Love...Maybe Page 6

  ‘But you’ve never even met him! How can you know?’

  ‘Take it from me. If you end up dating him, it will be the single biggest mistake of your entire life. He may not be an arsewipe now, but just give him ten years and you’ll see exactly what I mean. And you’ll be bloody glad I warned you. The day will come when you’ll thank me for being straight with you.’

  ‘But Kate,’ Sophie asks, abandoning her half-eaten pizza and looking over at me worriedly. ‘How can you be so certain that Dave’s going to turn into an asshole? You can’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Believe me, I do. Because I’ve got a crystal ball.’

  Next thing though, it’s like a hazy fog drifts back over me and suddenly I start to feel nauseous and weak as water. I’m not even certain what’s happening, all I know is that my head is pounding and when I reach out for Sophie’s hand, suddenly she’s not there anymore.

  Then nothing but blackness as a loud whooshing sound fills my ears … and now for some mad reason, I can hear The Black-Eyed Peas singing ‘I Gotta Feeling’ all over again, which … Oh God no … Can only mean one thing.

  Yes. I’m lying back on the floor of the tennis club and I’m out of this lovely reverie, back to being forty again. And just in case I needed it, there’s confirmation writ large across the giant birthday banner over the stage that says, ‘Happy Fortieth Kate!’

  Except somehow, things still don’t seem quite right. Amanda’s still beside me, but she doesn’t look anything like her usual fabulously glamorous self. And there’s no sign of Sophie either, which is odd …

  ‘What year is it?’ I mutter croakily. ‘Who’s the prime minister? And how old am I?’

  ‘You’re concussed and I’m taking you to hospital for a CAT scan,’ Amanda says firmly. ‘Your Mum’s gone to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Look, I say, somehow managing to haul myself up onto one elbow. ‘I know I sound completely mental and maybe I am, but please, please tell me what’s going on in all our lives. It’s important. I really have to know!’

  She looks at me a bit oddly, but caves into the madwoman that I must sound like.

  ‘Well to be honest sweetie, I was kind of hoping that tonight might be an opportunity to forget about all our troubles. What with poor Sophie in hospital having IVF and everything …’

  ‘She’s having what? Hang on a minute … Sophie already has four kids, why is she having IVF?’

  ‘No she doesn’t! Four kids? Are you actually being serious? Kate darling, you simply must remember the reason she’s not here tonight? Because they’d kept her in hospital for tests to try and figure out why she’s still not getting pregnant? You’ve got to remember my love; you only went to see her this morning.’

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no …

  ‘And what about you?’ I ask her urgently. Desperately needing to know just how bad things are. Because there’s something about Amanda that’s not quite right. Her whole accent is completely different and she’s acting all affected and – weird. Calling me darling and my love? That’s so not Amanda.

  ‘Me ? Oh lovie, that’s a hoot. Because if I don’t land some kind of gainful employment soon, there’s a good chance I’ll end up as a bag lady. I cannot believe I’m going to be forty in a few weeks times and I’m still living in the most dreadful rented flat with a bunch of drama students and cockroaches.’

  ‘But … You went to RADA, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course, darling. And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of jobs I’ve had since I graduated. To think, I turned down a perfectly good, well-paid job in a soap opera just to do some prestigious acting course in London? I must need my head looked into and judging by the way you’re yabbering on, I’m not the only one.’

  I’m half afraid to ask my next question, but I know that I have to.

  ‘And what about … James? Me and James?’

  She looks at me and I just know by her face that she’s too terrified to answer.

  ‘Amanda please. I really need to know.’

  ‘You really can’t remember?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘You’re divorced now, my love. And only last week, with Valentine’s Day and your big birthday party looming, what did the utter idiot go and do?’

  ‘Tell me!’ I croak weakly back at her.

  ‘Only went and announced that he’s getting married again. Makes me sick to my stomach … and when I think of the glittering career you gave up, just for him? But you know what you must do, darling? Channel your pain. See all this as a hidden opportunity for growth.’

  I slump back onto the ground, hating this reality, this parallel time that I somehow seem to be stuck in. And hating that Amanda is now talking like the complete and utter tosspots she used to make fun of. ‘Channel your pain?’ Please.

  I plead with everyone that I’m actually fine, just a bit groggy and that I definitely don’t need to go to hospital.

  So Amanda takes me home. Except it’s not my gorgeous Victorian house that I renovated from scratch and invested pretty much all my savings into over the years. Instead, when the taxi drops Amanda and me off, we’re in a housing estate miles out of town, full of tiny dormer bungalows cramped one of top of the other.

  ‘Amanda,’ I say weakly, ‘I don’t live here! I live in Blackrock, on Avoca Avenue, in a gorgeous Victorian redbrick … you’ve been there loads of times, you know this!’

  ‘In your dreams you do, sweetie. This is all you could afford after you and James separated. But it’s the Four Seasons compared with where I live. I mean, look at me, almost forty and I can only afford to dress out of TK Maxx, while sharing the most appalling flat ever with possibly the two slobbiest actors – both practising alcoholics, by the way – in town. This to me, is luxury of the highest order, even if it isn’t quite the Ritz Carlton.’

  The house is revolting. It’s where ten-year-old IKEA furniture comes to die. I don’t have a car it seems and my big jammy editorial job is just a figment of my imagination. Now, it seems I’m a lowly reporter for one of those free handout papers they give to hassled commuters at train stations.

  I didn’t mean to, but somehow, by playing God, I’ve managed to ruin everyone’s life, my own included. At least the way things were before, I did have a great career. And Amanda had plenty of money, fabulous clothes and a lovely place to live. And she was herself, lovley, gorgeous, funny Amanda and not this affected thesp she’s morphed into. And Sophie had four fabulous kids … and now, because of my meddling, we’re all so much worse off.

  Suddenly I feel nauseous all over again and there it is – that whooshing sound as the blood rushes back up to my head. I clench my stomach, not sure what’s coming next as my head starts to hammer away mercilessly. But just the pain gets so bad I think I’m about to gag, my eyes open and now … can this be for real? I squint and blink and try to take it all in.

  Because somehow I’m not back in the tennis club at my birthday party at all now.

  Instead I’m lying on a hospital bed surrounded by beeping machines, with the girls beside me and Mum perched on a chair at the far end of the room.

  ‘She’s back!’ Amanda almost screams, gripping my hand. ‘Kate, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?’

  ‘You gave us all such a fright love,’ says Mum. ‘Kept talking all sorts of rubbish about seeing your father again. But the doctor says with plenty of rest, you’ll be just fine.’

  ‘And then you kept having this imaginary conversation with James Watson,’ says Sophie. ‘Scary stuff, babe.’

  ‘Sophie, how many kids do you have?’ I hiss urgently at her.

  ‘Four,’ she shrugs, ‘why? You wanna adopt one?’

  ‘And Amanda … did you once used to be in a soap opera?’

  ‘Jeez, you’re just out of a coma and you want my life’s CV now? Course I did, you eejit!’ she says, sounding 100 per cent like the old Amanda again.

  And that’s when I know.

  I just know I’m final
ly back in my own reality. In 2015, where I belong. With my two best mates and Mum; the people who matter most to me.

  So there and then I make my real birthday wish. I wish that I could be nothing but grateful for every single life choice I made in my life that took me to this point. For my dream job, my lovely home and most of all for my family and friends. Because whether I thought so or not, every choice each of us made along the way was absolutely the right thing for us.

  ‘We’re all so lucky,’ is all I can whisper, before slumping weakly back onto the pillow.

  We mightn’t have thought so, but actually everything is fine.

  It just might take me till Valentine’s Day next year to explain it, that’s all.

  If you liked Single, Forty and Fabulous, why not try…

  Buy the Ebook.

  Buy the Ebook.

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  About the Author

  Claudia Carroll is top ten bestselling author in the UK and a number one bestselling author in Ireland, selling over 670,000 copies of her paperbacks alone. She was born in Dublin where she still lives. Her 2013 novel ME AND YOU was shortlisted for the Bord Gais Popular Choice Irish Book Award.

  BETH THOMAS

  An Unforgettable Proposal

  The Guilty One

  Copyright

  Avon

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

  Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015

  Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136130

  Version: 2015–01–23

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Unforgettable Proposal

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  An Unforgettable Proposal

  When I get to the restaurant, the maître d’ shows me to our usual table. It’s empty but that’s OK; I don’t mind getting here first. I had expected to anyway, and to be honest I am ten minutes early. But I’ve been looking forward to this all week and couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t even mind that I’m sitting at a restaurant table on my own on Valentine’s Day. I know Sam is going to be here soon, so no one has to feel sorry for me.

  Our table is by the window so I can watch the street. Look out for him. The traffic comes and goes but none of it interests me. In a few moments, I’ll see him and finally it’ll feel like the day has started. I glance at my watch. Almost seven-thirty. He’s generally only slightly late, so probably only another five or six minutes to wait.

  I order us both a drink so Sam’s will be here waiting for him (all right, maybe it was mostly to let everyone else in the restaurant know that I am expecting someone to join me) and sip mine as I wait. I think about making a rushed trip to the loo to check my hair, but then I hear his motorbike on the street and a second or two later it comes into sight. As I watch, he slows it right down and expertly bumps up onto the pavement right outside the window. One of the advantages of riding a motorbike: being able to park anywhere. Another one: legitimately turning up everywhere fully clad in leather.

  I start smiling as I watch him flick down the stand, dismount, then take off his helmet and turn. I am, as usual, caught off guard by his beauty; his long blonde hair messy from the ride, his broad shoulders, his leather-clad thighs. How is it possible that this guy, this amazing, sexy, funny, charming guy, is my guy? A couple of girls walking past on the pavement clock him and sway a bit, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t even glance at them. He’s scanning the restaurant window looking for me, and when he sees me a big grin appears instantly on his face. My own poor heart thumps like a dog’s tail as we lock eyes, then he tucks his helmet under his arm and starts walking towards the door.

  Just before he gets there, he stops abruptly. He scratches his head and exaggeratedly looks down at his hands, apparently just noticing that the only thing he’s carrying is his crash helmet. He appears to think for a second, then pantomimes suddenly remembering something by snapping his fingers and jerking his head back. He turns dramatically round to face his bike and walks back across the pavement towards it. He knows he’s got my undivided attention as, with giant movements, he unlocks the box on the back of the bike and reaches inside, then turns to face me again. I’m laughing a little now, sat alone at my table watching this lovely man gesturing something to me. He points at me, then puts his hand over his eyes. Then points at me again. I nod and smile – he can’t see whether I’ve closed my eyes or not from there. But he cocks his head and puts his hands on his hips. I nod again, feeling foolish, trying to chuckle silently, then raise my own hand and cover my eyes. I spread my fingers a little, though, so I can still see him. Sure enough, he turns back to the box and reaches in, then turns suddenly back round to check on me. A fat laugh escapes me, and he points at me accusingly, knowing I can still see him. He taps his foot and mimes looking at his watch, glances around the street, up at the sky, whistles, folds his arms. So I put both hands over my eyes and block him out altogether. Next time I look, the bike is alone.

  *

  Two years ago today we were both at the same party. A Valentine’s Day event for singles, I’m sorry to say, but that’s how it’s done these days. He walked straight over to me, beer bottle in hand, and said, ‘Do you come here often?’ Then he took a swig as I tried to collect myself and think of a witty and urbane reply.

  ‘I refuse to answer that on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. You?’

  He laughed, pleased, and nodded. ‘Ha. Well I wouldn’t say I was here often exactly, unless you count once a year for five years often.’ I snorted out a subtle laugh. There was absolutely no way he had spent the last five Valentine’s Days at an event for singles like this one. He was probably only about twenty-one, for a start. And completely gorgeous, in a stubbly, long-haired, leather-clad kind of way. The best kind of way. He watched me closely. ‘Try not to feel too sorry for me.’

  ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid, my heart’s already bleeding.’

  ‘Oh dammit. And there was I hoping to make a great first impression.’ He was still looking at me intensely. ‘You make me nervous.’

  I liked that, to make him nervous. I liked that a lot. ‘Well you could always start again if you want?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s awfully good of you. Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll just be here.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ He started to walk away, then came back suddenly. ‘I really do appreciate this, you know.’ He looked me right in the eyes and moved his face closer to mine. ‘I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Neither will I.’ We held each other’s eyes for a few extra moments and I felt a thrill of anticipation, the spark of something about to happen. Then I smiled and said, ‘It’s promising to be the most interesting second first impression I’ve had for weeks.’

  He grinned back. ‘Don’t count your chickens. It could end up being wor
se than the first first.’

  I took a breath. ‘Well that one was actually pretty good.’ Embarrassed, I lifted my own bottle to my lips.

  He grinned, turned, and walked away, into the group of people at the bar, beyond it, and I lost sight of him. Seconds later, he reappeared, an exaggerated casual air about him as he lolloped across the room, confident I was watching his every move. He pretended to spot me standing there and stopped in his tracks, smacking his palm to his chest. Then he gave a coy smile. I smiled back encouragingly, and he pointed at himself: who, me? I nodded, trying to look uber-cool, and jerked my head a little to beckon him over. Eventually he arrived at my side and said, ‘Hi, my name’s Sam. I just saw you from over there and had to come and talk to you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Hi Sam,’ I laughed, ‘it’s lovely to meet you for the very first time. My name’s William.’

  We had been inseparable ever since.

  *

  ‘I could tell you were still looking, you toad,’ he says now as he arrives at the table. ‘Happy anniversary.’

  ‘You go around looking like Thor in leather trousers and expect me not to look? Happy anniversary to you too. I got you a drink.’

  He pulls out the chair with such easy grace, as if every molecule of every article in the universe is vibrating to his instruction. He regards me closely across the table, smiling as he appraises what he sees. ‘You look bloody great,’ he says quietly, then bends down with a creak of leather and puts his helmet on the floor. My insides are instantly churning with pleasure and I feel heat creep into my cheeks. For God’s sake, I’m nearly thirty and this guy makes me feel like a teenager. Sam’s head comes up again, and in one fluid motion he’s got both hands on the table and is leaning right across to kiss me. I close my eyes and put my hands on his stubbly cheeks, wrapping my fingers around the back of his neck. When we separate he stays there a moment or two longer, our noses almost touching, and smiles broadly. ‘God I love you,’ he breathes, then sits back down.

  As usual, one or two people at nearby tables are staring at us. Good God, two men kissing in public, how disgusting, so I return their stares belligerently. But Sam is oblivious to it all, busy as he is getting something out of his helmet. He never notices anyway. Or at least he doesn’t let on that he’s noticed. And being with him has started to help me not notice too.