Authors: Rosie Ruston
Whatever Love Is
Rosie Rushton
lives in Northampton, where she is a licensed lay minister in a parish church. She is passionate about all issues relating to young people. Her hobbies include
travelling, theatre and cinema, reading, all manner of word games and puzzles, walking, being juvenile with her grandchldren and playing hopscotch when no one is looking. Her ambitions are to visit
China and to learn to sing in tune. She holds out rather more hope for the former than for the latter.
Other 21st Century Austens, by Rosie Rushton:
The Secrets of Love
Summer of Secrets
Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams
Love, Lies and Lizzie
Echoes of Love
First published in Great Britain in 2012
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Rosie Rushton, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Rosie Rushton to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 84812 157 7 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 208 6
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Cover illustration by Susan Hellard
Cover design by Simon Davis
This, the last in my 21st century Jane Austen series,
is dedicated to my three wonderful, talented
and inspirational daughters,
Niki, Sally and Caroline,
with so much love and pride.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
‘Nobody meant to be unkind,
but nobody put themselves out of their
way to secure her comfort.’
(Jane Austen,
Mansfield Park
)
‘H
EY
F
RANKIE
,
YOU
’
VE GOT TO SEE THIS
–
THIS
IS
SO
YOU
!’
‘You’d be brilliant in this – get in here quickly!’
Frankie Price hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her finger poised over her iPhone. Her cousins, who had been on a shopping spree, had arrived back half an hour earlier laden with
designer-label carrier bags and she could tell from the muffled giggles emanating from the sitting room that this was, in all probability, another wind-up, the kind of teasing that everyone said
was ‘just a bit of light-hearted fun’ but which still hurt far more than she would ever have dreamt of admitting.
‘You’re made for this, really – come and see!’
So what would it be this time? Frankie wondered. Mia, twenty-one years old, stunningly beautiful and confident that she was the centre of the universe, showing off yet another lacy mini-dress
with the kind of bustier top that looked great on someone with boobs but that would make Frankie look like a rather sad pencil? Or Jemma, eighteen months younger, parading in a skintight
gold-sequinned jumpsuit and Miu Miu stacks that made her legs look even longer than usual and remarking that it was such a shame that Frankie’s shape meant she could never borrow any of their
gear?
Frankie sighed, catching sight of herself in the ornate mirror on the opposite wall of the spacious hall. She wasn’t ugly, she knew that, but she wasn’t beautiful either; she was
just five foot three, severely lacking in the boob department, with skin so pale that even an hour in the sun resulted in livid splotches all over her face and arms and a cluster of freckles on the
bridge of her rather-too-upturned nose. She yearned to be curvy, she craved straighter hair and luscious lips – but most of all she longed to be bubbly, outgoing and free of the crippling
lack of confidence that made her tongue-tied even when her brain was firing out witty – or caustic – remarks in her head.
‘Frankie! We know you’re out there! Be quick!’
‘Busy!’ she called, clicking on
Inbox
. She should have heard something by now. They’d said it would be today. Why was the network so slow? She had just turned to head up
the stairs, her eyes glued to the iPhone screen, when Mia burst into the hall and grabbed her by the wrist.
‘This won’t wait,’ she insisted, dragging her into the sitting room.
‘Root of the Matter
are looking for people just like you.’ If it hadn’t been for the acid-tongued presenter, Eleanor Edmonds, holding forth in close-up on the vast
plasma TV screen on the wall, Frankie would have assumed she had misheard.
Root of the Matter
wasn’t Mia or Jemma’s usual viewing choice – it didn’t feature celebs
locked in some hideously decorated house agonising over their boob enhancements, or fashionistas listing the absolute must-haves in summer tops. It was ITV’s most hard-hitting, cutting-edge
series, focusing on the social issues of the day and exposing abuse and injustice in everything from care in the community to exploitation of farmers in the developing world.
It was, in fact, the very sort of programme that Ned would have been glued to had he been at home, and for that reason alone, Frankie’s curiosity was aroused.
‘What do you mean, people like me?’ she asked, slipping her phone into the pocket of her shorts. ‘What are you on about? Is it a writing competition?’
Ever since she could remember, Frankie had loved writing – not just her diaries but short stories and dozens of letters to magazines and newspapers – she’d even had a couple
posted on really prominent websites.
‘Better than that – they want teenagers from dysfunctional families to take part in a discussion programme,’ Jemma said with mock solemnity.
‘And let’s face it, families don’t come much more dysfunctional than yours, do they?’ Mia giggled. ‘You’ve got the lot – lunatic mother, dropout
dad.’
‘My mum’s not a lunatic!’ Frankie snapped, knowing even as she spoke that she should have just turned and left the room. ‘She’s bipolar. And my dad didn’t
drop out, he —’
She stopped mid-sentence, aware that she had been about to use all the phrases her father had been prone to use about himself:
‘
I’m searching for my inner truth, Francesca.’
‘I’m a free spirit, Frankie; I can’t be hemmed in by the rules and regulations of a blinkered society.’
And, most frequently of all:
‘I never expected any of this to happen. It wasn’t part of my game plan.’
This last remark would always be accompanied by a series of deep sighs and an expansive gesture meant to include the crumbling house, her mother either weeping buckets or manically joyful
depending on the moment, and the pile of unpaid bills that got shoved from table to sideboard and back again without anyone ever making any attempt to do anything about them. As usual, just
thinking about her family brought a lump to her throat, rapidly followed by a gut-twisting stab of guilt that she was living in a huge house in one of the most upmarket villages in Northamptonshire
while her mum was . . . no, she wouldn’t think about where her mum was right now. If she did, she would cry and that was something she only did in the privacy of her own room.
‘OK, OK, so he didn’t drop out,’ Mia scoffed, tossing her copy of
Grazia
magazine to one side and stretching languidly on the sofa. ‘He – what’s the
phrase?
Opted for an alternative lifestyle!’
‘Leave her alone.’ Jemma’s voice reverted to the softer tones she used when her sister wasn’t around and there was no need to keep up with her finely honed cattiness.
‘Hey, there you go!’ Mia cried. ‘There’s the website on the screen! Come on, you really should email the programme. It’d be cool – they say they want to see
how people survive a bad start in life. They could come here and film us! Because you have to admit, it is down to us that you’ve got a life at all.’
Frankie took a deep breath, vowing that she wouldn’t let their taunts get to her. Over the past couple of years, she had run all manner of scenarios in her head: she had pictured herself
coming back with witty retorts when her past was thrown in her face; she had imagined waking up one morning, free of all her stupid inhibitions; she had even set rational thought to one side and
imagined her father settling down, buying a house, getting the family back together again and announcing that he was going to care for them all, no matter what. She had made inroads on the first,
was working on the second, but even she had to admit that the third was just a childish dream, best forgotten. It was never going to happen.
The fact of the matter was that Mia was right. It
was
down to the Bertrams that she had the sort of life the rest of her family could only dream about. When she had arrived three years
earlier, a month after her fifteenth birthday, she had been reeling from what her mother had told her when she had visited her in the psychiatric hospital on her last morning in Brighton.
