LIFE AFTER SETH - and a FREEBIE or TWO!

My next (EIGHTH!) full length novel is due for release on 10th December and will be available for pre-order from 1st December - that means, if you order 'LIFE AFTER SETH' on Amazon at the beginning of December it will be 'auto-magically' delivered to your Kindle the minute it goes 'live' on the 10th.  And hopefully shoot me to #1 in the charts.  Hey, a girl can dream can't she?!

So today I'm feeling a little Christmas joy and want to wave my wand of happiness in a shimmy-shaky fashion.  Not only am I going to give you a cover reveal, the blurb AND the first chapter of 'LIFE AFTER SETH'  but I'm also doing FIVE DAYS - yes, you heard me correctly - FIVE DAYS of both of my Christmas novellas for FREE!!!!

From Wednesday 26th November right up until the end of Sunday 30th November, you can grab both of my novellas for absolutely NOTHING on Amazon.  How good is that?  Let's call it my little Christmas present to you.

And, furthermore, if you're on Twitter and you Re-Tweet my #free posts or this blog, you can go in the MAGNIFICENT MISFIT MAGICAL MACHINE.

Now, this isn't ANY old machine. If you enter this stupendous place of wonder and get picked as a winner - you know, like on The X-Factor or Strictly Come Dancing? - you get to pick any of my books to be delivered to your Kindle for your delight and delectation!  For no pennies whatsoever!

See?  I really am feeling the Festive Funk right now.  What have you got to lose?  Get your fingers poised, your RT button going and tell all your friends that there are FREEBIES on offer.  And if you leave me a review, I'll love you even more.

OK.  Ready for the cover reveal, the blurb and the first chapter?  Grab a drink and a packet of biscuits and prepare to meet 'LIFE AFTER SETH'.

THE BLURB

Picture this …

A summer wedding booked in a beautiful English village surrounded by rolling hills and stunning countryside.

The guests are waiting, the bride is blushing and

the groom is … where?

Left to muddle through in a ramshackle cottage with half-naked builders, a selfish mother, a New Age sister who’s away with the fairies and a hormonal teenage nephew, Lizzie sees her world spiral into farce.

It may seem like a romcom that cinema goers giggle over as they chomp on their popcorn, but this is no laughing matter for Lizzie - it’s her life.

With Seth gone, there’s no shortage of men should she ever choose to love again.  But which one would she consider letting into her broken heart?

And will she find the happy ever after she’s

always dreamed of?

LIFE AFTER SETH …

when being jilted is the best thing that can happen to a girl.

*   *   *   *   *

 

 

Chapter One

You know those daft dinner party games where the guests ask probing questions to find out more about one another?  The ones that start as a bit of fun and then end up turning into a full blown domestic between the loved-up couple at the end of the table or an epiphany for the closet gay who realises he really does want to sleep with the guy sitting to his left?  Those games.

Well, the next time I find myself at one of those ‘all jolly good, light hearted fun’ affairs and I’m asked the question ‘What was the worst day of your life?’, I can guarantee that no one will be able to top my answer and I’ll have the assembled guests in stunned - possibly embarrassed - silence.

Oh yeah, as bad days go, by anyone’s standards, it was a humdinger.

Of course it was meant to be the happiest day of my life but as I woke and stretched in the sunlight, cocooned in the cosiness of my childhood bed, I could never have imagined what the following few hours - indeed months - would bring.

If I’d had any idea, I would probably have rolled over and gone back to the dream that involved Daniel Craig and, intriguingly, a rather large jar of Nutella.

But no, silly old me jumped out of bed filled with thrilling anticipation, threw on my dressing gown, lovingly stroked my lace gown hanging on the wardrobe and then headed down to breakfast en famille.

Any normal family might have had Buck’s Fizz on ice and the tempting smell of a cooked breakfast floating on the air to greet the blushing bride-to-be, but not mine.

My father was nowhere to be seen and my mother was on the phone to best friend Glynis moaning about the lack of husband presence.   My sister was saluting the sun in the garden as she chanted and wailed in some sort of Tai Chi pose, and my nephew was sporting a tie-dye sarong while strumming a depressing tune on his guitar in the corner of the kitchen.

Rather than being showered with love or greeted with bubbling excitement, my arrival was ignored until my nephew decided to turn his attention to me with a lazy, ‘Yo, Auntie Lizzie.  Cool day, huh?’

‘Morning, Zeus.’ (I always cringed every time I said his name, but when your sister’s a happy-clappy hippie, what can you expect?)  ‘No, it’s not a cool day, it’s a pretty hot one actually but when you’re sixteen, without a care in the world, I guess every day is cool.’

Zeus shook his rasta dreadlocks - a little odd in ginger - and put down his guitar.  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Auntie Lizzie.  My head’s filled with worries, man.  Global warming.  Pollution.  The state of Palestine.  The banality of ‘X-Factor’.  It’s all going on in here, every minute of the day.’  He tapped his head and looked as if he had to sort the world of its problems before a bowl of muesli had passed his lips.

‘Yeah, well thanks for that Zeus but today’s my wedding day so I’d rather we stuck to light-hearted chat and left the major humanitarian issues until tomorrow if that’s OK with you.’

He stood and stretched, reaching for his pouch of tobacco.  ‘Pftt!  Marriage.  Society’s way of constraining the weak-minded and dictating who you share your bed with.  Not for me, dude.  My heart and spirit are too free to be shackled.’

His comments were best ignored.  It was like talking to a testosterone fuelled version of my sister Alice as he churned out the lines she’d been feeding him since birth, and it could only turn into a mega debate or heated argument.  I figured an offer of a bacon sandwich might lighten the mood a little - all teenage boys lived for their stomachs, didn’t they?

‘Gross!’  He looked ready to vomit.  ‘Pig!  Bacon is pig, Lizzie.  Packed with chemicals and crap.  How could you?’

‘And the foul smelling tobacco that you constantly puff on is packed with vitamins and minerals, is it?’ I countered back as I busied myself at the stove. 

His attempt at any wisecrack response was thwarted by the appearance of Alice, bangles jangling and ankle bells chiming.  ‘Good Morning, my little Lotus Blossoms!  What a glorious new day Mama Nature has bestowed upon us!  My chakras are flowing and my yin yang beautifully balanced.  A little shot of wheat-grass should see me ready to face the challenges destined for me.’

‘And a happy wedding day to you, darling sister of mine,’ I mumbled childishly under my breath before biting defiantly into my swine sandwich.

‘What are you grumbling about, Lizzie?  If you will insist on filling your body with dead animals, you can only expect your mood to be foul.  Get out of the wrong side of the bed, did you?  I told you that you should have slept in the tepee in the garden with me.’

My breakfast began to turn to sawdust in my mouth.  By pointing out that I was eating a little pink corpse, my sister had totally ruined my pleasure.

‘Most siblings would greet one another with a hug and some kind words on such a momentous day,’ I said.  ‘Most sisters would be over the moon and rushing about the house in a whirl of curling tongs and make up.  Most parents would be on hand to calm any nerves or pour drinks.  And what do I get?  An AWOL father, a whinging mother and a mini bloody Glastonbury in the back garden.  Let’s all have a joint and henna my hands shall we?’

‘Cool!’  Zeus was unable to do sarcasm.

Unlike his mother, who looked at me as if I’d eaten her last lentil burger as she turned on her Birkenstocks with an ‘Oh that’s just great!  Now my energies have been tinged with your toxic seepage and I’m going to have to cleanse myself all over again.  Thanks for that, Lizzie!  Just thanks!’

Sisterly love!  The Nolans we most definitely weren’t.

As I chucked the remainder of my now unappealing breakfast in the bin I was reminded that my mother shared the same selfish trait as my sister.  Slamming the phone down, she huffed and puffed and then made her way towards me from the hallway.

‘Make me a coffee, Angel.  And throw a good slug of brandy in there.  Today is not going well.’

Flicking the switch on the kettle, I began idly humming ‘Going to the Chapel’ in my best Bette Midler warble.  If no one else could be happy for me, I’d have my own little celebration.

Because in less than four hours time, I’d be walking down the aisle to the gorgeous Seth - and I couldn’t believe my luck.

I was marrying the man of my dreams and escaping the confines of the Addams family.

Bring it on!

*****

Growing up in the Addams household - yes, that really is our surname - was … how can I say? ... reasonably OK, would be the best way to sum it up.

Dad worked hard as a bank manager, Mum was involved with the Women’s Institute and charity work, and Alice in those days was just your average sister - annoying occasionally but mainly bearable.

Three years my senior, she never let me forget it.  Whether it was to boss me around, lecture me, protect me or look down her nose at my immaturity, I was never allowed to lose sight of the fact that she was the big sister.

Now of course, she’s ageless.  Children of the Universe don’t have a number to determine how many years they’ve been on this planet.  Every day is a ‘birth-day’ in Alice’s Wonderland and she’s been reborn, regressed or found herself so many times I’m surprised she recognises the person she looks at in the mirror - which incidentally isn’t very often because her face is merely ‘a hindrance’.  It’s the soul that counts.

A fairly run of the mill teenager until she hit sixteen, Alice fell for a boy during a fruit picking job in the summer holidays that determined she would never return to school.  Our village of Upper Moreton was conveniently situated for seasonal work and we were never short of odd jobs or ways to earn extra cash.  She could have worked in the local dress hire shop or in the coffee bar which served delicious pastries and scones.  But I guess her latent hippie was lurking somewhere even back then - the freedom of the fields and the sun on her back called and she strawberry picked with a song in her heart and a spring in her Jesus-sandal clad feet.

When the summer came to an end, she packed her rucksack and headed off to Greece with her first love, Reece.  At the time she’d believed he was for life.  She’d even had Mum and Dad convinced, so that they’d let her go with their blessing.  It didn’t last though and I think her current notch on the headboard (or tent pole) is around the three hundred mark.  Love is free, apparently, and she’s always shared as much of hers as possible.

So I became, to all intents and purposes, an only child.  At thirteen years of age, that had been thrilling and lonely in equal measures.  I didn’t have her moaning at me or sparking up arguments but I missed the company and the odd times that I did need her.  She had her uses and I found myself with no one to ask those all important questions.

‘Is this boob bigger than the other one?’

‘If Peter pulls my ponytail does it mean he likes me?’

‘Is this zit really noticeable?’

Of course her answers were never very tactful but at least I had somebody.  I couldn’t possibly ask my mum stuff like that.  She’d just twitter and bristle and then tell me to get the Delia book out and go and bake some nice shortbread.

How relieved was I when I returned to the autumn term at school to find that we had a new girl in our class - Nadia - and we instantly hit it off.  She had a brother, Ralph, but she longed for a sister, a confidante, a partner in crime.  From the first day we met we became inseparable, sharing our secrets, our worries, our dreams and our bedrooms.

Most weekends would see us sleeping at one or the other’s house and, for some reason, I always preferred it when I was invited to stay at hers.  Her mum and dad were a lovely couple and they were always laughing - a really happy family.  Ralph was fifteen, and quite good looking, and for a long while I had a bit of a secret crush on him.  To him though I was just his little sister’s friend, so it wouldn’t have been the done thing for him to see me in a romantic way but I bumped into him in London one day a few years later and he joked that the ugly duckling had turned into a bit of a swan.  Cheeky sod!

Now it’s not that my family were unhappy, it’s just that Dad was always wrapped up in the stress of work and Mum was just too busy being … Mum.  Everything had to revolve around her and Alice and I had grown up knowing what this meant.  So, if a colleague from the WI was diagnosed with a serious illness, all we’d hear about would be how it would increase my mother’s workload.  If someone wanted to tell her all about their Mediterranean cruise, she’d rush to the photo albums and talk about her own trip.  If I had a spot, she had a wrinkle and I’d be told, ‘Think yourself lucky you’ve still got youth on your side!’

So, time spent with Nadia was precious.  We played hard but worked harder - attending every party and always making sure we were up bright and early ready for homework or revision.  We both dreamed of becoming teachers and were determined that nothing would come in the way of that.  No boys or hangovers were worth it, although we had a few of both - we were only human.

Eventually we left Uni with a couple of degrees between us and placements in two local schools doing the jobs we’d worked so hard to get.  I’d opted to teach the younger age range with all its wide eyed innocence but she’d longed for the challenge of the back chat and gobby smart talk of a secondary school environment.

It was time to start looking for those dream men we’d envisaged as we lay in the darkness of our bedrooms, planning how our adult lives would pan out.

Four failed relationships later, Seth walked into my life …

*   *   *   *   *

I hope you enjoyed this sneak preview - If so, remember to pre-order from 1st December.

And don't forget to grab my Christmas novellas for FREE for five days from tomorrow.

NEW RELEASE - 'The All or Nothing Girl'

A date for your diaries, faithful readers ... THURSDAY 26th JUNE sees the release of my latest novel - 'THE ALL OR NOTHING GIRL'.

Here's my delicious new cover - what do you think?

And here's the blurb:

What happens when your comfortable life
is suddenly denied you?
When the Chanel make up’s dried up,
the designer gear’s been flogged on eBay
and the Persian rug has been well and truly
pulled out from under you?

Meet Francesca Milton-Harris

as she realises that one ‘little mistake’
is going to change her life in ways she
could never have imagined. 

THE ALL OR NOTHING GIRL …

because sometimes you have to lose it all
to see how much more you can gain.

 * * * * *

Want a little taster? 

 

Chapter One

My name is Francesca and I am a recovering spoilt brat.

Hah!  And of course I’m well aware that makes me sound as if I’m at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting where instead of owning up to a booze problem, I’m admitting to being a filthy rich little madam without a care in the world but I don’t care.  See, the nasty side of me still pops up on the odd occasion.

But, I have to say,  as I stood waiting for the lift at my local hospital, with barely a penny to my name and a bellyful of arms and legs waiting to rip me asunder, I couldn’t have felt less like the privileged little diva I’d spent the best part of twenty-eight years perfecting.

I was alone, truly alone.  Well, that was if you didn’t count the embryo I’d been incubating (read: living off me like a greedy little non rent-paying parasite) for the past nine months.  The free-loading human I was about to meet, with absolutely no idea about what that entailed.

I remembered thinking, ‘Shit, this is it!  Me and a baby!  In a National Health hospital, of all places!  Who’d have thought it?’  But as the pains built in their intensity, I breathed a little deeper and prayed that the lift would arrive swiftly and deliver me to the comfort of the maternity ward - albeit one where poor people squeezed out their ugly babies.

Francesca Milton-Harris giving birth in an NHS hospital?  Not while I’ve got breath in me and they’re still serving cocktails at the Ritz - as my deceased mother used to say.

Yeah, and a fat lot of good that mantra did her too.

As I waited and jiggled (I’m never quite sure why I do it but it seems to work for all nervy situations - and for your information, it’s a kind of hop from one foot to the other with a little bouncy head sway thrown in for good measure) I saw (actually smelt first) the most stunningly attractive man I’d seen in months. No surprises there, considering where I’d been forced to live.  You don’t get many Armani models or multi millionaires wandering around my run down council estate in Shepherd’s Bush - but more of that later.  Anyway, he looked at his watch (expensive, I instantly noted) and then joined me in my wait for the lift.  He was my type of man - he oozed money, opulence and the finer things in life.  He would have been my ideal date, pre my baby-growing months and being relegated to the mould-ridden flat where I’d been forced to take up residence.

And there was I, with hair that hadn’t seen a stylist in months and a midriff the size of Vesuvius.  I won’t go into details about the stirrings in my nether regions but sadly they had nothing to do with the sight of this yummy man.  Talk about wrong time, wrong place.

I had no idea that things could only get worse …

  

*****

The lift doors finally opened and Rich Guy smiled and stood back, gesturing for me to go ahead of him.  Hmm, a gentleman too, I thought as the pains subsided for long enough for me to appreciate his chivalry.

Once inside, he turned to me and smiled.  ‘I take it you’re going to the same floor as me.  Maternity?’

I nodded, suddenly feeling shy - most unlike me - and I instantly made a mental note to pull myself together.  Francesca Milton-Harris didn’t do cowering wallflower or helpless little lady.  Or rather the ‘Franny M-H’ of old didn’t - that one had balls and knew how to use them, so to speak.

But where had those balls gone?  Had they packed their Louis Vuitton cases - oh, how I missed my designer luggage - and hotfooted it out of town?

No, I wouldn’t have it.  I might have been on my uppers but that was through no fault of my own and if I could still entertain the idea of flirting with a tasty looking chappy whilst in the throes of labour, I could convince myself I still had my allure.  Sex appeal didn’t rely on cash or fancy labels, did it?  Although, thinking about it, I’d be hard pushed to list any of my revolting neighbours with an ounce of charisma or even one that I might consider romantically if he were the last man on earth.  Maybe money did make you sexy.

As I leaned back against the rail around the lift, I could see that it wasn’t just money that made Rich Guy so enticing.  Oh yes, he had all the right gear - beautifully cut suit, handmade shoes and the subtle odour of wealth - but there was a whole lot more going on.  He had the hair, the cheekbones and the complexion of someone who worked hard and played hard - the sort of look that came from a combination of various therapies and a good healthy dose of sun and sea.  As I said before, in another life, I knew his type.

I could almost hear my best friend Tiggy having a jolly good giggle at me and saying, ‘Atta girl, Frannypoops!  Still checking out what’s on offer even though your lady bits are well and truly closed for business.  You poor, past-your-sell-by-date little fatty.’

Yes, the pregnancy and my change in living conditions hadn’t gone down too well with Tiggy and whenever I’d been looking for sympathy or a shoulder to cry on, she hadn’t been my first port of call.

Would I have been the same if the situation had been reversed?  In all honesty, probably, yes.  It’s what we were, what we were made of - and that wasn’t sugar and spice and all things nice.  Oh no, not by any means.

Thrown together at boarding school, we’d lived the lives of those with little parental love - although we were compensated by being showered with everything that money could buy.  We asked for it, we got it - and boy, did we ask.  The only difference now was that Tiggy continued to demand, and indeed receive, yet I’d been totally cut off.

Well, that and the fact that I was about to become a single parent living in a one bed flat on the kind of estate I’d only ever seen in documentaries on the 52 inch plasma flat screen which used to pop seamlessly out from the foot of my queen sized bed.

Yep, things had certainly changed.

Rich Guy looked at me and smiled again.  I smiled back - nobody could rob me of the twenty-five grand’s worth of dental work I’d had done over the years, so I made the most of it.  Men had told me I had a smile that could light up a room, so I could surely add a sparkle to the six foot square metal box we were currently sharing - even if I was heavy with child.

‘Baby due soon?’ he asked.

I nodded.  ‘Any minute now actually,’ I told him as another contraction reached monstrous proportions.  My smile may have turned into a grimace but I was sure it still displayed my snow white veneers to their best advantage.

‘Better get you to the safety of the ward quickly then, hadn’t we?’ he comforted at the exact moment that the lights flickered off and then back on and the lift ground to a halt with a shuddering thud.

 

*****

Not ideal, huh?  Certainly not for a pathetic specimen who needed a double whisky before her twice monthly bikini wax and had written ‘Knock me out’ on her birth plan.

I wasn’t sure if I was grateful for the fact that the lights had flashed back on or not.  If Rich Guy was about to find himself delivering my sprog, did I really want him seeing my untrimmed lady garden?  (Hair removal had been one of the first luxuries to bite the dust and I’d learned very quickly that those areas were too delicate to attack with a blunt Bic - let’s not go there.)  Oh my!  Tiggy would lunch out on this debacle for months.

‘Damn!’ my travelling companion uttered.  Then he turned to me and added, ‘Don’t panic.  We’ll be fine.  All we need to do is press the alarm and they’ll have us out in a flash.’

By this time I’d slipped to the floor and was panting and sweating quite a bit - Mummy would have insisted that I was doing no such thing as ladies merely ‘lightly glowed’, but trust me on this, it was pouring off me.

I’d suddenly become aware that I was sitting in a rather larger puddle than I could possibly have perspired and I stupidly wondered if I’d peed myself - C minus for failing to attend any ante-natal classes or making it past the ‘Conception’ chapter in my ‘What You Need to Know About Having a Baby’ book.

Rich Guy’s voice seemed to be floating in and out of my consciousness like a badly tuned radio.  It was most disconcerting and I tried desperately to make myself concentrate on what he was saying.  From my prone position on the floor, I became aware that he was talking into the speaker on the wall of the lift and frantically running his hand through his previously immaculate hair.

‘Yes!’  His Gucci feathers were well and truly ruffled by now.  ‘In lift A and we’re stuck - a lady here about to give birth.  We need help and quickly!’

‘Agggggh!’  The sound was primal and terrifying and I was amazed to discover that it had come from me.  Who’d have thought I could make such a vulgar and earthy noise?  Oooh, but it helped.  It helped quite a lot, actually, so I did another one for good measure.  ‘Agggghhh!’

Rich Guy jumped and I could see that he was now whispering into the speaker.  I strained my ears to listen but it was fruitless so I went for another guttural moan.

‘I really think the baby might be coming NOW!’ I heard him say.  Gosh, he was tuned in.  Perhaps he was a doctor, maybe even a top notch private one, and I’d be OK after all.

‘No.  No experience whatsoever, I’m afraid,’ he said, continuing his conversation with the wall.  ‘I’m a business consultant - you don’t get to witness too many births in my profession.’

Well, that was just great - not a doctor after all and I was well and truly stuffed.  Images of a cosy private ward at the exclusive Portland hospital floated through my mind as I felt an overwhelming need to start pushing.  Would my child’s future be determined by its undignified entry into this world?  If that were the case, he was doomed and he’d have an ASBO before nursery and be doing his first stint in a youth offenders’ prison before his Eleven Plus.

‘Unnnnggggh.’  My vocal repertoire had taken on a whole new tone and I was mortified to discover that I was actually removing my underwear - La Perla, of course, but sadly last season and a little past their best.  OK, so I hadn’t done the classes or prepped myself about what would happen to my body when the little shi… darling … made its appearance but thankfully my body seemed to have taken over and knew what it should be doing all by itself.

Which was just as well, as I shortly found myself with a furry little head poking its way out of my frou-frou.  Oh yes, my body knew what it was doing alright!

‘No.  I don’t think she’s got anything with her.’  I could still hear him talking to whoever was at the other end of the stupid speaker and clearly being of no help to us whatsoever.

‘Do you have a bag with you?’  He was in my face now and the sight of his calming eyes flanked by sweeping lashes took my mind off the pain for long enough for me to take a normal breath.

‘A bag?’  What did he mean?  A Chanel?  A Birken?  No - I’d flogged off all but one of mine long ago on eBay - how was a girl meant to live?

‘Your overnight holdall.  You know?  Nappies, a blanket, clothes.’ 

Ah!  No.  I didn’t.  And I must admit I felt pretty stupid but, as another gut-wrenching pain tore through me, I simply shook my head and emitted another farmyard noise.

‘The head’s right out now.’  He was back speaking to the useless person in the wall again.  ‘I can see it quite clearly … OK … yes … I’ll take my jacket off and get it ready for … oh shit … I can see shoulders now … really quite broad ones …’

‘BOLLLLLLOCCCCKKKKS’  Yep, those shoulders were pretty broad!  I huffed, puffed, panted and wondered if I’d ever walk again after the pain I’d just experienced.

But there was that beautiful face again - right in mine - and I could smell luxury and toothpaste.  I could trust that face - and let’s consider the facts here, I had no choice.

‘Listen to me,’ the face said.  ‘They say you’re doing really well.  We can do this.  OK?  Apparently, the shoulders are the worst bit.  A couple more big, big breaths and I think we’re there.’

We?  Where did this ‘we’ business keep coming from?  I didn’t see him writhing in agony and hyperventilating.

‘It’s pretty ouchy,’ I told him pathetically, and those delicious eyes crinkled and smiled into my own.

‘You’re being so brave … sorry, I don’t even know your name!  But I’m going to call you Ms. Plucky.  Come on - push that little plucker out!’

I would have laughed but I’d found that I needed every last ounce of energy for one final humongous grunt.

‘Oh, wow!’  Rich Guy was sitting on the floor between my legs, with a bucket load of guts and gore on his approximately two grand jacket and a screaming new baby blinking up at him.

I couldn’t ever remember seeing a man looking quite so happy in the whole of my life.

SO that's THURSDAY 26th JUNE - at Amazon for Kindle and in paperback at Lulu.  

Drum roll .... my new release!

It's just over a week away until my latest full length novel hits the shelves.  My test readers have all enjoyed and even gone so far as to say that they think it may their favourite so far!  High praise indeed and I guess we'll have to see what everyone else says.

So ... the date for your diary is Thursday 12th December (my lovely mum's 86th birthday).  You'll be able to download it on Amazon for under £2 or, if you prefer a paperback copy, you'll need to go to Lulu.com.

Presenting ... TABBY & KAT

 Here's the yummy cover:

 And here's the blurb:

Things are changing for Tabby and Adam.

With their friend Polly leaving ‘The Thunky Three’,

who will fill the void in their cosy house-share?

Enter … Kat

... and a whole heap of trouble.

 

And just to drag you in a little bit more, here's the first chapter.  I really hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

ROOM TO RENT

Fifteen minutes from here

in large, airy house with garden.

Mad enough to share with

fun loving party animals?

(1 male, 1 female, 1 parrot)

 

*****

It suddenly all seemed so final as I positioned the advert in the shop window and then went outside to check that it was straight and fully visible to the passing public. Polly had really left and Adam and I had to find a newbie to fill her slot at the house.  The ‘Thunky Three’ were splitting and I felt a mixture of sadness and giggles as I thought back to how we came up with our ridiculous name.

Of course it had involved too many cheap bottles of cider and gut-rot wine as we celebrated our moving in together and Polly had balanced herself precariously on the coffee table with her full glass spilling everywhere.  As she threw a very drunken arm up in the air and ground her hips to whatever beat we were listening to at the time, she toasted our new living arrangements.

‘Whoop!  To the Thunky Three,’ she’d shouted.  She’d then guffawed, fallen off the table while expertly managing to save her booze, and added as she landed, ‘Ooops! I actually meant ‘Funky’ - but I do believe I’ve just made up a lovely new word which should be inserted into the Oxford Dictionary forthwith.’

Adam and I had fallen about with laughter as she went on to tell us that she loved the words ‘inserted’ and ‘forthwith’ so very, very much (said with a drunken slur) and then proceeded to put them into various madcap sentences.

‘My rumbling stomach demands that we order some take-away pizzas and insert them, forthwith.’

‘I demand that you insert your manhood forthwith, Mr Darcy!’

And so we became ‘The Thunkies’ - even our large circle of friends would refer to our trio as such.  We’d met at Uni, instantly hitting it off and deciding that when our time was done with our studies we’d hot-foot back to London and share a place together - it just seemed the natural progression for us.  From then on, any invitations which plopped on our doormat were addressed to ‘The Thunky Three’ and texts or email would ask if The Thunkies would be at such and such event.

And now we’d split.

After nearly four years of living in each others’ pockets at Uni and another five in London, Polly was off to get married (and pop out a sprog!) and I was bereft and delighted in equal measures.

Of course Adam was a little bit upset that she was going but, as I’d just broken up with ‘Codface Callum’ he saw it as an ideal opportunity to make his move on me - again.  Suddenly there could be just the two of us in the house and Adam liked that idea - he liked that idea a lot.

You see, Adam had been in love with me for as long as I could remember and he made no secret of showing it.  And I loved him too - just not like that.  We’d had a couple of drunken snogs at parties over the years and (from what I could remember) they were good - really good.  You know, the type that get you thinking, ‘Wow!  If I could just let this go a little further this could be something quite mind-blowing’.  But I just never would … you know, let anything go too far.  Because Adam … well, he was Adam!

Don’t get me wrong.  He was no gargoyle.  He was incredibly good looking with his floppy, messy chocolate brown hair, eyes to drown in and a fine pair of long legs (oops, I may have made him sound a bit like a Labrador there - but I guess if you combine the looks with the faithfulness and fun factor, he was a bit like a loyal Lab!).  He was kind, thoughtful, had the most amazing sense of fair play and everybody said he was the nicest guy they knew but … well … he just wasn’t for me.

I went for the bad boys - you know, the ‘Say They’ll Pick You Up at Eight and Don’t’ type.  The ‘Living on the Edge’ type.  The ‘Sod Paying the Bills, Let’s Blow our Gas Money down the Pub’ type.

I liked the thrill, the danger, the excitement - and in a perverse way, the many broken hearts that came as part of the package.  After the upbringing I’d had, it was all I knew really - settling with a kind and sensible man just didn’t seem an option.

Now, if that made me sound like a troubled child from an East End council estate with a drug-pushing dad and a street-walking mum, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.  I grew up in a beautiful village in Surrey with my parents, brother and sister.  But there was never a dull moment in our home - no peace, no normality, no calm - and, weirdly, we all thrived on it.

My mum and dad were artists - crazy, flamboyant, and both mad as a box of frogs.  They loved one another with a fierce passion, fought like Taylor and Burton but always made up quickly.  Mum taught at the local art school and I remember a childhood filled with various waifs and strays being brought home for tea or supper - which was always burnt, always unidentifiable and always made with the enthusiasm of ‘This time it will work!’  Dad painted massive canvases for swanky London houses and made a small fortune ‘extracting the urine and their cash’ as he liked to refer to it.  He would lock himself away for an hour, fire up the spray cans and come out triumphantly proclaiming ‘That’s another pile of shit for The Titty-Farquhars that’ll cost them a cool ten grand.  Pour us a port, someone - I’m shattered!’

Of course, there were no clients by that name but that was what he called all those who coveted his ‘art’ - the people he loathed for their stupidity and vulgarity.  No one had ever wanted his delicate watercolours which took weeks of craft and thought - we’d have been a starving family had he not jumped ship and gone where the money was.  ‘The Titty-Farquhars’ might have paid his bills but they also robbed him of his true passion.

‘I’m prostituting myself!’ he’d cry out after too many ports or bottles of Burgundy.  ‘A whore.  I’m nothing more than a paint-splattered whore!’

This would usually be the moment my mother would grab a feather boa or stick some sparkly nipple tassels onto her pinny and run through a Burlesque routine to cheer him up.  My mum was sixteen stone of gorgeousness but boy did she know how to move it, so it usually had Dad chuckling and slapping his knee (or her fine rump) and forgetting his woes.

We’d sit by and watch in bemusement - me and my siblings - when we were younger. There was love in our house, we knew that, but it was sometimes a drain living where emotions always ran so high.

My brother, Tadge, was the eldest - a ballet dancer and straight to boot.  He could be prone to bouts of self-doubt or crippling worry, but since he married Flo he’d been much more settled.

My sister, Ophelia, was the youngest - a poet (or so she claimed).  I loved her to bits but she drove me up the wall with her weeping and wailing sometimes.  Still living at home with Mum and Dad, she was a slip of a thing who dressed in bits of lace and Victoriana fripperies on the outside but was a lazy, spoiled cow on the inside.

Then there was me, Tabitha, or ‘Tabby’ as I preferred.  I too was a struggling artist but I refused to sacrifice my dream of working in oils or to sponge off my parents so I supplemented my meagre income by helping out my friend Mims in her trendy gift shop.  Sometimes I thought I was  the only sane one in my family, but I guess the wildness of my upbringing must have taken its toll or I wouldn’t still be looking for ‘Mr Bad Guy’ and the thrill of the chase - I would have settled for Adam, wouldn’t I?

Which was never gonna happen!  So we had to get a new housemate, quick sharp, before he got any ideas about us becoming a couple.

‘The Thunkies’ might have disbanded but things couldn’t always stay the same, could they?  And who knew, maybe things would be even better?

*****

I’d noticed a young woman of about my age watching me as I finished putting the sign in the window of ‘The Treasure Chest’ when I got to work that morning.  There was something vaguely familiar about her but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it - she was probably a regular customer or one of the punters at our local pub, I thought as I returned to the counter and Mims.

‘Coffee there for you, Honey,’ she said as I tidied some greetings cards on a rack.  ‘So the wedding’s this weekend is it?  Polly all sorted?’  Mims dunked a chocolate Hobnob in her mug and quickly brought the biscuit to her mouth before it disintegrated.

‘Yep,’ I sighed.  ‘Saturday at two.  She’s been gone for two weeks now and Adam and I are heading down on Friday after work and staying in a B&B near Polly’s parents’ place.’

‘In separate rooms, of course,’ Mims joked.

‘We might share a house but we certainly don’t share a bed, Mims, and you know it.’

‘Well I think you’re bloody mad.  Before I met Tim, I’d have killed for a bloke like Adam - what’s not to like?  But the trouble is, he has eyes for no one but you, so you just take it for granted.  I reckon if you took him up on his offer of paying two-thirds of the rent and ditched the idea of looking for a new housemate, you’d be an item within weeks - the temptation would just be too great.’

I began to sort through some paperwork and orders in an attempt to block Mims and her babble out.  She was a hopeless romantic at heart and wanted nothing more than to see Adam and me together.  When I’d told her of his plan to pay extra rent to save us from replacing Polly, she’d been beside herself with excitement.

Of course, it would have been great to not have to bother interviewing a whole heap of strangers to decide who would fit in best but I didn’t want to give Adam false hope by taking him up on his offer.

‘Tabby, I can afford it,’ he’d stated very simply.  ‘Business is booming and it’s no great hardship for me to pay a bit of extra dosh.  Give it some thought, please.  No strings, I promise.  Just two old buddies sharing a house.’

It was true.  His web design business was booming.  He worked from home in one of the spare rooms and already paid a little extra for that privilege.  Mr Organised was in charge of all the bill paying, housekeeping and any odd jobs that needed to be tackled.  He’d never been in any sort of debt or financial instability as he always lived within his means and was now reaping the rewards.

In short, he was everything I wasn’t.  Mims had once joked that if Adam suddenly announced that he hadn’t got his rent or that he’d blown his savings on a motorbike, I’d drop my drawers in a flash because he’d suddenly become everything I usually looked for.  Not true.  He was my friend, that was all, and I’d hate anything to ruin that.

Mims broke into my thoughts again.  ‘Hey, supposing you get some gorgeous floozy move in and Adam falls for her instead of you?  Would you be upset?’

‘Don’t be so daft!’  I sipped at my coffee and thought about her question.

‘What?  Don’t be so daft because it wouldn’t bother you, or because you’re so sure it would never happen?’  Mims flicked me with an elastic band she’d found by the till.  ‘You be careful who you decide on, Miss Tabby.  You take in a looker, and the gorgeous Adam might not stick around and wait for you forever.  Then you’ll be looking for two replacement housemates!’

*****

I guess Mims’ words must have got to me more than I thought because whenever any sexy, nubile bit of stuff came in the shop and enquired about the house, I told them the room had gone and then ushered their pert little bottoms to the door.  I then had to contend with Mims’ knowing looks and smirks.

‘Yeah, good move there, Tabby.  That one was way too sexy to have floating around in a G-string, seductively munching on a croissant every morning, eh?’

The trouble was, I could control the applicants who enquired in the shop but I had no control over the list that Adam was compiling from the calls he had on his mobile - all female, or so I heard.

‘He’s doing it to wind you up, Petal,’ Mims soothed as we began checking off a delivery of gift bags and paper.  ‘He’s going to pick the best looking girl and hope that you crumble and relent on his suggestion.  Trust me.’

‘Yeah, well that’s fine.  I’ve had some pretty hot blokes come in and ask for details too - a couple of really cute Aussies and a French hunk who could offer me his baguette any old time.  So, I’m ready for his plan - and we have to agree on who we take in, so it’ll be fine.’

The shop had been quiet that day, with only a handful of customers coming through the doors, and I was suddenly aware of a small cough from the corner where we kept our tiny teddies.  I was almost certain it was the young woman who had watched me as I’d put the ad in the window and, as she saw me turn to her, she replaced the bear she’d been considering and left the shop in a hurry.

I didn’t know her but there was something about her that made an involuntary shudder run right through me.

She had poker straight blonde hair, I had flame red flowing curls - chalk and cheese - but there was something about the eyes.  People often said I had cat’s eyes and in many ways I agreed - green, keen and slightly slanting.

In that brief moment when our gaze met, it had been like looking into a mirror - a mirror which reflected a little piece of me.

I continued to work through the huge delivery and pushed the thought to the back of my mind.  Plenty of people had a similar look.  And what did it matter anyway?  I was just over-reacting.

*****

‘So we’ve got three lined up for Monday night - your losers.  And three lined up for Tuesday night - my little honeys,’ Adam told me as he scooped more Chinese takeaway onto our plates.

‘And we promise that we both have to agree wholeheartedly on who we give the room to - based on our strict marking system and gut feeling?’ I asked as I struggled with my noodles and chopsticks.

‘Yep.  And if none of the six are suitable, you’ll concede that my idea was the most sensible one all along.  I’m not spending weeks interviewing no-hopers, Tabby.’

‘It’ll be fine, Adam.  I really think you’ll like Jean-Charles.  He’s got a Porsche and works in advertising.’

‘I hate him already.  I’ll match your stinking, garlic-munching frog with a rather tasty Swiss girl called Eloise.  She emailed me over some rather saucy pics this morning - most accommodating of her, I thought.’  He winked and grabbed another prawn cracker from the bag.

This was not going to be easy and I sighed into my egg foo yung.  We had a lovely summer wedding to go to and yet the prospect of finding a new housemate would be hanging over us the whole time.

Maybe I should have just taken Adam up on his offer and become ‘The Thunky Two’.  Platonic, of course.

Nah!  We’d see what the applicants were like and decide from there - how bad could interviewing them and finding out a bit more about them really be?