PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE
‘Amanda Prowse is the queen of contemporary family drama.’
Daily Mail
‘A tragic story of loss and love.’
Lorraine Kelly, Sun
‘Captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’
Closer
‘A deeply emotional, unputdownable read.’
Red
‘Uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box of tissues.’
Cosmopolitan
‘You’ll fall in love with this.’
Cosmopolitan
‘Warning: you will need tissues.’
Sun on Sunday
‘Handles her explosive subject with delicate care.’
Daily Mail
‘Deeply moving and eye-opening.’
Heat
‘A perfect marriage morphs into harrowing territory . . . a real tear-jerker.’
Sunday Mirror
‘Powerful and emotional drama that packs a real punch.’
Heat
‘Warmly accessible but subtle . . . moving and inspiring.’
Daily Mail
‘A powerful and emotional work of fiction with a unique twist – a practical lesson in how to spot a fatal, but often treatable disease.’
Piers Morgan, CNN presenter
‘A truly amazing piece of drama about a condition that could affect any one of us in a heartbeat. Every mother should read this book.’
Danielle Lineker, actor
‘A powerful and emotional page-turner that teaches people with no medical training how to recognise sepsis and save lives.’
Dr Ranj Singh, paediatric doctor and BBC presenter
‘A powerful and moving story with a real purpose. It brings home the dreadful nature of this deadly condition.’
Mark Austin, ITN presenter
‘A festive treat . . . if you love Jojo Moyes and Freya North, you’ll love this.’
Closer
‘Magical.’
Now
‘Nobody writes contemporary family dramas as well as Amanda Prowse.’
Daily Mail
OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA PROWSE
The Coordinates of Loss
Anna
Theo
How to Fall in Love Again: Kitty’s Story
The Art of Hiding
The Idea of You
Poppy Day
What Have I Done?
Clover’s Child
A Little Love
Christmas for One
Will You Remember Me?
A Mother’s Story
Perfect Daughter
Three-and-a-Half Heartbeats (exclusive to Amazon Kindle)
The Second Chance Café (originally published as The Christmas Café)
Another Love
My Husband’s Wife
I Won’t Be Home for Christmas
The Food of Love
OTHER NOVELLAS BY AMANDA PROWSE
The Game
Something Quite Beautiful
A Christmas Wish
Ten Pound Ticket
Imogen’s Baby
Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Lionhead Media Ltd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904996
ISBN-10: 1503904997
Cover design by Rose Cooper
I used to be the girl in the corner. I still am sometimes; I often think I don’t quite fit – and I don’t think I am the only one. I dedicate this book to all the women who know what it’s like to feel the churn of nerves in their gut at the thought of putting themselves forward, who would rather cling to the wall than dance alone in the spotlight. I would say this to you: if not now, then when? When is it going to be your time? Take a deep breath and take the plunge and hopefully another girl in a corner will be watching, cheering you on! This is how we gain confidence: by supporting each other instead of tearing each other down, by having each other’s backs instead of talking behind them. Women supporting women – what a wonderful, wonderful thing!
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Find a partner . . . are you kidding me?
The tall woman from administration smiled at each and every one of the hundred or so new students now gathered in the rather musty gymnasium, the sporty odour only barely masked by the liberally scented cloud of Paco Rabanne’s Pour Homme and The Body Shop’s White Musk that hung in the air. She handed out large sticky labels for them to write their names on and pop on their chests. She then told everyone to find a partner.
The instruction was added almost casually, something so incidental it required no more build-up than that; whereas in reality the very idea of trying to seek out a partner among these strangers was enough to send sixteen-year-old Rae-Valentine into a spin. She leaned back against the wall and tried to hide her nerves, though she felt like throwing up.
‘Anyone will do,’ the tall woman yelled, encouragingly. ‘Don’t overthink it, just grab someone, anyone! Shake their hand and introduce yourself and share some fun facts!’
The college induction was turning out to be one of the worst days imaginable. Grab a stranger? Shake their hand? Exchange fun facts? She was certain Debbie-Jo, her gregarious older sister, would thrive in this environment, probably pirouetting around the room and delivering her fun facts through the medium of song. But Rae wasn’t sure which part filled her with the most dread – touching a stranger or trying to think of fun facts. Either way her heart beat loudly in her throat and her legs felt like jelly.
It was Debbie-Jo’s words that came to her now, uttered on a dull afternoon over a decade ago.
‘There are only two sorts of people, Rae,’ Debbie-Jo had informed her, as Rae sat on her bed, watching her big sister, who, with their mum’s make-up mirror propped on a stack of books, brushed her thick, dark hair, practising how to twist it into a tight bun for when she was a prima ballerina. ‘Those who are memorable and those who are not. It is important in a sea of people to be the one everyone remembers, the one who stands out in the middle of the room, the star; otherwise you might as well be like furniture, the girl in the corner. And who wants to be that? No one. That’s who.’
The words had crystallised in Rae-Valentine’s mind, forming a fragile platform on which her confidence would teeter for a lifetime. As she clung to the wall and eyed the sea of people, she spied the exit and wondered if she could make it without being approached. She was in half a mind to grab her bag and run, to simply go home and tell her mum and dad she had had a change of heart and that college might not be for her after all.
She watched as people darted about in front of
her, running this way and that, seeking out those who had earlier caught their eye. Pretty, fashionable girls now linked arms with their lookalike counterparts, giggling with relief that they were among their own, manicured kind. One self-assured, good-looking boy with a New Romantic-style haircut and a smidge of kohl around his eyes sauntered up to a confident-looking, trendy girl wearing a bunch of Madonna-inspired bangles, his hand extended. Rae couldn’t help but imagine what their kids might be like: world leaders, probably, with long fringes, firm handshakes and eyeliner.
As she considered this she caught the eye of a girl with a shock of red, backcombed hair and severe make-up. She was striking, her features big, a fleshy nose, pillowy lips and wide eyes. Rae would not have described her as pretty, but she was certainly memorable and that, in her book, was just as attractive – and, according to Debbie-Jo’s worldview, a lot more important.
The girl approached with an outstretched hand, against which Rae anxiously slid her shaking palm, and pointed at her large sticky label, which read simply ‘Dolly’.
‘My name is Dolly Latimer, I’m sixteen and you look like the only other person in this room who thinks this whole introduction thing is as lame as I do. I saw you looking for the door and so I picked you.’ The girl was loud, and Rae blinked rapidly and stepped back in response. ‘Fun facts: I am planning to lose my virginity within the next few weeks to the most gorgeous boy you have ever met. His name is Vinnie and he’s twenty and has his own car. And another fun fact would be that during her whole welcome speech, I fantasised about taking lanky admin woman’s clipboard and whacking it over the top of her head.’
Rae placed her free hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter and looked at the girl.
‘Now it’s your turn!’ Dolly Latimer instructed. She gave a maniacal grin while still pumping her hand up and down.
‘Oh! Okay, well, my . . . my name is Rae Pritchard.’ Rae faltered. ‘Rae-Valentine, actually, but no one calls me that, not really.’ She cursed the dryness of her mouth, which was making her words sound sticky as they left her lips. ‘I failed my O levels. School wasn’t really my thing – I could never seem to get started on studying, even though I actually found the subjects easy – and time kind of ran out, so my mum and dad have told me to come here to learn typing. I wanted to learn to cook, but they said typing would be more useful.’
Dolly threw back her head and laughed loudly and Rae felt a flush of joy that she was capable of eliciting this response.
‘Jesus, Rae-Valentine! Way to sell yourself! You failed your O levels? Good! O levels – in fact all exams – are shit! And be under no illusion: this college is not the scrapheap for those of us who couldn’t get to university,’ she boomed.
‘It isn’t?’ Rae asked softly, taken aback by Dolly’s loud, loud voice and finally managing to extract her hand and looking around to see if anyone was listening in.
They weren’t.
‘Hell, no!’ Dolly shouted. ‘This place is the portal through which we enter as kids and leave as adults with tits, driving licences and typing skills – and we do it without pressure, because no one expects anything from us, meaning we can’t actually fail. This place is fucking Nirvana!’
Rae noticed that Dolly already had tits; and as she looked around the room, taking in the wooden, multicoloured-tape-riddled floor with its myriad scuff marks, the polystyrene-coated, cream-painted ceiling tiles and the blue plastic chairs lined up around the walls, she had to admit it didn’t look like fucking Nirvana. If anything it looked quite depressing; though she had the feeling that with Dolly by her side it would be anything but.
‘You got brothers and sisters?’ Dolly asked.
Rae was sure this hadn’t been part of the task, but answered anyway. ‘One sister, Debbie-Jo, who works on cruise ships. She’s a dancer and a singer. Really pretty. And when she’s not on the cruise ships she works in Woolworths, part-time.’ She smiled at the image of her glamorous sibling, who sent photographs back home of her on a mini-stage with a plastic palm tree, wearing sequinned low-cut frocks and very red lipstick. Her mum propped them up on the shelf in the kitchen above the toaster.
Dolly laughed that rasping laugh again. ‘Debbie-Jo and Rae-Valentine? Are your parents country and western geeks? Please tell me your house is strewn with gee-tars and that your dad plucks a banjo on the porch wearing a cowboy hat and a bootlace tie and your mum has full skirts with petticoats underneath, answers to the name Mary-Beth!’
Rae stared at the girl, who was quite unlike anyone she had ever met before. She thought about their little house in Purbeck Avenue with the paved driveway and her mum’s collection of cement frogs, which lined the path. She pictured the front room, with its mustard-coloured Dralon sofa and two matching chairs and the bookshelf that instead of books housed a collection of glass. Bowls, cake stands, tumblers, all inherited from her gran or her great-aunt Millie or bought on the cheap by her mum from jumble sales.
Not a gee-tar in sight.
‘No, my mum is called Maureen and my dad is called Len, short for Leonard, and they’re not really into country. But they do like Simon and Garfunkel and Bread. They’ve got their cassettes.’
Again for some reason this struck Dolly as the funniest thing ever said. Rae liked the way she felt when Dolly laughed like this: elevated and interesting. This in itself was a rarity for a girl who was used to being in the background, sitting in the corner.
When the induction day finally came to a close, the two new friends sauntered to the bus stop. Rae-Valentine stood at the bus shelter and pushed her hands down into the pockets of her jeans.
‘So,’ Dolly boomed, ‘let’s get straight down to business.’
Rae stared at her. They had been friends for approximately six hours and already Dolly was making plans with an air of assumption that was as flattering as it was enticing.
‘Have you got a passport?’ Dolly asked, prodding Rae in the arm.
‘A passport?’
‘Yes! That little blue book that means you can leave this bloody dull country and go in search of fun in Majorca!’
‘Yes, my dad’s got it; he keeps them all in his folder in the wardrobe with our birth certificates and stuff.’ Rae looked at her feet, worried that this snippet of information might be the wrong thing to say; afraid that she might be giving too much of an insight into the mediocrity of her very average home life, which she assumed to be in stark contrast to Dolly’s.
‘Good. That’s the first hurdle out of the way.’
Rae would soon learn that this was how Dolly operated, working methodically through any potential problem until all she could see was a shining obstacle-free path towards achieving her goal. And her goal right now was apparently figuring out how she, her new friend Rae-Valentine, Dolly’s brother Howard and his mate Vinnie, the boy with whom she had decided to lose her virginity, could go to her family’s apartment in Majorca for a week without parents. Rae had been abroad only once: a day trip to Boulogne, on a ferry with her family, where they ate proper French bread and stinky cheese on a bench overlooking the beach and her dad did cartwheels in the sand to make them laugh, and all the francs fell out of his pocket and they had to scrabble around on the hard, wet sand trying to find them. She found many more than Debbie-Jo, who was sulking that day because she couldn’t have her ears pierced and wanted to change her name to Barbara Gordon, the real name of Batgirl. Her parents had given a definitive no to both requests.
Going to Majorca felt like an audacious plan, if not impossible. Rae was not allowed to go into town without getting permission from her mum and dad, couldn’t take a bag of crisps from the cupboard without asking, let alone head off to Majorca – with boys! But she went along with it for now, not wanting to be the one to put a damper on the discussion and rather enjoying the plotting, even if it was only pretend.
‘I know!’ Dolly yelled suddenly, leaping up as an idea formed. ‘You could tell your parents that my mum and dad are taking us!’
‘I .
. . I’m not sure I could.’ Rae hitched her book bag up on to her shoulder. ‘They are quite strict on the detail; they’d probably want to speak to your mum and dad before deciding if I could go or not, and they’d want to come and wave us off, and would probably write a card to your parents saying “Thank you for taking her” and send sweets for the journey, that kind of thing.’
Plus I could never lie to them! Not about something big like that! Not about anything, really – lying is the worst. Supposing something happened while we were away; supposing they found out? I would not enjoy any trip that was underpinned by such a big lie. I’d be worried sick every single moment I was away . . . scared . . . She rolled her eyes at Dolly to show the crappiness of it all.
‘God. Way too involved. Kill me now.’
‘Yep, way too involved.’ Rae liked this phrase and its use in this context; she stored it away to use with any other words and themes she might pick up from her confident, worldly friend, trying in her head to perfect the languid, indifferent, yet heavily negative tone that conveyed as much as the words themselves.
Rae decided she wanted to be just like Dolly – or more specifically, she wanted to be like the girl Dolly saw her as: funny and confident, the kind of girl who might just be capable of lying to her parents and gallivanting off abroad, to Majorca no less, with Dolly’s brother and her brother’s mate, Vinnie, so Dolly could have sex.
The reality of Rae’s existence, however, was very different.
She might have been sixteen, but she was in fact the kind of girl who felt as if the whole wide world were a party to which she wasn’t invited, a girl who sat between her mum and dad on the sofa, wearing pyjamas her mum had warmed in front of the fire. She was a girl who more often than not went to bed early with a good book. The kind of girl who liked nothing more than the Sundays when they visited her nan and grandad in Essex and enjoyed a roast dinner along with a good reminisce about the old days, poring over the yellowed pages of the photograph albums that contained snapshots of her heritage. Not that her family had done anything remarkable – there were no pictures of Great-Grandad Walter on top of Everest, and her great-grandma Alice had not been a suffragette. But Walter did play the spoons, and there was a grainy picture of them both on the back of donkeys: Weston-super-Mare, she believed, circa 1900. Proof that her ordinariness went way back. She could only imagine Dolly’s reaction were she to find this out.
The Girl in the Corner Page 1