Kitabı oku: «The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!»

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Booklist

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Extract

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE
NATALIE

‘I don’t love you any more.’

That was it. Six words delivered so simply, as if he were reading the news.

‘Good evening and here is the news. The marriage of Natalie and Daniel Garfield, which lasted for fifteen years, is over. In a statement today, Mr Garfield said, “I don’t love you any more.” Mrs Garfield responded by punching him in the face and trashing the house.’

At least that’s what I wished I’d done later but at the time an odd sensation of calm descended. It was as if this wasn’t really happening to me. It was at best some kind of joke and at worst something that could be sorted.

This wasn’t in the plan. This kind of thing was never going to happen to us. Other people split up, their marriages disintegrating like a swiftly disappearing desert island, but that was never going to happen to us. We were rock-solid – a steady ship; Nat and Dan, Dan and Nat. It had the ring of one of those American teen shows that Woody loved to watch on Nick Jr.; all jazz hands and sparkly teeth.

We were a great couple. Everyone said so. We were the kind of couple that others looked at with awe and secret envy. Everybody loved Dan. He’s just one of those men who people like – old ladies, babies, men, women, children have all told me over the course of our marriage, what a really great guy he is.

I would go on nights out with my female friends as they ripped apart their partners and husbands, picking over their faults like vultures feasting on carrion. I would nod with sympathy but never really had anything to add. They would often turn their sleepy, drunken gaze to me, pat me on the shoulder and slur, ‘Course you’re lucky, Nat. You’ve got Dan. He’s such a lovely guy.’

And he was. Possibly still is.

Dan was my husband, my soul mate. Of course he had his faults. The underpants on the floor and the toilet seat in the perpetual ‘up’ position were an irritation, but not exactly a major crime against domesticity. He was, is a good man – a good husband and father. He was my happy-ever-after.

Naturally, we had disagreements and wobbles. Who doesn’t? We didn’t spend as much time together on our own as we would like but that’s to be expected. We’re busy with work, Woody and life. Obviously it would be lovely to go on the odd date-night or even have sex but frankly, we were usually too knackered. I’d always thought that the shared bottle of wine on Friday night with a movie was good enough. Clearly I have been labouring under a major misapprehension.

Initially, I went into full-on denial mode when he dropped the bombshell. I wondered later if my body had actually gone into shock in a bid to protect myself from the truth. Certainly at the time, my brain sent me a quick succession of messages to counter his statement: he didn’t mean it (he did), he’d been drinking (he hadn’t), he was tired (true) and angry (not true). It wasn’t until I’d picked over the remnants of that evening with various friends (my turn to be the vulture now) that I’d fully taken in the order of events.

It was a Tuesday evening. I hate Tuesdays. They make me feel restless and impatient. Monday is supposed to be the worst day but for me, it has always been Tuesday. I can deal with the post-weekend slump and Monday is usually my most productive day but by Tuesday, I am longing for the week to move ‘over the hump’ towards the downhill joy of Thursday. I often long for a glass of wine on Tuesday evenings but on this particular day I was disappointingly sober because I was having a so-called healthy week. At least I was before he said it.

It was around 8.30 and we had just finished dinner. Woody was reading in his room before lights-out and I had been about to go and tuck him in. I normally love this part of the day: the feeling that another episode of motherhood is successfully complete; no-one died. Everyone is safe.

If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed that Dan was particularly uncommunicative during dinner. Again, it wasn’t until later that I recalled the details: his downward gaze and hands fidgeting with the cutlery, his water glass, the pepper mill.

I had been telling him about a problem with my latest book. I am a children’s picture-book writer and have enjoyed some success with my series of books about ‘Ned Bobbin – the small boy with the big imagination’, as my publisher tags it. There have been six books so far and my editor wants another three but I was struggling with ideas and wondering whether to take him down the super-hero route.

When I recalled the conversation later, I realised that I had done all the talking; posing and answering my own questions with just the odd ‘mhmm’ or nod from Dan. That was the problem with being a writer – you spent too much time at home on your own with no-one to talk to.

I talk to myself all the time when I’m working. I read back what I’ve just written, talk to the radio or hold imaginary conversations with all manner of people, including Ned. I read somewhere that adults have a certain number of words they need to say in a day and that the word quota for a woman is higher than a man’s. I believe this. It isn’t unusual, therefore, for me to unpack my day to Dan when he gets home. I thought he liked it. Maybe I was wrong about that too.

I had finished my dinner: an unimaginative stir-fry containing any vegetable-like items I’d found in the fridge on opening it at 7.30. Woody had eaten earlier. He was eight years old and always starving when he returned home from school so I tended to feed him straight away and then either Dan or I cooked our dinner later.

I stood up to clear the plates, reaching out for Dan’s. He looked up at me and only then did I notice how pale he looked – his face, slightly pinched with age, but still handsome. He stared at me, unsmiling and I realised he was nervous.

‘What?’ I asked with an encouraging smile.

He swallowed and bit his lip. Then he said it.

At first I assumed he was joking.

‘Yeah right, and I’m having an affair with James McAvoy.’ I shook my head and made for the door.

‘Nat.’

I paused, turning to look back at him. He was crying and that was when I knew it wasn’t a joke. It was the first rumble of a threatening storm. Still, my brain told me to keep going, carry the plates out, kiss Woody goodnight, come down and sort this out. It was just another thing to be sorted, like pairing the socks in a basket of washing.

I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I padded upstairs, pausing outside my son’s bedroom door. I focused for a moment on the wooden letters stuck to the upper panel, spelling ‘WOODY’. Each letter was represented by an animal with the same corresponding first letter and I reached out a hand to stroke the wombat’s cheery face. I will sort this out. I’m good at sorting. All will be well.

I pushed the door open, blinking into the half-light, feeling immediately reassured by the sight of my son. He was sitting up in bed, reading by the light of the twisty snake-lamp we had given him last birthday, propped up by the patchwork cushion my mum had made him when he was born. His chin was resting on his chest, that customary frown creasing his perfect face. He flicked his gaze in my direction and then back down at his book.

‘How’s Mr Fox doing?’ I asked, as if nothing had happened, as if my world was still intact.

Woody sighed. ‘Not good. Boggis, Bunce and Bean shot him.’

‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

Woody shook his head in agreement but kept reading, his eyes darting left and right. I looked around his room at the dog-eared football posters, the framed prints of scenes from my Ned Bobbin stories, the Lego models and the shelves stacked with books. Woody was a bookworm. He had learnt to read at the age of three and not really stopped since. He had probably read Fantastic Mr Fox at least fifty times. I felt a sense of calm descend. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to nestle down at the end of Woody’s bed, to pretend Dan hadn’t said what he had just said and hope that it all went away. I felt safe there.

‘Time for lights-out, fella,’ said Dan’s voice from the doorway. I jumped, jolted back to reality. I couldn’t see his face properly but his voice was throaty from crying.

Woody glanced at him and then me. ‘Can I just finish this chapter, please?’ His expression was wide-eyed and impossible to resist.

Dan stepped forwards and ruffled his hair. ‘Okay, but then straight to sleep.’

‘’Kay,’ replied Woody. ‘Night, Mum.’

I leant down and kissed him. ‘Night, darling boy. Love you. Sleep well.’

‘Love you. Sleep well,’ repeated Woody like a robot. ‘Night, Dad.’

‘Night,’ said Dan. He turned towards the door and paused, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘Coming?’

I stared down at my son as if he might offer a solution. He sensed my hesitation and looked up. ‘Night, Mum,’ he said again with a trace of impatience.

‘Night,’ I answered, turning and following Dan out of the room and down the stairs. We didn’t speak again until we reached the dining room.

‘I’m going to get a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Want one?’

‘No,’ sighed Dan. ‘Thanks. We do need to talk, Nat.’

‘And that’s why I need a glass of wine,’ I said, making my way to the kitchen. I poured a polite helping and then doubled it. Taking a large gulp, I refilled it and carried the glass into the dining room. Dan was sitting at the table, his hands in prayer position.

I slid into the chair opposite. ‘So,’ I began, trying to stay calm and matter-of-fact. ‘What’s this all about?’

Dan ran a hand through his neatly parted hair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m leaving.’

I was surprised to learn that two gulps of wine could inflame immediate righteous anger. ‘Because you don’t love me any more?’ I almost spat the words.

‘I think so.’

‘You think so?’ I snapped. ‘Because that’s a fucking big statement if you’re not sure. Do you love me or not? Simple question.’ My voice was increasing in volume and it unnerved me. My childhood had been punctuated by anger between my father and mother. As an adult I had made a monumental effort to keep mine under control but all bets were off now. Red was the new black.

Dan stared at his hands, unable to look me in the eye. ‘No, I don’t and I’m sorry.’

The sarcasm devil took control of my brain. ‘Well that’s all right then. If you’re sorry then I forgive you. That makes it all just fine.’ I folded my arms and stared at him.

I couldn’t get a grip on my brain somehow, couldn’t work out what I was supposed to say or how I was supposed to feel. I had no point of reference for this moment. It felt like somebody else’s life.

Dan tried to be reasonable. That was one of his greatest strengths. He was eternally reasonable and always took other people’s opinions seriously. We rarely argued and this was largely down to Dan. He was able to defuse a situation like the most practised of bomb-disposal experts. ‘I understand that you’re angry, Nat, and you have every right to be, but if you’ll let me, I’ll try to explain.’

I took another deep gulp of wine before holding up my glass as if proposing a toast and saying, ‘Please. Be my fucking guest.’

Dan swallowed. ‘It’s nothing you’ve done or said. You have always been the perfect wife.’

‘If you’re about to use the words, it’s not you, it’s me, I will get violent,’ I retorted.

Dan looked at me, tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I have tried to stay in love with you but I just don’t have those feelings for you any more. I love you but I’m not in love with you.’

My head was spinning from a combination of wine and fury. I stood up. ‘So you’re planning to leave?’

Dan nodded. ‘I want to speak to Woody first.’

‘Very decent of you, but you’ll have to come back to do that another time because I want you gone.’

‘Nat.’

People talk about a red mist and others talk about an out-of-body experience but for me it was neither. I thought nothing and felt nothing but pure white-hot fury as I smashed the wine glass to the floor and screamed, ‘GO! NOW! I WANT YOU FUCKING GONE!’

Whether out of self-preservation or respect for my feelings, Dan left the room. Moments later he reappeared with a bag, which I realised he must have been hiding in the back of his wardrobe for goodness knows how long. Waiting for the right moment. He had clearly been waiting for the right moment for a while.

He didn’t try to speak to me again before he left and I was oddly grateful to him for this. I heard the front door close like a full stop to my life so far. I looked around the room, numb with anger, unable to cry. I looked at the shards of broken glass and swore.

The annoying thing about a burst of righteous anger is that you have to clear up afterwards. I went to fetch the dustpan and another glass of wine.

CHAPTER TWO
CAROLINE

I actually thought that I was going to kill her. It was as if she had some kind of death wish. She just stepped into the road without even looking just as I was turning the corner. It was incredible. If I hadn’t stood up on the brake, I would have hit her much harder. Luckily, I was able to swerve so that I merely touched her and she sort of sat backwards onto the kerb. Of course, it had to be right outside the school, immediately after drop-off. Typical. I had to park on the hazard lines right outside the school, which obviously isn’t allowed until 9.30 a.m. The headmaster was standing at the gate and he glanced my way as I leapt from the driver’s seat.

‘Apologies, Phil!’ I cried, giving him a cheery wave. I noticed a gaggle of school mums who I knew from the PTA and tried to give them a reassuring nod as I hurried round to check up on her. I hoped they would just disperse but they had seen what happened and one of them was already on her way over. I recognised her as an annoying woman called Nula, who had been particularly disparaging about my idea to sell ‘Loom Bands’ at the summer fair.

‘They’re an absolute nightmare,’ she had moaned. ‘My cleaner is forever getting them stuck in the Dyson. And Alexis nearly took her little brother’s eye out with one last week.’

She was one of those mothers who attends every PTA meeting, criticising each idea and failing to offer any of her own. She also insisted on running the Pimm’s stall every year and drinking most of the profits. Her daughter had spat at Matilda when they were in Reception and I had obviously been on her hate list ever since I’d complained to their teacher. I didn’t care though – you have to learn to rise above these things when you’re the Chairwoman of the PTA. She was simply jealous that I had been elected to the post for a third consecutive year.

It took all my powers of control not to poke her in the eye as she rushed over, ignored my presence except for a haughty flick of her hair and sat down next to the woman, putting an arm around her shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Natalie?’ she asked in soothing tones. ‘I saw the whole thing and can act as a witness if you need me to?’ She flicked her gaze in my direction, her nostrils slightly flared. ‘What were you thinking, Caroline?’

Trouble-making viper. Luckily, Phil had arrived on the scene. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Garfield? Mrs Taylor. Would you like to come inside?’

‘I think she’s in shock,’ said Nula. ‘We should probably call an ambulance. And the police.’ A shadow of smug satisfaction passed over her face as she uttered this last sentence. That’s it, I thought, no Pimm’s stall for you this year. Three hours of Splat the Rat, you interfering shrew.

The woman had been staring at the ground all the while but now she seemed to come to her senses. She looked up at us all, her face wide-eyed and fearful. I noticed with distaste that she was wearing pyjama bottoms and a hoody with trainers. To the untrained eye, the trousers could have just about passed as a pair of those awful floral things that everyone insists on wearing these days but she didn’t fool me. I can spot M&S nightwear a mile off. Her eyes were heavy with dark shadows and her hair was scraped up into a loose bun. Many people think you can achieve this hairstyle in a matter of seconds but many people are wrong. The wispy-haired look takes practice and effort. This woman hadn’t applied either.

I don’t mean to sound judgemental but I despair of playground mothers sometimes. Where is their self-respect? We’re all pushed for time in the mornings – the least we can do is apply a little eyeliner and make ourselves presentable. We’re supposed to be role models for the next generation, after all.

I realised that I needed this problem to go away and fast. I knelt down in front of the woman and took her hands. I also remembered that you should never apologise in an accident situation. It makes you culpable. I leant forwards and smiled. ‘It’s Natalie, isn’t it? How are you? Is there anything I can do?’ I felt Nula’s grip tighten around her shoulder but I pressed on. ‘Are you hurt at all?’

Natalie stared at me. I gave her a reassuring smile, which she seemed to accept as she squeezed my hands. ‘I’m okay,’ she murmured. ‘I just want to get home.’

‘I can take you!’ I cried.

Nula pursed her lips in irritation. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Shouldn’t we get you checked over, Natalie?’

Natalie shook her head. ‘No, really, I’m okay. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going, but if you could take me home, I’d be grateful,’ she replied, looking up at me.

Nula dropped her arm from Natalie’s shoulder, barely able to mask her disappointment.

‘Of course!’ I said, helping her to her feet. ‘No problem at all. Thanks, Phil. Thanks, Nula,’ I said, flashing a particularly saintly smile at the latter.

Phil nodded. ‘Take care, ladies,’ he said, before disappearing back through the school gate.

Natalie walked towards my car and opened the door. ‘Let me know if you need anything, hon,’ called Nula, squeezing Natalie’s arm as she walked past. ‘Bye, Caroline.’

I acknowledged her with a nod before jumping into the driver’s seat. Natalie climbed in alongside me and slammed the door shut. ‘Ooh, mind the paintwork!’ I cried, trying to keep my voice light.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, reaching over for her seatbelt.

‘So, where to?’ I asked.

‘Hope Street, please, number thirty.’

‘Oh, I live on that road,’ I said. ‘Number 232.’

‘Ahh.’ Natalie nodded. ‘The posh end.’

Some people might have taken this as a criticism but I didn’t. That house was my pride and joy. It had been a shell when Oliver and I had bought it in pre-Matilda days. We had worked hard to restore and rejuvenate it and it was a labour of love, particularly for me. We’d converted the loft, restored the brickwork, opened up the kitchen and made it into the perfect family home. I made no apology for the money spent or the effort made. We worked hard and we deserved it. Jealousy was a cheap and easy emotion.

However, I could tell that Natalie was only teasing as she made the comment with an almost-smile. I rewarded it with a breezy laugh. ‘What a start to the day!’ I remarked as we made the short journey back to her house.

She didn’t answer so I looked over and noticed that her shoulders were shaking. At first I thought she was laughing until I noticed her tear-stained face. It was like something from a soap opera. She was nearing hysterics. Two thoughts entered my head; how am I going to stop her doing that and how can I deposit her back home as quickly as possible?

I scanned the numbers and pulled up outside her house. It was a pleasant enough terraced Edwardian. Oliver and I had looked at a couple of these during our property search but had found them too poky, at least that was what I felt. Oliver was happy to go along with me. He’s good like that. I remember when we first viewed our house, it had been dark and shabby, the overwhelming stench of old person lingering like rotting stew.

The estate agent, an upright impeccably dressed woman in her late fifties, who had reminded me of my wonderful headmistress, Mrs Biggs, had chosen her words carefully.

‘This was a treasured family home but it needs to be updated, of course.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Oliver, taking in the peeling wallpaper, damp stains and alarming orange-swirl carpet. ‘It could do with being condemned and re-built, if you ask me.’

The estate agent had shot him a look not unlike one Mrs Biggs might have given one of the cheekier girls at our school – amused but firm. ‘It just needs a little TLC. Mrs Brown hadn’t been able to undertake any home improvements in recent times.’

I had adopted my best Kirstie Allsop persona and walked from room to room, trying to avoid deep breaths because of the smell, opening my mind as one word emerged from the back of my brain.

Potential.

‘I think it has great potential,’ I observed, keeping my expression neutral. That’s one thing my father had always taught me. ‘Keep a poker-face, Caroline. Never give anything away.’

Oliver was watching me now. Unlike the estate agent, he could read me like a book. ‘I saw your eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning,’ he observed later. ‘I knew we’d found the one – resistance was futile.’ He kissed me on the nose as he said this. ‘My girl must have exactly what she wants.’

He was always so sweet like that back then. It was different when we were both working at the bank. We worked hard and partied even harder. They were very happy times, working all week, doing up the house at the weekends. We had builders in to start with but we finished it all ourselves. I can remember Saturdays, listening to cheesy music on the radio while we decorated. I feel as if I know every inch of that house.

I smiled at the memory but my thoughts were interrupted by a loud, gasping sob. I stared at Natalie. I’d almost forgotten she was there. She looked truly awful, her face red and blotchy. I watched with disgust as she used a sleeve to wipe one eye. I reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a tissue as I might do for Matilda. I held it out for her and she seemed so touched by this tiny act of kindness that it brought on a fresh round of tears.

‘Thank you. Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘You must think I’m a nightmare.’

Of course I did but I’m never rude. ‘Not at all,’ I lied. ‘We all have off days,’ although of course I rarely did.

‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she asked, dabbing at her nose with the tissue.

‘That would be lovely but I’m afraid I have an appointment.’ This was only a half-lie as my cleaner was coming at ten and I always liked to be home to make sure she did her allotted two hours. I’d caught her leaving ten minutes early once.

Natalie nodded and smiled. There was an awkward pause as if she was waiting for me to say something, possibly ask her what was wrong, but I wasn’t going to do this. I barely knew her and I had a policy never to get involved with strangers’ problems. People loved to be so dramatic these days, longing for others to notice them, to affirm their existence with a ‘poor you’ or a Like on Facebook. It was all very needy. I don’t want to sound harsh but I can’t bear needy people.

Happily, there was a tap on the car window. It was our postman and he was smiling in at Natalie. He was one of those men who insist on wearing shorts whatever the weather and he always seemed to be tanned and relentlessly cheerful. I couldn’t recall his name until Natalie opened the passenger door and greeted him.

‘Hey Jim. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks Nat. You look a bit down. What’s up?’

I took this as my signal to escape. ‘I’ll let you get on then, Natalie,’ I said.

She turned her head towards me. ‘Okay then. Thanks for the lift, Caroline,’ she replied, climbing out of the car. She shut the door with a slam. Again. ‘Sorry,’ she winced, holding up a hand in apology.

I smiled and shook my head, pretending it didn’t matter before driving off. I glanced at Natalie and Jim in the rear-view mirror. They were already deep in conversation as he handed over a pile of letters, his face creased with concern. Natalie was obviously unloading that day’s drama. I couldn’t believe that she would be telling her troubles to the postman. The world had gone mad.

As I reached home and opened the front door, I exhaled with relief – another crisis averted. I noticed a plug of fluff hanging from the bottom of the radiator. I made a mental note to ask Rosie to give them a good clean and check the skirting boards while she was at it. I always took pride in keeping a clean and tidy house. Appearances are everything, after all.

CHAPTER THREE
NATALIE

‘So are you sure there isn’t someone else involved?’ asked Ed.

‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ I replied.

‘Has he actually said that though?’

‘Woody asked him.’ Ed looked surprised. I sighed. ‘I know. He came round so that we could tell Woody what was happening and it was only when he said it, that I realised I’d forgotten to ask.’

‘You forgot to ask?’

‘Don’t judge. I was really busy being very, very angry.’

Ed shrugged. ‘Fair point. So what did he say?’

‘He did the reasonable Dan thing, denied it vehemently, told Woody how much he loves him, that it’s not his fault, that he’ll be there for him whenever he needs him and that he’ll be staying at his mum’s for now. Blah, blah, textbook reassuring estranged father stuff.’

‘How did Woody take it?’

‘He asked for a biscuit.’

Ed surveyed the almost-empty tub of brownies. ‘Takes after his mother. Has Woody talked to you about it since?’

I shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t think eight-year-old boys do heart-to-hearts and, to be honest, he probably doesn’t know what to think. I know I don’t. I keep wondering what I did wrong, searching my brain for the moment when it all went belly-up.’ I reached for another brownie.

‘You won’t find the answer in the bottom of a carton of cakes.’

‘Hmm, what about a tub of salted caramel ice cream?’

‘Na-ah.’

‘Jar of peanut butter?’

‘Food of the devil – definitely not!’

‘Shame, because that has basically been my diet since Dan left.’

‘Well, I have to say, you’re more together than I thought you would be.’

‘I did cry in between dropping Woody at school and you arriving.’

‘But you’re not crying now.’

‘I could start at any minute.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll slap you if you do.’

I laughed. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Don’t start – you’ll set me off.’

‘No, seriously, Ed. I needed a dose of your straight-talking no-nonsense today. Thank you.’

He grinned. ‘Any time, sweet-cheeks. So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m sort of waiting for Dan to tell me what he wants.’ Ed grimaced. ‘What?’

He shrugged. ‘Just that I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. I thought you’d be firing up the sass machine, fighting for yo man, getting a little fierce, sister!’ He clicked his fingers and fixed me with a head-swivelling look.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Once more in English, please?’

‘You know what I’m saying, Nat. You’ve got to stand up and fight for your man!’

‘Who am I fighting? According to Dan, there’s no-one else involved.’

‘Which makes it so much easier! Think about it. You’ve been married for like a hundred years, haven’t had sex for six months.’

‘More like nine,’ I muttered.

‘Jeepers, it’s worse than I thought. You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’, darlin’.’

‘If you’re about to break into song, I’m leaving.’

‘I’m serious, Nat. You’ve just become incredibly boring.’

‘Wow. I’m so glad we had this chat.’

He grabbed my arm. ‘I think you just need some proper time together, sweet-pea. Get dressed up, go out on a date, reacquaint yourselves a little.’

‘Do you think that’s all it is?’

‘Of course! You know I’ll have Woody any time – he is my godson, after all.’

‘Thank you. I just don’t know if a couple of dates is going to solve it though.’ I remembered the look on Dan’s face when he told me he didn’t love me any more. He didn’t look like a man whose problems would be solved by sharing a Wing Roulette with his wife at Nando’s. He looked like a man who wanted to get away. Fast.

Ed seemed to read my mind. ‘I know what Dan said but everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes. He may have thought it at the time but I’m sure it won’t last. I mean, there was a time when he didn’t love you at all and then he fell in love with you, so there’s no reason why he can’t just do that all again, is there?’

‘I guess,’ I frowned, doubting his reasoning but grateful for his attempts to reassure me.

‘It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? I know how much you still love him.’ I could feel tears mist my eyes. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. He’s not going to fall back in love with a puffy-eyed snot monster.’ I laughed. ‘And you do look hot when you get dolled up on our nights out, so you should make the effort for Dan, don’t you think?’

I gave him a weak smile. He put an arm around my shoulder and kissed the top of my head. ‘Can’t I just marry you?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘That would be fine in terms of the no-sex thing but trust me, I’m a bitch in the morning. You deserve better, my gorgeous girl.’

I smiled. Maybe Ed was right about Dan and me. Maybe I’d been neglecting my own husband, forgetting that we needed to go out and have some fun. Plenty of couples hit these kinds of bumps in the road, so maybe I just needed to up my game a little. I started to think about where we could go – somewhere special with history. Perhaps we could go to the pub where we’d first met.

It had been just down the road from my college in town, a dark cavernous place with a huge bar on one side and uncomfortable tables and chairs on the other. I’d gone for a drink after lectures with a boy I fancied but who spent most of the time looking either at my breasts or over my shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to. In a desperate attempt to get his attention, I’d put ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ by Savage Garden on the jukebox with the intention of singing it to him. Yeah, I know. I’m one classy chick but desperate times and all that.

Just as the intro began, he’d downed his lager and declared, ‘Need a slash,’ before disappearing to the toilets. I took a large gulp of the cider I was drinking, even though I hated it and tried desperately not to look like Norma No-Mates.

Suddenly I was aware of a guy next to me at the bar. He was singing along to the track and much to my surprise, was looking straight at me as he did. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from men so I looked away, pretending that it wasn’t happening, at which point, he grabbed my hand and continued with his full-on serenade. His singing was terrible but I was impressed that he knew all the words. Plus, he looked a bit like the guy from Savage Garden and he grinned at me with such dark-eyed intensity that I felt an unexpected urge to snog his face off. It was one of those moments when you find yourself thinking, I’m starring in the movie of my life here. When he finished singing, he kissed my hand and offered to buy me another drink. I accepted, ordering a glass of dry white wine because I detected that my life was about to change and I needed to assume a more grown-up persona. Fortunately, the other boy had found someone more interesting to talk to at the back of the pub and never returned. I woke up the following morning with Dan next to me and a hangover of epic proportions. I never usually slept with boys after a first date, much less a first meeting, but it just seemed to happen as if it was meant to. We’d barely had a night apart since. Until now.

So maybe that was the answer. We had to re-engage with our past, to remind ourselves of the feelings that had brought us together, to recapture some of our wasted youth.

‘Thank you, Ed. I appreciate your advice and support. You’re a good bestie,’ I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘Always here for you, angel.’ He smiled.

I sighed. ‘What a loss you are to the heterosexual female population.’

Ed grinned. ‘If I had a pound for every time someone has told me that.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You’d have a pound?’

‘Har-de-fuckity-har. Now are we going to do any work today or what?’

I popped another brownie into my mouth. ‘Ab-fer-lutely,’ I said through a mouthful of chocolate deliciousness. ‘Fo me wha yoo got.’

Ed shook his head. ‘If only the fans of Natalie Garfield could see her at this moment.’

‘I fink you’ll find vey’d be very understanding – ’specially ver muvvas,’ I sputtered.

Ed shot me a disapproving look. ‘Are your fingers clean?’ he asked, picking up his large black art case.

‘Courth,’ I answered, wiping them hastily on my trousers.

‘Go and wash them,’ he ordered, unzipping the case.

‘’Kay, Dad.’ I carried our mugs into the kitchen. ‘Want another cuppa while I’m out here?’

‘No thanks, I’m all caffeined out.’

‘I’m just going to have one more,’ I said, flicking the kettle into life. I stared out of the window. It was early May and the garden was just beginning to bloom its way into colour. The apple tree looked particularly beautiful as it emerged into blossom.

I could remember the day we’d bought that tree. Woody had been three years old and Dan had decided that supermarket fruit and veg were poisoning his son. One Saturday morning, he had suggested a trip to the garden centre so that we could start to plant our own. It had been a beautiful spring day and I could remember Woody toddling happily between the rows of plants, pausing to point or shout, ‘Dat!’ at anything that interested him. It was one of those rare family outings where everything had gone to plan. Woody had napped in the car so that he was smiling and laughing throughout the visit, we had enjoyed carrot cake and coffee in the café (always a necessary pit stop for me) and Dan had been excited about the possibility of becoming the next Monty Don. He had filled our trolley with all manner of plants – courgettes, peas, sweetcorn, peppers, tomatoes and aubergines – before heaving three large bags of compost onto the space underneath. He had put his arm around me and kissed me and I remember feeling the sun on my face, hearing the gentle hiss of a sprinkler and the sound of Woody giggling with delight at a porcelain garden frog. It was a tiny moment and then Dan had disappeared with a wink.

‘Just got to get one more thing.’ He returned five minutes later, grinning and struggling with the tree in his arms. ‘I’ve always wanted an apple tree,’ he explained.

‘How are we going to fit it in the car?’ I laughed.

We drove home, singing along to ‘I Gotta Feeling’ on the radio, with our new tree poking out of the boot of our tiny VW Polo. I felt my heart sink at the memory as I gazed out at the tree, now festooned in cloud-like blossom.

‘You’re not moping are you?’ called Ed from the dining room. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

Damn him and his insightful perception. I had known Ed for over ten years and he knew me almost as well as Dan did. My publisher had paired us as a writer-andillustrator team for the very first Ned Bobbin book and we had worked together ever since. He was a bit like a favourite brother, collaborator and best friend all rolled into one. He was the first person I’d called after Dan left too. Admittedly, I didn’t call him until the next morning. I hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone before that. The ‘almost getting myself killed’ aspect to that morning had made me realise that I needed someone to talk to and, as was often the case when life got tricky or sad, it was Ed that I called.

‘I’m not moping. I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’

‘Very well,’ answered Ed. ‘Anyway, come and look at Ned in his super-hero outfit. I think he looks rather dashing.’

‘On my way,’ I replied, pouring boiling water into my mug. There was a knock at the door. I could tell almost immediately that the person on the other side was impatient. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock at a door. We have one of those very loud metal door-knockers that always makes me jump. I would have liked a doorbell really but we’d never got round to installing one and at least the knocker got my attention. Whoever it was tapped it loudly and rapidly so that I slopped my tea at the sound.

‘Damn, blast and bollocks!’ I cried.

‘Shall I get it?’ offered Ed.

‘Would you mind? Thanks.’ I reached for a cloth. I heard Ed talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognise. They were speaking very loudly as people often do when they meet for the first time and are trying to size each other up. I heard Ed say:

‘She’s just in the kitchen, come through.’ I hastily wiped the tea splodges from my top before turning to be confronted with Tilly’s mum, Caroline, holding out a bunch of scarlet peonies.

‘Oh, hi, Caroline,’ I said. I was surprised to see her. We hadn’t spoken since the incident with the car, even though I’d seen her in the playground. Woody and Tilly were in the same class and I’d heard him mention her from time to time but I don’t think Caroline realised this. I got the feeling that I wasn’t her sort of person. She had been the Chair of the PTA for years and to be honest, women like that terrify me.

I had baked some cakes for a sale once and something had gone wrong with the buttercream icing so that they sort of slumped overnight. Added to this, I had topped each bun with a Malteser. My friend Mel had sidled over and snorted with amusement, ‘They look like boobs, Nat!’ just at the moment I was handing them over to Caroline. She had stared at the nipular cakes and then back at me before accepting the Tupperware box with obvious disdain and muttering, ‘Thank you but please make sure you bake something more appropriate next time.’ Obviously there hadn’t been a next time.

She was beaming at me now as if we were old friends. ‘Hi, Natalie. These are for you,’ she said, handing over the flowers.

‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’

‘My pleasure. I just wanted to check that you were okay after our little bump the other day?’

She said it like it was a fun thing – a mutually shared treat. ‘I’m fine, thanks, and you didn’t need to buy me flowers.’

‘Well, I was in Waitrose and I saw them so I thought I would, plus Matilda told me that your son is in her class and that you write the Ned Bobbin books. I had no idea, so I thought I would pop in on my way home, say, “Hi,” and just check that you’re all right. You seemed very upset the other day.’ She creased her face into a grimace of sympathy.

I realised then that she had only called in because of who I was. I get this from time to time. People are often very interested when they find out you’re a writer.

‘Wow! That must be fascinating!’ they say. It isn’t really. It’s a job like any other and it involves staring at a blank piece of paper, desperately trying to think of some words, so it can be quite stressful too.

Or they’ll smile at me with obvious envy. ‘You’re so lucky. That’s my dream job.’ Really? Because my dream job is to be Mary Berry’s official cake taster. You should aim higher, my friend.

‘You must earn millions,’ is another one I hear occasionally. Hmmm, not especially. Although I am waiting for the Hollywood version of Ned’s life to propel me towards retirement. It’s turning out to be quite a long wait.

I did love my job but it was as frustrating as any other and often quite lonely. Dear old Ned had become quite popular amongst pre-schoolers and contributed towards the mortgage but man, he could be demanding.

So it was clear that Caroline had just discovered a new fact and decided that she wanted a writer as a friend. Still, there are worse crimes and I am pretty fantastic, despite now being a single mother with a worrying brownie addiction. ‘It’s very kind of you to pop by,’ I said.

She smiled and nodded at me, glancing over at Ed and then back to me, waiting for an introduction. ‘Sorry.’ I said. ‘This is Ed Jarvis.’

‘Oh, my God! You’re the Ed Jarvis. You illustrate the Ned Bobbin books. We love those books. They were basically the only thing that would get Matilda to sleep,’ chimed Caroline. She shook hands with Ed. He gave her his best modest but charming smile. Caroline looked from Ed to me and back to Ed. ‘This is so exciting! I can’t believe I’m standing here with Natalie Garfield and Ed Jarvis – it’s amazing!’

Ed and I exchanged glances. ‘It is overwhelming,’ he joked. ‘To be honest, Nat and I rarely get any work done due to the overpowering nature of our awesomeness.’

I rolled my eyes whilst Caroline snorted with delight as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. ‘Soo, are you working on something at the moment?’ she asked, eyes fixed firmly on Ed.

I shot him a look, which I hoped would say, ‘No.’

‘Actually, I was about to show Nat my roughs for the new Ned book. Would you like to see?’

‘Oh, my God, I would love that!’ gushed Caroline, pressing her hands to her heart as if he’d just offered her a date with Ryan Gosling.

I shook my head in disbelief. The problem with Ed was his ego. He loved to show off and he loved to get approval for his work. I know this is a normal human thing but he was basically a three-year-old when it came to his artwork and I was his mum. Today. Caroline was the auntie who only visits on occasion and Ed knew he had a captive audience. ‘Follow me,’ he said, grinning, leading Caroline into the dining room.

‘Oh, wow!’ breathed Caroline, taking in the sketches. ‘These are gorgeous.’ Ed stood back, basking in the glory.

Actually, they were pretty magnificent. He had given Ned a super-hero make-over, complete with mask, cape and dinky boots.

‘You are so talented,’ declared Caroline.

‘Well, Nat?’ asked Ed, looking at me. Bless, I thought. He still needs approval from his mum.

‘They’re wonderful,’ I smiled. Ed beamed. I almost wished I had a gold sticker to give him. ‘Just one thing, do you think he should have his pants over his costume like that? Maybe he should have a belt with the NB logo instead?’

Ed’s face wrinkled into a frown as he took in the illustrations again. ‘I thought the pants thing made it more fun,’ he said.

‘I think it’s perfect,’ declared Caroline.

‘See? Caroline thinks it’s perfect and she’s an actual, real-life reader,’ said Ed in a know-it-all voice.

I knew he was teasing but I was irritated by Caroline’s interference. What did she know about books and writing? This was my world. She should stick to PTA cake sales and Farrow and Ball paint charts. I kept my voice calm. ‘Let’s see what the art director thinks, shall we?’

Ed glanced at me. He could tell I was riled. ‘Whatever you think, angel-cake.’

I smiled with gratitude. ‘Anyway, Caroline, thanks for dropping by and for the flowers.’

She looked at me in surprise. If she thought she was staying for a cuppa, she was mistaken. ‘Oh yes, no problem at all. It was great to see you and lovely to meet you, Ed,’ she cried with a sycophantic smile. I followed her to the front door. She paused, turning back to face me. She was one of those women who knew how to make the best of her features. She wasn’t necessarily beautiful but she wore the right make-up, clothes and hairstyle to make herself effortlessly attractive and therefore rather intimidating to me. ‘Actually, Natalie, there was something I wanted to ask you.’

Oh gawd, here it comes. She’s got a brilliant book idea that she wants me to look at or she’s going to enlist me to write all the copy for the PTA. And I’m too weak to say no. Damn you, Dan – this is all your fault.

‘Did you know that they’re planning to demolish Hope Street Community Hall?’

I was shocked. I had fond memories of the place. It was a fairly dilapidated building but it was much loved and used by the busy, chaotic toddler group, which provided a haven for new mothers on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. I had found this a godsend when Woody was a baby. It was run by a group of retired ladies, who were basically like clucky, kindly hens, always willing to make you an industrial-strength coffee whilst they rocked and cuddled your fractious baby. On more than one occasion, during the intense early years, I had arrived looking like a character from A Nightmare On Elm Street, but returned home feeling almost human and reassured by their kindness and insistence that I keep up my strength by devouring at least twenty-five chocolate bourbons.

‘Oh, that’s really sad,’ I said, feeling my eyes mist at the memory and then hating myself for being so bloody emotional at the moment.

‘I’m glad you feel like that,’ said Caroline, thrusting a flyer into my hand. ‘Save Hope Street Community Hall’ was printed on it in large red letters with details of a forthcoming meeting, which I noted with increasing dread was due to be held at Caroline’s house later that week. I avoided her gaze by staring down at the flyer. ‘So you’ll come? I’m going to leaflet this street and the surrounding ones today. I think we’ll get a huge response.’

I swallowed, ready to make my excuses. Single parenthood wasn’t a status I wanted but it was a trump card today. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can make it. There’s no-one to look after Woody,’ I explained.

‘Won’t your husband be home?’ she asked.

‘Not any more,’ remarked Ed, appearing behind us.

I glared at him. To his credit, he recoiled in horror, mouthing ‘Sorry’ to me.

Caroline’s eyebrows were raised and I realised that I would need to explain before she cranked up the rumour-mill in the school playground. I sighed. ‘My husband and I are having a few problems,’ I said, feeling annoyed that despite my writer’s credentials, this was the best I could come up with.

‘Oh. Oh dear,’ she said in a way that sounded to my ears like, You’ve clearly failed. I’m pretending not to judge you, whilst judging you. ‘Well, I do hope you manage to sort it out and persuade him to come home. I don’t know what I’d do if Oliver ever left. Not that he would, of course.’

‘You can never be too sure,’ I retorted.

‘I know my husband,’ said Caroline with a thin smile.

‘I thought I knew mine too,’ I replied with narrowed eyes.

‘Anyway, ladies!’ cried Ed, detecting the start of a bitch-fight. ‘I love the sound of your campaign, Caroline, so I’m more than happy to baby-sit for you, Nat.’

‘Thank you,’ I said through clenched teeth.

‘Thank you,’ repeated Caroline, beaming at Ed in adoration. ‘See you on Thursday then, Natalie. 7.30 sharp. Lovely to meet you, Ed.’

‘You too.’ Ed said, nodding with a grin.

Caroline gave us both a neat little wave as she skipped down the steps into her stupidly large, gas-guzzling car. ‘Byeee,’ she trilled before driving off in a haze of planet-destroying fumes.

‘Judgemental cow!’ I cried as I slammed the door behind me.

‘I thought she was nice,’ teased Ed.

‘Shut up,’ I said, jabbing him in the chest. ‘You like anyone who admires your pictures. You’re basically a three-year-old in a man’s body.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he laughed, holding up his hands. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, as I pulled on my coat and grabbed my bag from the kitchen.

I fixed him with a look. ‘I’m not having that prissy tiger mother judging me. And you’re right. I need to be more proactive if I want to save my marriage.’

‘So-o?’

‘I’m going to surprise Dan at work and take him out for lunch, get the campaign rolling.’

‘Good for you, honey,’ he smiled. ‘Good for you.’

An hour later, I was standing outside Dan’s offices, checking my appearance in the window of the glass-fronted building. Ed had encouraged me to slow down, change into something ‘casual but sexy’, as he called it. My options had been limited but the blouse and jacket looked pretty good. ‘And brush your hair,’ he instructed. I had even put on lipstick. Usually, I just applied foundation and a dab of blusher so as not to frighten the Reception children in the school playground but actually, it felt good to make more of an effort. I did my best to stride with confidence into the building. This is always tricky where revolving doors are concerned but I managed to make it to the reception desk without having to go round a second time or falling over.

The woman behind the desk was immaculate with perfect hair, nails and teeth. A fleeting concern that Dan was having an affair with her leapt into my mind. I could feel my heart thundering as I approached the desk and said, ‘Please could you call Dan Garfield for me. It’s his wife.’ I watched her face carefully at these words. No flicker of recognition, guilt or jealousy. Calm that imagination, Nat, you crazy fool.

‘Just a moment, please.’ She smiled, putting through a call. ‘Dan Garfield? I have your wife here for you.’ She listened to the reply. ‘Er, okay, well she’s standing right here. Do you want to speak to her?’

I frowned with confusion as she held out the receiver. ‘Hello, Nat?’ said a voice. ‘This is Dan’s colleague, Penny.’ I could vaguely remember meeting her on a trip to the office with Woody once. She was pretty but I recall Dan saying that she was a bit annoying. Maybe that was a red herring, maybe she was in fact his dream woman and was about to confess to me.

‘Hello?’ I said, keeping my voice guarded. ‘Is Dan not available?’

‘He’s left for the day,’ she explained.

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Yes, sorry. He had another hospital appointment.’

‘Pardon?’ The world seemed to blur in and out of focus.

‘Another hospital appointment?’ said Penny but with less certainty this time. ‘Sorry, Nat, I assumed you knew and had just forgotten.’

‘Erm, yeah, of course, the hospital appointment,’ I stuttered, not wanting to seem like more of a fool than I already felt.

‘It’s at St Peter’s and he only left about ten minutes ago so you can probably catch him up. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the company. He said how boring it was waiting last time.’

‘Yes. Great. Thanks, Penny.’ I handed the receiver back to the receptionist. ‘Thanks. Thank you very much,’ I said, needing to fill the air with words as a rising tide of panic swept over me.

I wasn’t sure who was making my body walk out of the building, onto the street and along the road. All I knew was that I had to get to Dan. I had to be with him because suddenly I realised why he had left me. He was ill and he was going to die and in his ever-reasonable, ever kind and gentle way, he was trying to spare my feelings by facing it on his own. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I was going to go to him, comfort him and offer him all the support he needed. He wouldn’t have to face it on his own. I would be there with him, right until the end.