Construct A Couple

by Roland, Talli

  Is any relationship strong enough to survive a string of secrets?

  CONSTRUCT A COUPLE

  By

  Talli Roland

  Construct A Couple © Talli Roland 2012

  E-edition published worldwide 2012 © Talli Roland

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

  The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover images by laifalight. Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.

  All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

  PRAISE FOR TALLI ROLAND

  Talli Roland is rapidly running up my ladder of favorite authors . . . If you haven't read anything yet from Roland, get her on your list!

  Chick Lit Plus

  Talli’s writing is fresh, lively and different. Her words carry you along and her characters make you care what happens to them.

  Bookersatz

  All of Talli's books are funny, romantic and easy to read, and you find yourself constantly turning the pages, becoming involved in the story and wanting to find out more.

  Kim the Bookworm

  Talli Roland is extremely witty as a writer . . . If you have read any of Talli's other books then you already know that you're in for a treat.

  Dot Scribbles

  ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND

  In the same series:

  Build A Man

  Marriage To Measure (2013)

  Standalone titles:

  The Hating Game

  Watching Willow Watts

  Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

  The Pollyanna Plan (Autumn 2012)

  CHAPTER ONE

  If there was a Good Girlfriend award, I’d definitely be a contender.

  Pasta boiled with no burnt bits? Check.

  Bottle of Merlot (not the cheapest in the shop) ready to go? Yup.

  Ambient lighting without setting the tablecloth on fire? Done! Extra bonus: in the romantic glow, you can’t see my stained T-shirt, the result of an earlier tussle with an angry tomato. Who knew juice could squirt so far?

  I gaze around the room, nodding smugly. Forget award contender, I’d win! The space looks straight from Hello! magazine – minus the tangerine celebs – just awaiting the laughing, loving couple.

  Okay, so it’s not my kitchen. I didn’t choose the slate tiles, handcrafted cupboards or heavy pine table. But after all the time I’ve spent here at Jeremy’s in the past year, it’s more like home than my grungy little bedsit ever will be, no matter how much cheap wine I ingest.

  I glance at my watch – almost seven. Where on earth is he? Really, there should be a law against working on Sundays. I shake my head, thinking it’s not only Sundays he’s been at the office late. My boyfriend runs Pick Up Sticks, a charity dedicated to refurbishing stroke victims’ houses, so those with mobility issues can live independently. The cause is near and dear to his heart, since he suffered a stroke last year when an operation went wrong. He’d barely recovered before setting up the organisation, and for the past couple months, he’s worked harder than ever.

  Tension clenches my gut as I picture Jeremy’s pale, anxious expression, and the permanent fatigue hanging over him like a cloud. But whenever I ask if he’s all right, he nods, forces a grin, and pulls me into his arms. And I’m not going to complain about extra snuggles, am I?

  Tonight, with his award-winning Good Girlfriend and spotless home, everything will be perfect. No worries, no troubles, just great food and lots of laughs. It’s a night to celebrate, too, because tomorrow I start my new job at Seven Days! I, Serenity Holland from small-town Maine, will be working at the Sunday magazine of The Herald, the UK’s most respected newspaper. I’ll rub shoulders with big-name journalists like Helen Goodall and, um . . . others whose names I can’t quite recall.

  I’m only a lowly fact-checker, but that’s fine. I’ll learn the ropes and impress everyone with my meticulous attention to detail. Then, after proving I’m more than capable, I’ll be promoted to a full-fledged journalist at an intelligent newspaper where people can believe what they read. I’m going to break serious stories, make a difference, bring down corrupt MPs (shouldn’t be too hard; there seem to be plenty) . . . basically, I’ll be a twenty-first century Lois Lane, without the glossy swinging bob and tidy trouser suit. Wrinkling my nose, I eye my distorted reflection in the kettle’s shiny surface. Yup, definitely not squeaky clean Lois Lane. My round cheeks are flushed from cooking, and sandy strands straggle from a limp ponytail. Right now, I’m more sweaty slob than well-groomed reporter.

  “Serenity?” Jeremy’s voice drifts from the entrance, and the door thuds. Smoothing my hair (ugh, my hands are covered in olive oil), I pad down the hallway towards him.

  “Hey, there.” He grins, then sniffs the air. “Are you cooking? Something smells good. Surprisingly.”

  “Watch it!” I punch him lightly on the arm. “Thought I’d welcome you back with some pasta. You’ve been working so hard, and . . .” I bite my lip to stop worry pouring out.

  “Thanks, Ser. I am exhausted, must admit.” As Jeremy leans in to kiss me, I notice his face is paler than this morning.

  “Come sit down,” I say, before he collapses. “I’ll bring you a glass of wine.”

  “Thanks. God knows I could use some wine therapy right about now.” He shrugs off a corduroy jacket.

  I can’t help rolling my eyes and laughing, despite my anxiety. “You know, that really should be a therapeutic method,” I say over my shoulder as we head into the kitchen.

  “It’s certainly therapeutic for me.” Jeremy sinks onto the wooden bench by the table. In the flickering light of the candles, his cheeks look hollow and the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced.

  “Maybe you should take it easy this week.” The words burst from me as I scoot onto the bench beside him. Jeremy needs to rest if he’s tired, or he could end up in the hospital – just like a couple months ago, when he developed pneumonia. An image of him lying in a narrow bed struggling to breathe comes to mind, and I wince. Pressing even closer, I inhale his spicy cologne, feeling my tension ease. Something about his scent feels like home.

  God, perhaps I’d be better suited to the Sappy Girlfriend award.

  “I wish I could, but there’s no way that will happen.” Jeremy pauses, and I wait for him to elaborate. Instead, he shakes his head, then says: “Now where’s the wine?”

  “Oh!” I jump to my feet. Minus one for Sappy/ Good Girlfriend. I slosh the liquid into two glasses, hand him one, and hurry over to lift the lid on the penne. Aw, crap! I forgot to rinse the pasta, and it’s now one giant pasta-ball. Perhaps I can say it’s a new culinary trend? There’s sticky rice, right? Why not sticky pasta?

  Staring at the penne, I debate asking Jeremy if everything’s okay. He’s always worked hard, but lately it’s not just hard, it’s all the time. He’d tell me if something was seriously wrong, I’m sure. Anyway, this is the night for perfection. No Good Girlfriend probes their man when they don’t want to talk. That’s, like, the first thing you learn in Relationship 101.

  “I’m starving,” Jeremy says, rubbing his hands together. God, even in loose jeans and a faded T-shirt, he’s super handsome.

  “Coming right up!” Slic
ing the pot-shaped pasta chunk in two, I scoop a half onto each plate, artistically drizzling the lumps with store-bought rosé sauce. Jeremy’s eyebrows rise as I set the food on the table.

  “It’s a recipe from the March issue of Woman & Kitchen,” I mumble, attempting to chew the rubbery yet oddly crispy pasta. “By, er . . .” My mind spins as I try to remember the name of that renegade chef who makes ice cream from steak, or whatever. “Heston Bloomhall!” A rogue piece of penne flies from my mouth and bounces off the table, skidding across the floor. Yikes. This pasta could be used in place of bullets. Cut the defence budget – I’ve got the weapon of choice for you!

  “Don’t you mean Heston Blumenthal?” Jeremy asks, lips twitching.

  “Sure, sure.” I nod, waving a hand in the air. Details, details. “So what do you think?”

  “Well, it’s different.” There’s a loud crunch as he chomps the pasta. “The sauce is tasty.”

  Thank God for ready-made rosé, I think, trying not to crack a tooth as my jaws work. At least I couldn’t screw that one up.

  After a few minutes, Jeremy leans back with a satisfied expression.

  “That was delicious, Ser.” He pats his belly, but he’s hardly touched the meal.

  “You still have tonnes left!” I stab my fork at the half-eaten fort of penne on his plate.

  “I know, but it’s really filling.”

  I eye him suspiciously. When Jeremy’s not well, he doesn’t eat. I can’t blame him for not wolfing down my dinner, though – quite honestly, twigs dipped in vinegar would be more appetising. I clear away the plates, dump them in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes (I will do them later . . . maybe), then follow him through to the lounge.

  I love this place, I think, as we curl up together in our usual position on the sofa, with my head slotting nicely into the crook of his arm. Jeremy renovated the house a few years ago, and it’s a reflection of his personality: warm, cosy, and down to earth. Stepping into its calm environs always makes everything seem okay.

  “You all set for your first day tomorrow?” he asks, smoothing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m proud of you, you know. You’ve worked hard for this job.”

  A warm glow fills me. Jeremy’s right – I have worked hard for this job: over a year putting in time as reporter at a medical magazine, learning all about old-age dementia and myocardial infarctions. Yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.

  But no more! No more am I Serenity Holland, of The Medical Magazine No-One Has Heard Of. I’m Serenity Holland, Fact-Checker Extraordinaire of Seven Days! And now that I’ve finally got my foot in the door, I’m going to make the most of it.

  “Yup, I’m ready.” I nod, my head moving against his solid chest. In fact, I couldn’t be more ready if I tried. I’ve even ironed the ideal outfit: black fitted trousers with a hint of a flare, and a crisp, light-blue blouse with French cuffs. Serious reporter-gear for a serious newsroom, where people who don’t care about frivolous things like fashion dedicate their lives to pursuing the truth.

  “Come by tomorrow when you’re done and I’ll cook you dinner. You can tell me all about your first day.” Jeremy’s arms tighten around me, and I fill my lungs with his musky scent.

  As his lips meet mine, a rush of well-being goes through me. I’ve got a wonderful relationship that couldn’t be stronger and a great new job.

  Finally, my London life is pretty much perfect.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After a night of thrashing in bed (not a euphemism for sex – first-day nerves), it’s finally six a.m. and time to get up. In my past work-life, I’d hit ‘snooze’ at least ten times, crawling from the covers at the last possible moment. Now, I sit up straight, eyes wide with excitement. This isn’t just another Monday morning – it’s my first day as a bona fide employee at Seven Days.

  I stretch out my arms, smiling as I recall my parents’ reaction when I told them about the job. They’re both huge fans of Helen Goodall, a veteran reporter at the magazine who’s infamous for giving Tony Blair the finger during an interview on Iraq. For two former hippies like Mom and Dad, that’s the ultimate. When I mentioned she worked at my new place of employment, they couldn’t ooh and aw enough.

  “I knew you’d do it, dear,” Mom had said. “You followed your bliss, and the universe opened back doors for you.” Her voice was low and reverential, and I’d been tempted to ask if she was smoking ‘medicinal’ plants again. The last time Mom trotted out that expression, I ended up at the medical journal. Let me tell you, my ‘bliss’ was hardly reading about digital rectal exams – I don’t think that’s quite the ‘back door’ she was referring to. Still, it’s nice to be doing something they’re proud of. Dad even wanted to put an announcement in the commune alumni newsletter!

  “You’re going to make such a difference in the lives of the people,” my father had intoned, like I was some kind of modern-day Mother Theresa. “Just think of the power you’ll have, Serenity. The power to effect change.”

  You see, Mom and Dad haven’t exactly grasped the concept of fact-checking. I tried to explain I won’t actually be writing the articles; I’m only responsible for ensuring their accuracy. In all the excitement, though, my feeble attempt went straight over their heads – no mean feat, given they’re usually stuck in the clouds anyway. So they think I’m a reporter, not a peon on the bottom rung. Give it time, though, and I will be a full-fledged reporter.

  I swing my legs around the side of the bed, glancing over at Jeremy. He’s still fast asleep, broad chest rising and falling with each breath. God, I love how his long lashes flutter against olive cheeks; the way his dark hair brushes the tops of his ears. I swear, waking up next to him is worth the pain of a transient wardrobe – I can never remember what clothing items are here or at my bedsit.

  Jeremy’s lids lift. He reaches out and pulls me against him, so close I feel the steady rhythm of his heart. “Morning, Miss Seven Days, nation’s-most-trusted-magazine employee. Excited?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Excited is an understatement. My hands are shaking, and even though I’ve hardly slept, my head’s buzzing like I’ve gulped ten cups of Jeremy’s favourite Monmouth Coffee. (I know exactly what that’s like, because one day I drank about five double espressos in one sitting then couldn’t sleep properly for a week).

  “I’d better get ready,” I say, bouncing off the bed and over to the wardrobe where my twenty-first century Lois Lane outfit hangs in all its perfectly ironed glory. Little drops of rain patter against the window and through the gap in the blinds, I can see grey clouds scudding across the sky. Even London’s notoriously brutal spring weather can’t dampen (ha!) my enthusiasm for the day ahead.

  Ninety minutes later, though, my blouse is crumpled, my once-straight hair frizzes around hot cheeks, and damp patches stain my underarms . . . all courtesy of the London Underground rush-hour slalom. I enjoy a challenge as much as the next girl, but surely the other participants could trouble themselves to wear deodorant? Nothing like a little eau de B.O. to get your day going.

  I push through the ticket barrier at Elephant & Castle, the closest tube to the newspaper’s headquarters in south London. Images of exotic animals parading towards a towering stone castle drift into my head, but when I exit the packed station, there’s no elephant – statue or otherwise – and no castle, either! Whoever came up with the name was obviously smoking my parents’ medicinal crop. Grimacing, I eye the brown, seventies-style high-rises, looking even grimmer in the slashing rain. This place couldn’t be further from a castle if it tried.

  It doesn’t matter, I think, rushing down the busy pavement. The grittier, the better. This is the real world of journalism, where money isn’t thrown around on niceties like, um . . . I skid to a halt in front of the newspaper. Well, okay. Maybe they could have invested in a better sign. This one resembles a nineteen-fifties leftover, with faded white lettering spelling out The Daily Herald on a chipped black background. The structure itself is grey concrete, rising five levels wi
th all the architectural charm of the Harris County Jail back home. But so what? Who has time to notice such banalities when you’re chasing down the nation’s top stories?

  Okay, here we go. I take a deep breath and push the door, blushing as I spot the ‘pull’ sign. God, two years in this country, and I still can’t get the push-pull thing right! The security guard in the corner is watching me with amusement, so I paste on my I’m-a-serious-reporter expression and approach him with what I hope is a suitably purposeful stride.

  “Everything okay?” He shoots me a funny look, and I realise my solemn face combined with intense gait looks more like I need the bathroom than a committed journalist on a quest.

  “Fine, fine,” I manage to get out through the hot flush covering my cheeks. “I’m Serenity Holland, the newest employee at Seven Days!” Pride bursts inside, and I can’t help grinning like a clown on uppers when I hear the words.

  The guard scans his list, then nods. “Fifth floor. They’ll sort out your security badge and building pass.”

  I nod, trotting (minus the intensity) into the battered lift. Security badge! Building pass! I can come and go as I please; be a part of this living, breathing news organisation that never sleeps, where reporters dedicate their lives to stories with significance. At my last job, no-one even wanted a building pass. The faster we were out of there, the better. Then again, writing about pharmacological interactions wasn’t exactly riveting. Not like this will be!

  The lift doors part and I fill my eyes with the buzzing – okay, dead – newsroom. The wide, open space is divided into cubicle after cubicle, with narrow passageways cutting between them. The lonely ring of a telephone drifts like tumbleweed through the desert of silence.