Can't Live Without (31 page)

When I reach my car I search inside my holdall for a tissue, cursing the fact that I still haven’t learned to be more organised.

A small sheet of paper falls out onto my lap. I pick it up and unfold it carefully, peering out of teary eyes. It’s that blasted list again, coming back to haunt me. All the things I thought I couldn’t live without. An American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer. A Kenwood mixer that I never even used. What a joke! None of it means anything anymore. I crumple the list into a sad little ball, throw it out of the window and drive away.

Chapter 30

Ten weeks and one day. That’s how long it has been since I woke to find my house going up in smoke. And now, as I sit on my brand new sofa waiting for my brand new TV to arrive, just about everything is back to normal. Except, of course, nothing in my life is normal anymore.

But at least I have a working kitchen and a sparkling bathroom, and walls that smell of fresh paint instead of smoke. Everything in my life is brand new – just what I’d always wanted. A sparkling, untarnished version of what I had before.

On the surface at least.

This house is now a vastly improved version of its former self. Putting together everything I’ve learned from those wonderful TV programmes I have decorated in neutral shades, kept the clutter to a minimum, and gone for the best kitchen I could afford.

The sale of this house will fund my new career but I’m not in a huge rush to put it on the market. I’ve only just got it back – I want to enjoy it myself a little first.

I am wiping down my new granite-effect worktops for the tenth time this morning when there is a knock on the door. It’s the telly men, panting under the weight of the plasma screen I’ve waited so long for. Despite the fact that it’s only a measly thirty-seven inches (size isn’t everything, you know), the delivery men make a right meal of bringing it in and getting the thing set up. By the time they’ve gone, I’m itching to see those tubes in action. Remote in hand, I sink back into the sofa. With a low hum and a hiss of static it springs to life and fills my lounge with colour.

The people on the screen are screeching at each other in mock-cockney accents. Everybody looks miserable. It’s raining. Hmm. Sunday afternoon soap omnibuses clearly haven’t changed much since I’ve been away from the box. I press my shiny new remote control and another picture appears on the screen in glorious Technicolor. Lots of green, so bright I want to shield my eyes. And little figures of men running around then diving on the floor in agony.

Did I really spend all this time saving all this money just so I could watch EastEnders or football?

Finally I settle for an episode of Columbo, which is so old and grainy it doesn’t do my new TV any justice at all. I might as well be watching it on a fifteen-inch portable with a set-top aerial. Crisps and chocolate offer some comfort, and soon I’m curled up with a contentedly fat belly, surveying my suave new lounge with a property developer’s eye. Not bad, I think. Not bad for ten weeks’ work on a budget, with two jobs and a pregnant daughter.

I’m considering driving to the nearest off-licence to buy myself some champagne when there is another knock on the door. Figuring it’s probably one of the neighbours come to check out the finished product, I race to open it. I’m in the mood for company.

I open my shiny new front door and come face to face with Paul Smart.

Last seen turned into stone by the side of Willen Lake.

‘Paul!’ I say, doing a great job of stating the obvious.

I can’t quite believe it. Part of me really believed that yesterday would be the last time I’d ever see him – unless I plucked up the courage to go into Smart Homes one day, which seemed unlikely. I nearly add, ‘You’re alive!’

‘Stella.’

This is all he says in reply, and it sounds a little short so maybe the statue thing hasn’t worn off completely.

Inviting him in, I witter on about the new décor and the carpet shade I’d finally chosen.

Why am I so bloody nervous?

I wish I wasn’t wearing my old leggings with the saggy arse and a T-shirt of Lipsy’s that reads “Come Get Me Big Boy”. Mind you, considering that the last time he saw me I was dripping with sweat this is possibly an improvement.

That’s when I notice he is smiling. The granite has been chiselled away to reveal an actual smile. A stunning, light-up-the-room kind of smile. And he is rummaging in his pocket for something. I resist the urge to offer to do that for him. Something tells me this is not the time for smut.

‘What are you looking so happy about?’ To be honest, I’m a bit annoyed. What right does he have to be smiling when I’m feeling so low. Yesterday I told the man I loved him. The last time I told a man that I was still a size ten.

Could he be any more insensitive?

‘You know, Stella,’ he says, still bloody smiling, ‘you really shouldn’t be such a litter bug.’

So the man has come round to my house, when we aren’t even speaking as far as I know, to tell me not to drop litter?

‘What are you talking about?’ I snap.

‘I found something of yours and I thought you might like it back.’ Now his sexy smile is starting to get on my nerves. Paul is just too damn handsome when he smiles, and having to look at it now is like having my nose rubbed in the whole sorry mess all over again.

‘Whatever it is,’ I tell him, strolling through to the kitchen and talking over my very cold shoulder, ‘I’m really not interested. But thanks for stopping by.’ I can’t cope with another rejection. I don’t have the strength. Better if I get the rejection in first this time: at least that way I’ll maybe have a shred of self-respect left.

‘Here, have this.’

I look at his hands. They hold a crumpled piece of paper. Has he come round to give me a note? My P45, perhaps? I look again more closely. The colour of the paper looks familiar. It has balloons all over it and is a muddy shade of pink.

Paul is holding in his hand the list that I dropped in the park. I glare at it and then at him. Will I never be rid of the thing?

‘No thank you,’ I say, spitting each word out. ‘I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.’

‘Are you sure?’ He smiles at me again and his eyes are laughing. ‘It’s just that there’s something on this list that you don’t have yet. Something I’d really like you to have. And you did put “Can’t Live Without” at the top of the list, so I really think you should take a look.’ He holds it out at me, waving it tantalisingly in front of my face.

I snatch it from him, wishing he would just stop smirking. Obviously my list has been a source of great amusement to him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. But I am not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me explain it.

‘Happy now?’ I say. ‘Well, if that’s all I am a bit busy.’ I wave at the kitchen with its sparkling surfaces and immaculately empty worktops. Clearly I have nothing at all to do.

Paul leans comfortably against the cooker and gestures at the plain white fridge-freezer. ‘You decided not to replace the monster, then?’

I could quite happily throttle him. He looks so damn sexy in a suit. Come to think of it, why is he wearing a suit? On a Sunday? And why, after all I’ve said, is he still smiling at me?

‘What about the last item on your list?’ he asks again. ‘Are you sure you’ve changed your mind about that one?’

‘Will you just …’ I am about to say something unrepeatable when I notice the look in his eyes. There is something indefinable there, a combination of excitement and affection. I haven’t seen him look like that since he organised a surprise party for my twenty-fifth birthday – which was a disaster, but that’s a different story.

He points to the scrap of paper in my hand again.

Oh, for goodness sake! Do I really need my nose rubbing in this? I am about to throw it in the bin when I notice that something has been added to the very bottom of the list in what looks like a bad forgery of my handwriting.

Two words.

Paul Smart.

Underlined twice.

And ticked.

I look up at him, bewildered, and see that he is beaming. I look down at the list again and then back at him. Does this mean what I think it means? Sometimes I can be a bit slow on the uptake – and sometimes I can jump to the wrong conclusions. (I guess I’m in good company there.) I can hardly bear to allow myself to believe that this might mean what I so want it to mean. Maybe it’s some kind of joke.

‘Is this a joke? Does this mean …’

I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence. Paul is pulling me into his arms – God, it feels so good – and murmuring something in my ear. I decide to allow myself to believe that this is really happening. He’s right here, holding me. I’m holding him back and this time I’m not letting go for anything.

‘Glad to see you’ve finally got your priorities right, Stella,’ he says in a voice I’ve never heard before: husky and full of bad intentions. Then his lips meet mine and he kisses me with so much passion I can hardly breathe. He pulls away just long enough to say, ‘By the way, just so you know, I love you too.’

Time stands still again as we stand, wrapped around each other, kissing and laughing and making promises and plans. But mostly kissing. Making up for lost time, I like to think. There is a lot of time to be made up – about twenty years I reckon. And Paul seems as eager to get started on it as I am.

Just before I melt away completely, I fix him with a steely glare. ‘You’ve still got to work your way up to the top of the list, you know.’

He pulls away just far enough to look deep into my eyes. ‘You mean, try to be even more useful than a fridge-freezer that makes ice?’

Exactly.

CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT

American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer

Kenwood food mixer

Cath Kidston Kitchenalia

Furniture! (Sofa, dining table, chairs, beds, wardrobes …) √

Clothes: see sub-list √

TV – whatever √

Lipsy – computer, Playstation, iPod, clothes…

Carpets for entire house √

New bathroom suite and towels √

Tiling – bathroom and kitchen √

Bed linen x 4 – Marks & Spencer √

Paul Smart
√

THE END

Acknowledgements

First, I’d like to say a great big thank you to Jez, for his unfailing support at every stage of the process of writing and publishing this book. Without him
Can’t Live Without
would never have been written. Thanks to all my family for their support, especially my mum and my sister for their encouragement and belief in me, and thanks to Chris Howard for the excellent cover design. I’d also like to thank everyone who has been involved in the editing and production of this novel, including (in no particular order) Jude White, Hilary Johnson, Ella Andrews, and all my wonderful ‘Beta readers’: Emma, Bev, Dawn, Rosanne, Kristy, Marina, Vikki, Audrey, and Christine - I was amazed and touched that you all took the time to support me with such fantastic feedback.

To find out more about my books, visit me at
www.joannephillips.co.uk
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Also by Joanne Phillips

The Family Trap

“There are moments in life that define you – moments from which entire futures are carved out, where you can practically see the universe split into two.”

Becoming a grandmother at thirty-eight may not be ideal, but Stella Hill can cope – just about – because in two weeks’ time she’s getting married to the love of her life. She’s waited over twenty years to finally get her man; Paul Smart is her destiny, her soul mate.

But when Stella finds out she’s pregnant – a pregnancy that’s unplanned and unexpected, not to mention inconvenient – she takes it in her stride. Marriage, baby, new adventures on the horizon. It’s not a problem. At least, not for her.

Just how do you break the news of a baby on the eve of your wedding? And what can you do if your plans turn out to be wildly different from the plans of the one you love? As Stella’s dream wedding turns into a nightmare, she learns that sometimes the people we love don’t react the way we thought they would.

And maybe sometimes love means letting go.

The Family Trap
is the stand-alone sequel to Kindle bestseller Can’t Live Without.