Chapter 1
ALICE
There are times in our lives when we feel like we have everything worked out. A job, a partner. But life sometimes doesn’t end up like we planned, which is where I find myself as I grip the cardboard box tightly in my arms, my spider plant balancing precariously on the top.
Well, I mean, technically, it’s a re-start.
I’m back in my hometown of Brookley, in the West Midlands.
If you Google Shropshire, you will find fields, hills, talk of Tolkien and his inspiration for the Shire.
And it’s true. There are still parts of my hometown that are like that, but honestly?
You’re more likely to spot a Bargain Booze than a Hobbit.
Still, the house sits opposite a park, and I’m close to town.
There is a window seat from where I can just about see Haywater Bridge hunched over the River Severn.
It’s where I plan to sit and watch the world go by, while I try to come up with some miraculous way to save my career.
I dump the box on the floor, lift Spidey, and place him in the centre of the bay window.
‘There you go, buddy.’ I land my hands on the hips of my jeans and turn to the sound of Spence’s huff behind the stack of boxes in his arms. Georgia follows her father, eyes glued to her phone, despite holding a smaller box against her AC/DC T-shirt, which is tucked into her long, baggy jeans, resting above a pair of lilac Converse.
She looks slightly older than her thirteen years.
I remember when it was all sparkles and pirate outfits.
We had to call her Captain George for six months; she refused to answer to anything else.
And… to my shame, I remember thinking that having a baby at the age of seventeen was going to ruin my best friend Spencer’s life.
But here they both are, two peas in a pod.
‘Where do you want these?’ Spence asks, blowing away his light brown hair as it flops forwards. I walk over and scan my scribbled writing on the side. ‘Kitchen, thanks.’
Georgia sniggers at something on her phone, thick blonde curls falling into her eyes. I smile at the way she blows them away in exactly the same way as her father.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask her. She glances up, big blue eyes taking in her surroundings. She checks Spence is out of eyeshot before hurrying up to me and showing me a TikTok of a cat strutting around in a pair of sunglasses. I laugh and she leans against me.
I gesture to the room. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Honestly?’ She plonks the small box on the floor.
‘Always.’ She looks around, a wince in her expression before she replies.
‘It’s a bit…’
‘Boring? Bare? Lacking in personality?’
‘Well, yeah.’ She exhales. ‘It’s not like your old place at all.’
It’s not, but then again, that wasn’t ever really my place. Ryan’s dad was a property developer, which meant we lived in a house way out of our price range.
‘I know.’
‘The window is kind of nice?’ She steps forwards and peers through at the road outside, the view of the park that leads to the bridge crossing the River Severn.
‘It is, isn’t it?’
Spence comes back in. ‘When’s the rest coming?’
I check my phone where I re-read the very curt and formal message from Ryan:
Removal van is scheduled to arrive at one. Contact this number if there are any issues. R.
I feel my throat closing as I bite back the hurt. No kiss. No funny one-liner. No love. It’s as though the last three years no longer exist.
I look up and plaster on a smile. ‘One-ish. Fancy a cuppa?’ I root into my shoulder bag and pull out a packet of digestives, wiggling them, despite the fact that I can tell they’re already probably more suited for a cheesecake base.
‘Better not.’ Spence looks around the room then back to me. ‘Got to get this one to her swimming lesson.’
‘Do we have to go? I hate it. The girls are all so…’ Georgia sucks in her cheeks and flutters her eyelashes.
I laugh and Spence folds his arms. ‘It’s a life skill.’
‘I suck at life skills. And I can already swim.’
‘No, you don’t, and you can’t in your pyjamas.’
‘It’s stupid. I mean, who goes into the water in their jammies?’
Spence glances at me with a wry smile. We’d had this same conversation at her age, and again when we went on holiday the year Heather got pregnant with Georgia. We purposefully did it just so we didn’t feel that we had wasted the experience.
‘It’ll be fun.’
‘I doubt that,’ she grumbles. ‘Can’t I stay here with Alice? I can help?’ She pushes her palms together. I hesitate and look to Spence who gives me a minute shake of his head.
‘Oh, swimming will be more fun than unpacking with me.’ I pull her into a hug and kiss the top of her head.
‘Bruh—’
‘No buts, and don’t call me bruh,’ Spence says. ‘I’ll shout you a Maccies straight after if it’ll ease the pain?’
She spins to me. ‘He says it’s for me, but he’ll be desperate to escape – the mums go all weird when he’s around.’
Spence shakes his head. ‘No they don’t.’
‘Yes they do. I heard Amy’s mum saying to Sam’s mum that she liked your—’ she hesitates, a mischievous smile in place ‘—OK, I’m not going to say the word else I know you’ll change the Wi-Fi password again, but s-l-u-t-t-y little glasses.’
‘And on that note, we’re going.’ Spence places his hands on Georgia’s shoulders and steers her through the room.
‘Fine, but I want a McFlurry too!’
‘We’ll see,’ he answers. ‘Now get in the car.’
I follow them to the door, Georgia pushing her rose-gold earpods back into her ears before climbing into Spence’s very sensible black Ford.
As a teenager, he’d had a poster of a Lambo on his bedroom wall, but then becoming a single dad before you’re even legally old enough to drink will squash your dreams of sports cars.
‘Slutty little glasses?’ He turns to me shaking his head. ‘What does that even mean?’
‘It’s a whole TikTok thing, bruh.’
‘Don’t you start.’
I grin. ‘Have any of the swim mums asked you out?’
‘No. Well, kind of.’
‘You should go for it. It might be fun?’
Spence looks towards the car. Georgia lowers the window and shouts, ‘Come on! Or I’ll be last to get changed and that will make it suck even more!’
I lean my head against his shoulder. ‘Your baby’s not a baby any more.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
He pulls away, turning to me. ‘You going to be OK?’
I plaster on a bright smile. ‘Yep. Lots to do.’
‘I can come back later if you…’
‘Nah, I’m sure Georgia will want some down time, and Josie’s coming over later. Thanks, though… I think I need a bit of time to adjust. It’s been a while since I’ve had my own place.’
He pushes his glasses up his nose and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You can do this, Al.’
I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘I know. I just didn’t expect to be starting over again at the age of thirty, you know? I thought I had it all sorted – the job, the man, the house…’
He squeezes my shoulders. ‘Listen. Life’s too short to spend it worrying about what you’ve lost. Look right in front of you.
You’ve got a blank slate. Time to live the life you want.
’ He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head just as Georgia leans over and parps the horn.
‘I’m coming!’ he shouts to her, releasing me.
‘I’ll call you later?’ He pulls away and jogs down the steps.
I close the door behind him.
‘Coffee,’ I say to the empty room and walk with purpose into the kitchen with a sigh.
The kitchen in our old place was large, open plan, with blue shaker-style cupboards, an Aga, beech-wood island in the middle.
There were copper pans hanging above. I loved the wide patio doors that swung open into the wooded garden.
We had paid a small fortune for a large wooden table where Ryan and I would write our column, festoon lights would click on as twilight hit, and we’d call it a day and open a bottle of wine while laughing and arguing at our opposing opinions.
I look at the small kitchen in my new home.
No built-in wine rack here filled with bottles of Sancerre or Chablis that we brought back from our holidays and research trips.
All that stands before me is a tiny galley: white doors, a fridge freezer that still has the energy rating sticker on the outside, and one double-glazed window that looks out on to a small rectangular lawn.
Right. Coffee.
I rip the tape off the box, pull out a few cups, and rummage around until I find my stove-top Italian espresso machine and a fresh bag of coffee.
I add the water and spoon in the coffee, spending a few minutes trying to work out how to turn on the hob.
It’s so quiet.
I never used to notice it, but when you’ve lived with the hum of a city for three years, this kind of quiet feels too… loud. I shake my head. That doesn’t even make sense. Maybe the reviews that followed Ryan leaving were right; without him, maybe I can’t even string a sentence together?
Coffee in hand, I go back into the lounge.
I lift the box Georgia had carried in and dig out my radio.
It’s fifties in style. I’d kept it in the small summer house at the bottom of our garden.
There was no Wi-Fi down there, no electricity.
It’s where I would go to escape distractions while I wrote.
I reach for the comforting feel of the old dials, twisting it away from my old neighbourhood, my old life, until it snags on a signal, and Radio Shropshire plays into the room, muzzling the silence.
I fold myself onto the floor, gripping my mug, my finger tapping against the outside of the porcelain out of habit.
I stop. Look down at my hand. There is no clink of my engagement ring against the surface.
All that remains is a small indentation where it used to sit.