Clara in America (Clara Andrews Series - Book 7)
Read Clara in America (Clara Andrews Series - Book 7) Online
Authors: Lacey London
Clara
in
America
Copyright © 2016 by Stacey Cartlidge
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my grandma.
My favourite old person.
Contents
Planes, trains, trucks and toys.
There’s nothing quite like little boys…
If I were a two-year-old boy, what would I want for my birthday? Scanning the rows of brightly coloured, frankly scary looking figurines, I let out an exasperated sigh and continue to make my way around the toy store. My eyes land on a funky music box and I run my fingers over the shiny plastic keys. I guess this looks…
interesting
. Not being able to resist pressing the buttons, I jab at the screen idly and wince as a high pitched chime rings out of the speakers. My heart jumps in my chest and I bite my lip to stop myself from cursing out loud. Hastily placing it back on the shelf, I tug my heavy handbag up onto my shoulder and check my watch.
I’ve been in the same shop for over an hour now and I am still no closer to choosing a birthday gift for my little boy. Unlike most children of his age, my son, Noah, doesn’t have a particular
thing
that he is interested in at the moment. A few months ago it was cars and then he went through a stage of wanting to draw on literally anything that passed him by (including his new silk bedding and my cherished Prada wedges), but right now he seems to be in-between crazes. Picking my way through the shelves of trucks and motorcycles, I screw up my nose as the shop assistant shoots me a frown and motions to the clock on the wall. Yes, I am very aware there are just five minutes until closing, thank you very much.
Smiling apologetically, I hide behind my huge handbag and creep into the final section of the store. Come on, Clara! There’s got to be
something
in here, otherwise Noah is going to wake up to a Chanel lipstick and very questionable Bounty bar. Looking into my empty basket, I resort to tossing in a few random objects and bend down to pick up a fluffy dinosaur that seems to have fallen off his perch. Turning him over in my hands, I stroke his purple fur and feel my lips stretch into a smile. I guess he’s kind of cute. With giant glass eyes and a soft spiky tail, I decide that he looks like something from a cartoon and throw him in too.
Making my way back to the tills, I dig out my purse and tap my freshly manicured nails on the counter. The frankly miserable assistant racks up my purchases in complete silence, bizarrely pausing to frown at each product before stuffing them into a carrier bag. Handing over my credit card I attempt a friendly smile, but it’s returned with yet another scowl. Blimey! Someone’s a barrel of joy this afternoon. Talk about service with a smile. I’ve seen happier people at a bloody funeral. Taking hold of Noah’s gifts, I dig my car keys out of the depths of my handbag and push my way outside. The afternoon sun is firmly shielded by a thick layer of grey cloud as I trudge across the carpark and beep open the boot of my Range Rover. After tossing in my purchases, I jump into the driver’s seat and check out my reflection in the rear view mirror.
My usually pale skin has a lovely golden glow from the recent warm weather and unbelievably, my wild curls have stayed frizz free for almost an entire day. For those of you who don’t already know me, you won’t understand just how huge of an achievement this is. I don’t know what’s more shocking, the fact that I’ve managed to catch an actual tan in England or that my lion-like mane is still as silky smooth as when I dried it this morning.
It’s hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago the UK was basking in glorious sunshine. Looking at the rain drops that are now gathering on the windscreen, it seems that summer is well and truly on its way out. Turning over the engine, I flick on the radio and pull out onto the open road. When I left the house earlier, I had a to-do list longer than my arm. From birthday bunting to cupcakes and cards, I am pleased to say that I’ve managed to get just about everything. In true Clara fashion I had left things until the very last second, as always. Although in my defence, since Noah started walking he has become a full time job. From the minute he wakes up in the morning to the second that he finally falls asleep at night, my little terror has me run off my feet. Not that I am complaining. I wouldn’t want to do anything else in the world. Most of the time, anyway.
It’s hard to believe that this time tomorrow I will have a two-year-old.
Two years!
Where has the time gone? It feels like only yesterday that I was in the hospital with my newly born little piglet in my arms. I can still see his tiny face now, screwed up into a tight frown as the midwife handed him over. A smile plays on the corner of my lips as my heart pangs with pride. Sometimes I take a step back and look around at the life that I’ve created and find myself smiling manically. It’s crazy that I, Clara Morgan, am a wife to a hunky American and mother to a troublesome toddler. Some of you will remember the days where my life revolved around a bodycon dress and half-drunk bottle of tequila. Isn’t it strange how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is totally different?
Twirling my wedding band around my finger, I indicate right and roll down the window. My stomach rumbles loudly, piercing my thought bubble and I am suddenly reminded that I haven’t eaten a thing all day. Between weaving through the crowds in the shopping centre and playing Russian roulette whilst trying to find a parking space, I haven’t had a moment to even
think
about food. Not that it will do me any harm. My muffin top must have enough reserves to last me a lifetime. I was promised that the baby weight would fall off once Noah started walking, but I seem to have gained more pounds in these last few months than I did during my entire pregnancy. They don’t tell you that in the books, do they?
Pressing my foot on the accelerator, I sing along to the music and shake all thoughts of food out of my head. A sudden pang of sadness hits me as a familiar tune floats out of the speakers. Within seconds my mind is filled with flashbacks to my BFF’s wedding. For those of you who don’t know, my best friend, Lianna, got married to a hunky Bajan man and moved to the beautiful island of Barbados last year. Isn’t it weird how a few simple lyrics can bring back buried memories in the blink of an eye? Not seeing her everyday has taken a
lot
of getting used to. Yes, we Skype chat at least three times a week and not a day goes by that I don’t get bombarded with Whatsapp messages from her, but without having her by my side it just isn’t the same anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for Lianna, blissfully happy for her. I just wish she wasn’t four thousand miles away, that’s all. Even now, almost a year to the day that she emigrated, I still find myself wanting to pull onto her driveway when I pass her old house. It’s bizarre to think of how much has changed for her. Who would have thought that a chance meeting on a working holiday could actually lead to true love? It’s like a modern day fairy-tale, although Lianna is the first to admit that she is more Peter Pan than Cinderella. Picturing my old friend with her blonde hair tousled from the ocean and her skin beautifully bronzed, I remind myself not to be selfish. Running a bustling beach bar in the Caribbean is something that most people could only dream of. I approach a backlog of traffic and find myself wishing that I was in Barbados too.
Straining my neck, I let out a groan as I realise the stream of cars in front stretches out as far as the eye can see. Why they call it rush hour when you crawl at a snail’s pace, I will never know. Sighing loudly, I lean over and pull a handful of sweets out of the shopping bags on the passenger seat. As I chew away happily, I watch a dog in the car in front bat at the window with giant paws. His tail wags uncontrollably as he tries and fails to stick his snout through a gap in the sun roof. Trying not to laugh, I flick through the radio stations and tap my fingers on the steering wheel. A fluffy dog really would be the final piece of the jigsaw for our little family. For as long as I can remember, a wagging tail and friendly bark has been something that my heart has desired. Unfortunately, my hubby doesn’t have the same cravings for the pitter patter of tiny paws just yet.
Putting the car into gear, I put my foot down and enjoy the sensation of wind rushing through my hair. I pass a bustling wine bar and smile as a group of young women clink cocktail glasses together and erupt into laughter. Oh, how I miss the days of after work drinks and cosmopolitans. Since Noah was born I am lucky if I manage to squeeze in a quick glass of red before I collapse into bed in the evening. What I would give to rewind the clock, just for a day. Just for a few short hours to relive the days where life was so simple and straightforward. The days where leaving the house wasn’t a military procedure and all you needed were your keys, phone and a bottle of dry shampoo.
My phone beeps from the depths of my handbag and I know without looking that it will be Oliver, my very lovely and probably very stressed out husband. With him having the day off work, he decided to brave the rain and take Noah to visit my parents. Some would say that he got off lightly, but I would rather be anywhere else in the world than in my mother’s presence right now. To let you in on a little secret, my mother and I haven’t been getting on all that well lately. You see, for some inexplicable reason, my mum has decided to get a tattoo. Yes, my
mother
now has a giant red rose at the base of her spine. Shuddering at the thought, I thank my lucky stars that it will be covered up most of the time and change gear.
I don’t think I will ever get over the shock of discovering that my mum has defiled her body with a hideously bad ink splodge. Don’t get me wrong, I like tattoos. I’ve even contemplated getting one myself in the past, but the thought of my mother parading around London with a tramp stamp makes my stomach churn. Shaking my head as I recall the awful moment that she whipped off her blouse to reveal the amateur inking, I shove a handful of Haribo into my mouth and try to concentrate on my driving.
The sun peeks through the clouds and for a split second the sky is ablaze with a bright white light. Enjoying the unexpected sunshine, I spot a pizza place ahead and resist the urge to pull over for some fast food. The last thing my love handles need are yet another serving of mozzarella cheese. Desperately trying to stop my stomach from growling, I grab another gummy bear and slam on the brakes. A frisson of annoyance washes over me and I roll my neck in a poor bid to remove the tension. Damn traffic. I could probably walk home faster at this rate.
Letting out a groan as the news reporter forecasts yet more rain, I wipe my fingers on my jeans and look out of the window. A couple in an adjacent car are in the midst of fully flared argument and I find myself quietly mesmerised by their actions. Throwing her arms up in the air, my neighbouring driver shakes her head of blonde curls violently. I stifle a giggle as the gentleman in the passenger seat bangs his hand down on the dashboard before folding his arms like an angry toddler. Luckily for me, my husband is so laidback that I’m surprised he doesn’t fall over.
My two-year-old on the other hand is a different story. The days where he was pacified by a quick cuddle and a nappy change are long gone. That scowling frown of his has become something I’ve become quite accustomed to over the past few months. People have warned me about the impending terrible twos, but I can’t imagine they can be any worse than Noah’s recent behaviour. From screaming matches at bedtime to temper tantrums at the dinner table, he really has been a total horror. Not that I would change him, of course. It’s just that if I had a mute button for him, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t use it from time to time.
I spot our building in the distance and squint my eyes in a poor attempt to work out which window is ours. Deciding that it’s an almost impossible task, I put the car into gear and flick on the wipers as huge raindrops start to fall from the sky. So much for the spot of sun. I’ve always found it a little scary how quickly sunshine can turn into showers. It’s like Mother Nature’s way of warning us to never take anything for granted. Like fitting into your favourite pair of jeans or managing to go an entire week without chipping your manicure. Tearing along the highway, I thank God that the traffic is finally clearing and breathe a sigh of relief.
After many hours of scouring the shops, I would like nothing more than a long soak in the tub followed by a movie and a glass or three of Rioja. I say three, but we all know that after three it’s just rude not to finish the bottle, right? I laugh to myself at the thought of actually being able to drink a bottle of wine without
Mummy
being screeched down my ear every thirty seconds. Feeling rather excited at the prospect of a much needed glass of vino, I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and swing the car into our private parking space. My eyes become heavy as I pull on the handbrake and I rest my head on the steering wheel for a rare moment of rest. Putting my fingers in my ears, I close my eyes and enjoy the silence before forcing myself out of the car. The rain suddenly becomes heavy and I hold a bag above my head to shelter my hair from the horrendous weather. Clutching the many shopping bags to my chest, I lock the car and run towards our apartment block, narrowly avoiding a cake catastrophe in the process.
Using my hippo hips to push open the door, I slide inside and shake the excess water out of my now very wet hair. For a brief moment I debate taking the stairs, before giving in to my inner laziness and jabbing at the lift button. Dropping my bags onto the floor as I wait for the doors to ping open, I find myself dreaming of my Jo Malone candles and roll top bath. My head is throbbing and the balls of my feet feel like I’ve walked across hot coals. Yes, some
me
time is exactly what the doctor ordered. Just as I am losing myself in a magical dream world of rest and relaxation, my train of thought is stopped by a tiny, but familiar voice.
