more. She only recently retired from her job as a nursery school teacher and I don’t think spending more time with small children was quite what she expected from retirement. And anyway, she has a life too. A few years ago, she started seeing the landlord of the pub down the road – a good-natured divorcé called Tim and they’re totally smitten with each other. My dad upped sticks when I was little and moved to the French alps to start a new life as a ski instructor and I know it’s taken my mum a very long time to trust a man again. I should probably have been a bit damaged too, but I was so young that I don’t really have many memories of my dad and you don’t miss someone you’ve never known. Plus, my mum’s always been exceptional, so I never really felt I was lacking. She deserves happiness and she adores Tim. The last thing I want is for them to miss out on quality time together just because I decided to pop out a baby.

Besides, it’s not like my social life is completely non-existent. My best friends Lauren, Danielle and Amber come down to visit when they can and we go out for lunch followed by shopping or a walk in the park. I was a bit worried that my friends might get bored hanging out with a baby, but they adore Hera. Amber – a lifestyle blogger I met at a press launch years ago – is six months pregnant so she’s obsessed with everything baby-related. My uni mate Danielle and my best friend from school, Lauren, have very opposing views on children. Danielle longs to have three children and she and her boyfriend Jack have just started trying for a baby. She keeps asking me a ton of questions, like ‘which sex position is best for insemination’ and will she ‘get pregnant faster with regular exercise’ (like I used to). Unlike Danielle, Lauren, who’s still single and playing the field, prefers cats to children and swears she’ll never ‘breed’ as she puts it. Of all my friends, Lauren is the one I’m closest to, even if our lives are totally different these days. Lauren’s a freelance social media marketer and her days are packed with spin classes, Starbucks laptop sessions and nights out at glamourous industry events. My mumsy lifestyle is definitely not for her, but even Lauren loves Hera. Hera’s impossible not to love, really. She’s just so cute. She’s got the sweetest little smile imaginable and even her cry isn’t that bad. I’ve heard some babies at the local creche whose cries should be played in place of fire alarms. They’re that piercing.

I know I sound really boring, but I don’t always do baby-friendly things with my friends. Every couple of weeks, I’ll leave Hera with my mum and head to London. I find a nice café somewhere and have lunch with my assistant Becky, where we discuss our latest campaigns. Becky’s awesome. We used to work together in the Camden office and I was worried she might lose interest in the business once I left London and stopped being as hands-on, but she’s stayed loyal. After Becky and I catch up, I’ll meet my friends for dinner and drinks, like we used to before I was a mum.

Okay, so my social life isn’t much. It’s certainly a lot less exciting than it used to be, but the weird thing is, I’ve stopped minding. I’ve got used to winding down at home with Netflix in the evenings and a bowl of popcorn. It’s cosy, almost like a home cinema. And anyway, even if I did have the time or inclination to go out, where would I go? There’s not much to do in Chiddingfold. There’s a village green which may have seemed like a fun place to hang out when I was a teenager, but it’s hardly appealing now, unless I’m taking Hera for a walk. There are a couple of cute, cosy pubs that are lovely for Sunday lunch, but they’re not exactly happening. And then there’s Chiddingfold Cinema, which is actually just a projector screen and a few chairs lined up in rows in the village hall. It’s kind of adorable, but they show one film a month and it’s usually a ‘new release’ that came out at least two or three years ago. Oh, and a state-of-the-art gym opened recently a few miles down the road, but the last thing I want to do is head there and find Chiddingfold’s answer to Leroy.

‘Come on, love. It’ll be a great night,’ my mum insists.

‘I don’t know …’ I squirm. The fundraiser did used to be a laugh and I do want to show my support for Mick, but I only just finished working and I was looking forward to snuggling up on the sofa and watching the next episode of the latest sitcom I’m addicted to.

‘Brian will be there,’ my mum adds with a wink.

‘Oh God!’ I groan. Brian is a bicycle repair man who’s tried it on with every woman with a pulse in the village, yet that hasn’t stopped my mum trying to set me up with him ever since I moved back home. He’s got weird googly eyes and an insanely annoying habit of saying ‘do you know what I mean?’ at the end of every sentence. You’ll run into him in town and comment on the weather and he’ll respond, ‘Yeah, it’s really cold. Do you know what I mean?’ or he’ll be talking about the latest bike he’s been fixing and comment, ‘It’s got a really good gear suspension, do you know what I mean?’ My brain just switches off every time I talk to him. I’ve told my mum a million times I don’t fancy him, but she acts like I’m overlooking Prince Charming. I shudder to think of what it would be like to be with Brian. Can you imagine – ‘I love you, do you know what I mean?’

‘Mum, I’m not going to date Brian!’ I remind her.

‘He’s a lovely lad,’ my mum huffs defensively.

‘Mum, seriously …’

‘Alright, alright.’ My mum throws her hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’ll stop trying to set you up with Brian, but I still think you should come. Mick knows you’re back. He’d love to see you there. Just a few hours, for Maggie.’ She eyes me imploringly.

How can I say no to the memory of Mick’s dead wife?

‘Okay, fine,’ I relent. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier though. What am I going to wear?’

I give Hera the last piece of cracker, before brushing the crumbs from my hands.

‘I’m sure you’ll find something!’

‘Hope so! Keep an eye on Hera while I look?’

My mum nods as she nibbles on another cracker and cheese.

I race upstairs. She’s right, I will find something. I have a ton of clothes. They wouldn’t fit in my old wardrobe, so I had to buy two rails to put them on. I try to pass my clothes addiction off as an occupational hazard of working in fashion and beauty PR. When I lived in London, I used to go to meetings, product launches and networking events all the time and I’d be expected to look the part. I needed to show our clients that I had my finger on the pulse and knew about the latest trends, which meant buying into the coolest looks every season. But it’s not like it was a chore, I do genuinely love fashion and I love getting stuff that isn’t on trend too, whether that’s a nice charity shop dress, a comfy pair of boyfriend jeans or a slouchy oversized T-shirt.

I rifle through my clothes racks a few times until I find a short-sleeved purple jumpsuit I bought six months ago and never got around to wearing. It’s tailored and smart, but its purple shade and gold drawstring waist give it a playful edge. It’s perfect. I pull off the leggings and T-shirt combo I’ve been living in recently, swap my sports bra for a regular one and slip into the jumpsuit. I check my reflection in my bedroom mirror. The jumpsuit looks good on, but it’s too dressy to wear without make-up. I don’t have time to do a full face of make-up, so I smooth a bit of BB cream onto my skin, add a touch of blusher, some tinted lip balm and a slick of mascara. That’ll do. I pull my hair out of its messy bun and run a comb through it. I take in its slightly frizzy appearance and wonder whether I have time to use my straighteners.

‘Natalie! Hurry up!’ my mum bellows up the stairs.

‘Okay! Okay!’ I call back, abandoning all thoughts of straightening my hair. I grab a hairclip from the dish on my dressing table and attempt to pin my hair to the side, but it looks weird, so I just let it down again. It looks a bit scruffy, but it will do. It’s only a fundraiser at the village hall, after all.

I grab my wallet and phone, shove them into a handbag and head downstairs.

‘I’m ready!’ I say as I walk back into the kitchen.

My mum’s put away the crackers and cheese and is now playing with Hera, who is back in her highchair. She looks over her shoulder.

‘Oh, lovely outfit you’ve got on,’ she says, clocking my jumpsuit.

‘Thanks Mum,’ I reply, walking over to her and Hera.

‘How’s my gorgeous girl doing?’ I ask.

‘I’m good,’ my mum replies, with a grin, as she waves Mr Bear around for Hera.

I roll my eyes. ‘I meant Hera, Mum!’

‘I know!’ She laughs as Hera reaches out and grabs Mr Bear, before clutching him close to her chest. She starts blinking sleepily and her head drops forward a little.

‘Oh no, she’s tired!’ I say. ‘Maybe she needs to go to bed.’

‘We’ll put her in her carrier, and she can have a little nap on the way. Relax love. An hour at the village hall isn’t going to kill her.’

Hera’s eyes droop closed, and I begin to have serious doubts over whether going to this fundraiser is a good idea. ‘Look at her!’

‘Well, let her have a nap in her carrier then. That baby sleeps like a log. She’ll be fine. We’ll only be out for a bit anyway,’ my mum says impatiently. ‘I just want to see if I win anything in the raffle. Mick’s worked really hard on this year’s draw. The top prize is a romantic getaway to Marrakech!’

‘A romantic getaway to Marrakech!? Seriously?’ I balk. ‘I could swear the last time I went to Mick’s fundraiser the top prize was a picnic hamper.’

‘Well, it’s come a long way since then! Mick’s been pulling some strings.’

I raise an eyebrow. Mick, pulling strings? He’s a retired office administrator whose social life revolves around the local bridge club, how many strings can he pull?

‘A trip to Marrakech could be just the thing for you!’ my mum says with a twinkle in her eye.

‘Didn’t you say it was a romantic getaway? Who am I going to take?’

It’s a bit tragic to admit, but I haven’t so much as held hands with another man since things ended with Leroy. I’ve been so preoccupied with trying to be a good mum and keeping my business running smoothly that I haven’t had any time to go on dates. It’s not like I meet anyone now that I’m a homebody. The only men I encounter in my daily life these days are the postman and takeaway delivery men (and unfortunately neither are sexy).

‘You could go with Lauren. I’ll take Hera for a few days. And anyway, you could always make it romantic,’ she suggests with a wink.

I frown. ‘Huh? Mum, are you suggesting that I seduce my best friend?!’

‘No!’ I’m suggesting that you might meet a nice man while you’re there. Have a little holiday romance!’

‘Oh God,’ I grumble. ‘Are you serious, Mum?’

‘What?’ She shrugs exaggeratedly with a cheeky wink. ‘It wouldn’t hurt!’

I stare back at her, deadpan. ‘Somehow, I doubt a dodgy holiday romance in Marrakech would be a great move right now and secondly, I find your concern for my sex life a little disturbing!’

‘I’m not concerned. I’m just saying, a little holiday romance might be fun. It might do you some good,’ my mum says, waving Mr Bear for Hera. Hera ignores her, nodding off instead.

‘Some sun might do me good,’ I point out, when all of a sudden, an image pops into my head of me and Lauren lying on sun loungers sipping cocktails by a big sparkling pool. Going on holiday hasn’t occurred to me once since I had Hera, but it is a surprisingly appealing image.

‘Sun! Is that what they call it these days?’ my mum sniggers.

‘Oh my God, Mum!’ I groan. ‘This conversation is over!’ I tut, picking a sleeping Hera gently up from her highchair and placing her in the carrier, where she continues to snooze.

My mum laughs. ‘Well whatever, let’s just hope one of us wins!’

Chapter 2

By the time we get to the village hall, my mum and I have already fallen out over whether the washing up has been done and whose turn it was to do it. The car has stalled three times and Hera has woken up. My mum parks wonkily in a space outside the village hall and as soon as the car comes to a stop, I jump out and open the back door to check Hera.

She reaches for me from her baby seat, wailing loudly.

‘Baby! It’s okay sweetheart,’ I coo, attempting to calm her, while rocking her gently on my shoulder. My mum turns the engine off and gets out of the car.

Hera lets out a few more loud cries.

‘Sweetie, it’s okay, it’s okay!’ I rub and pat her back as I pace back and forth by the side of the car. My mum looks on with concern.

‘Shall I just go home? Maybe this is too much for her?’ I suggest.

‘Give her a minute …’ I can tell my mum’s really desperate to have a night out at the village hall, so I keep patting Hera and making soft cooing noises in her ear.

She lets out a few more loud cries and then, strangely, she quietens down.

‘Oh, thank God for that!’ I breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly, Hera’s body swells and an eruption of green-tinged vomit spurts out of her mouth.

‘Eww!’ I yelp as the vomit lands on my jumpsuit and drips from my shoulder down over my right breast.

‘Oh no!’ My mum opens the car door and reaches into the glove compartment for a pack of baby wipes while I rub Hera’s back, comforting her, while trying not to breathe in the pungent smell of fresh sick.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I coo as my mum dabs at Hera’s face, wiping the sick away. She chucks the vomit-soaked wipe into a nearby bin and then gets a fresh one and tries to mop up the warm sick that’s dribbling down my jumpsuit.

‘What do you think is wrong with her, Mum? Do you think she’s okay?’ I ask, fretting. My mum may wind me up a bit sometimes, but it’s been a godsend having someone nearby who’s been there and done that when it comes to motherhood.

‘Yeah, she’s fine. She probably just ate too much at lunch. I thought she was gulping down that apple crumble dessert a bit fast,’ my mum comments.

‘What? You gave her apple?’ I gawp.

‘Yes,’ my mum answers hesitantly. ‘Was I … not meant to?’

‘It doesn’t agree with her, Mum, that’s why she’s vomiting,’ I grumble. ‘Poor Hera-pops …’ I rub her back some more.

‘Oh dear, let me have her.’ My mum reaches for Hera.

I hand her over and take a wet wipe. My mum comforts Hera, while I dab at the sick on my boob. I love my baby, but she’s managed to produce the most disgusting slime-like vomit. The more I dab at it, the more it seems to be getting everywhere and before I know it, my entire left boob is soaked and gunky.

‘Oh God,’ I groan.

My mum looks up from Hera and eyes my jumpsuit in shock.

‘It’s everywhere,’ she comments.

‘Pam!’ my mum’s friend, Sandy, calls out, waving over her shoulder as she heads into the hall.

‘Hi Sandy!’ my mum calls back in a strained voice. ‘Oh no, they’re going to get all the raffle tickets, we need to go in,’ she adds under her breath.

‘But Mum, look at me!’

My mum plasters a smile onto her face as she takes in my frazzled, vomit-spattered appearance. ‘You don’t look that bad,’ she insists.

‘You just said it was everywhere. I look awful,’ I sigh.

It’s true, I do. I go over to the car window and take in my reflection. I’m a complete mess. My nice jumpsuit is covered in gunk and my whole boob area is dark and splodgy from all the dabbing I’ve been doing with the baby wipes. All the stress has made my hair go even frizzier than it was before and the BB cream that I’d convinced myself gave me a subtle glow when I applied it at home isn’t even remotely covering the pale washed-out look of my face. I’m a far cry from the single glamourous girl-boss I used to be, and I don’t exactly look like Mum of the Year either. I should just head home already. This is what happens when you tell yourself real life is better than Netflix.

‘Oh! I have an idea!’ my mum pipes up, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. Hera has calmed down a bit now and is resting her head against my mum’s shoulder.

‘What?’ I turn to look at her, questioningly.

‘I have a top in the back. You can put it on over your jumpsuit. The sick will dry in no time and you’ll look right as rain,’ she says, heading over to the car boot. She hands Hera to me.

‘Really?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Yeah, really. You might not smell right as rain, but you’ll look it!’ She gives Hera to me and then reaches into her handbag for the car keys and opens the boot.

‘Let me just find it.’ She leans forward and rummages in the assortment of random stuff she keeps there. I peer over her shoulder, taking in the empty, deflated-looking duffel bag, a long-forgotten crusty towel from a swimming trip and a Jilly Cooper novel.

‘Oh, here it is!’ my mum says suddenly, pulling a sweatshirt out of a plastic charity shop carrier bag buried behind a plant pot with a Homebase sticker on it that she appears to have forgotten to unload. She holds up the jumper, shaking it out of its crumpled state.

‘What is that?’ I gawp, taking in the monstrosity she’s holding. It’s a gigantic grey sweatshirt with a massive print of a tabby cat across the front and the words: ‘Cat Cuddles Sanctuary’.

‘Mum! Why did you buy that?! You don’t even own a cat?!’ I balk.

‘I know.’ My mum shrugs. ‘So?’

‘Then why do you have a Cat Cuddles Sanctuary jumper?!’ I ask through gritted teeth.

‘I bought it from Oxfam to wear for gardening. Anyway, you’ve never listened to Led Zeppelin and if I recall correctly, you own a Led Zeppelin T-shirt,’ my mum points out, still holding up the monstrous jumper for all the world to see.

‘What?! I do listen to Led Zeppelin!’ I huff.

‘Name a Led Zeppelin song,’ my mum fires back, still holding up the jumper. The beady eyes of the tabby cat are strangely distracting, and my mind has gone completely blank.

‘Erm, “Purple Rain”?’ I say eventually.

‘That’s by Prince, darling.’

‘How about “Stairway to Heaven”? Or “Whole Lotta Love”?’ a man’s voice says. He starts singing “Stairway to Heaven” in a low lilting tone.

I turn around to look to see none other than Will Brimble. Will. Brimble. The most popular guy from my old school who I haven’t seen since I left to go to London for sixth-form. Will was part of the reason I left my old school. I applied for an arts scholarship at a boarding school in London for sixth form. I didn’t expect to get in, but when they offered me a place, I decided to see it as a fresh start after experiencing heart break for the first time. Will was my first love and I used to absolutely adore him, but he was also the first guy to teach me what complete and utter morons men can be.

‘Oh my God,’ I mutter under my breath, wishing the ground would swallow me up. Will Brimble is the last person I want to run into, especially now, as I’m standing here clutching my baby while covered in sick.

Will sings another lyric and my mum closes her eyes. ‘I forgot how much I like that song,’ she says, swaying a little to Will’s singing, as though she’s at Woodstock festival. Will smiles smugly before continuing his rendition.

‘Can you stop singing, please?’ I snap.

‘So you’re not a Led Zeppelin fan then?’ Will asks wryly. He’s clearly just as much of a smug know-it-all now as he was at school.

My mum smirks.

‘I am a Led Zeppelin fan!’ I huff. ‘How long have you been eavesdropping, Will?’

‘Not long. I just parked my car and then saw you two having some kind of commotion,’ he says, glancing over at a white Audi TT, perfectly parked four or five spaces away, before turning to my mum.

‘How are you doing, Pam?’ he asks.

My mum bats her lashes as she and Will chat away. She’s always thought a lot of Will. Everyone has. He was the kind of boy who was both popular with his peers, and parents and teachers too, because despite his love of skateboarding and partying, he was also really smart and did well at school. He’d have a joke with teachers, but he knew when to knuckle down. He even encouraged his friends to get their heads down ahead of exams – a form of peer pressure teachers and parents were incredibly grateful for. But aside from liking him for just generally being an all-rounder, my mum has a soft spot for Will because she was really fond of his dad, Gary – a retired police officer who was also extremely popular in the village. He bought a black cab and set up a taxi service to keep himself busy; he was known in Chiddingfold as the man to call if you needed to get somewhere. He was always reliable and friendly, a trustworthy bloke you felt comfortable around. But sadly, he died of a stroke around seven or eight years ago. Everyone was distraught. Our hearts went out to Will and his mum, Sharon. I even sent Will a card and emailed him at the time, offering my condolences, but he never got back to me. I guess he was just too overwhelmed. Will loved his dad.

While Will and my mum chat away, I look towards his car. It’s pretty impressive and it looks a little out of place among the old Nissans and Fords of the villagers, but I wouldn’t expect any less from Will. Despite the upset of losing his dad, he’s done alright for himself. He’s a bit of a celebrity on the media scene. He took his gift of the gab, smarts and ability to get on with anyone, and decided to pursue a career in journalism after school. He studied at City University and managed to get a reporter role at a paper in north London when he graduated. Then he moved to another reporter job at a national, which led to a promotion to assistant news editor, another promotion to news editor and then, basically after a few years, he’d achieved the staggering feat of becoming Group Editor for a national newspaper group with three papers by the tender age of 28. I know this because it’s been impossible to escape Will’s meteoric rise to the top. His promotions were always covered in the media news websites I subscribe to for work and Will never turns down the opportunity to commentate on TV if there’s a chance. He’s regularly appeared on Sky and the BBC. He’s remained just as much of a show-off in adulthood as he was at school. But although his rise to the top of the journalistic career ladder has been very impressive, Will’s success story has suffered a bit of a blow lately. The company he was working for had been losing money for years and despite their efforts to boost their revenue, nothing’s worked. They tried staff lay-offs and restructures, they even added pleas to readers at the bottom of each article on their website with details of how to donate. But after years of trying, they realised the business just couldn’t survive and sold their titles to a rival media group. The takeover meant that Will and all of the staff were out of a job. It was a huge story. I read about it at the time and wondered how Will had coped, but I didn’t realise he’d ended up back in Chiddingfold.

Our eyes meet for a moment. His are just as striking as I remember them – a jade-green shade flecked through with amber. Exotic eyes that mesmerised my infatuated teenage self. Eyes that inspired forlorn poetry and horrendously self-indulgent angsty diary entries. Suddenly, Will’s gaze drifts down and I’m worried he’s going to notice a splodge of sick I’ve only jut spotted on the sleeve of my jumpsuit but instead, his eyes land on Hera.

‘And who’s this?’ he asks.

‘Oh, this is my daughter, Hera,’ I explain, turning a little so Will can get a better view of Hera’s gorgeous face.

‘Aww, what a pretty girl!’ Will says. I smile and thank him, but I just know the next question he’s going to ask is going to be something to do with Hera’s father and standing here, covered in sick, the last thing I need is to answer questions about Leroy, who hasn’t once tried to get in touch since I had Hera and, as far as I know, is still living in his studio flat painting bookcases and having wild sex with Lydia.

I give Hera to my mum to hold and take the cat jumper, leaving her to show off Hera to Will and deflect the ‘where’s the daddy’ style questions. I pull the jumper over my head. It smells musty and stale, from having been in the charity shop, but also from having been stuffed in the boot of my mum’s car for God knows how long. Combined with the smell of sick, I’m really not my best self tonight. I just hope I don’t run into anyone else from school.

I sweep my hair out from under my collar and take in my bizarre reflection in the car window, before turning to Will and my mum. They’ve moved on from cooing over Hera to talking about my mum’s dress. Will is telling her how ‘sensational’ she looks and she’s lapping it up.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, batting her eyelashes like a flirtatious schoolgirl.

‘Oh yes, it’s very flattering. A great cut, very figure-hugging,’ Will remarks. My mum smiles delightedly.

A great cut?! Figure-hugging?

‘Do you mind?’ I sneer, wondering if there’s any low to which Will won’t stoop. Clearly even 60-year-old women aren’t off his radar. He hasn’t changed a bit since school, and don’t even get me started on the nitty gritty of what he was like back then.

‘What? I was just saying how fabulous your mother looks,’ Will comments defensively, before taking in my jumper, his eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hmmm … interesting choice. I heard that you work in fashion. Is that top some kind of ironic statement?’

‘What do you mean, ironic?’

‘Well, surely you don’t mean to look like a crazy cat lady?’ Will remarks.

My mum giggles.

‘Piss off Will,’ I snap. ‘And mum, this is your jumper. So why are you laughing!?’

I turn my back on both of them. I put Hera in her carrier and give her a dummy, which she sucks on contentedly.

‘I need a glass of punch!’ I declare, before picking up Hera’s carrier and marching towards the village hall.

Chapter 3

Martha, a friend of my mum’s, is manning the drinks table. Unlike Will, she has the good manners not to comment on my attire. Okay, so maybe her eyes linger for a beat on the huge tabby cat and the Cat Cuddles logo but she doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She quickly diverts her gaze back to the bowl of ruby red punch. With painstaking care, she dips a ladle into the bowl and decants the liquid into a plastic cup, before adding two ice cubes, half a strawberry and a slice of lime, and finally handing it to me. I take it from her, thanking her gratefully, before plucking the cherry out of the way and necking it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, before handing her back the empty cup.

‘Can I have seconds? Thanks Martha.’

Martha takes the cup, looking a little taken aback, before dutifully refilling it. A boozy mum in weird cat clothes with a baby sitting in a carrier at her feet probably isn’t the best look, but I’m beyond caring. Martha doesn’t bother with the fruit garnish this time and simply hands me the glass. I thank her and sip hungrily at it, before wandering over to the buffet. The buffet table, with its striped plastic cups and matching paper plates laden with party food is exactly as I remember it from back when the fundraiser first began so many years ago. Even the hall is the same, with the exact same rainbow bunting and streamers.

A few of the older men who I vaguely recognise regard me as I approach. They’re local busybodies that have been active in neighbourhood affairs for years. I think a few of them sit on the board of Chiddingfold Parish Council. They’re always finding something to complain about, from the frequency of the bin collection to the meandering bus routes. One guy, a retired naval officer called Clive who always wears a flat cap even when indoors and has been poking his nose into other people’s business for years, watches me closely as I reach for a bread roll. I pretend to be fascinated by the roll, taking a bite before inspecting the fluffy dough as though it’s the most interesting and engaging thing ever; I really don’t want Clive to speak to me. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I last saw him at a Christmas party at the local pub nearly two decades ago and the memory’s still disturbingly fresh. He was wearing the same grey flat cap and bent my 12-year-old ears off about unreasonable parking regulations near my school and blah blah blah. I can feel Clive zoning in on me, so I spear a few olives from a bowl with a toothpick and try to busy myself with the buffet, when I suddenly hear a different male voice over my shoulder.

‘Sorry Natalie, you don’t look like a cat lady,’ Will says, reaching for a cheese and grape stick from a plate on the buffet. He pops the chunks of cheese and grape speared onto the stick into his mouth in one bite.

I ignore him and turn back to the buffet to spear another olive. Will’s hand follows mine to the bowl. His fingers are long and surprisingly well-groomed, his nails and cuticles are incredibly neat and tidy, and his hands look soft and moisturised. Not like the hands of the rough-around-the-edges Will I remember.

‘Okay, maybe you do look a bit like a cat lady, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’ Will ventures.

‘What?’ I snap, before popping an olive into my mouth and shooting him a look.

‘Well, cat ladies … If you think about it, they’re just animal lovers, aren’t they? And what’s wrong with looking like an animal lover? Cats are lovely animals.’

I turn to look at Will, giving him a deadpan stare as he makes his case for why it’s okay to go around saying how someone you haven’t seen for over a decade looks like a ‘cat lady’. Even though he’s just as annoying as ever, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s still handsome. His young self and his current self are like the difference between a picture with a filter and the original. He’s got a few lines now, his face isn’t quite as smooth and blemish-free as it used to be and his hairline is beginning to recede, but he’s still good-looking. His eyes are as striking as ever and they have a depth to them now that they never had before, even if he’s still chatting total rubbish like he used to back at school. As well as his ability to chat to anyone about anything, he has the same dimples he had all those years ago and the same trademark playful smile.

He smiles at me, waiting for a response, but as usual, Will baffles me. His habit of talking complete crap is strangely beguiling, because even though you know what he’s saying is rubbish, you find yourself engaging with it nonetheless. I consider his statement.

‘Well, while there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with being a cat lady, it’s not exactly style goals, is it?’ I comment.

Will smirks. ‘I suppose not. I forgot you were a fashionista these days,’ he remarks.

‘Fashionista?!’ I echo, smirking. ‘Who even says that?’ I reach for another olive. Will copies me, diving his stick back into the bowl. I have to yank my hand out of the way to avoid being impaled.

‘Do you mind? My hand is not buffet food!’ I huff, reaching back towards the bowl and spearing an olive. Before quickly pulling my hand away.

‘Sorry, just a bit hungry,’ Will says as he takes an olive and pops it in his mouth. ‘Mmmm, delicious.’ I ignore him but he keeps talking. ‘Anyway, you are a fashionista. I’ve seen you online, talking about your outfit or the day – hashtag O-O-T-D. And you say things like “style goals.”’

‘Well, fashion is kind of my job, Will,’ I point out, rolling my eyes indulgently, even though I do feel a little embarrassed about how regularly I used to hashtag my outfits of the day. It wasn’t exactly all relevant to work.

‘Even your baby is a fashionista,’ Will remarks, peering closer at Hera, who’s wearing the cutest red patterned dress that I got on sale at Gap Kids the other day. I managed to find a headband in exactly the same red shade from Accessorize to coordinate with it. Red is kind of her colour. Although she also looks great in pink, and yellow, and blue. And green, for that matter. She basically just suits everything. She certainly looks a hell of a lot more stylish than me right now. Upstaged by a one year old!

‘Doesn’t she look cute, though?’ I say.

‘Yeah, she does.’ Will peers at Hera with a soppy, charmed look. ‘She’s very cute.’

I smile proudly at her. She’s starting to fall asleep now, but I can tell she’s trying to stay alert so she doesn’t miss anything. She’s dropping off, blinking a few times, trying not to fall asleep and then dropping off again.

‘She’s sleepy. She’s my little angel,’ I say with a sincerity that surprises me. But it’s true. Hera is my angel. Even though it wasn’t easy having her while being heartbroken over Leroy cheating and then learning how to be a single mum while trying to let go of all the bitterness I felt towards him, I got there in the end. Hera saved me with her lovely cuddles, her cute little smile and her unbridled enthusiasm over the little things, from eating her favourite food (chocolate yoghurt) to playing with Mr Bear.

‘Aww!’ Will reaches for Hera’s cheek and gives it an awkward little stroke. It’s abundantly clear that he doesn’t interact with children very often.

‘Will, you just left a streak of olive juice over Hera’s face,’ I grumble, spotting a greasy smear where his hand has been.

‘Oh sorry,’ Will replies, looking a little embarrassed.

He grabs a napkin from a nearby stack and quickly reaches down to wipe off the streak. Hera blinks up at him, wide-eyed, as he wipes the olive grease away. It’s actually quite cute how flustered he seems to be over having got Hera the slightest bit dirty. Little does he know that some of her favourite hobbies include smearing mud from the garden over her face, giving a new twist to the idea of a mudpack. And if that doesn’t hit the spot, she also likes to grab bottles of shower gel, washing up liquid, bubble bath – whatever’s in reach, really – and just drizzle them over her head.

Will discards the napkin. ‘Sorry about that,’ he repeats.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Hera’s already forgotten all about it and she’s now properly dozing off.

‘So anyway, how do you know about my OOTDs?’ I ask, casting my eye over the vol-au-vents in the buffet.

‘Oh, I know all about your agency. You used to send us press releases all the time. If I recall correctly, the last one was for a vajazzle.’

I avoid his gaze and crunch through a few crisps. They’re sweet chilli and they’re delicious. I try not to look too awkward at the mention of the vajazzle campaign I worked on. Representing a company that specialised in adorning women’s vaginas with glitter wasn’t my finest hour, but they paid well and sometimes money has to come before taste in business.

‘My mum mentioned you were back. I think she heard about it from someone in town. I was wondering if I’d run into you,’ Will comments.

‘Oh right …’ I murmur a little uneasily.

I can’t help wondering what Will’s heard. He must know something about the whole Leroy thing or otherwise he wouldn’t have tactfully not mentioned it. I’ve certainly heard about his divorce. He surprised everyone by settling down in his mid-twenties, marrying an heiress called Elsa Millington-Brown. It came as a bit of a shock to the village, especially since Will seemed to have been playing the field when he was first making a name for himself on the media scene. I’d see articles from time to time on the Daily Mail site with him falling out of nightclubs looking cosy with other minor celebrities. He was pictured quite a few times with a candidate from The Apprentice. Then those articles dried up and all of a sudden, word got around that he’d found love and settled down. Except apparently, the couple split a few years ago – I have no idea why. And I had no idea Will was back in Chiddingfold either. I wish I’d had a heads up that he was in town. My mum is usually a pretty reliable source of village gossip, but she’s probably been too busy with Hera to stay on top of her game. If I’d known Will was back, I might have actually made an effort with my appearance – not because I still fancy him after all these years, but just for my own sense of pride.

‘So, do you still paint?’ Will asks.

I used to paint at school. I used to spend all my time in the art room, and it was my artistic ability that helped me get a scholarship for sixth-form but I haven’t painted for years. Even before I had Hera. I just kind of lost interest in it.

‘No, not really,’ I admit.

‘But you were so into it,’ Will says, sounding almost disappointed.

I shrug.

‘You were Natalie, the arty girl.’ Will has a wry smile on his face.

‘Ha!’ I laugh. ‘And you were a skater boy, but people change. I doubt you still hang around at the skate park with your arse hanging out of your jeans, while pretending to be into punk even though everyone knew you preferred pop,’ I tease him. ‘I bet you’re not still doing that now – or are you?’ I raise an eyebrow.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Although I can get my arse out if you want me to?’ Will asks with a wink.

‘Oh for God’s sake, I really set myself up for that one.’ I sigh, laughing in spite of myself.

Will watches me as I reach for another handful of crisps and I can feel my cheeks growing hot as a blush creeps into them. I’m trying to focus on the crisps, but all I can currently think about is Will’s arse. And the fact that he’s watching me having these thoughts is like being an insect examined under a microscope. I feel like I’m squirming in a hot beam of light.

You see, I used to really fancy Will. Like really fancy him. I had a crush on him from the very first time I saw him, when he joined the school aged 11 after he and his family moved to Chiddingfold from London. His dad had quit his job as a police officer at the Met Police and wanted a quieter, calmer life. Of course, I didn’t know that detail at the time, but over time, I gathered titbits of information on the grapevine and added them to my mental catalogue of facts about Will Brimble, building up quite a detailed picture of him even though it took us three years to finally speak.

Will’s right, I was the arty girl at school. It was my thing back in those days and I really wanted to be a painter, but everything changed when I went to my new school for sixth-form. I’d enrolled to study artsy subjects – Fine Art, Media Studies and Drama, but we were expected to take four A levels so I opted for Business Studies as I’d heard it was quite easy. Little did I know how much I’d take to it. My tutor spotted an entrepreneurial streak in me and by the time I left college, business had become my thing.

The arty girl Will knew is long gone. Back in those days, I used to spend as much time as possible in the art room. It felt like home with its paint-spattered tables, jars of brushes and pencils and trays of paints. I loved it. But not many other people shared my enthusiasm. I persuaded my art teacher – Mr Reed – to start an after-school art club on Wednesday afternoons, thinking the club was going to be a hit, but I ended up being the only person who went, and Mr Reed said he was going to cancel the club if I continued to be the only attendee. Somehow, Will heard about my plight and the next week, he came along with a few of his friends. He was terrible at art. All of his drawings looked like they were drawn by a toddler and I could tell art wasn’t his forte, but I’ll never forget the wink he gave me when he asked Mr Reed at the end of the session, ‘So I guess you’re not still cancelling the club then?’

He came every week after that and we gradually got to know one another. My infatuation reached epic heights, but I did my best to hide it. Even though Will had saved my art club, I still wasn’t convinced he fancied me. You see, the fact that Will had tried to save my club wasn’t entirely out of character. Will had a reputation for doing things like that. He had this knack for just seeing when someone was in need and helping them out. He made the school a better place. There was one time when this really quiet, earnest girl called Alice started fundraising for a village in Tunisia and no one would donate. Everyone just wanted her to stop hassling them, but then Will started fundraising with her and within days, she’d met her fundraising target. She seemed more confident after that, sort of happier in herself. Then there was the time Will started a petition to ban sports teachers from getting team captains to pick who was going to be on their teams one-by-one out of the class, meaning that one person would always be chosen last. Will petitioned to have the practice banned because he felt it was unnecessarily cruel even though he was the kind of guy who’d be selected as the team captain, or if not, would instantly be chosen first. Nevertheless, he still took issue with the mean approach, which would always leave one kid feeling glum and dejected. Will’s petition garnered hundreds of signatures from pupils and parents alike and from then on, the practice was history. Things like that just fuelled my adoration for him. He was good-looking and had a heart of gold, what more could I want?

Will didn’t just come to Art Club once or twice, he came every week and he and I got really close. It was easier to be my real self around him when I was in the art room, which felt like a second home, than it would probably have been otherwise. I’d no doubt have been completely giddy and over-excited under normal circumstances. But I didn’t have Will to myself. Soon Art Club was the most popular club in school, and I realised I wasn’t the only girl who adored Will. A ton of other girls suddenly discovered a passion for painting the moment they realised where Will was spending his Wednesday afternoons. But Will always sat with me and I began to suspect that I wasn’t just fantasising and that perhaps – perhaps – he might actually fancy me.

But then things got messy, really messy …

‘Hi guys! Ready to get some raffle tickets?’ Rita, Mick’s sister who helps him organise the fundraiser every year, bounds up to me and Will, brandishing a pad of raffle tickets, before she notices Hera who’s now fast asleep and starts gushing over how cute she is.

While Rita fawns over Hera, I suddenly remember the prize. I’d got so distracted by all the commotion with Hera being sick, the cat jumper, Will and the buffet that I completely forgot that the reason I agreed to come along to this thing in the first place (apart from being a good person and raising money for charity, of course) was for the chance of winning a holiday. My mum was right, I do need a holiday. If anything was ever going to reinforce that fact, it would be standing here with a wet boob in a Cat Cuddle’s jumper emitting the faint odour of sick.

‘So, erm, is there really a holiday up for grabs, Rita?’ I ask breezily.

‘There is indeed!’ Rita replies, turning her attention away from Hera. ‘Mick really pulled out all the stops this year. His niece, Hannah, got a job at a travel agency and she managed to sort it. Best prize we’ve ever had. An all-inclusive romantic four night stay in a luxury five-star hotel in Marrakech! It has a swimming pool, a spa, the works. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it?’ Rita’s eyes have lit up.

‘It sounds amazing!’ I enthuse. ‘Five-star? Really?’

‘Oh yeah, five-star. It’s top notch. The best,’ Rita insists, before glancing down at her pad of raffle tickets. She could be exaggerating to get me and Will to splurge on the raffle, but somehow, I get the feeling that this prize might really be a diamond in the rough. A five-star holiday amid a plethora of hampers, kitchen utensils and Debenham’s gift cards.

I rummage in my handbag for my wallet. ‘Okay, I’ll have five tickets please, Rita. No, ten!’

‘Feeling lucky, are we?’ Rita jokes. ‘It’s two quid a ticket, so that’ll be twenty pounds, please.’

Twenty pounds? This event really has moved on since I was 12, when raffle tickets cost 50p. I pull my wallet out of my bag. It’s a quirky one I found at an independent boutique in London with a Fendi-style monster print all over it. Will raises an eyebrow at the bold print as I pull out a twenty-pound note.

‘Interesting …’ he comments as I hand Rita the money. He’s clearly having difficulty getting his head around the new me. The businesswoman me who pays attention to trends rather than the head-in-the-clouds arty girl I used to be.

Ignoring him, I hand the money to Rita, who places it in a money belt around her hips, before tearing off a few strips and handing me the tickets.

‘Thanks Rita!’ I reply. ‘Fingers crossed!’

‘Good luck, love,’ Rita says, with a warm smile.

Rita turns around, looking for her next target, before clocking Clive. She waves over at him and turns to head his way when Will suddenly taps her on the shoulder.

‘Rita, wait. I want some.’

‘I already sold you one earlier,’ Rita points out.

‘Yeah, but I only got one. I didn’t realise people were buying multiple tickets,’ Will comments, sounding a little petulant.

‘It is for charity,’ I mutter under my breath.

Will laughs. ‘Oh sure, Natalie, charity is what’s on your mind right now!’ he jokes, and it’s as though he can see into my brain and is witnessing the picture in my head of me lounging on a deck chair by a gorgeous pool, the sun making my straw hat cast shadows over my face, a novel open on my lap and a cocktail in my hand.

‘How many tickets would you like, Will, love?’ Rita asks, ignoring mine and Will’s bickering.

‘Twenty,’ Will says.

‘Twenty?!’ Rita and I both echo in unison.

‘Yeah, it’s for charity,’ Will reminds me, with a smirk. I roll my eyes as he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a battered old wallet. He flips it open and hands Rita two twenty-pound notes.

She takes the money and gives him his tickets, which he folds into his wallet while smiling smugly.

‘I’ll have some more please,’ I tell Rita, before she has a chance to walk away.

‘What? How many more?’ she asks, looking a little taken aback.

I peer into my wallet. I have a crumpled fiver, two one-pound coins, a fifty pence piece and a couple of twenty pence and ten pence pieces. I quickly add it up: £8!

‘Four please,’ I say, fishing all the money out and depositing it into Rita’s hand. She takes it, counts it and slips the coins and notes into her money belt, before handing me four more tickets. I place them in my bag, feeling warm and fuzzy with excitement. At least I think it’s the excitement and not just the punch I’ve had to drink.

She glances over her shoulder at Clive who is looking over. He waves and looks hungrily at Rita’s pad of tickets, clearly keen to get involved.

‘Good luck you two!’ Rita says, before heading over to Clive.

‘Thanks Rita,’ I call after her.

I pat my handbag, feeling pleased with all my tickets.

‘Why are you smiling?’ Will asks, eyeing me. ‘You only have fourteen tickets. I have twenty-one.’

‘You’re such a dick,’ I tut. ‘Anyway, I don’t care if you have twenty-one tickets to my fourteen, I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to win. I can just feel it.’ I cross my fingers, praying I’m right.

‘Ha!’ Will scoffs. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’

Chapter 4

I devour another handful of crisps and wash them down with a third glass of punch, while listening to Rowena – the head librarian at the local library – extoll the mindfulness benefits of cross-stitch. Believe it or not, the party is in full swing now. A few people have taken to the dancefloor where they’re currently grooving to Katy Perry. The bowl of punch is nearly empty. The auction has been held – the highlight of which was a dark-haired woman bidding £100 for someone else’s used foot spa – and Mick gave a really moving speech about his wife Maggie and about the important work Cancer Research are doing. Will and I have mostly been avoiding each other the whole evening, but I keep glancing across the hall and catching him looking over at me, which is annoying but then I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t also looking over. God, I really do feel like I’m back at school.

At the moment, Will’s standing across the hall with his mum, Sharon – a softly spoken petite woman with an incredibly pretty face. She has a sort of Audrey Hepburn charm with sparkly eyes and a wide gorgeous guileless smile. She has a neat grey bob that always seems to have a natural bounce to it, the kind of volume most women can only achieve through a blow dry. She’s stayed single since Will’s dad passed away and I don’t think she’s particularly interested in finding anyone else – they were absolutely smitten – but that hasn’t stopped the hordes of admirers from flocking her way. From the looks of it, Sharon is currently being chatted up by Mr Price (a divorced history teacher from my old school known for his bad breath and terrible toupee), Matthew Black (a chronically single monotone-voiced bachelor who lives down the road and has a penchant for keeping pet rats) and some other guy I don’t recognise who appears to be totally over-excited to be speaking to a woman. So much so that his entire face is beaded with sweat. Will is standing protectively close, shielding Sharon from this onslaught of undesirable admirers and she keeps giving him grateful looks that, actually, now that I come to think of it, are bordering on desperate ‘get me out of this’ stares.

‘It’s incredibly restorative,’ Rowena insists, and I realise she’s still talking about cross-stitching. ‘It’s like meditation. Your mind relaxes but your body becomes centred too as you stitch. It’s almost better than traditional meditation because your mind and body are in harmony. You should try it sometime.’ Rowena eyes me hopefully. ‘Once you get into it you can use your creations as gifts or just decorations. I decorate my whole flat with them.’ Rowena picks up her phone and shows me an array of cross-stich creations in frames on the walls of her book-lined flat. If there isn’t a slightly dusty-looking bookcase against the wall, there’s an array of cross-stich designs in shabby chic frames. There are traditional floral pieces, which are quite charming, if a little twee. There are a few slightly bizarre but surprisingly life-like portraits of her cat, who she tells me is called Mittens. There’s even a feminist design of a uterus and ovaries with the slogan ‘Grow a pair’. It’s pretty cool.

‘Oh wow!’ I say, both shocked and impressed as I take in the fine needlework on the cervix.

‘You should come over sometime and I’ll show you how it’s done,’ Rowena suggests enthusiastically. As sweet as she is, cross-stich is hardly my thing.

I have a sudden vision of myself in a few years’ time, still living at home with my mum, cross-stitching portraits of Mr Bear for Hera or cross-stitching a penis with an angry slogan about toxic masculinity or something, while drinking tea at Rowena’s place night after night, having forgotten what it feels like to be touched by a man. I suppress a shudder.

‘I’m quite busy with work and with Hera. It’s hard for me to get out much.’ I glance towards Hera’s carrier. She’s still fast asleep, sputtering slightly as she dreams. I feel a fresh wave of maternal love for her and not just because she’s the loveliest baby ever, but also because she’s a brilliant excuse to get out of doing stuff I don’t want to do.

Rowena looks a little disappointed. ‘Well, maybe I could come to yours. I could bring my kit.’

‘Err …’ I utter. I can’t seem to come up with an excuse and just as I’m beginning to think there’s no way I’m going to get out of this, Mick’s voice suddenly booms from the stage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’

Everyone goes quiet and looks towards the stage. Mick’s wearing the same outfit he had on last time I was at this fundraiser back when I was 12 – an eye-catching red three-piece suit teamed with a white shirt and a black bow tie.

‘It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for!’ he says, grinning broadly. ‘The raffle!’

A few cheers erupt across the hall.

‘Oh my God!’ I grin, gripping Rowena’s arm in excitement.

I look over at Will to see him looking back at me, steely-eyed. He smiles smugly as he holds up his crossed fingers. I smirk and wave my crossed fingers back at him.

‘This year, we have a host of brilliant prizes,’ Mick enthuses, gesturing at a table piled high with goodies. ‘From a bottle of Fortnum’s vintage port, Amazon gift cards, a year’s subscription to Good Housekeeping and many others, to the star prize – a five-star romantic getaway for two in Marrakech!’

We all cheer.

‘Big thanks to my lovely niece Hannah for pulling out all the stops to get the travel agency she works for to gift us this marvellous prize,’ Mick continues, explaining how Hannah couldn’t make it to the event because of her ‘busy London life.’ Ha. Unlike me and Will who now spend our Friday nights in village halls. I look over at him and catch his eye, we exchange a wry smile.

‘I’m delighted to reveal that we’ve raised a total of £4,428 tonight for Cancer Research, making tonight our most successful fundraiser ever! A big round of applause to everyone! To everyone who’s bought a ticket in the raffle and gifted prizes; to everyone who donated items for the auction and all the generous bidders; and to everyone who’s taken the time to help with everything from the buffet to the bunting – it means the world to me that you all get behind this event year in year out. I know if Maggie could see us all, she’d be so incredibly proud,’ Mick says, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘Give yourselves a round of applause!’ he adds, smiling warmly.

We all start clapping enthusiastically. Everyone, including myself, has teared up a little. It’s so touching just how sweet and loyal Mick is that after twenty years, he’s still holding fundraisers for his true love. It really does bring a tear to your eye and I can’t help feeling bad that I hadn’t been particularly interested in coming along tonight. I glance over at Will and even he’s looking misty-eyed as he claps enthusiastically, a tender smile on his face.

Rita suddenly gets up on stage and takes the mic from Mick. He seems a little taken aback.

‘I’d just like to say that even though everyone has done a marvellous job to make this event happen I think we should all acknowledge Mick’s efforts. Without him, this event would never be the success it is. Your dedication is an inspiration to us all, Mick. Maggie would be so touched and so, so proud,’ Rita says, her voice cracking with emotion. She starts clapping and we all join in, with even more gusto this time.

She and Mick hug and he takes the mic. Rita heads back to her seat.

‘Thanks everyone. I’m so very touched,’ Mick says as the applause dies down. ‘And without further ado, I’ll now be announcing the prizes of the raffle.’

Mick picks up a tin from the table of prizes and gives it a shake. ‘Right, who wants to help me pick winners?’ Mick asks, looking encouragingly towards a few kids sitting with their parents at a nearby table.

A little boy in a Transformers T-shirt sticks his hand up. ‘Me! Me! Me!’ he cries out.

‘Come up on stage, Edward!’ Mick says. Edward’s mum ushers him towards the stage and helps him up.

‘Right, Edward, you can pick our winners,’ Mick says, pulling off the lid of the tin. Edward smiles up at him delightedly.

‘Okay, so our first prize we’ll be announcing is a fifteen-pound Waterstones voucher and the winner is …’ Mick presents the tin to Edward, who reaches for a ticket.

He pulls one out victoriously.

‘Thanks Edward,’ Mick says. ‘What number is that?’ Mick holds the microphone down to Edward.

‘Number 231,’ Edward announces shyly.

‘Oh, that’s me! That’s me!’ A red-haired lady I recognise as the receptionist from the local GP surgery calls out, waving her ticket in the air. She comes up on stage and Mick hands her the voucher. She seems delighted. I know it’s only a raffle and I should just relax and have fun, but I can feel myself becoming totally gripped with excitement. I really want to win too!

Mick and Edward reveal the rest of the raffle winners. Will’s mum Sharon wins a dinner for two at an Italian restaurant in town and I can’t help feeling sorry for her as her admirers all seem to light up, clearly hoping to be her plus one. I suspect she’ll probably end up taking Will. Rowena wins the bottle of port. By the time the final few prizes are revealed, Edward’s beginning to look exhausted, like the novelty of choosing winners is starting to wear off. He goes back to sit with his mum. Edna, an elderly lady from the local church, comes up on stage to pluck the final winning tickets from the tin.

The table of prizes is growing increasingly empty and the tension in the room is mounting as we get closer and closer to the star prize reveal. I know it’s only a charity raffle, but I can’t help caring so much. A holiday to Marrakech is not something that people in my village take lightly. I know this prize and whoever wins will be the talk of the town for months. My mum was right. This is an important event on the village calendar. I can’t believe I even considered missing it.

‘Okay ladies and gentlemen, now the moment you’ve all been waiting for – we’ll be announcing the winner of the star prize! A romantic getaway in gorgeous, exotic, exciting Marrakech,’ Mick says. He switches a button on a projector on the table and suddenly, beautiful images of the most exquisite hotel fill the screen. It’s stunning – a huge white palatial building with a tapering gold domed roof and tall majestic archways, lined with palm trees soaring to the sky. The images cut to the inside of the hotel and it’s all dreamy-looking terracotta walls, sun-filled riads and wide marble hallways. The pictures cut to a photo of a plush sumptuous bed covered in fractured light flowing from ornate silver lamps and photographs of a giant tranquil aquamarine pool lined with sun loungers in the most stunning courtyard ever. Rita really wasn’t exaggerating when she said this holiday was ‘top notch’. The images of the hotel blend into images of Marrakech, with its bustling souks, full of spices, tagine dishes, rugs and elongated lamps that look like something you could use to summon a genie.

I drink in the images, my daydream of reclining on the sun lounger in a bikini and sunglasses growing sharper and sharper by the second. I really want to win this prize. It would be so great for me and Lauren. She seems to be loving the single girl-about-town life, but I know it gets exhausting and she could do with a break. We used to go on mini-breaks from time to time. She and I took the Eurostar to Bruges one weekend and we’ve been to Paris a few times, too. I’ve felt a bit bad since I had Hera and moved to Chiddingfold as we don’t get to hang out anywhere near as much as we used to. This holiday would be perfect for us. We’d get to spend some quality girl time together.

‘And the winner is …’ Mick holds the tin out to Edna, who reaches inside.

We all hold our breath. We’re so silent you could hear a pin drop. Yet Edna is taking forever to choose a ticket, rummaging about in the tin. She probably feels like Dermot O’Leary right now, announcing the winner of the X Factor.

Eventually her hand emerges from the tin and she unfolds a piece of paper.

‘Number 18!’ she announces.

Excitement floods through me as I scan my raffle tickets. I’m pretty sure I had number 18 and then my eyes land on the winning ticket. Number 18!

‘And number 102,’ Edna adds just as I leap to my feet, waving my winning ticket and cry, ‘It’s me!’

My moment of joy is suddenly shrouded in confusion. Why is Edna calling out another winning ticket? I won!

‘Ha! I have 102!’ Will calls out, brandishing a ticket.

I look over at him. What? I glance around the room, trying to figure out what’s going on, but everyone else is looking equally perplexed. We all look towards Mick, who seems baffled.

‘It’s just one winner Edna, not two!’ he says eventually.

Edna blushes. ‘Oh … I thought it was a prize for two, so I just read out two names.’

‘No love. A prize for two but the winner can take whoever they want.’

‘Right,’ Edna replies, looking completely out of her depth. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s in her eighties and I don’t think her mind is quite as sharp as it used to be.

‘It’s okay, Edna love,’ Mick says, rubbing Edna’s back.

Mick thanks her for her help and reassures her that she’s done a good job. She smiles sweetly and goes back to her table to sit down.

‘Right, well, er, this is a difficult situation …’ Mick looks towards me and Will. We’re both holding our winning tickets.

‘Well, my ticket was read out first so it would probably be easiest to just let me have the prize,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe next time, Will.’

Will smirks. ‘Just because your ticket was read out first doesn’t mean anything. My ticket was read out fair and square.’

‘Yes, it does. Ever heard of first-come-first-served?’ I remind him.

Will laughs. ‘Raffles don’t work like that, Natalie.’

I suddenly realise that everyone in the hall is watching us bicker.

‘Why don’t you just pull a ticket from those two?’ Clive suggests, gesturing between me and Will. Not a bad idea actually, except I’ll stand a 50 per cent chance of losing and I really don’t want to lose.

I don’t comment and neither does Will. I can tell Will’s not particularly keen on the idea either.

‘Good suggestion, Clive, thank you. But I’ve had an idea too,’ Mick says. My ears prick up.

‘How about you both go? Together.’

A laugh escapes my lips. ‘Together?’ I gawp.

I look over at Will, who’s also laughing.

‘That’s a great idea, Mick,’ my mum pipes up, a twinkle in her eye. She’s sitting a few seats down from me at the table and I shoot her a look. I know she likes Will, but I mean, seriously? Suggesting I go on holiday with him. I haven’t even seen him for sixteen years, I’m hardly going to just hop on a plane with him to Marrakech!

‘You could …’ Rita suggests, looking hopefully between me and Will.

Suddenly everyone in the hall is murmuring in agreement.

‘Maggie used to love our holidays,’ Mick reminisces over the microphone. ‘There was this quote she used to like – “The world is a book and those who don’t travel only read one page”. She loved that. I know she would have been keen for you both to have a read of the Morocco chapter.’

Oh my God, what is happening? How has this trip of a lifetime that I was dying to get my hands on five minutes ago suddenly turned into the world’s most awkward holiday?! Now I can’t even refuse to go without feeling like I’m somehow betraying Maggie’s memory.

‘Come on, love. It’s what Maggie would have wanted,’ my mum says. I blink at her in shock several times, unable to believe her nerve. She’s not interested in what Maggie would have wanted, she’s just trying to set me up with Will.

As I gawp at my mum, another voice pipes up.

‘I have an idea …’

I look over to see Brian. Googly-eyed annoying Brian. I hadn’t noticed him until now, but he’s sitting at a table by the buffet eyeing me intently, almost hungrily. It’s a little disturbing, actually.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Brian offers. ‘If Will doesn’t want to. I’ll take the ticket and come with you. Give you a bit of company, do you know what I mean?’

He stares at me with a look of impassioned intensity as he makes this offer. I’m not sure he realises he’s not helping the situation at all. As if Will’s going to just give up his ticket! I glance at Will who is now smirking mischievously.

‘That’s not a bad idea, Brian,’ he says.

My eyes widen in shock. He’s not seriously going to sacrifice his ticket to Marrakech purely to get a laugh out of making me go on a four-night romantic getaway with Brian? Actually, that’s exactly the kind of thing Will would find hilarious.

‘No, Brian! Thanks for the offer, but no,’ I state firmly, my voice tight and a little erratic. Brian deflates a little, but I don’t care. I know he’ll bounce back and will probably have moved onto his next target by the time the raffle’s over.

‘Okay, well in that case, maybe we should just go together then?’ Will throws his hands up in surrender. I glare at him. What is he doing? He smiles back, shrugging.

Suddenly everyone’s eyes dart towards me, expectantly. I don’t want to go on holiday with Will, but if I say that, I’m going to look like a total spoilsport.

‘Come on, Natalie!’ Mick says, with a hopeful grin.

‘Yeah come on,’ a few others echo.

Everyone’s looking my way and even though only seconds have passed, it feels like a lifetime. I squirm, not knowing what to do. My mum’s nodding encouragingly. So’s Rowena. Even Clive looks keen on the idea. I glance towards Rita, who seems to be the only person in the room who’s giving me a sympathetic look.

‘I mean, you could always go together and just do your own thing?’ Rita suggests in an upbeat, optimistic tone.

I suppose she’s right. I could always go on the trip, enjoy the gorgeous hotel, hang out at the pool and explore Marrakech on my own. Just because the trip is billed as a romantic getaway for two doesn’t mean Will and I have to be romantic. It may be a package holiday, but we can unpackage it. We don’t have to do everything together. I glance over at Will.

‘Don’t worry Natalie, I won’t cramp your style,’ he says, smirking again.

‘Okay, fine,’ I sigh, giving in.

‘Oh fabulous!’ my mum cries out.

‘Excellent!’ Mick says. ‘Maggie would be so proud.’

‘Great.’ I smile uneasily, sitting back down.

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