Read the book: «Match Me If You Can»
MICHELE GORMAN
Match Me If You Can
Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Michele Gorman 2016
Cover illustration © Lisa Horton 2016
Michele Gorman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007585663
Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780007585670
Version: 2015-12-11
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One: Catherine
Chapter Two: Rachel
Chapter Three: Sarah
Chapter Four: Catherine
Chapter Five: Rachel
Chapter Six: Sarah
Chapter Seven: Catherine
Chapter Eight: Rachel
Chapter Nine: Sarah
Chapter Ten: Catherine
Chapter Eleven: Rachel
Chapter Twelve: Sarah
Chapter Thirteen: Catherine
Chapter Fourteen: Rachel
Chapter Fifteen: Sarah
Chapter Sixteen: Catherine
Chapter Seventeen: Rachel
Chapter Eighteen: Sarah
Chapter Nineteen: Catherine
Chapter Twenty: Rachel
Chapter Twenty-One: Sarah
Chapter Twenty-Two: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Three: Rachel
Chapter Twenty-Four: Sarah
Chapter Twenty-Five: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Six: Rachel
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sarah
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rachel
Chapter Thirty: Sarah
Chapter Thirty-One: Catherine
Chapter Thirty-Two: Rachel
Chapter Thirty-Three: Sarah
Chapter Thirty-Four: Catherine
Chapter Thirty-Five: Rachel
Chapter Thirty-Six: Sarah
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Catherine
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Rachel
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Sarah
Chapter Forty: Catherine
Chapter Forty-One: Rachel
Chapter Forty-Two: Sarah
Chapter Forty-Three: Catherine
Chapter Forty-Four: Rachel
Chapter Forty-Five: Sarah
Chapter Forty-Six: Catherine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Ready to do a little baking of your own?
About the Author
Also by Michele Gorman
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Catherine
‘What did you say?’ Catherine whispered as Richard calmly sipped the last of his wine. Even as her insides churned, she knew her face gave nothing away. Fifteen years of practice with him gave her the kind of composure that poker players dreamed of.
Only this didn’t feel like a winning hand.
‘I’ve asked Magda to marry me,’ he repeated, this time at least having the decency to look contrite. He glanced around the busy Soho restaurant. ‘Kate, you’re not about to freak out, are you?’
‘Don’t call me Kate. And when have I ever freaked out?’
Catherine wasn’t a freaker-outer, at least not in public. Richard would have known that when he planned his matrimonial ambush. She glared over his shoulder at an empty spot on the wall. Don’t you dare cry, she warned herself. He’ll only get the wrong idea and then everything will be really awkward. Besides, it was none of his business any more how she felt. She took a shaky breath. ‘I’m …’ She stopped when the word came out squeaky. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you were so serious after only a few months.’
A few months! She’d been with him for years before she’d even left her toothbrush at his place. And now he was getting engaged to a woman he hadn’t even known for as long as his Waitrose delivery man.
‘It was a year last weekend, actually. We went to the rooftop bar at SushiSamba to celebrate.’
‘Oh, she’s finally legal then?’
Catherine probably had bras that were older than Magda.
‘You know,’ said Richard, signalling the waiter for the bill. ‘Cattiness isn’t flattering on you.’
Maybe not but it was better than letting her real thoughts fly.
‘Neither is dating someone who has to ask her dad to borrow the car keys.’
‘You know very well that she’s twenty-three. She’s mature for her age.’
‘And firm, I bet.’
A whisper of a smirk played around Richard’s mouth, despite the fact that she was savaging his girlfriend.
Catherine didn’t wish for her twenties back. Just some of their elasticity. Tall and slim, with thick dark hair that dried straight and swingy, her peaches-and-cream complexion and direct hazel eyes all helped her pull off the classically professional look she’d cultivated for so long. She knew she looked good for thirty-six. As long as she didn’t stand beside her ex-husband’s new fiancée.
He sighed. ‘Let’s not fight. I wanted you to be the first to know because you’re my best friend. Magda has her heart set on a spring wedding.’
‘Which spring?’ It was early November already.
His closed-lip smile told her it wouldn’t be a long engagement.
‘That’s only a few months away.’
‘Please be happy for me,’ he said.
His words shifted Catherine’s anger off the boil. She could probably be happy for him in time, but just now she wanted to sulk. It was the contrast that stung. When they’d got engaged, he hadn’t even officially asked her.
‘Just don’t expect me to be your best man, or woman, or whatever.’
He smiled. ‘Magda might find it a bit too twenty-first century to have you handing out the rings on our wedding day.’
His words caved in her tummy again. ‘Well, being from the twenty-first century herself …’
Richard shook his head. ‘We’ll work on your congratulations speech, shall we? I’d like us all to have dinner. Magda is dying to meet you.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Some people sought refuge in the arms of a lover. Others enjoyed the warm embrace of a spicy Pinot Noir.
Red wine just gave Catherine a headache and relationships were usually a pain in the other end. Her job was her sanctuary.
It was a short walk from the restaurant to her office in Covent Garden and her thoughts cleared a little with each step. By the time she reached her doorway on the busy little street and politely moved aside the drunk teen she found there, she knew that her reaction to Richard’s news wasn’t really about him, or them. It was about her.
She’d just assumed that she’d be first to find love again after their divorce. She was the one looking, not him. So how had someone who never made it out of first gear overtaken her on the road to romance? She’d stalled along the way and her roadside assistance membership was out of date.
The office’s security door latch closed with a satisfying thunk, cutting off all the noise from the road. As her eyes swept over her reception area, taking in the colourful oil paintings and the richly patterned overstuffed sofa, the hungry little worm that was wriggling its way into her psyche paused for breath.
Work always did that.
In her office her desktop phone blinked with a message. Should she answer it?
She definitely shouldn’t. It was after ten p.m. It could wait till morning.
But the light taunted her. What else are you doing tonight? it whispered. Going home to watch another rerun of Don’t Tell the Bride? Come on, you know you want to.
She snatched the receiver and punched in the answerphone code.
‘You have one new message. Message received at eight fifty-two p.m.’
‘Catherine? This is Georgina. Did you mean to set me up with a dairy drinker?’
She made it sound like she’d been out with a mass murderer.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t see him again. The dairy thing is just too weird.’
Well actually, thought Catherine, it would have been weird if he’d shoved a wheel of Brie down his trousers. Pouring milk in his coffee was pretty normal.
But she wouldn’t argue with Georgina, even though her client’s list of technical requirements made a NASA space launch look simple. If she wanted a lactose-intolerant man who played piano and didn’t chew gum, then Catherine would find him.
That was her job, for better or worse.
Matchmakers had it easier before the internet, when clients were just grateful to have a choice beyond their next-door neighbour and the second cousin with the squint.
Now everyone went online, picking out partners like they did an expensive pair of shoes – they had to fit perfectly and be suitable for the occasion, and be the right height, eye-wateringly beautiful with no sign of wear and tear, coveted by friends and colleagues and impressive to mothers.
Clients like Georgina thought finding love was as easy as ordering from ASOS.
Catherine scrolled through some more options in her database. Georgina hadn’t been on their books long but she’d already worked her way through most of their ‘A’ list. When she’d first signed Georgina as a client she’d seen the stunning, successful, secure thirty-one-year-old as a welcome addition. A woman for whom love was just around the corner. That corner was turning out to be in a maze the size of a football pitch. The dairy disaster was just the latest dead end.
But Catherine hadn’t earned her reputation as London’s Best Date Doctor (Evening Standard, 2014) by giving up. She was a peddler of hope, even when it was hanging by a dairy-free thread.
She could talk to Richard about including the client’s world view on ice cream in their Love Match assessment form. But where would that lead? One minute you’re measuring gelato love and the next you’d have to sort the toothpaste squeezers from the rollers.
And really, none of that mattered.
If only clients like Georgina would get that through their heads. A partner splurging for dinner or throwing his socks in the laundry didn’t make up for jealousy or thoughtlessness or emotional distance. Good grooming was no compensation if your date bored the snot out of you and, at the end of the day, relationships didn’t work without that spark anyway.
Despite the fact that she was definitely still mad at him, Catherine found herself thinking of Richard.
Sparks had never been their problem.
He’d made her laugh from the first time they met at uni. By the time classes broke up for the summer holidays he’d been making her laugh for months, as they progressed from shag buddies to something ever-so-slightly more serious. Her spare knickers found their way into his bottom drawer but she didn’t stake any claim to his bathroom cabinet or stock her favourite tea in his kitchen. Theirs was a relationship built by stealth over years.
Magda the Marriage-Seeking Missile clearly had a different timetable.
As she chewed over his news in the calm of her office, Catherine knew she didn’t mind Richard getting remarried per se. Or even that he’d proposed to someone who probably spoke in texty acronyms (she LOL’d at the very idea). After all, getting divorced was Catherine’s fault. Besides, she wasn’t in love with him.
It was just that he made it seem so easy with Magda. Where was all the hard work and second-guessing and foot-dragging she knew to be part and parcel of a relationship with Richard?
If it wasn’t there, that must mean she’d been wrong. Those things weren’t integral to Richard. They were integral to Richard when he’d been with her.
That smarted.
It was after midnight by the time she let herself into the quiet house. Eerie blue telly light bathed the front room, where Sarah lay curled on the sofa. She looked like a different person with her expression uncoiled in sleep.
As Catherine turned off the telly, Sarah snorted herself awake.
‘I might have nodded off,’ she said, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. ‘I was watching a proper good documentary just now.’
‘You mean a cookery programme, don’t you, Sarah Lee?’
Sarah grinned at the nickname that Catherine had given her after tasting her lemon sponge.
‘No,’ said Sarah, shaking her head. ‘I mean a real documentary. There was this Greek man who moved to the US in the 1960s and started a pizza restaurant, but his business was stuffed because he wouldn’t modernise. It was really sad. He almost lost his family and his livelihood, but he turned it around in the end. It was ace.’
She beamed at this happy ending.
‘You’re talking about Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares,’ said Catherine.
Sarah giggled. ‘It was really moving, though Gordon shouldn’t shout and swear so much.’
As usual, thought Catherine, she’s missing the point. ‘It wouldn’t get the same ratings if he was nice. Besides, Mary Berry has the market cornered on loveliness in the kitchen.’
Sarah got a faraway look just thinking about her idol. She swung her long legs off the sofa to let Catherine join her.
‘You’ve been running?’ Catherine said, noting her housemate’s jogging bottoms and baggy wrinkled tee shirt.
‘This morning.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I don’t stink, do I?’
‘No. But I’m surprised you don’t get a rash from sitting around in sweaty clothes all day.’ It drove her nuts that Sarah refused to make any effort whatsoever with her appearance. Granted, she had the kind of wide-eyed, fine-boned pleasant face that didn’t need much make-up, but she wouldn’t even use moisturiser. That was fine at twenty-eight, but she was asking for wrinkles by the time she was Catherine’s age. And it was a crime to keep such pretty, long dark-blonde hair tied back day and night in a messy, occasionally greasy, ponytail. She needed an intervention, really. Maybe they should just drag her kicking and screaming to a salon appointment.
Catherine noticed that Rachel’s bedroom light was on. ‘Rachel’s back from her date?’ she asked.
‘Not unless she came in quietly while I was asleep.’
They both laughed at the idea of Rachel doing anything quietly.
‘It must be going well,’ Catherine said, kicking off her suede heels so she could massage her aching feet.
‘Maybe we should ring to make sure she’s okay?’
Sarah wore her worry like a heavy winter coat, in all seasons.
‘She probably won’t appreciate the interruption.’
‘But it’s getting late,’ Sarah continued, her green eyes widening even more than usual. ‘Something might be wrong. What if her date’s got her tied up in his car? Or his basement, or maybe he’s taken her to a remote valley in Wales.’
Imaginative didn’t even begin to describe Sarah’s thought process sometimes. ‘Text her if you want to,’ said Catherine.
‘But what if he’s duct-taped her fingers together? He’d only need one piece for each hand, you know.’ Sarah wrapped her own slender fingers with imaginary tape. ‘Then she couldn’t text back.’
‘She couldn’t answer your call either, could she? Or he might have thrown her phone in the Thames along with all the other evidence.’
Catherine immediately felt bad about teasing Sarah when she saw her expression.
‘I’m positive that she’s fine,’ she conceded. ‘If she’s not back in an hour, we’ll call her, okay?’
But they only needed to wait a few minutes before Rachel careened into the living room. Her deep auburn hair stood up in wild cowlicks and curls and her teal wool coat was mis-buttoned. With pale green tights under her burgundy and yellow wasp-waisted dress, it was no wonder she described her style as 1950s Contrasting Colour Wheel.
She looked like she’d just escaped from Sarah’s imagined Welsh valley, but Catherine knew better. Rachel always looked like she’d been out in a gale.
She flung herself on the sofa, aiming for the space between her housemates but missing due to an abundance of bum cheek. She had all the curves that Catherine and Sarah wished they had. On a shelf together they’d be wooden bookends to her Ming vase.
Sarah drew her arms around her friend as she sat half in her lap. ‘It was a good date, then?’
Rachel laughed. ‘My bikini wax appointments are more fun. I ditched him after the first drink.’
‘But you were out for a long time.’
‘I met up with James.’
‘You’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately,’ Catherine said.
‘Eight hours a day for the past five years. We do work together, remember?’
‘And play together, apparently. Still just friends?’ Catherine couldn’t resist asking.
‘Catherine, I wouldn’t go back there for all the Prada in Selfridges.’
‘It never hurts to ask.’
‘It’s after midnight,’ Rachel said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off duty?’
‘As if a matchmaker is ever off duty.’
Chapter Two
Rachel
‘You are a really good architect,’ Rachel told herself again. ‘You are ready for this. You’ll nail it.’ She studied her reflection. ‘But you’re a wanker for talking to yourself in the mirror. And your outfit’s all wrong.’
She sucked in her tummy and peered at her lilac dress. If she was a little less curvy she could have borrowed something from Catherine’s form-fitting monochrome closet. Maybe something in confidence-inspiring beige. Their stuffy corporate clients would probably appreciate that more than her bright swingy frock and loudly contrasting tights.
Not that her clothes were totally to blame for the impression she made. Her hair also had a lot to answer for. Deep red and wavy, it rejected any attempt to look composed. She didn’t exactly whisper sophistication so much as shout colour-blind cat lady. And while it was nice to be mistaken for one of the junior architects, today she wished she looked all of her thirty-one years.
She unclasped the chunky red fabric flower necklace and stuffed it into her bag. It clashed with her hair anyway, which was starting to frizz from the damp November day.
Stifling a yawn as she reached her desk, she was tempted to lay her head down, just for a second. Instead she dialled her mum’s office.
By the third ring she knew it would go through to voicemail.
‘Hi Mum. I’m just getting ready for my presentation. It’s this morning, remember? I just really wanted to … Well anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes after.’ She was about to hang up when she thought she heard a click. ‘Hello Mum? Hello? Oh. I thought you picked up. If you get this message before ten thirty, call me, okay? I’ll just be going through the presentation one more time.’
Hanging up, she clicked again through her slides. Midway through, the screen began to blur. Just a little rest was what she needed …
She opened one mascaraed eye when James set a steaming takeaway cup on her desk. The aroma made her nose twitch.
‘I figured you could use this,’ he said, handing her a pastry bag to go with her coffee. ‘You weren’t actually kipping, were you?’
Stretching, she glanced at the wall clock. ‘Just a little one. Chocolate croissant?’ she guessed. ‘Ooh la la.’
‘Oui madame, zis eez zee least I can do,’ he said in a pathetic French accent. ‘Seriously, I’m sorry I kept you out late.’ Remorse was written all over his boyish face.
‘Don’t be,’ she mumbled. ‘I figured if I stayed up I might be tired enough to sleep. Stupid plan.’
She’d watched her bedside clock pass two a.m., then three, with her mind racing over the pitch this morning.
She sipped the hot sweet coffee. ‘God that’s good, thanks,’ she said. ‘You feel okay?’
He slurped the last of his drink. ‘No thanks to you.’
‘You didn’t have to finish the bottle, you know.’
‘Oh but I did, Rach. You wouldn’t help me.’
Like she’d risk a hangover on the most important morning of her career. She had the tolerance of a toddler on antibiotics anyway. ‘I meant you could have left it unfinished.’
He stared at her like she was insane.
‘Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to.’ James put the extra pinch in penny-pincher. His guilt must have been overwhelming to splurge on a coffee and croissant.
‘Better drink up,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here soon. Are you nervous?’ His direct blue-eyed gaze didn’t leave her face.
She sipped, considering his question. Was she nervous? She used to dream about getting this chance. Now part of her wished she was just a trainee architect again. It wouldn’t be so bad doing CAD drawings and photocopying floor plans for the next thirty-five years, right?
Yeah right. Like she’d give up this chance after working her arse off.
‘Why should I be nervous? It’s only our careers on the line,’ she said as the takeaway cup shook slightly in her hand.
He noticed, and put his hand over hers. ‘You absolutely definitely shouldn’t be nervous. You’re going to be great. We both are. We can go through the presentation again if you want?’
They both glanced at her screen. A skyscraper screen saver hid their slides. ‘No need. I know it better than the national anthem.’
‘You’re a star.’ James smiled as he strolled back to his office humming “God Save the Queen”.
The second he rounded the corner she went back to the presentation. They might be friends but she wasn’t about to let a chocolate croissant make her forget that they were also rivals.
* * *
She’d just about got her flipping tummy under control by the time he came back with his suit jacket on. ‘Ready?’ He pulled at his buttoned-up collar and straightened his tie.
She gurned at him. ‘How’re my teeth?’ On account of the big gap between the two front ones, she always checked.
‘Clear. Mine?’
‘There’s something brown in there.’ Rachel pointed as he snapped his lips shut.
Panicked, he took a swig from the mineral water on her desk. ‘Better now?’
‘It looks like … no, must be something stuck in there from all the arse-kissing you’ve been doing.’
‘Really, Rachel?’ he said. ‘You want to joke right now? My arse-kissing got us this meeting, and it’s not over yet. Get ready to pucker up.’
She tried to smile as they walked into the conference room but her lips started quivering when she saw her boss making small talk with their most important clients.
Get a grip, Rachel. As far as they’re concerned you’re perfectly at ease. They don’t know that you’ve aged in dog years or restarted your nail-biting habit over the presentation. They can’t see the uncomfortable crotch hammock that your too-yellow tights are making under your dress.
She took a deep breath, resisting the urge to plunge her hand down the back of her tights to make adjustments.
‘Ah, Rachel, James, hello.’ Their boss stood up when he saw them. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Rachel Lambert and James McCormack, two of our brightest young architects. I think you’re going to love what they’ve come up with.’
His expression warned them not to prove him wrong.
After work, Sarah yanked open the front door before Rachel could get her key out of the lock. Then she nearly wrestled her to the sofa.
‘Ace, you’re home! Let me take that for you!’ She grabbed Rachel’s giant portfolio case.
‘What are you doing?’ Rachel protested as Sarah wrenched off one of her brogues. In her tiny hands the shoe looked huge and inelegant.
‘You’ve had a hard day, so you need to relax.’
‘And this mugging is supposed to relax me?’
Sarah looked surprised by the shoe in her hand. ‘I want you to put your feet up and I’ll cook for us.’
Rachel grinned at her sweet, impulsive housemate. ‘Thank you. Can I have my shoe back please?’
‘Catherine’s just changing. Dinner’s ready soon.’
Sarah retreated to the kitchen with the shoe still in her hand.
‘Do I have to stay here on the sofa?’ Rachel called. ‘Or am I allowed in the kitchen?’
Slowly she rolled her shoulders, feeling the satisfying tick tick tick of her vertebrae cracking away the tension of the past few weeks.
‘Have you been grounded or something?’ Catherine said as she came downstairs from her bedroom.
‘Sarah stole my shoe.’
Catherine didn’t look surprised. ‘How’d it go today?’
Rachel couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.
‘That good, eh?’
‘Remember the time I got that flight to Prague for twenty-nine pounds? And the hotel lost my reservation and gave me a suite for the price of a double? Today was better. Seriously, I rocked it! The clients loved our pitch. They made all the right noises about letting us present our ideas. I think they’re going to give us a chance.’
She didn’t need to tell Catherine that her design would be competing against James’s. It was all she’d rabbited on about lately.
‘Well done, I knew they’d love it!’ Catherine scooped her up in a hug. ‘You’ve told your mum?’
Rachel’s face felt like it might split in two. ‘She rang me back right after the meeting. She thinks I’m awesome.’
Catherine squeezed her again. ‘She’s always been the president of your fan club.’
‘I know.’ She sat back down, resting her head on the back of the sofa and listening to Sarah mangle pop songs at the top of her voice in the kitchen. As much as she loved going out, these rare nights home were bliss. Their rambling, derelict house was the anchor that held them all steady in London.
Or maybe it just seemed like that. She vaguely remembered the same feeling in Catherine’s old flat. Which meant it wasn’t really the house, but the housemates. They might not spend all their time together like they did in the early days, but she couldn’t imagine her life without them.
It was only because of Catherine’s extra mortgage that they’d met at all. She’d sunk so much money into the new matchmaking business that she’d needed flatmates to help pay back the loan. Rachel and Sarah had been the first two to answer her advert. Rachel was only a junior architect then, who still went home to her parents’ every week for dinner and clean laundry. And Sarah was fresh from uni. That was seven years ago.
And now they had the Clapton house. It had taken blood, sweat and tears to get the money together to buy it at auction. Rachel still cried sometimes, looking at her meagre savings account, but it was an excellent long-term financial decision. Assuming it didn’t actually fall down. As the resident architect, she was the one who had to make sure that didn’t happen.
‘Richard is getting married,’ Catherine said, pulling her from her reverie.
‘No way. Who’d have him?’
‘The Hungarian teenager. He wants me to have dinner with them.’
‘Why? Is he looking for a grown-up’s approval?’
Catherine didn’t smile. Rachel always thought that her serious face was her most beautiful. Although that was like choosing which of Thornton’s Decadently Dark chocolates she preferred. All of them, obviously.
‘What’s this mean for you and him?’
‘As long as nothing changes then it doesn’t mean anything.’
Rachel could see Catherine retreating from her feelings. She rarely went off-kilter. You could detonate a bomb beside her and she’d carry on as normal. Maybe that’s what Richard did with his news.
‘You’re sure about that?’ Rachel asked. Just because Catherine called time on their marriage didn’t mean it was easy to hear this news.
‘Rachel, we just celebrated a happily divorced ten years. Of course I’m sure. As long as he doesn’t let this nonsense interfere with the business.’
‘Right,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s the business you own with your soon-to-be-remarried ex-husband. Whose fiancée you hate. What could possibly go wrong there?’
‘It’ll be okay,’ said Catherine. With that, she got up and went to check on Sarah.
Rachel couldn’t exactly throw stones at Catherine while she had James to deal with at work. She just hoped Catherine wouldn’t end up mixing business with displeasure.
Not everyone got to ignore their exes when their tolerance ran out. Sometimes children, social circles, mortgages or, in Rachel’s case, office space, made it hard to just delete his contact details and make your friends promise to forget all about that dark period. And sometimes people, like Catherine and Richard, actually wanted to stay in each other’s lives. Not only that, they built an entire business model around the idea that other people did too.
It definitely wasn’t for everyone, Rachel thought as she followed Catherine down to the kitchen. But after last night’s date she had to admit that it might be for her.
She just knew that Catherine was going to be smug about that.
‘This looks delicious,’ Catherine said as Sarah dished up their dinner – a huge salad of grilled halloumi, rocket, blood oranges and olives – at their battered, beloved kitchen table. It was big and comfortable and never divulged the secrets they shared over it. Like the rest of the house, it had seen better decades.
‘So, I’ve been thinking about RecycLove.com,’ Rachel said.
‘Oh?’ Catherine gave away nothing.
‘Because your date was bad? I want details!’ cried Sarah as she slid a tray full of shiny white meringues into the oven.
‘Please, not while we’re eating,’ Rachel said.
‘How did you meet this guy?’ asked Catherine.
‘At the pub last Friday. But it was close to last orders so I didn’t talk to him that much.’
‘That’s what you get for going out with someone you don’t even know,’ said Catherine.
Instead of answering, Rachel dug her phone out, opened Twitter and shared his photo round the table.
‘Ah, I see.’ Catherine smiled.
‘Nice one,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s pretty. I’d overlook a lot to snog him.’
‘That’s what I figured too. We’ve been tweeting all week. Just jokey messages, mild flirtation. He suggested a drink near the office. He did seem normal at first. Until he started flirting.’ She grimaced.
‘But you’d been flirting with him on Twitter.’
‘Not like this. At first it was hot.’ Her face started to burn. This wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to confess, even to friends. ‘We started talking about what we’d do to each other … in the bedroom.’
‘Rachel!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘You don’t even know him.’
‘Well, obviously, Sarah, at that point I was hoping to change that! It’s been a while, you know.’
Both women nodded. The only man who’d been in their house in the last six months had come to fix the boiler.
‘So I said something fairly tame like …’ She lowered her voice. So embarrassing. ‘Like I’d wear a body stocking. He said he’d like that. Then he asked if I’d wee on him while he wore the body stocking.’
‘Wow,’ Catherine said, keeping a straight face, Rachel noted. She probably had a tick box on the website for such fetishes.
‘That’s sick!’ Sarah said. ‘You should have reported him to the police.’
‘For what? Wanting to wee on me? It’s not a crime. The crime was that I didn’t just get up and leave. But it seemed rude not to finish my drink. That’s when it got really weird.’
‘That’s when it got weird?’ Catherine said.
‘Did he start punching himself?’ Sarah asked.
Rachel shook her head.
‘No, no punching …?’
Sarah’s mind worked in mysterious ways.
‘It’s just that wanting to be dominated probably comes from low self-esteem, maybe self-harm,’ Sarah continued.
Then again, Rachel thought, she was a clever woman. She just didn’t feel the need to fill the rest of them in on the steps in her thought process. Sometimes talking to her was like being paintballed from all sides.
‘So,’ Rachel continued. ‘I said that weeing on people wasn’t really my thing. And then he asked if I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my saviour. Because otherwise I was going to hell.’
‘Because you didn’t wee on him?’ Sarah asked. ‘That seems harsh.’
‘That’s when I left.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘If I join RecycLove.com can you promise I won’t have to wee on anyone?’
‘I can’t make any promises,’ Catherine said. ‘But it’s got to be better than meeting randoms in bars. You’re really thinking of joining?’
Rachel nodded. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. A decade ago when she was just out of uni she’d never have joined a dating site. It had been too easy to meet guys then, and anyway, online dating reminded her of those WLTM adverts that everyone laughed over in the back of the papers.
But now, unless she developed a fetish or was born-again, she might need RecycLove. ‘I’m afraid it’s time.’
‘That’s great, Rachel,’ Catherine said. ‘Who’ll join with you?’
‘James, of course. He owes me.’
That was the rule with RecycLove. It was like a normal dating website but she could only join by bringing an ex to upcycle. New joiners gave their ex a romantic evaluation, which could be painful, Rachel thought, even if it was for their eyes only. On the other hand, knowing where she might be going wrong would let her make changes if she wanted. Then she’d get access to all those dating prospects … all those improved dating prospects.
She just had to convince James to join with her. And let himself be criticised for his failure at boyfriendship. How hard could that be?
‘But I’ll only join if Sarah does too,’ she said.
Sarah stared at her housemate as if she’d just asked her to donate a kidney.
Chapter Three
Sarah
Sarah’s heart pounded as her running shoes kicked up little dust whorls along the path. The huge plane trees spread their bare branches overhead, shielding her from a bit of the drizzle. Not that bad weather ever stopped her park runs. She’d cemented the habit into her routine when she ran long-distance for her school. Now it kept her jeans from getting too tight when she ate most of her baking. And it let her think.
She never claimed to be the brightest match in the box when it came to reading people but she knew a set-up when she saw one. And last night was one mother of a set-up.
Rachel and Catherine thought she didn’t know how they talked about her, that they worried she was turning into some kind of housebound, daytime-telly-watching, tracksuit-wearing weirdo. Like she didn’t worry herself. She was about one box set away from hermithood.
But there wasn’t really a lot she could do about that at the moment. Besides, her life wasn’t too bad, in the scheme of things. So she wasn’t dating. At least she didn’t have to go through all that effort – the buffing and straightening and shaving and shopping and standing around in uncomfortable shoes, trying to be the most fascinating thing on the planet – only to have a guy want to wee on her.
A few joggers passed her in the opposite direction but none overtook her. Even a decade after she last ran competitively, she was still fast.
She turned through the park gates and started for home. When she got inside she ran straight upstairs to the shower. She didn’t want to be told off again by Catherine.
Maybe she’d be happier in her kitchen anyway, she thought as she towelled herself dry. At least there she didn’t have to worry about whether she could hold the attention of some guy she’d just met, who might not even be worth her time. Amongst her pots and pans there was no pressure, and things generally ran to plan, unless she dropped a knife on her foot or set something on fire.
The others weren’t up yet when she got to the kitchen. Plunging her hands into the tin of flour first, she lifted the sticky bread dough from the bowl where she’d been letting it rise. She could make bread in her sleep. Just thinking about her mum, in the bright yellow kitchen kneading the bread for her and Robin and Sissy, made her salivate.
She began knocking back the dough on the floury tabletop. As usual she couldn’t resist the urge to squeeze it through her fingers. Paul Hollywood wouldn’t approve but she indulged herself anyway. Few things felt better to Sarah than soft, smooth, living dough between her hands.
Rachel staggered into the kitchen with last night’s eye make-up pooling on her cheeks. ‘Coffee. Please, I’m begging you.’
‘There’s a cup left in the pot … no, two cups … or a cup and a half … well it depends on how big your cup is. You look like you’ve been punched in the face.’
‘Call me Dolly,’ Rachel said, wiping her thumbs beneath her eyes. ‘Parton,’ she said in answer to Sarah’s confused look. ‘She sleeps in her make-up in case she has to face the photographers.’
‘If you say so.’ The only photographers in Upper Clapton were the ones the police sent out when there’d been a stabbing on the Murder Mile. ‘You’re more Edward Scissorhands than Dolly.’
‘Thanks very much. That for us?’ Rachel asked, pointing to the dough between Sarah’s hands.
‘Mmm,’ she said, leaving Rachel in the dark as to the answer. ‘I’m going to Sissy’s later.’
Sissy loved her sourdough bread. Sarah always felt bad that she couldn’t just leave it with her, instead of asking the staff to dole it out slice by slice to her toast-addicted sister.
‘Which reminds me,’ Rachel said. ‘Here.’ She pulled some papers from the kitchen drawer.
‘My hands are covered. What is it?’
She was just playing dumb. It said right at the top what it was.
‘Your application for The Great British Bake Off,’ Rachel said, popping her coffee cup in the microwave. ‘It’s about time you applied, Sarah Lee.’
‘No way! I’d fall apart at the first signature bake. I’m happy just baking here, for you lot.’
‘Bullshit, Sarah. You’re not happy. Anyone can see that. This would be so good for you. You need to get your confidence back and this could do it—’
Ding! Her coffee was ready.
Time’s up, thought Sarah. That was the end of the morning’s round of Let’s Fix Sarah. Tune in tomorrow. It would probably be a repeat.
‘Will you at least think about it?’ Rachel asked.
‘Yeah.’
Which they both knew meant no.
‘It would be so good for you.’
‘But Rachel, I’m twenty-eight. Being an adult means that I don’t have to do what’s good for me.’
‘Is that why you won’t sign up to RecycLove with me either? You’d rather sit alone in the house and be miserable than do this one little thing to make yourself happy?’
Sarah slammed the tea towel drawer shut. Why did everyone automatically assume that if someone spent time alone she was miserable?
‘But I’m not alone. I have you and Catherine.’
She covered the dough with a towel and shoved it back in the boiler cupboard to prove again.
‘You know what I mean,’ Rachel continued. ‘We’re no substitute for a normal, honest, red-blooded bloke.’
Sarah got the eggs out. There wasn’t enough butter for a Madeira cake, but she could use veggie oil for cupcakes instead. ‘Let me know if you find one of those,’ she said.
‘C’mon, it’ll be fun.’
Sarah glanced up. ‘That’s your idea of fun? Tracking down my ex so that he can tell me everything that’s wrong with me?’
‘You’ll get to do it to him too, though.’
‘Oh, well, then it sounds ace.’
She was amazed that Catherine’s business model actually worked. Even if there were enough people out there who didn’t want to stab their exes with a salad fork, how many of those were willing to critique their ex-lover’s techniques and relationship suitability and then (shudder) listen to the same thing about themselves?
She could live without that kind of honesty, thank you very much.
‘Well I’m doing it,’ Rachel said. ‘Aren’t you even curious to hear straight from the jackass’s mouth what he thought of you? You must have wondered what goes through a guy’s head.’
About a million times, along with every other woman in the world, Sarah thought.
Rachel continued. ‘This might be the one chance we have to find out without caring, if you see what I mean. Nobody wants to hear the truth while they’ve still got feelings, but now, years later? Bring it on. And then we’ll get access to all those men … all those improved men.’
‘I don’t even know how to get in touch with any of my exes,’ Sarah said, cracking eggs into the glass bowl. ‘I don’t keep their numbers after the event.’
‘Except for Sebastian.’
‘No way, I deleted him when we broke up.’ She laughed. ‘Not that he’d be hard to find. He’ll be in whichever club has the most Russian models.’
‘You could just ask your brother for his number. They are friends.’
‘He won’t do it,’ Sarah said, talking about Sebastian, not her brother.
‘Why not? You ended on good terms with him. You just weren’t right for each other.’
‘That wasn’t the problem. He thought all women were right for him.’
‘He didn’t actually cheat though, did he?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He was just shite at remembering to pay attention to me when pretty women walked by.’
‘See?’ said Rachel. ‘You’ve already got something for his feedback form. He’ll appreciate the advice. Think about it? Please?’
‘Will you leave me alone if I do?’
‘Of course not. I’ll ask you again tomorrow. If James and I join, will you sign up?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Sarah lied, shoving the Bake Off form back in the kitchen drawer.
* * *
Sarah tried not to smoosh the cupcakes as she sprinted from the train station to Sissy’s place. As she rounded the corner she saw her sister standing outside the facility’s front door, looking pointedly at her watch.
‘I’ve got cupcakes,’ Sarah called. ‘And I’m not late.’
‘Close call.’
Sissy was a stickler for time.
When Sarah opened her arms, Sissy threw herself into them with the full force of a small rhinoceros. As they hugged she breathed in the familiar scent of her strawberry VO5 shampoo.
‘You brought the bread?’ She caught Sarah in her signature laser-beam stare. She had the same colour green eyes as their mum, though they were almond-shaped, whereas Sarah’s were more mossy, round and deep-set.
‘Of course, I promised didn’t I? Shall we have a slice of toast?’
Sissy nodded. ‘With jam.’
While Sarah got to work slicing the bread in the communal kitchen, Sissy selected two plates from the cabinet. Carefully she opened the jam jar and unwrapped the butter. When the toast popped up, golden and steaming, she began her process. Nobody did toast as thoroughly as Sissy.
‘Want to eat it in the garden?’ Sarah asked as she spotted Kelly. Like Sarah, she was in her late twenties, but with a coiled-up energy like those women who taught Zumba classes. She strode rather than walked, with her shiny black hair swinging in a ponytail. She was always easy to pick out, even in the shapeless lilac and black uniform that all the nurses wore. ‘I’ll just give the rest of the loaf to Kelly, okay? Can you carry mine out too, please?’
‘Kelly the bread jailor,’ Sissy muttered as Sarah gave her both plates.
‘Hi Sarah, all right?’ Kelly asked with the same easy manner that all the support workers had.
‘All right, thanks. Here’s Sissy’s bread. We’re tucking into some now.’
But Sarah wasn’t looking at Kelly as she handed over the loaf. She was watching Sissy as she shuffled at her snail’s pace toward the garden door at the end of the corridor.
‘As if you’d get out of here without toast,’ Kelly said.
‘Tell me about it.’
Sissy reached the door but, with her hands full, she couldn’t open it. ‘Oh, sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I should help Sissy.’
Kelly gently touched her arm. ‘Let’s give her a minute.’
They watched as Sissy stood at the door with the plates in her hands. She looked left and right, for help, Sarah knew.
Her heart began to speed. ‘I’ll just—’
‘Leave it just a minute, Sarah.’
Sissy walked into the nearest room and came out a few seconds later with a metal chair in her hands instead of the plates. Carefully she propped the door open with the chair. Then, still not hurrying, she went back into the room for the plates and carried them through to the garden.
Sarah let out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.
‘We’re trying to let her do as much as possible for herself,’ Kelly said. ‘She’s a clever girl. She figures things out. Why don’t you go enjoy your toast?’
As usual, Sarah was in awe of Kelly. She and the others made the care home seem so normal. No drama, no fuss and no institutional feel. Despite the emergency call buttons and trained medical staff wandering around, it felt like a family there. Sissy loved it.
Sissy’s diagnosis hadn’t been a surprise to their mum. When she’d found herself pregnant at forty-two, she’d taken the chromosome disorder test at the insistence of her shell-shocked new boyfriend. Just as a precaution, he’d said.
‘It’s only precautionary if I’d do something about it,’ she’d told him, her Scouse accent becoming more pronounced with her anger. ‘And I won’t.’ She’d taken the test just to shut him up.
He didn’t believe she’d have a Down’s syndrome child.
She didn’t believe he’d leave her if she did.
They were both wrong.
He probably wasn’t a bad person, Sarah conceded when she was feeling generous. He just hadn’t planned to father Sissy so soon after meeting their mum.
Their poor mum. Her track record wasn’t great when it came to men sticking around once her epidural wore off. Sarah’s dad had been the first to run the hundred-yard dash, when Sarah was born and her brother, Robin, was a toddler. She didn’t have any interest in knowing her father. Sissy and Robin and their mum had always been enough.
Sissy found a spot under the tree for them to sit. The late autumn sun was weak and their toast turned stone-cold, but Sissy loved the garden.
‘I have a boyfriend, you know,’ she said.
‘Is that right?’ Sarah struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Anyone I know?’
Most of the residents in the home were older than Sissy … much older.
‘Nope.’
‘Is he handsome?’
‘Yeah, and a bit fat,’ she said, nibbling her toast in perfectly even bites along each edge until she got to the last buttery golden mouthful in the middle.
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘How old is your boyfriend?’ Sarah asked, holding her breath.
Instead of answering, Sissy brushed the fine blonde hair from her face so it didn’t interrupt her snack.
She wasn’t sly by nature, but if she got the tiniest inkling that Sarah might get upset she’d avoid her questions.
‘Same as me,’ she finally said.
At least he wasn’t some old perv, Sarah thought. Though he could still be a young one.
‘Do you and your boyfriend do fun things together?’
‘We paint and watch telly and hold hands.’
Sarah needed to talk to Kelly about this. A shared interest in EastEnders was one thing, as long as they weren’t shagging during the advert breaks.
It was probably the single biggest worry they had about Sissy. Her trusting nature was to be expected when she was little. Now that she was sixteen it could be dangerous.
As if sexual politics weren’t hard enough without Down’s syndrome.
‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’ Sissy asked, staring at her.
‘Do I need one?’
Evasion. It ran in the family.
‘It’s nice having one,’ she said. ‘You could bake him cupcakes.’
‘But I bake you cupcakes. Would you be happy sharing them with my boyfriend?’
Sissy thought about this for a minute. ‘You’d have to bake extra for him.’
Before Sarah left she sought out Kelly again to talk about her sister’s budding romance.
‘I know it’s hard, Sarah, but she’s growing up.’ The way Kelly said this made Sarah want to crawl into her lap for a cuddle. She had that kind of friendly authority. ‘Nature is making changes and it’s normal for her to want to explore these. She’s done really well so far when it’s come to her maturing body, right?’
Sarah nodded. She’d been the one who freaked out about Sissy’s first period. Her sister was fine with it.
‘We’re talking to her about sex and the feelings she’s starting to have,’ Kelly continued.
‘I understand that, but she’s got a mental age of nine. How can she understand what those changes mean, or how she’s supposed to handle them?’
Kelly squeezed her hand.
Just five minutes in her lap and Sarah was sure she’d feel better.
‘We help her understand things the same way we would a nine-year-old,’ she answered. ‘With a lot of clear explanation in an environment where she’s encouraged to ask questions and get honest answers. The boy she’s been spending time with is sixteen too. We keep a close eye on them and, as you know, we talk regularly to everyone here about expressing their feelings in an appropriate way.’
‘But you can’t stop hormones,’ Sarah pointed out, remembering her own teenage years. She may not have had sex till well into university but that hadn’t stopped her thinking about it a lot.
Kelly smiled. ‘I promise we’re keeping a close eye on them. And it’s good for her to have companionship. Everybody has intimacy needs. It can be unhealthy if they’re not expressed. See you on Thursday?’
‘Yep, Thursday.’
If her sixteen-year-old sister had a boyfriend, maybe she did need to think a bit more about RecycLove.
The free sample has ended.
