Falling in Love Again
Read Falling in Love Again Online
Authors: Sophie King
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Women, #Contemporary Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Romantic Comedy
Falling in Love Again
(previously published as
Divorce for Beginners
)
Sophie King
Copyright © Sophie King 2012
First published as Divorce for Beginners 2012 by Corazon Books
This edition published 2013 by Corazon Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3AX
Sophie King has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This collection is a work of fiction. Names and characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, are a product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and organisations is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for the enjoyment of the purchaser only. To share this ebook you must purchase an additional copy per recipient. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Sophie King (also writing as Janey Fraser) is a journalist and novelist. In 2005, she won the Elizabeth Goudge Short Story Trophy and was a runner up in the Harry Bowling Prize. Her first novel,
The School Run
, was a bestseller when first published in 2005, and it was a bestseller for the second time when republished by Corazon Books in 2012. Her second novel,
Love is a Secret
(previously published as Mums@Home), was republished in an updated edition by Corazon Books in spring 2013.
Falling in Love Again
(previously published as
Divorce for Beginners
) is her sixth Sophie King novel.
Other titles by Sophie King available from Corazon Books:
The School Run
Love is a Secret
(previously published as
Mums@Home
)
Tales from the Heart
(short story collection)
Contents
Who's Who in
Falling in Love Again
The ‘How To Survive Divorce’ Club (Open To Anyone Who Is Single)
Session One: Getting To Know You
Session Four: How Are You Doing?
Session Five: Don’t Make The Same Mistake Twice!
Session Six: Don’t Blame Other People – Including Yourself!
Session Eight: Dating Again - Slowly, Slowly!
Session Ten: Getting Away From It All!
Six Months Later Session Eleven: How Are You Getting On?
WHOOPS! WE ALMOST FORGOT . . .
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. Something’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!’
Jack’s mobile (they all had to have one at school now for security reasons) rang in the back. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me. Mum. Please be quiet. I’m trying to talk to Gran on the other phone.’
Sophie’s eyes rolled. ‘You’re mad, Mum. You must be to ring the back seat when you’re only in the front.’
‘At least it got his attention. Mum, you still there? Sorry about that. I’m afraid your card is a bit late but I’ve been working.’
‘Thank you darling.’ Her mother’s voice sounded artificially bright which made her feel even worse. What kind of a daughter was she, to have forgotten to ring this morning? ‘It’s been a bit of a funny day, to be honest. Your dad tripped over his front teeth again. I don’t know why they can’t stay in like everyone else’s. And he gave me a mobile phone for my birthday but I can’t get the hang of that pre-ordained text business. Goodness me! What was that terrible noise?’
‘My relaxation tape. It’s on “loud” to drown out the kids. Listen – can I pop round later? I’ve just got to drop Ellie and Freddie off at Sharon’s. No.’ She glanced at the back seat and dropped her voice. ‘No. She hasn’t found anyone else yet.’
Sometimes, thought Lizzie as they all piled out at her friend’s place, she wondered how she’d turned into One of Those Mothers. The kind who didn’t realise they were shouting at their kids until their throats had got sore. The kind who were always nagging (homework/teeth/bed) instead of playing nice calm car games. The kind who were always working.
Then again, she’d never meant to have One Of Those Kids. The type that turned her down as their friend on Facebook (Sophie). Wouldn’t do their homework (Jack). Refused to sit up at the table (both).
Just as well that Tom understood. The thought of her husband gave her a funny little flutter. Last Sunday morning’s ‘It’ session, had been quite nice actually, even though she’d had to make the first move
and
she’d had to think of Hugh Grant and Jeremy Clarkson besides (this was a new one!) Elvis all at the same time.
But it was fine in the end, despite the fact that she’d had to jump up half-way through to wedge a chair against the door because the kids woke up (‘What’s that funny noise, Mummy?’). And now she didn’t have to worry about doing ‘It’ for at least – oooh – another couple of weeks.
Poor old Sharon, with her flabby bat-wing arms and thin, straggly, mousy hair which would have defied any ‘Before and After’ feature. It wasn’t just the sex she said she missed, which, in Lizzie’s book, had always been a bit over-rated. It was the company. Knowing that someone was going to come through the door in the evening with a smile (even if it was commuter-worn). Flopping down on the sofa together (just for a bit because she always needed to check her emails and do another phone interview) and then, the best bit. The cuddling up in bed and feeling the warmth of someone else’s body against hers.
‘I’m okay,’ her friend would shrug when she occasionally asked how things were going. ‘I’ve had five years of it, remember?’
It was true. In fact, Lizzie had hardly known Keith who had left – what a rat! – soon after antenatal classes had ended, leaving poor old Sharon and her postnatal flab (still there all these years later), holding little Freddie in her arms and five-year-old Ellie who kept asking for Daddy.
She and Tom had done their best to help: Tom, bless him, often included the kids in games in the park and had once even tried to fix up Sharon with a friend from work although they hadn’t clicked.
And of course, she, Lizzie, also did her bit. Wasn’t Sharon going to be paid for this session? It wasn’t the usual child model rate but it would be something.
Another funny feeling began to flutter in her chest. Sharon didn’t exactly know the pictures were illustrating a feature on head lice. She thought it was a shampoo piece. But she wouldn’t mind that much, would she? Probably regard it as a bit of a laugh. And besides, she didn’t read magazines.
EastEnders
was more her line.
