For once, Lily didn’t say what was in her head—that losing his rag like that hadn’t exactly helped Rosie. Right now, she didn’t need Eve, Clare or anyone else to tell her what was and wasn’t helpful.
“So what did you do then?” she asked, picking up his tumbler and taking a slug of the burning liquid.
“Sat in my car and phoned Siobhan, but she just let it ring. After I called a few times she took the phone off the hook.”
“A few?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty.” He looked sheepish. “I just kept hitting redial.”
“Liam…”
“I know, fuck it, I know, all right? I’m an idiot. Eventually I gave up calling and just started driving, but I couldn’t see where I was going, so I had to pull over.” When he looked up, his eyes were brimming again. “I’ve been sitting at some sodding rest stop ever since.”
Lily wrapped her arms around him, and he buried his face in her neck.
“She’s taking my baby away, Lil.” He was sobbing openly now. “What am I going to do?”
“We’ll work something out,” Lily said. “I promise.”
But she was way out of her depth here, and she knew it. She should have been down at the pub with her old college friends, as she always had been on Boxing Day, discussing boyfriends or job prospects, not dealing with this grown-up stuff.
You are a grown-up now, she told herself. You’re a grown-up, in love with a grown-up man, with grown-up problems. So start dealing with it.
But the mix of emotions she was feeling shamed her.
Since Clare had started the club, Lily had begun thinking about Annabel again for the first time in years. Only this time, her thoughts didn’t involve the woman meeting a nasty end. This time, Lily found herself, if not sympathizing with her father’s wife, then at least empathizing. The woman had been young, independent, successful and smart—and suddenly saddled with someone else’s children. Was it any surprise that she hadn’t fancied it?
After all, in her darker moments, Lily had harbored fantasies of a life where weekends weren’t spent running around after Rosie; a life without Siobhan and her last-minute rearrangements.
But now that it was happening, it didn’t feel as good as she’d expected.
In the small Edwardian town house at the other end of the street, Christmas could not have been more different. Christmas at Mandy’s house made the first day of sales look calm. Her parents, John’s parents, her kids, John’s kids—only for a few hours and not for the big meal, of course—and then her sister Karen, plus family, for lunch.
Chaos. It always had been and she’d always loved it. A house full of people, a massive piece of chipboard on top of the table to fit everyone around, a turkey big enough to feed all seventeen of them; that was Christmas to Mandy.
That and the mess.
Oh, good grief, Mandy thought grimly, the mess! Enough discarded wrapping paper to save a rain forest, the presents that would need taking back the second the shops opened the day after Boxing Day, so much washing up she thought it would never end. And, of course, no one but her sister and her mom to help her clean up. Everyone else already fighting over the television or sneaking off to the pub or up to their rooms so they wouldn’t get handed a pair of rubber gloves or a tea towel.
In a wilder moment, she’d thought adding John’s kids to the mix would be like chucking another handful of dried fruit into the Christmas cake. The more the merrier. Far from it. Maybe because they were teenagers. Maybe because 22 Foxton Road was too small. Maybe because Nathan was having a moment (he was always having a moment these days, but today’s was special even by his standards). But the whole charade had set her teeth on edge. Or maybe, Mandy thought (as she gave up drying the cutlery properly—why bother? No one was watching, let alone helping—and tossed a handful of spoons, some still damp, into the drawer, shoving it shut with her hip), maybe it wasn’t them at all.
Maybe it was her.
That thought pulled her up short. In the back garden, leaves still clung tenaciously to the tree in next door’s neglected garden, which guaranteed Mandy’s own perfectly cared-for space year-round shade. The weather was screwed anyway. Snow in October and now the mildest Christmas on record. Mandy wondered if the leaves would drop before the next lot tried to grow. And what would happen if they didn’t? Which leaf would win? The leaf that was already in place, or the new one pushing bullishly through?
She had been holding the fort—or a variation on that theme—her entire adult life. Unquestioningly, unstintingly. All around to Mandy and Dave’s for Christmas lunch since the first Christmas they were married. Twenty-two years old and cooking turkey, roast potatoes and sprouts for both their families. How grown-up she’d felt.
Looking back, Mandy couldn’t imagine how she’d coped. But she had. A coper, that was her. Always had been. She’d start saving on the second of January and blow it all on Christmas. Only to start saving again when the next January second came around. Even before all the kids had arrived, when it had been just the two of them—young love, ha!—and two sets of parents, Dave’s brother and her sister. And as the kids had started coming, and their siblings had married and had had kids of their own, the numbers had grown. Even when Dave had left, his parents had kept coming. Mandy liked that; she loved Enid, her mother-in-law. A no-bull sort of woman. Mandy couldn’t imagine how Enid put up with Dave’s dad. Never had been able to. Not one for spotting a red flag, eh, Mandy? That red flag had smacked her around the face a good few times before sailing off.
And now, with Dave replaced by John, his family just added to the numbers. This was how Mandy had always believed life should be: one big, happy, extended—what was the word now? blended—family. But then, she’d always believed marriage was forever too.
Clearly it wasn’t.
For the first time Mandy considered the inconceivable: What if the only person making everyone play happy families was her?
Melanie hadn’t told Grace she was working over Christmas. Not that she expected any sympathy. Grace was furious with Melanie. Melanie was only grateful that the run-up to Christmas had been so psychotically busy for personalshopper. In a moment of madness, they’d pledged to fulfilll orders right up to noon on Christmas Eve, something that had turned out to be less than straightforward, but they’d managed it all the same. And, with a couple of irate exceptions, deliveries had gone off without a hitch. Otherwise, Melanie was sure, she and Grace would have had a serious falling-out. And Melanie wasn’t clear on the etiquette, but she was Grace’s boss. And much as she couldn’t conceive of running the company without Grace, she didn’t know how rude she should let Grace be before sacking her.
Thankfully, when they’d officially shut up shop at Christmas Eve lunchtime, they’d all been too exhausted to mutter anything but “Happy Christmas” as they’d bundled into their coats and headed into the drizzle.
Melanie had been tempted to lock herself away with a case of Merlot and a bottle of brandy, but she’d been there before, when Simeon had dumped her. It hadn’t been pretty.
Work was the only thing capable of occupying her mind over the break. Anyway, there was plenty to do. Melanie reckoned if she worked solid twelve-hour shifts on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, the sale would be fully ready to go at 6:00 a.m. on the twenty-seventh of December.
So she filled her head with discounts and stock levels, concentrating on walking the fine line between getting rid of unsold stock to free up warehouse space for the new season, and not selling it off so cheaply that they ended up out of pocket. And whenever a forbidden image sneaked into Melanie’s head of Ellie unwrapping her purple iPod or wearing red sparkly trainers; of Vince and Ellie wrapped against the cold, wobbling hand in hand around the ice rink at Somerset House, two of them where it should have been three; of Ellie licking leftover mixture from the bowl as Mel showed her how to make Blondies; of the look of resignation on her parents’ faces when they opened her cowardly “Happy holidays and by the way Vince and I hav
e split up” card, Melanie pushed it away, hard.
So many things it was better not to think about.
But much as she knew she’d acted selfishly, disappointing everyone she cared about, for the first time in her life there was one person Melanie hadn’t let down. Herself.
She took a bite of the mince pie she’d bought in a token holiday gesture. It wasn’t the first Christmas she’d spent alone, but this one was strangely liberating.
As always, the line in Starbucks snaked back almost to the door.
“You first.”
A voice dragged Melanie away from her thoughts. What a grim bloody Christmas it had been for all of them.
“No, no,” she said, ruefully eyeing the long line of people in front of her. “It’s OK. You were here first. Thanks, though.”
“One more not going to make a difference, eh?” the guy said.
Melanie shrugged and avoided eye contact, not wanting to appear unfriendly but trying not to encourage him, either. Why did people always want to talk when you were just trying to mind your own business?
“Honestly, it’s not a problem,” he persisted. “I’m just getting takeout.”
Fixing a polite smile on her face, Melanie forced herself to look at him. He was cute, scruffy—weren’t all British men?—and a little taller than her, with dark hair cropped close to his head, heavy brows framing dark eyes, evidence of a piercing in his ear and another above his eyebrow. And young. Late twenties at most.
Cradle snatcher, she thought. You’re old enough to be his elder sister, if not quite his mother.
“No, honestly,” she said. “I’ve got a whole list.” She jerked her head toward the table where Eve and the others were sitting. “You go ahead.”
“OK, then, I will…” He stopped, looked at her. “I don’t mean to push it, but are you all right?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You look…I don’t know, sad, I guess.” The man hesitated, as if predicting how his words were going to sound. Said them anyway. “You’re too beautiful to be sad.”
Melanie looked at him and laughed in spite of herself. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I can’t believe I said it either.”
The man was picking up his cardboard tray of cups when Melanie reached the end of the counter to collect the group’s order. “Nice to almost meet you,” he said as she twisted sideways to let him pass. Then something occurred to him and he turned back. “You might as well have this.” He handed a loyalty card across. It was ragged, torn at one corner and only half full. “I don’t use this place often, so chances are I won’t be needing it.”
Melanie smiled. “Oh,” she said. “Well, thanks. Nice to nearly meet you too.”
“What about you, Eve?” Lily was asking as Mel sat down. “Don’t tell us you had a black Christmas too? Law of averages, one of us must have had a good time?”
Eve grinned. “Comes to something when I’m the great hope for festive cheer!” But her smile was real and her eyes sparkled. The holiday had been, if not a success, then not an abject failure. And compared to the rest of the group, it was beginning to feel like the best Christmas ever. Happiness surged inside her. If Christmas was anything to go by, she had high hopes for the new year. Very high hopes.
Even Boxing Day—a day she’d dreaded for months because it was a Newsome family tradition to have cocktails and canapés from eleven until three and, of course, the step-in-laws were invited—had gone off without a hitch. If she removed Hannah from the equation.
That had become Eve’s mantra. If she removed Hannah from the equation, everything was hunky-dory. Unfortunately, she couldn’t, not always. But she’d stepped as far back as she could, concentrating on making sure Alfie and Sophie got what they wanted from Father Christmas, and leaving Ian in charge of Hannah. As a result, even with Hannah in the equation, things had been tolerable.
She had thereluctantstepmother.com to thank for that. Over the last months she’d come to recognize the styles of the women who posted regularly; they had become a font of wisdom, generously sharing their experiences, both good and bad. Eve found herself logging on more and more frequently, feeling a surge of disappointment if there was nothing new, particularly from Bella, who had become her own e-stepmother.
Under Bella’s instruction, Eve was slowly learning to let Hannah be. Personally she wasn’t convinced that letting Hannah be was best for Hannah in the long run, but it certainly made for a quieter life, and Ian seemed happier, so she’d gone with it.
When Hannah had refused turkey, sprouts, pretty much everything Eve had offered her, Eve had just shrugged and ignored it. Just as she’d ignored the footsteps on the stairs in the middle of the night, and the total absence of cold roast potatoes in the fridge the following morning.
On Boxing Day, when Hannah had clung to Caroline’s parents as if they’d been the only people in the world who understood her—earning Eve disapproving glares and Ian, a quiet word in the kitchen—Eve had smiled through gritted teeth and kept Ian’s parents’ glasses topped up.
On New Year’s Eve, when Hannah had insisted on staying over with a friend instead of having dinner at home, Eve had just shrugged and ignored it. Hannah was a teenager after all. Just.
If Eve was honest, Hannah’s total rejection hurt, but Eve had something to take her mind off it. Her period had been due before Christmas. When it hadn’t come, she’d thought nothing of it. It wasn’t as if she’d ever been that regular, anyway. It would turn up, it always did. But on Christmas Day there had been no sign of it. Nor Boxing Day. Even then, she wouldn’t have used an imaginary shortage of milk to sneak out the following day if her breasts hadn’t started tingling and she hadn’t suddenly been assailed by smells wherever she’d gone. Ian’s Lexus had reeked of petrol. Sophie’s Gwen Stefani perfume—something she’d been wearing for months—had suddenly made Eve’s stomach roil.
And garlic!
When Ian had slathered baguettes with home-made garlic butter and slid them into the oven for Boxing Day supper, she’d had to make her excuses and leave the kitchen. It had taken a feat of willpower to stay in the house at all.
That was what had made up her mind. It had happened once before. Years earlier. In entirely different circumstances. Her breasts had hurt, and there had been a metallic taste in her mouth. The way everything had stunk. She’d known what the test was going to say before she’d removed it from the packet.
Nobody knew. She hadn’t told them yet. Not Clare, not Lily, not even Ian. Her heart pounded in her ribs with joy and fear as she pictured the early amazement and eventual pleasure on his face when she told him. This would make them complete.
She knew when it had happened. That night in the kitchen. The night things had started to go right. It was only five weeks, six at most.
It wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but Eve was pregnant.
Twenty-nine
There was a pile of newspapers on her desk when Eve arrived at work. So far, so normal. They took turns to read all the day’s papers first thing, and today was Eve’s turn.
It was the usual mix of celebrity trivia, health scare stories (red wine being good for your heart on Tuesday, causing cancer on Wednesday and rendering you infertile on Thursday) and New Year divorce statistics. It had been an even worse Christmas than usual for marriages, it seemed. A fact borne out by Eve’s own friends.
She had barely started on the tabloids when she heard her editor calling her. “Eve? Have you got a sec?”
Eve rolled back her chair and wandered into Miriam’s office.
“So, who’s playing you?” Miriam asked before Eve had a chance to open her mouth.
“I’m sorry?”
Beau’s editor waved that morning’s Times in Eve’s direction. “I said, who’s playing you? Do you get a say? If it were me, I’d want right of veto.” The grin on her face was unnerving. In Eve’s experience, Miriam grinning meant only one thing. Trouble.
<
br /> “I haven’t got to that one yet.” Heart pounding, Eve took the newspaper from her boss’s hand and began to speed-read. Her stomach plummeted. Nausea had been threatening since she’d woken, but that had nothing to do with this. She should have known this would happen when she’d stuck her head firmly in the sand in the summer and left it there. In her defense, there had never been a right time to raise the film with Ian. First there’d been the whole upheaval of moving in, then the trouble with Hannah, and then, once things had improved, Eve hadn’t wanted to rock the boat.
It had been easier to pretend it hadn’t been happening.
In Eve’s 3:00 a.m. moments, Ian’s mother’s comment about that damn film—so seemingly innocent, and yet so glaringly ominous—had loomed large, but she’d told herself it would never happen. There had been no updates on Google for months now. She’d checked.
Miramax had bought the rights before the book had even been published, long before Eve had met Ian. Before, before, before…before you started shooting you needed finance, before you got finance you needed a script, before all that you needed a treatment. Film rights were optioned all the time; it meant nothing. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the treatment stayed in the drawer until the option lapsed. What were the odds of Caro’s being the one in a hundred that got made?
Skimming the feature, Eve saw that Rosamund Pike had been cast as Caroline, and Jude Law had signed up to play Ian.
Ridiculous, she thought. Ian looks nothing like Jude Law. Ian Glenn, maybe. Or Liam Neeson. Jude Law is too short. Way too…pretty. Still, it could be worse, they might have cast Hugh Grant.
Filming was scheduled to start at Elstree next month.
Next month? Eve tried to keep her face composed. How could it be so soon?
Of Eve there was no mention. Small mercy, she thought, her eyes scanning the lines and trying to keep from straying to the full-color picture of a statuesque blonde actress on the red carpet, with a drop-in of Caroline’s press shot.
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