Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty (22 page)

Annie gawped at her.

Lydia leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her chest. ‘Of course I'd always thought there was more to him than met the eye. Always had the feeling he was holding something back. The sneaky type, if you know what I mean. Anyway,' she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. ‘We must be getting along. We're off to play tennis – or something.' And with a lascivious giggle and a flick of the hair, she was gone, Eduardo trotting along behind her.

No sooner had Annie sank down onto a chair, than Jake strode into the kitchen. The moment he set eyes on her, his smile slid from his face.

‘Annie, what's wrong?'

‘You're not Jake Sinclair.'

His brows knitted in confusion. ‘What-? Oh, no. I'm not. I was going to tell you all about that later.'

‘When later?'

‘Later today. Now. While we're having breakfast. Brunch. Whatever you want to call it.'

‘Why didn't you tell me before?'

‘It didn't seem important.'

‘But we spent the whole night together and I didn't even know your name.'

Jake sat down next to her and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, Annie, does it really matter?'

Tears burned the backs of Annie's eyes. ‘Of course it matters. You lied to me.'

He shook his head. ‘I didn't. Well, okay, perhaps I did. A bit. But I couldn't tell you everything at the time. If I'd told you about the books when you'd first asked me – that evening you drove me to hospital – a dozen other questions would have followed, none of which I was ready to answer.'

‘You lied about your career. You told me you worked in finance.'

‘I did work in finance.'

‘You were the most successful fund manager in Europe.'

‘So? What's that got to do with anything?'

‘You didn't tell me the truth.'

He reached for her hand. Annie moved it away.

‘I was going to, Annie. Honestly. I thought about telling you last night, but … well … we were otherwise engaged.'

‘So you think getting me into bed was more important than telling me who you really are.'

‘No, of course not. I just thought you'd listened to me enough for one evening.'

‘So I have to listen to the rest of it from Lydia Pembleton?'

Jake looked even more baffled. ‘Lydia? What's she got to do with anything?'

‘She's just been round to introduce her new boyfriend, and inform me that the man I spent the whole of last night with is not the man I thought he was.'

‘Oh, Annie, of course I'm the same man. Okay, perhaps I should have told you everything last night but … well … things got a bit out of control. But now you know and … is it really that big a deal?'

Annie couldn't look at him. Memories of the evening Lance had announced his departure for Japan came flooding back to her. Memories of how betrayed she'd felt, how hurt, angry and foolish.

‘I'd like you to leave,' she said.

Jake's jaw dropped. ‘But surely there's no need for that. Surely we can work this out. I admit I'm in the wrong and I should have–'

‘I'd like you to leave now.'

Jake stared at her for several seconds. ‘All right.' He stood up. ‘If that's what you want.'

‘It is.'

Two weeks on from ordering Jake out of the cottage, Annie's emotions had been subjected to several cycles of the food processor. Sliced, diced, pickled and curried, they were no longer fit for analysis. Over the first few days she'd convinced herself she'd done the right thing: she should never have dropped her guard, never have allowed her defences to slip, never have considered lowering the drawbridge, permitting Jake access to the safe haven she'd so diligently constructed for her and Sophie. But, now … well, now she wasn't quite so sure. If she'd done the right thing, why did it feel so spectacularly wrong? Like Jake had taken a part of her with him when he'd gone?

Portia's comments had added further confusion. Annie had attempted to keep the conversation light, but Portia had seen through her immediately. In the end, Annie had told her everything – well, not exactly
everything
, but enough to put her in the picture.

‘Oh, Annie,' she'd sighed. ‘You're being far too hard on him. I remember the guy from years ago and I can assure you he's nothing like Lance. And he didn't
really
lie to you. Not in the same way Lance did. It sounds to me like he's sorting his head out, that's all.'

Jenny and Harriet were of the same opinion.

‘I knew it,' Jenny exclaimed. ‘There was something in his eyes when he looked at you. He was dotty about you even before you'd had sex under the kitchen table. Why don't you just give him a chance?'

‘Because he might let me down again. That's what men do.'

‘Not all of them,' Jenny insisted. ‘And certainly not Jake whatever-his-name-is-now.'

And she was right. The more Annie thought about it – and she'd thought about it a great deal - Jake was nothing like Lance. He was honest and decent and had been through a really crap time. It had just taken her this long to realise it.

The week following his exit, he'd tried to contact her. Annie hadn't answered the phone. She'd shredded his unopened letter, deleted unread texts and scrubbed voicemails without playing them. And now he'd given up.

She didn't blame him. Jake deserved someone better than her. Someone more compassionate. It was so long since she'd had anyone other than Sophie in her life, she'd completely forgotten other people had cares and worries and needs too. Consequently, she'd blown it with Jake and now had to live with the consequences. Which she could do. She'd coped perfectly well without a man for the last five years and she could do the same for the next five, and the next. The problem was, she really didn't want to.

Now, though, was hardly the time for self-pity. This was the first day of their holiday and they were en route to Northumberland. For Sophie's sake, she had to maintain a brave face. Easier said than done when everything seemed to be conspiring against her: the weather was abysmal – a federation of clouds overhead promising something not very pleasant later; the car had been making some strange spluttering sounds; Sophie had vomited all over the back seat and now, Annie discovered as she called into the agency office to collect the key, there was a problem with the heating system at the cottage.

‘But it should be fixed today,' Janine, the bubbly office manager informed her. ‘Our engineer is on the case as we speak.'

‘Right. Great. Thanks.' Annie attempted to sound positive, whilst debating if she should just turn the car around and head back home. But, given the spluttering noises, the smell of sick, the threatening weather, and the way the day was panning out, that probably wasn't a good idea.

She plastered a smile onto her face before returning to the car. ‘Well,' she said, jumping into the driver's seat. ‘Now I have the key, we can really start our holiday.'

Two blank faces – one human, one canine – stared back at her.

The cottage sat on the edge of a village, directly across the road from the beach and next door to the kipper shop. By the time Annie parked the car outside, Sophie had fallen asleep. Poor little mite, mused Annie. She'd never known her be car sick before. But none of them seemed to be themselves lately. Not since Jake- She stopped the thought dead. She wasn't here to think about Jake. She was here for a well-deserved change of scene and to spend some quality time with her daughter. And they would have a good time if it killed her.

Filled with resolve, she marched up the path to the front door. It was open. Annie popped her head inside and called out a tentative ‘Hello?'

‘Not be a minute, love,' came back an Irish male voice from upstairs. ‘Just fixing the boiler.'

Annie bit back a sigh. After the awful journey, she really just wanted to unpack and crash out, but now she'd have to wait. ‘No problem. I'll just … wait down here,' she called back.

Pip, though, was evidently of another mind. Looking livelier than he had for several days, he bounded straight into the house and up the stairs.

‘Pip,' called Annie. ‘Come down here at once.'

Pip didn't respond.

Heaving another sigh, Annie trudged up the stairs after him.

‘Sorry,' she muttered. ‘I'll take him back down–'

She broke off as she reached the landing and a tall male figure stepped out of the bathroom, Pip dancing around his feet.

‘Jake!' she gasped. ‘But how … I mean … how … what are you doing here?'

‘Fixing the boiler.'

His mouth stretched into such a devastating smile that Annie's legs almost caved beneath her. Suddenly she forgot all about her crap day, all about the autumnal weather, all about her dodgy, smelly car. She was aware of nothing other than Jake standing a few feet away from her. ‘But how did you–?'

‘Put on such a fantastic Irish accent?' His dark eyes twinkled. ‘My dad's Irish.'

Annie shook her head as all her other emotions were swept aside by a rush of happiness. ‘How did you–?'

‘Know how to fix the boiler? My dad's a plumber. I used to help him out in the holidays.'

Annie grinned, deciding she would very much like to meet Jake's dad. ‘I was going to ask how you knew where we were. But … don't tell me … Mrs Mackenzie.'

‘I'm afraid I cannot possibly divulge that information.'

‘Not even for a chocolate chip cookie?'

‘Are you trying to blackmail me, Ms Richards?'

‘Very possibly. Is it working?'

‘Very possibly,' he said, taking her into his arms.

Did you love
Forty Things To Do Before You're Forty
?

Then turn the page for an exclusive extract from another brilliant story:

The Last Word
by A L Michael

Chapter One

This cannot be my life, Tabby Riley thought as she finished her latest article. Four hundred words on the dire consequences of plucking outside your brow line. She needed ice cream.

Rhi was sitting in her usual spot in the middle of the living room floor and Tabby had to skip over the sea of papers and books surrounding her to get into the kitchen. She retrieved the Ben & Jerry's and a spoon, then stood in the doorway, watching her housemate.

‘Do you think I'm a bad feminist?' Tabby asked, recalling the last few articles on weight-loss, decoding male body language and how to dress like a pixie dream girl.

‘Yes.' Rhi didn't look up. ‘But I think you're an excellent person. So could you hold out on whatever crisis you're about to have until I finish this chapter? Please?'

It was hard to refuse when Rhi said ‘please'. It happened so rarely.

‘Sure, it was nothing.' Tabby picked at the chocolate chips, suddenly not so in the mood for ice cream. ‘I just get so bloody tired of myself sometimes.'

‘Well, luckily I never do. Be a love and put the kettle on? I'll be done in ten minutes. Warn the biscuit tin!'

And then Rhi was back in her zone, craned over, picking a pencil out of her blonde dreadlocked bun. She flicked down her blue-rimmed glasses and suddenly Tabby didn't exist any more. Rhi's ability to go from zero to studying in under ten seconds was something that had driven Tabby crazy when they were at university, but seeing as Rhi went to her job at the library and then came home to work on her Masters degree, while Tabby wrote articles in her pyjamas all day, it just seemed unfair to hold a grudge.

Everyone else was going somewhere. And Tabby couldn't remember the last time she'd had to wear real clothes.

She clicked on the kettle, made herself a cup of tea, knowing it would be at least half an hour until Rhi would finish. She unlocked the back door and padded out into the poor little concrete excuse for a garden, hoping to see a little of the fading daylight.

Last year she'd tried to plant herbs – one of her article-inspired kicks – then promptly forgot about them. Their sad, weedy little skeletons drooped over the ceramic pot. Two previously white deck chairs and a plastic table they'd found in a nearby skip sat there like survivors of war. Tabby once again considered how maybe if she got the outward look of her life together, then maybe the real stuff would come along with it. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd written an article on that. She roughly wiped down one of the chairs, and stuck the mug of tea on the table. It wobbled precariously. Next door, the teen boys who thought starting a band called Dyspraxic Elastic was a cool idea practised their guitar solos. Five months on and they weren't any better.