by Jenny Colgan
“It was a mistake. She told me so, too. She will go. She thinks we are all disgraceful.”
Lizzie nodded.
“And, you know, when you said you would not move into one of my houses, my heart was broken. And when you said you were leaving, I thought, this cannot be. I spoke to your sister, OK, I think maybe she is crazy.”
“She is crazy.”
“But she says that you maybe have feelings for me too and she was pretending to like me to get rid of Maria-Elena. Although this I do not believe. Who could not like me? And also that I am a big idiot elephant.”
Penny and Will had come dashing over, hand in hand, full of the joys. Eyes sparkling, Penny came up behind him.
“You are,” she said. “You’re a big idiot elephant.”
“Lizzie,” said Georges. “You know me. I am not a man of half measures. I am not a man who says what he does not mean, or wastes time. All I have, is yours. My heart, my soul.”
“His car service,” muttered Penny, as Will took the executive decision to take her away to the side of the road and quietly snog her up a bit.
“So, Lizzie, I ask. Would you like to be my wife?”
Lizzie squinted at him. “I think I must be concussed.”
“That is why I choose my moment now. You know. Take advantage of you while you are in a weak state.”
Lizzie looked at him. “Oh, Georges. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, please.”
And she jumped up, shrugged off the silver blanket, and threw her arms around his big strong shoulders.
Chapter Seventeen
They moved slowly and carefully, one twin on either side as their gran was taken out of Georges’s car and into the waiting wheelchair. Only two people per bed were allowed at visiting time, but the hospital was making an exception for the twins and their gran. It had been a long process picking her up from the old people’s home. Lizzie had managed with ease to persuade Georges to give her the day off—in fact, they were both taking far too much time off, seeing as they had spent most of the last two weeks staring at each other—and Penny had left Sloan hanging Will’s new exhibition—a collection of Chelsea town house paintings, which seemed likely to sell out as fast as he could finish them, both to the residents and the aspirationals.
The hospital smelled just like Gran’s room. “Ah, home,” she said, as the double doors opened automatically.
“Which ward?” said Penny.
“Honeysuckle,” said Lizzie. “Down here.”
Lizzie had expected to feel more nervous about going to visit her dad, but she wasn’t. Partly because he didn’t scare her anymore—he was just a man, a weak man—and partly because she was wrapped in such a cloak of happiness, very little could penetrate it. She had moved into Georges’s flat right away—it was very tidy and practical, and she had set about trying to make it a little more homely and comfortable. Maria-Elena had left no traces at all, except an invoice that had arrived for her first-class flight home and other expenses. Georges had laughed, and paid it straightaway, apologizing fulsomely to Maria-Elena for wasting her time.
Since then it had been a blur of food and sex so unlike anything Lizzie had associated with the words before it made her go pink even thinking about it.
Only once had she asked timidly, in bed one morning, “Georges . . . when I started working with you and I was, you know, fat and a bit spotty and stuff . . . did you like me then?”
“Ah, cara. Of course I like you. I think you are very nice girl. But when you become beautiful, when I come back from Portoogal. That is when I fall in love with you. I cannot help myself, I am a man, and I love beautiful things. You want an Englishman, huh, who does not care and wears sports pants with lager on them and goes on television on Trisha to shout in the mornings?”
“No,” said Lizzie, but still felt oddly insecure all of a sudden.
“Of course, now I love you forever,” said Georges, turning over to face her. “So you can grow fat, grow moustache, I don’t care.”
“I don’t want to grow a moustache!”
“Fine, grow goatee. Maybe some sideburns, huh? And an ear, here, on top your head. And a tail.”
“Georges!”
“A tail, very useful for many things. You can pick fruit, peel bananas.”
“Come here.”
Penny had almost the opposite conversation, lying naked on the ancient couch she’d covered with a new throw, watery sun coming through the windows, showing up the motes of dust in the room as Will sketched.
“Of course I fell in love with you when I saw you,” said Will. “Well, I thought you were a fox. Then I filled the rest in about six hours later.”
Penny grinned ruefully. “And my postcode. You loved my postcode.”
“Oh, shush. You were at it, too.”
She smiled at him. “I don’t think I even knew what love was. Till you went away.”
Will, very carefully, put the paintbrush down.
Penny couldn’t care less about visiting the hospital. But that was good. It meant she didn’t hate him anymore. She didn’t hate anyone. It was done, and she was through with it.
In fact, Penny was privately full of the not unpleasant—but unfamiliar—sense of self-sacrifice that came with pretending not to mind that Lizzie was living in a duplex in Eaton Square while she was commuting back to a bin liner in Clapton every night. But every time she got on that daft old bus, her heart leapt with joy. She couldn’t help it. Knowing Will would be waiting at home with a dirty brush stuck behind his ear, ready to tease her and make her laugh—and, if they didn’t learn to be a little bit more careful, probably make a real baby one of these days, and then what kind of a pickle would they be in?
They turned into the ward and asked the Sister which bed he was in. She indicated the fourth one down, which had the curtains drawn around it.
“OK,” said Lizzie. “Deep breath.”
Penny pulled back the curtain, patting her grandmother on the shoulder at the same time.
“Hello,” she said. But the bed was empty.
“Well, the doctors didn’t sign him out,” said the Sister, after the ward staff and security had been alerted. “But you know, we’re not a prison. We can’t keep anyone here who doesn’t want to be here.”
“I know that,” said Penny. “Was he OK?”
“Perfectly recovered, yes.”
“And he didn’t leave a forwarding address?”
The ward clerk shook his head. “Sorry, miss. I think he’s just gone.”
“Oh, Gran,” said Lizzie, reaching down to give her a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said their gran. “I’m . . . I’m used to it.”
She looked up at the two girls.
“I backed the wrong horse, didn’t I, my dears? With you two lovely girls. But families . . . you know how it is. You love them and hate them all at once.”
Lizzie and Penny traded a glance. Yes, they knew how it was.
“Take me back to the Larches,” said their gran. “I’m so tired. Everything tires me so.”
“I know,” said Lizzie, “shall we stop for tea first?”
Their gran put up her hand to touch Lizzie’s face. “You saved his life,” she said.
“I helped!” yelped Penny.
“You’re such good girls, little twins,” said their gran. “Even you, the slutty one. I want . . . I’ve made up my mind. I want to turn the flat over to you two. It’s for you. I hope you have more luck there than I did. Or Stephen, for that matter. I’m giving it to you. I’ve got my solicitor’s number back at the Larches.”
She looked wistful for a moment, then snapped out of it.
“That’s my home now. And do you know why I like it? Because it’s so tidy.”
And she let out an old-lady cackle as they wheeled her back toward the automatic doors.
They walked with trepidation toward the front door. What if Stephen was back? What would it look like inside? The insurance money would turn up, but most of
that would go to restoring the plasterwork and exterior of the building, there was so much to do.
The hallways had just about dried out, but there were big patches of damp here and there, with strips hanging off the wall. They mounted the stairs carefully.
On the landing, the door opened. It was Brooke.
“Thank God,” she said. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”
The twins shrugged.
“It’s boring as anything without you. Same old, same old premieres, yah? Bloody red carpet, I am just so fed up with it. Plus Minty’s in love with a fireman and driving him absolutely bloody crackers as usual.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Penny.
Brooke eyed her. “There’s something different about you,” she said.
“Just being myself.” Penny smiled, as they continued up the once-beautiful stairwell to the front door. Now it was blackened, peeling.
“Here goes,” said Lizzie. They pushed open the door together and stared into the room.
The entire floor was knee-deep in ash, rubble, and water-stained debris. Everything small and flammable—all the papers, all the pictures, all the collections, all the bric-a-brac, all the baskets, all the macramé. It was all gone. There was none of it left, just ash upon the floor.
The table was still there, but the nasty mismatched chairs were a pile of charred sticks on the floor; the horrid filthy curtains mere scraps of material at the tops of the windows. Apart from the smaller kitchen panes, which had been blown out, the huge sitting-room window was intact, and, thanks to several thousand liters of water, blasted clean. It let huge swathes of light into the room, now huge, open, and practically empty. The girls stood and stared.
“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” said Lizzie. Penny just nodded, overcome by emotion. Will could have a studio here . . . it would be so perfect for him. And her. They would be back. And everything would work . . . if Lizzie still wanted to live with Georges, of course. They were planning a wedding already. Penny couldn’t have imagined her safe, dull, quiet sister doing anything quite so crazy as agreeing to marry a man she’d never even kissed. But somehow, two weeks later, she couldn’t have imagined her not doing it.
“So . . .” said Lizzie.
“So,” said Penny. “Once this place is done up it’s going to be . . .”
“Yeah,” said Lizzie.
“So, do you . . .”
They were both being incredibly polite to each other.
“Penny,” said Lizzie. “I . . . I’m going to live with Georges. I love this place, but I think you should live here. If you want. You know, it’s yours.”
Penny nodded, her brow furrowing. It definitely sounded like there was a “but” on the end of that sentence. And, looking around she realized what it was. Of course. The person who’d done everything for them. Who’d never complained. Who’d always looked out for them.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “It’s not all that. You know, Clapton’s a really up-and-coming place. I wouldn’t move from there for anything, really. I think Will and I are making it fashionable all on our own.”
“Really?” said Lizzie. “I mean, it’s OK for me, I’m sorted, but . . .”
“No, don’t be an idiot,” said Penny. “What do you take me for, some kind of spoiled, shallow princess?”
“Never,” said Lizzie. “Never in a million years.”
Penny picked up her phone. “Mum? We’ve got a surprise for you. How do you feel about launching your West End career from . . . well, the West End?”
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Ali Gunn of Gunn Media, Jo Dickinson, Ursula Mackenzie, Tamsin Barrack, Louise Davies, Kerry Chapple, and all the reps at Little, Brown.
Tally Gardiner, Lynne Drew, Rachel Hore, and Deborah Schneider; Debra Sweeney for saving my copywriting bacon; Chris Manby for plotting help; Joaquim Caetano, whose English is much better than Georges’s, and the Board, by far the most fun office I’ve ever worked in.
Special thanks to Marina and Galina, without whom—no book; Andrew Mueller, Roni Dutta, Theo Burrow, and Roseline Beaton for friendship and emergency babysitting; my family; and all my love to Mr. and Baby B.
About the Author
JENNY COLGAN is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels, including 500 Miles from You, The Bookshop on the Corner, and Little Beach Street Bakery. Jenny is married with three children and lives in Scotland.
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Praise for Jenny Colgan
“She is very, very funny.”
—Express
“A delicious comedy.”
—Red
“Fast-paced, funny, poignant and well-observed.”
—Daily Mail
“Had us eating up every page.”
—Cosmopolitan
“A smart, funny story laced with irresistible charm.”
—Closer
“Chick-lit with an ethical kick.”
—Mirror
“Full of laugh-out-loud observations . . . utterly unputdownable.”
—Woman
“A chick-lit writer with a difference . . . never scared to try something different, Colgan always pulls it off.”
—Image
“A Colgan novel is like listening to your best pal, souped up on vino, spilling the latest gossip—entertaining, dramatic and frequently hilarious.”
—Daily Record
Also by Jenny Colgan
Christmas at the Island Hotel
500 Miles from You
The Bookshop on the Shore
The Endless Beach
Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
The Bookshop on the Corner
Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris
Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams
Meet Me at the Cupcake Café
The Good, the Bad, and the Dumped
Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend
Operation Sunshine
Where Have All the Boys Gone?
Do You Remember the First Time?
Working Wonders
Looking for Andrew McCarthy
My Very ’90s Romance
Amanda’s Wedding
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WEST END GIRLS. Copyright © 2006 by Jenny Colgan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable 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 hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published as West End Girls in the United Kingdom in 2006 by Time Warner Books.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Cover design by Yeon Kim
Cover photograph © HiltonT/Shutterstock
Digital Edition JANUARY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-286963-0
Version 11092020
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-286962-3
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