by Sophie King
‘We’re divorced,’ said Susan.
‘Well, if either of you has any more children, it might be a good idea to consider genetic counselling.’
Some hope, thought Susan, wistfully.
‘There’s just one other thing,’ said Josh suddenly. ‘My wife – I mean ex-wife – has been campaigning to keep the centre open where Tabitha goes in the holidays. The local authority wants to close it.’
Mr Sussex sighed. ‘More cutbacks . . .’
‘I was just wondering if you’d mind signing our petition?’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ said Mr Sussex, reaching for his pen. ‘I’ll make a couple of phone calls. I know a few people who might be able to help.’
Susan left the hospital feeling as though an enormous load had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘You’re right. We should have gone before.’
‘Too bloody true,’ said Steff.
She’d never heard Steff swear before.
‘What’s wrong? Steff, you’re crying!’
‘I’m pregnant. At least, I think I am. That’s why I’m flipping crying. Yes, Josh, I know I should have told you, but I was waiting until I was certain. And I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Sue, but suppose it’s like Tabs?’
www.whatmumsknow.co.uk
This page is no longer available
EMAIL FROM PRISCILLA
Thanks for your email, Mark. Yes, I’m sorry too but I had to shut up shop. To be honest, the website was taking over my life so I’ve given it up and Greg and I are moving to Spain. We’ll send you our new email address when we get there. Have a good life!
DADS COUNT TOO. Click here to find out more about our campaign to help working fathers negotiate more family-friendly hours. Or ring Mark Summers on . . .
‘Tabitha, look at my new screensaver. Recognise it? Good girl. It’s the Eiffel Tower, isn’t it? Only six weeks to go now.’
EMAIL FROM CAROLINE CRAWFORD:
Hope the new term is going all right. Don’t spend your loan all at once. Looking forward to seeing you when I come up next weekend.
VOICEMAIL FROM SUSAN
‘Steff, it’s me – Susan. I’ve just been to see poor Lisa. She seems to have accepted that she wasn’t pregnant but she’s convinced she’s expecting again. She says the father is a computer engineer called Ryan.’
EMAIL FROM GEORGIE
B gd Ben and don’t get into more trouble. Guess what? I’m in the girls’ rugby team. We’re going to slaughter EVERYONE!
VOICEMAIL FROM JEFF
‘Sue? It’s me, Jeff. Listen, I was just wondering if you felt like Sunday lunch tomorrow? With Tabitha, of course.’
EMAIL FROM CLIVE HASTINGS
For the attention of Mark Summers
I’m sorry you have turned down the offer of a new contract with us but wish you all the best in your new job. Please treat the Send button with extreme caution.
Yours sincerely,
Clive
LETTER FROM FREDDY
Dear Mum,
Do you get apple-flavoured condoms in prison? My new friend Sam says they sell them everywhere. I just wondered because I’d like to see what they look like and Dad won’t let me buy one. Last weekend, Dad, Florrie and I went camping. We thought it would be boring but it was fun.
Love Freddy
EMAIL FROM BEKKI ADAMS
Hi Susan.
Congratulations on saving the centre! Would you be prepared to be interviewed about it?
ONLINE NEWS: BRITISH MAN JAILED FOR TEN YEARS IN CAPE TOWN FOR RAPE. SIMON WRIGHT, FORMERLY FROM BEDFORDSHIRE, WAS FOUND GUILTY OF RAPING A 35-YEAR-OLD WOMAN ON A BLIND DATE . . .
EMAIL FROM STEFF AND JOSH
Hi Sue.
Just had to send you our first scan picture! Aren’t they sweet? Definitely both boys!!!!!! And the consultant says they look healthy which is a huge relief. To be honest, I don’t think I could cope as well as you do. Looking forward to seeing you all for Christmas dinner. Do your dad and stepmum like turkey?
PS Please feel free to bring your new friend.
EMAIL FROM MARK SUMMERS TO CAROLINE CRAWFORD:
Xxxxxxxx
This is a magic frog. It will grant you one wish and only one wish if you decide to send it to others. You can wish for anything. If you send it to:
three people – your wish will come true eventually.
five people – your wish will come true in three months.
ten people – your wish will come true in five weeks.
fifteen people – your wish will come true in one week.
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Falling in Love Again bonus chapters
Enjoy these ten bonus chapters of Falling in Love Again.
Previously published as Divorce for Beginners, Falling in Love Again is Sophie King's latest novel.
Sophie King brings us another heart-warming story of likeable characters you'll recognise from everyday life. Lizzie, Alison, Karen and Ed are all coming to terms with life, and love, after marriage. Whatever your own love life is like, you'll find yourself rooting for them to find happiness as you laugh and cry along with all four.
As Lizzie juggles running a failing women's magazine with bringing up a young family she ponders on whether you really can “have it all”. The answer comes sooner than she expects when her husband's actions turn her world upside down...
Alison should be looking forward to a quieter life with David now that their youngest has flown the nest. But David has other ideas and his increasingly bizarre behaviour leaves Alison wondering if she really knows her husband at all...
Karen has managed to hold her family together since leaving her husband Paul many years before. That makes her the perfect person to start The "How to Survive Divorce" Club, to help others on their own. But as the burden of past secrets unravels, Karen realises she needs help too.
Ed really believes in marriage. So much so that he's done it three times already. But as his work and home life get ever more complicated, will he ever be able to find “The One”...?
Add in mysterious diary entries, an overbearing sister, a troublesome stepbrother, the surprise return of faces from the past, grown up kids with their own problems, and ageing parents who've discovered the ups (and downs) of internet dating and you have a gripping and entertaining tale of modern life as our foursome struggle with... Falling in Love Again.
Who's Who in Falling in Love Again
Lizzie Morris is editor of women's lifestyle magazine Charisma. She is married to Tom and they have two children, Sophie and Jack. Lizzie's best friend is Sharon. Since her husband left her, Sharon has brought up their children, Ellie and Freddie, alone.
Alison Greene is a housewife. She's been married to David for almost thirty years, and they have two grown-up children, Jules (Julia) is just about to start university and Ross is a solicitor in London. Alison has an older sister called Caroline.
Karen Davies left her husband, Paul, ten years ago. They have a son, Adam, who is now grown up and has a son of his own, Josh, with partner Hayley.
Ed Smith has been married and divorced three times. His father was also married a number of times. Ed is close to Nancy, who was his final stepmother, before his father's death. Ed's father asked him to keep an eye on his extended family of various stepmothers and step-siblings, which includes a troublesome stepbrother called Jamie.
I never expected it to happen to us. Not again.
The perfect couple. That’s what everyone still says.
‘I thought we’d grow old together,’ I whisper and he winces.
‘We’ve changed,’ he says quietly. ‘Both of us. But you’re still young enough to start again.’
His voice sounds panicky – a good sign! He can see now that the whole idea is quite mad. In a minute, we’ll open a bottle of Californian white and have the chicken fricassee that’s been bubbling in the oven and talk about the election or work or anything, as long as it’s not this.
Hang on. Somet
hing’s wrong. Usually at this point, he gives in. Agrees to stay. Promises we’ll try and work it out.
He’s coming towards me. Cupping my face in his big hands and forcing me to look at him. ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he is saying.
And that’s when I know that, this time, I have to do something different. Help me. Please.
The ‘How To Survive Divorce’ Club
(Open To Anyone Who Is Single)
Broken heart?
Scared of starting life on your own after a relationship breakdown?
Join our club and you’ll never feel alone again!
Don’t get us wrong – we’re no dating agency. But we do aim to get you back on your feet within six months. Satisfaction guaranteed. Or your money back!
1
LIZZIE
Deeze. Nurve. Wheat. Set. Seize.
Count backwards slowly in French, just like the relaxation tape said. Deep breath. Try again.
Lizzie knelt down next to her six-year-old son Jack and ran her fingers exploratively through his gorgeous chestnut hair. ‘Darling, are you sure you don’t have nits? Certain that you don’t feel a tiny bit itchy? I mean it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has them nowadays.’
Jack didn’t bother looking up from her iPhone that she’d let him play with, in a futile attempt at bribery. ‘Everyone? Even the Bitch in Boden?’
It was incredible what kids picked up nowadays! The B in B nametag was one that Lizzie only used in private, to refer to the aloof, well-dressed chair of the PTA at Jack’s school. ‘I’m not sure I called her that exactly . . .’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Well if I did, I didn’t mean to.’ Lizzie’s hands (must buy some hand cream!) were still doing a quick stroll through her son’s follicles. If she didn’t get him to co-operate fast, they’d run out of time.
‘Geroff, Mum.’
He moved away so fast that she almost toppled onto the ground (must get used to new editor-style high heels). ‘Just checking, darling.’ She glanced across the studio to where Dan, the photographer, was doing something to one of his many cameras and lowered her voice. ‘If you’re sure you don’t have nits, Jack, couldn’t you just pretend – you know, for a minute – that you’ve got them.’ She gave him a little smile. ‘Just for Mummy’s page on the magazine?’
‘But I don’t have nits. And you’ve always said we shouldn’t lie.’
OK, OK. But this was different. Lizzie could feel her chest tightening again (must get new bra and more of those calming tablets from Boots!). If Jack didn’t agree to co-operate, they wouldn’t have enough pictures and then the editor would get sacked – except that, silly her, she was the editor, or had been since Friday when the last one had got fired. And if she didn’t come up to scratch by getting out the next issue of Charisma magazine on its new, all-time low budget, she’d get fired too.
‘Everything all right, Lizzie?’
Fine, she wanted to say to this fresh-faced Aussie photographer who knew nothing about spread-sheeting husbands, kids, work, a linen cupboard which looked like a fabric version of the tip-over-the-edge amusement arcade game and sixty-something parents who acted like they’d only just got their Provisionals. Absolutely fine.
‘It’s only that you look a bit stressed.’ Dan gave her an odd look. ‘And you’re wearing that shirt thing of yours inside out. Just thought you might like to know.’
Shit. No. Mustn’t say that in front of the kids. Sugar. Besides, the shirt thing was actually a dress. Couldn’t he see the purple leggings underneath? ‘Sorry.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘You don’t need to apologise to me.’
Of course she didn’t! She was the editor after all! Just like she was the parent – except that she was still waiting for the day when she felt grown up and the kids realised they didn’t know best. That reminded her. Where were Ellie and Freddie?
‘Went to the toilet, didn’t they?’ Dan was focussing his camera on Jack.
‘But that was ages ago! I’d better check.’
Lurching across the studio floor (maybe the heels were a mistake after all), she headed for the cupboard of a loo in Dan’s Covent Garden studio. The door was locked but there was a lot of giggling inside. ‘Ellie?’ She tried the handle. ‘Freddie?’
The door opened a crack. Inside, she could see her friend’s children, except that they looked more like mummies dripping blue blood. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Freddie dared me to wrap him up in loo paper and then squirt him with that loo stuff,’ said Ellie before poking her thumb in defiantly.
But it might be poisonous!
‘We didn’t eat it,’ sniffed Freddie. ‘Just squirted it.’
Shit. Shit. Shit. Sugar. Sugar. Sugar.
‘Are you sure your eyes aren’t burning?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got it on your skin?’
Freddie peered down inside his Age 5 boxers.
‘No.’
‘But it’s on your clothes!’ Lizzie could feel her voice rising. ‘Fashion will kill me!’
‘Who’s Fashion?’ asked Ellie.
Who was Fashion? She was about to say that it was the department where pretend journalists went to fashion shows and featured expensive clothes in the magazine which the readers couldn’t afford but it didn’t matter because it meant the staff got discounts and then she remembered. She, Lizzie, was Fashion after the last lot of cuts. So she was the one who’d have to explain to the PRs that the clothes they’d lent out for the fashion shoot were now streaked in an unfetching and rather smelly shade of blue u-bend cleaner.
Shepherding the children out of the loo, she tiptoed up to look in the cracked mirror on the wall. Did she really look like that? Talk about bags for life – under her eyes, that was. And look at those frown lines! Lizzie mentally tried to ‘iron out’ her face as suggested in the recent beauty section of Charisma (also written by herself). That was better. Well, a bit anyway. She still looked a bit of a mess with those blondish roots that needed re-touching and her smudged mascara (ditto).
For some reason, she only had one pearl earring in (she remembered now – the kids had interrupted her while dressing this morning) and her lip gloss was conspicuous by its absence. But she was a working mum, wasn’t she? It simply wasn’t possible to be perfect.
Not, thought Lizzie as she made her way back to the studio, that any of them would ever admit that. Thanks to her mother’s generation who had fought for their girls to go to university, they were now expected to have great jobs, bring up families and have sex three times a week.
‘Sorted?’
‘Not the sex bit,’ answered Lizzie, still wrapped in her thoughts.
‘Come again?’
Shit. Sugar. ‘Sorry.’ She burned with embarrassment, conscious that the tell-tale red flush was creeping up her neck. If Lizzie could change one thing about herself, it would be the awkward way in which she blushed at any opportunity. ‘I was thinking of something else.’
Dan’s eyes twinkled. ‘My sister’s the same, back in Sydney. Got six kids she has but she still manages to live in a world of her own. Says it’s the only way to cope. Anyway,’ he gestured towards Jack who was adjusting the silver umbrella in front of the tripod, ‘I managed to get your kid to pose for some nice shots.’
‘How did you do it?’
Dan shrugged, his fringe falling over one eye. ‘Simple. Just asked him what he wanted and I managed to oblige.’
‘Not his own iPhone?’
‘No way. I just did his maths homework for him.’ Dan grinned. ‘I gather you got 3 out of 10 for him last time. And by the way, Lizzie. Did you know you’ve got blue streaks on your shirt?’
Dees. Nerve. Wheat . . . It wasn’t working. Not when she was running this late, thanks to delays at Marylebone which meant that by the time they had got to Amersham, she’d got a parking ticket. (Sometimes, Lizzie doubted the wisdom of moving out from Balham towards the end of the Chiltern line.
The whole idea had been to be within commuting distance of her London office and be near her parents so they could see more of/help out with the kids. But as today proved, it didn’t always turn out like that.)
Sophie’s after-school club teacher had already told her she wasn’t running a pyjama party and could she please be on time in future. But where was her daughter? Lizzie’s heart began to race. She was late. It was all her fault. Anything could have happened to Sophie.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, calling out to a rather elegant young woman hanging around on the corner, with a green and silver scarf wound in that clever way round her neck, and silver dangly earrings. ‘I wonder if you’ve seen my . . . Sophie?’
Her daughter slid into the passenger seat, tossing back her long blonde hair which was the colour that Lizzie’s had been at that age. ‘You’re late, Mum.’
Excuse me? Lizzie took in the foundation which looked as though it had been finely trowelled on and then airbrushed. ‘You’ve got make up on! And you’ve borrowed my earrings.’
‘I’m nearly thirteen, Mum. ‘Sides, I did ask you about the earrings this morning but you probably weren’t listening as usual. And before you ask, I bought the scarf in my lunch hour with my pocket money.’ Leaning forward, Sophie picked up the birthday card that was on the floor by her feet. ‘I told you to post Gran’s card. Isn’t it her birthday today?’
‘Shit.’
‘Mum!’
‘Sugar.’
‘And don’t drive when you’re on the phone.’
‘I’m not. What do you take me for? I’m pulling in. Please, you three in the back, do be quiet. I can’t hear a thing. Mum! It’s me. Happy birthday. Shh, everyone.’ They sounded like a flock of squabbling sheep – any minute and there’d be droppings on the floor. ‘Hang on Mum!’