by Jill Mansell
Copyright © 2013 by Jill Mansell
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustrations by Lisa Mallet
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Originally published in 2007 by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, a division of Hachette Livre UK Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
Back Cover
To Charlotte Ash
And with many thanks to her husband Ian for generously supporting Bliss.
Chapter 1
If it was sympathy she was after, Ginny Holland might have known she’d come to the wrong place. Then again, it was early on a bright but blustery Saturday morning in October and her options were limited.
And it was only over the road from her own house, which was handy.
“I can’t describe how I feel.” She clenched a fist, pressed it to her breastbone, and shook her head in frustration. “It’s just so… so…”
“I know exactly what it is. Bird’s-nest syndrome,” said Carla.
Ginny pulled a face because it was so screamingly apparent that Carla didn’t have children. “Bird’s-nest syndrome would be the name for the state of my hair. I have empty-nest syndrome. My nest is empty, my baby has flown away, and I just feel all hollow inside like… like a cheap Easter egg.”
“Well, I think you’re mad.” Carla was busy executing Olympic-level sit-ups, her bare feet tucked under the edge of the cream leather sofa, her hair swinging glossily to and fro. “Jem’s gone off to university. You’re free again. You should be out there celebrating. Plus,” she added as an afterthought, “Cadbury’s Creme Eggs aren’t hollow; they’re full of goo.”
“Unlike you,” Ginny pointed out. “You’re heartless.”
“And you’re thirty-eight, not seventy.” Having completed her five millionth sit-up, Carla raised her legs in the air and, without even pausing for breath, began bicycling furiously. “I’m a year older than you and look at me; I’m having a whale of a time! I’m in tip-top condition, men can’t resist me, and sex has never been better. I’m a woman in my prime,” she concluded. “And so are you.”
Ginny knew her life wasn’t really over, of course she did, but Jem’s departure had nevertheless knocked her for six. She’d always been so happy and busy before now, so endlessly occupied, that this was a whole new experience for her. Nor did it help that it was happening as winter approached. Most of the jobs here in Portsilver were seasonal and she’d just spent the last six months being rushed off her feet working in a café down on the seafront. But the tourists had gone home now, Jem was in Bristol, and Ginny was finding herself faced with way more spare time than she was used to. To add insult to injury, two other female friends had separately moved in the last month, her favorite wine bar had been bought up and turned into a noisy haven for underage drinkers of alcopops, and the Latin American dance classes she’d so enjoyed attending had come to an abrupt halt when her dance teacher had slipped doing the samba and broken his hip. All in all, it hadn’t been the best October on record. And as for Carla telling her she was a woman in her prime… well, she could end up being sued for false advertising.
Glancing at her reflection in Carla’s glitzy over-the-top Venetian mirror, Ginny puffed away a section of overgrown bangs that were falling into her eyes. The aforementioned bird’s-nest hair was long, blond, and wavy-with-a-definite-mind-of-its-own. Sometimes it behaved, sometimes it didn’t, and she had no control over it either way. Face-wise, it wasn’t as if she was a wrinkled old prune—if anything, Ginny knew she looked young for her age—but in glossy magazine world there was still plenty of room for improvement. It would be lovely to be as chic, groomed, and effortlessly femme-fatalish as Carla but, let’s face it, she simply couldn’t be doing with making all that effort.
“You need to get yourself together.” Carla finished bicycling in the air, miraculously not even puce in the face. “Cheer yourself up; get out there and have an adventure.”
“I’m just saying I miss Jem.” Ginny hated feeling like this. She had never been needy in her life; the idea was as horrifying to her as suddenly developing a penchant for wearing puffball miniskirts.
“She’d want you to have an adventure,” Carla said reasonably.
“I know.” Ginny tugged at a loose thread on her sweater sleeve. “But I really want to see her.”
“Fine. Go on then, if that’s what you want to do. If you think Jem won’t mind.” Rising gracefully to her feet and automatically checking her sleek, serum-fed hair in the Venetian mirror—yep, still perfect—Carla said, “You’ve made a hole in that sleeve, by the way.”
Ginny didn’t care; it was a manky old sweater anyway. More importantly, she’d got what she’d come for. “Right, I will.”
“Will what?”
“Drive up to Bristol to see Jem. It’s a great idea!”
“Now? Shouldn’t you give her a ring first? She’s eighteen,” said Carla. “She could be getting up to any number of naughty things.”
To humor Carla, Ginny said, “OK, I’ll call her. You have a lovely weekend and I’ll see you tomorrow night when I get back.”
“I always have a lovely weekend.” Carla pa
tted her flat brown stomach. “I’m a woman in my prime, remember?” Smugly she added, “Besides, Robbie’s coming round.”
Robbie was the latest in a series of interchangeable pretty young boys Carla favored for their fit bodies, floppy hair, and… well, un-floppy other bits. The last thing she was looking for was commitment.
“Right, I’m off.” Ginny gave her a hug.
“Give Jem my love. And drive carefully on the motorway.”
“I will.”
As Ginny let herself out of the house, Carla said, “And don’t forget to phone first. She might not be pleased to see you.”
God, best friends could be brutal. If Ginny hadn’t been so excited, she might have taken offense.
But that was Carla for you; she wasn’t a mother so how could she possibly understand?
***
“Mum! I don’t believe it—how fantastic that you’re here!” Jem’s face lit up as she launched herself like a missile into her mother’s arms, hugging her so tightly she could hardly breathe.
Oh yes, that was a good one.
Or: “Mummy, oh my God, this is the best surprise ever… you don’t know how much I’ve missed you…”
Whoops, mustn’t make herself cry. Deliberately banishing the happy scenarios her imagination had been busily conjuring up, Ginny blinked hard in order to concentrate on the road ahead. The journey from Portsilver in north Cornwall up to Bristol took three and a half hours and so far they were on schedule to arrive at one o’clock. Luckily, Bellamy enjoyed nothing more than a nice long ride in the car and was lolling contentedly across the backseat with his eyes shut and his tongue out. Every time Ginny said in her excited voice, “Who are we going to see, Bellamy? Hey? We’re going to see Jem!” he opened one eye and lazily wagged his tail.
If Ginny had owned one, she’d have been wagging hers too.
It was three weeks since Jem had left home. Ginny had braced herself for the worst but hadn’t braced nearly hard enough; the aching void where Jem had once been was a million times worse than she’d envisaged. Her daughter was the most important person in her life; it was as simple as that.
As she drove toward Bristol, Ginny scrolled through some of her happiest memories. Marrying Gavin Holland on her eighteenth birthday… well, it may have been a mistake, but how could she possibly regret it when between them they had produced Jem?
Giving birth—gasping her way through ever more agonizing contractions and threatening to knock Gavin’s teeth down his throat when he said plaintively, “Ouch, could you not squeeze my hand so hard? It hurts.”
Holding Jem at long last and sobbing uncontrollably because the rush of love was so much more overwhelming than she’d imagined, particularly when you considered that the squalling creature you were cradling in your arms was covered in blood and gunk and slime.
Then later, tiny starfish fingers grasping the air… the first magical smile… the first day at school (“Mummy, don’t leeeeave meeeee!”)… and that look of blind panic on Jem’s face after posting her letter to Father Christmas because what if he got her muddled up with the other Jemima, the one with sticky-out ears and glasses in Miss Carter’s class?
Oh yes, there were so many perfect moments. Ginny’s smile broadened as each one in turn popped into her mind. She and Gavin had separated when Jem was nine and that had been sad, of course it was, but it truly hadn’t been the end of the world. Gavin had turned out not to be the settling-down-and-staying-faithful kind. Nevertheless, he’d always been a loving father and had never once let Jem down. And Jem had come through her parents’ separation and subsequent divorce wonderfully well, taking the inevitable changes in her stride.
From that time on, Ginny and Jem had become truly inseparable, as close as any mother and daughter could be. Even the dreaded puberty hadn’t managed to spoil their relationship and Ginny knew she’d got off lightly there; while other teenagers grew rebellious and sulky and slammed doors off their hinges, Jem had retained the ability to laugh at herself and hadn’t lost her sparky, sunny nature. It had always been the two of them against the world.
At that moment a wet nose touched Ginny’s left arm, and Bellamy, his head poked between the front seats, licked her elbow.
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart, I wasn’t thinking.” Concentrating on the road ahead, Ginny gave his ears an apologetic rub. “How could I forget you, hmm? The three of us against the world.”
***
The traffic on the motorway was light, and by ten to one, Ginny was on the outskirts of Bristol. Jem hadn’t been keen on moving into the halls of residence. Instead, she’d got on the phone to local property agents, arranged a day of viewing back in September, and decided on a flat-share in Clifton with two other students. This was where Ginny had helped her to unload her belongings from the car three weeks earlier, prior to the arrival of the other flatmates.
Now she was crossing the Downs heading for Whiteladies Road, the location of Jem’s flat on Pembroke Road indelibly printed in her mind and drawing her toward it like an invisible umbilical cord.
Actually, that conjured up a bit of a yucky image. Maybe not. Ooh, now that looked like an interesting Mexican restaurant over there on the left; maybe she and Jem could try it out this evening. And if Jem’s flatmates wanted to join them, well, the more the merrier. As she indicated right and turned into Apsley Road, Ginny imagined them in the buzzy restaurant, all sitting and laughing together around a table bristling with plates and bottles of ice-cold beer, the others exclaiming, “You’re so lucky, Jem. I wish my mum was as much fun as yours!”
Whoops, mind that bus.
Chapter 2
The flat was situated on the second floor of what had once been a four-story Georgian house. Ginny waited until Bellamy had discreetly relieved himself against a tree in the front garden before ringing the doorbell. This was it; they were here and Jem was about to get the surprise of her—
“Yes?”
“Oh, hi! You must be Rupert!” Ginny did her best not to gush in front of the flatmate Jem had told her about. “Um… is Jem here?”
“No.” Rupert paused. “And you are?”
“Oh, I’m her mum! And this is Bellamy, Jem’s dog. How silly of me not to realize she might be out. I did ring a few times but her phone was switched off, and I just thought she was sleeping in. Er, do you know where she is?”
Rupert, who was wearing a pair of white shorts and nothing else, was lean and tanned. He shivered as a blast of cold air hit him in the chest. “She’s working a lunchtime shift in the pub. Eleven till two, something like that.”
Lunchtime shift? Pub? Ginny checked her watch and said, “Which pub?”
“No idea.” Rupert shrugged. “She did say, but I wasn’t paying attention. Somewhere in Clifton, I think.”
Since there were about a million pubs in Clifton, that was a big help. “Well, could I come in and wait?”
He looked less than enthusiastic but said, “Yeah, of course. It’s a bit of a mess.”
Rupert wasn’t joking. Upstairs in the living room there were dirty plates and empty cups all over the pale green carpet. An exotic-looking girl with short dark hair was sprawled on the sofa eating a bowl of CocoPops and watching a black-and-white film on TV.
“Hello!” Ginny beamed at her. “You must be Lucy.”
The girl blinked. “No, I’m Caro.”
“Caro’s my girlfriend.” Rupert indicated Ginny as he headed into the kitchen. “This is Jem’s mother, come to see her.”
Ginny wondered if she was supposed to shake hands or if that would be the ultimate uncool thing to do. Caro, through a mouthful of CocoPops, mumbled, “Hi.”
OK, probably uncool.
“And this is Bellamy.” Thank heavens for dogs, the ultimate icebreakers.
“Right.” Caro nodded and licked her spoon.
Oh.
“So! Are you at uni too?” Nobody had offered her a seat so Ginny stayed standing.
“Yes.” Caro dumped her empty cereal bowl o
n the carpet, rose to her feet, and headed for the kitchen.
Ginny, overhearing giggles and a muffled shriek of laughter, felt increasingly ill at ease. Moments later, Rupert stuck his head round the door. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh, thank you, that would be lovely!” OK, stop it, stop speaking in exclamation marks. “White, please, one sugar.”
“Ah. Don’t think we’ve got any sugar.”
Ginny said, “No problem, I’ll just have a glass of water instead.”
Rupert frowned and scratched his head. “I think we’ve run out of water too.”
Was he serious? Or was this their way of getting rid of her?
“Unless you drink tap,” said Rupert.
Gosh, he was posh.
“Tap’s fine,” said Ginny.
He grimaced. “Rather you than me.”
“Just ignore him,” said a voice behind Ginny. “Rupes only drinks gold-plated water. Hello, I’m Lucy. And I’ve seen the photos in Jem’s room so I know you’re her mum. Nice to meet you.”
Oh, now this was more like it. Lucy was tall and slender, black and beautiful. Better still, she was actually smiling. Ginny was so overcome with gratitude she almost invited her out to dinner on the spot. Within minutes, Lucy had cleared away armfuls of plates, chucked a slew of magazines behind the back of the sofa, and installed Ginny in the best chair like the queen.
“Jem only got the job yesterday. It’s her first shift today. Still, a bit of extra cash always comes in handy, doesn’t it?” Lucy was chatty and friendly, the best kind of flatmate any mother could desire for her daughter. Having made a wonderful fuss of Bellamy, she brought him a bowl of water and gravely apologized in advance for the fact that it came from a tap.
Rupert and Caro stayed in the kitchen and played music, then Rupert emerged to iron a blue shirt rather badly in the corner of the living room where the ironing board was set up.
“I could do that for you,” Ginny offered, eager to make him like her.
Rupert looked amused. “No thanks, I can manage.”
“Jem’s never been keen on ironing. I bet she’s got a whole load that needs doing. Actually, while I’m here,” said Ginny, “I could make a start on it.”