by Suzy K Quinn
Preface
Yay!
You picked up my book. Which at least means the cover is good …
I still can’t believe so many people read my stories.
Each and every day, I am humbled by this fact.
I write feel-good stories that let you escape into romantic worlds of love and laughter. I hope this book makes you smile and feel warm and happy inside.
I can’t thank you enough for reading. See you at the end.
Huge kisses,
Love, Suzy K Quinn xxx
Juliette Duffy’s Guide to Baby Brit-Speak
Baby gro – A ‘onesie’ in the US. Basically it’s a sleepy suit.
Cot – Crib. (In England, crib is a game of cards or another word for cheating.)
Dummy – Pacifier. I like the word pacifier so much better! Awww … so peaceful!
Pram – Baby carriage. Pram is a bit of a crap word really. I think I’ll call Daisy’s pram a baby carriage from now on. Or what about perambulator? I LOVE that one!
Pushchair/buggy/pram – Stroller. And yes, confusingly we call a stroller a pram too.
Knackered – Tired. We use this word a lot when we have babies …
Nappies – Diapers. I think ‘nappy’ is short for napkin or something.
Rusks – Baby biscuits with lots of added vitamins. They taste like cardboard.
Sleepy suit – Onesie.
Stag and hen party – Bachelor and bachelorette party.
Tea – This can be a cup of tea. If you’re a commoner like me, it can also be an evening meal.
Whinge/grizzle – Complain.
Yorkshire pudding – Sort of like a big puffy pancake. You eat it with meat and potatoes. Then instantly put on five pounds …
Thursday January 1st
New Year’s Day
New Year’s resolutions:
MOVE HOUSE!!! This is absolutely fucking urgent. A couple with a three-month old baby should not live in a one-bedroom penthouse with cream carpets. The glass balcony alone is a health and safety issue. Even the pigeons slip over.
Set up regular donations to Save the Children, NSPCC, Child Action and Stop Child Poverty.
Phone Nana Joan every Saturday, like I did before I had Daisy. Feel terrible I keep forgetting, but something has happened to my brain.
Stop watching the news. It’s just depressing – especially now I’m a mum. Horrible to think about the things that happen to children.
Lose baby weight. Post-pregnancy, I look like a Renaissance nude. None of my clothes fit, and I want to look my best for the wedding.
And on a lesser note:
Use bags for life.
Stop playing Candy Crush Saga / online bingo.
Learn how to fold up the stroller without slicing my fingers open and find out what those black cushiony things are for.
Try REALLY hard not to swear at Nick’s mum, even when she turns up unannounced. As our landlady, technically she should give us 24 hours notice before letting herself in. But as Daisy’s grandmother, I should tolerate her calling round. I just wish she didn’t have her own key.
I’m happy that finally Nick proposed, but we still have a long way to go.
By the time I had a baby, I thought we’d live in a proper house with tasteful wooden board games and a vegetable patch.
I also thought I would own a rolling pin.
There’s no room for baking equipment (or baby bottles) in this apartment. Our kitchen is designed for London executives who eat out or heat up microwave meals.
Nick says we should count our blessings.
We rent a beautiful, glass-fronted apartment on the Thames. Plenty of Londoners would love to live near the Tate Modern.
But Daisy needs parks. Trees. Space. Other children.
Will give Nick a good kick up the arse this year, because good houses in our price range sell fast.
The only ones that hang around for more than a few days are ‘in an up-and-coming area’ (shit area), ‘delightfully cosy’ (shit size), ‘priced to sell’ (massive shit hole) or ‘remarkably energy efficient’ (shitty basement).
Nick tried to stay in bed this morning claiming he ‘wasn’t feeling well’ (10 bottles of Corona last night), so I threatened to spray him with window cleaner until he got up and helped me clean the panoramic glass.
Am taking Daisy to see Nana Joan this afternoon. Haven’t seen her in ages, and Nick and I could do with some space.
Afternoon
No trains today, so drove the 50 miles to Nana Joan’s care home in Great Oakley.
It should have been an hour’s journey, but we got stuck in M25 holiday traffic.
Kept glimpsing my tired face in the rear-view mirror and wishing I’d worn makeup.
I have an English-rose complexion (pale skin, instant sunburn) that usually looks okay natural, but right now a bit of colour wouldn’t hurt.
My hair (which my hairdresser politely calls ‘not quite blonde, not quite brown’) could do with some attention too. It’s been ages since I had highlights, and my curls are past my shoulders and need a trim.
Oh well. That kind of stuff doesn’t matter right now. I suppose I’ll sort it out when Daisy sleeps through the night.
Had to turn up Radio Two progressively louder and louder to stop Daisy crying. By the time we reached Nana’s care home, the car windows were shaking.
Such a relief to finally give Daisy a cuddle and get inside.
There was a big sign on the visitor’s notice board:
BEWARE! JOAN JENKINS SOMETIMES TAPES knives to her WALKING frame and chaseS ANY VISITOR WEARING RED.
Nana was so pleased to see us. She hugged me for ages and talked to Daisy in her funny pigeon voice. ‘Ooooeee! Coo coo coo!’
She was especially happy because her toenails hadn’t been cut in ages. I’m the only one who can do it without breaking the clippers.
After I’d done Nana’s bath, I washed her hair and helped dye it ‘Vibrant Cherry’. Then I showed her how to play Angry Birds on her phone.
Nana asked about the wedding, and I told her we were marrying at St Mary’s church in Great Oakley.
Nana said, ‘What does Nick’s mum think about that?’
I told her that Helen wants us to marry in London. And that she comes around three times a week with glossy bridal magazines.
Nana said, ‘That big-nosed cow. Hasn’t she had enough of her own weddings?’
Helen has been married twice. Her first wedding was featured in Vogue, the second in Harper’s Bazaar.
When Nana asked about house hunting, I had to admit that we’re STILL living in Helen’s apartment.
Nana said, ‘Oh Jules, love. You haven’t got your own place yet? That Nick’s a useless little bugger isn’t he?’
She’s right – Nick does need to change his priorities. But a house is my responsibility too. We’re not living in the 1950s.
It was nice seeing Nana. She called Daisy and I her ‘blue-eyed girls’ and took photos of us with her new selfie stick.
Nana also warned me I was getting too skinny and told me not to ‘catch an eating disorder.’
I never trust her views on weight, though. She’s lost most of her teeth because of all the Walnut Whips she eats.
Friday January 2nd
I love being a mum, but sometimes I miss going to work.
As a charity executive manager, I was respected. Valued.
My team tackled third-world poverty and childhood diseases. Also, I wore nice suits from Karen Millen and drank vanilla lattes.
Got a picture message from Helen today.
It showed a ra
il-thin, pouty model bride wearing a huge lion’s mane on her head.
Helen had written, ‘So stylish, don’t you think? Viv West at her best.’
I texted back a picture of Pamela Anderson in her wedding bikini and wrote, ‘I prefer minimalism.’
Saturday January 3rd
Nick and I spent the morning house hunting on Rightmove.
I’m happy Nick is finally getting involved, but he can’t seem to grasp the ‘family home’ concept.
A garden is more important than a marble wet-room with waterfall shower.
We have a budget and there are priorities. Sacrifices have to be made.
Nick was grumpy anyway, because his new casting photograph had arrived. It’s black and white, so doesn’t show the ‘dazzling contrast’ of his blue eyes and dark-brown hair. Plus, according to Nick, the angle doesn’t highlight his ‘manly’ jaw.
In my opinion, the photographer got it right. Nick is good-looking. But when he poses looking all serious and brooding, jutting his jaw, it just looks stupid. Far better that he comes across natural.
Already broken a New Year’s resolution, but Candy Crush is SO addictive.
Spent the afternoon making Christmas thank you letters, supposedly from Daisy. I got a bit ambitious and decided to photograph Daisy with each and every present. Then she fell asleep, and it all looked a bit weird.
Nick’s mum turned up and asked me what the hell I was doing arranging a set of Neal’s Yard toiletries around a sleeping baby.
I said, ‘Helen, for once could you knock?’
But I don’t think she heard me properly, because she said, ‘Yes alright then, I’ll have a decaf.’
Sunday January 4th
Train back to Great Oakley to see Mum and Dad.
Nick had scripts to read, so he couldn’t make it. Probably for the best – he hates the countryside.
Oakley-on-Thames station is only an hour from London, but that’s a long time with a baby.
Daisy cried from the minute the train door closed. She only calmed down when a nice old lady rattled a box of denture cream at her.
I love Oakley village. It really is the perfect place to get married.
Helen just doesn’t get it – this is where I grew up. I spent my childhood running around these woods and paddling in the river. That’s a million times more special than some fancy London hotel.
Laura and Brandi met me at the train station, and we had lovely warm sister hugs. Then we walked up the little woodland trail, along the waterfront and across the maypole green to Mum and Dad’s pub.
Dad had scrubbed the Tudor beams and whitewashed the walls for the Christmas, so everything looked like a pretty winter postcard – all frosty, lattice windows and cosy, uneven walls.
Shame Mum’s neon-pink nativity scene was still flashing away on the roof.
Choice of beef, chicken or pork for Sunday lunch, plus half a pint of Guinness. It’s great being a landlord’s daughter.
As usual, Mum wanted to give Daisy a teaspoon of beer for her runny nose, and I had to wrestle the spoon away.
How does she not get that alcohol isn’t good for a baby?
Mum said, ‘Don’t be so paranoid. You lived off Guinness when you were her age. And you turned out just fine.’
The ‘just fine’ argument.
According to Mum, Laura, Brandi and I crawled around on broken glass eating lumps of raw chicken. And turned out ‘just fine’.
Ate our family lunch upstairs, away from the regulars, and had a good old catch-up over beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, peas and gravy.
Laura is thinking of becoming a vegan.
Brandi has (another) new boyfriend.
Dad saw a meteor in the sky last night.
Mum’s been teaching next-door’s dog to sing ‘Let it Go’.
Everyone asked me about Big Nose. Meaning Nick’s mum.
I admitted that Helen had let herself into the apartment this morning and checked the stainless steel windowsills for dust.
She found plenty. I have a baby. I hardly ever dust. I barely have time to use the toilet.
Everyone told me off (again) for letting Helen come round unannounced. But they don’t get it – Helen isn’t like a normal person. I’ve told her hundreds of times to let us know she’s coming, but she doesn’t listen.
Brandi pointed out that Nick and I pay rent, and that we could take Helen to court under the Landlord and Tenant Act for unauthorised visits.
True. But Helen gives us a pretty hefty discount. When I think of all my London friends, I’m the only one whose elevator doesn’t smell of piss.
I said, ‘Helen probably won’t be around so much after the wedding. She only visits to nag us about place settings and colour schemes.’
‘So the wedding’s still on then?’ Mum asked.
I said of course.
We had the usual family ‘discussion’ (row) about me marrying Nick.
I mean, yes – he does wear his sunglasses indoors. And yes – he needs to realise he’s not a child star anymore and roles aren’t handed to him on a silver platter. But he’s Daisy’s dad, and we’re in this together, for better or worse. I want Daisy to have a real, proper family life.
I told everyone I was dieting for the wedding, and Mum said, ‘Righty-o. Just four potatoes for you then. Don’t you worry. I’ve cooked this whole roast in olive oil.’
I showed her the calories on the Aunt Bessie’s roast potato packet.
She said, ‘Two hundred. Is that a lot?’
Yes – if you add olive oil when you’re cooking them. And eat four.
Considering Mum is overweight and has type II diabetes, it’s pretty shocking she knows nothing about calories.
She had eight roast potatoes on her plate, a mountain of buttery mash, oven chips and three huge slices of beef. And last week she asked me if coffee beans counted as one of her five a day.
I worry about her (we all do) but I’ve given up nagging. Mum just calls me ‘obsessive’ and warns me about getting an eating disorder.
She said, ‘Men like a bit of something to hold onto. Isn’t that right Bob?’
Dad replied, ‘It certainly is!’
Mum still dresses in skimpy tops and skin-tight leggings. And Dad still wolf-whistles at her. If anyone criticises Mum’s weight, she says, ‘I’m a complete original. Which makes me absolutely fucking priceless.’
Dad asked me if Nick and I had ‘any joy’ looking for houses.
I told him no – everything in London is way over our budget. But we have to live in the city because Nick has almost all his auditions in London.
Nick wouldn’t move back to Oakley village anyway, even if we could.
It’s too near his parents (I didn’t admit he’d said it was too near Mum and Dad’s pub too).Plus, muddy fields and shiny leather shoes don’t go well together.
Dad said, ‘You can’t rent his mum’s place forever you know.’
I know.
Monday January 5th
All the trains are buggered, so Daisy and I are still in Great Oakley.
Nick was distraught when I said we’d be staying away overnight. He asked me to send video footage of Daisy’s bedtime, plus email instructions for the coffee machine, microwave and television.
I relented about the bedtime video. Didn’t get much footage though, because Daisy kept trying to eat my phone.
Ended up having a nice country walk with Laura, Brandi and little Callum (Daisy bobbing along in the sling), and afternoon tea at Mary and John’s Family Farm Café.
Mary and John hate children, so we had to sit outdoors by the pig pens.
Alex Dalton was in the farm shop, frowning at jars of honey.
He was immaculate as always – black suit and tie, cleanly shaven, jet black eyes.
I have never, ever seen Alex in jeans. He was born to be a businessman.
When Alex saw me, he said, ‘Hello Juliette’, in his usual formal way.
I said, ‘Are you doin
g your own shopping? I thought you had staff for that sort of thing.’
Alex said, ‘I’m sourcing British produce for the Dalton Hotel Group. New business strategy.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.
Alex said, ‘Customers pay more for British. Plus it cuts transportation costs.’
Typical Alex.
When I went back outside, Zach Dalton was sitting at our table.
Zach and Alex are so different. Night and day, the two of them. Weird that they’re brothers.
Zachary is like sunshine – round face, blond hair, always smiling. Comes to all the village parties and pub crawls. Has a beard, goes travelling.
Alex lives in business clothes and could freeze water with his stare.
I couldn’t help noticing that Zach was right sitting next to Laura, even though there was loads of room around the big wooden picnic table.
Laura had gone a little bit pink.
‘Juliette!’ Zach bellowed. ‘Laura says they threw you out of the café. Still, they do stock fairtrade, so all is forgiven. I’m gate-crashing your table – hope you don’t mind.’
Then he asked me if ‘that scoundrel Nicholas Spencer’ had made an honest woman of me yet.
I said yes, Nick had finally proposed and we’d be marrying in Great Oakley this year.
Then Alex came out, swinging honey jars in a brown-paper bag.
Zach said, ‘What ho, brother Alex. Let’s stay for a cup of tea, shall we?’
Alex said, ‘Tea by the pig pens?’
Brandi snorted with laughter and said, ‘Shame Nick isn’t here, Jules – he would have felt right at home.’
Honestly!
I told Brandi that Nick was the father of my child, and she should be more respectful. And that anyway, she was too young to understand adult relationships.
Brandi said she’d had ‘way more boyfriends’ than me, and that I was only still with Nick because he got me pregnant.
That was a low blow and TOTALLY not true.
Brandi and I ended up having a massive row, with me defending Nick and her picking him apart.
I think we must have got pretty loud, because the café curtains started twitching and even the pigs were staring.