Chapter 1 Anna
Anna
No one prepared me for this. For today.
I plant my hands on my hips as I take in my new home. A one-bedroom, one-bath flat in Putney. It’s dated, small, and pokey. Then again, it is only me living here now.
I have a view of the River Thames right by Putney Bridge. I’m not too close to the Underground, but perhaps the short walk before and after work will do me some good.
I release a long exhale.
“This is it,” I mutter to myself.
Growing up, we’re spoon-fed fairy tales in which the girl meets her Prince Charming, birds sing, the couple get married, pop out a few spawns, and everyone’s farting rainbows and shitting sunshine forevermore.
But the glamorous tale spun by parents and educators doesn’t always translate to the real world.
We aren’t all guaranteed a happily ever after.
I’m thirty-four, live alone, and definitely don’t have a Prince Charming. I haven’t even got a bloody cat. However, I do have a stack of freshly signed divorce papers.
Don’t get me wrong, I have the best friends a woman could ask for: Gemma and April. But they’ve got their partners and their own lives. I can’t rely on them day in and day out. April has her rockstar husband James, while Gemma has my older brother Max.
I used to have Mason.
We were married for eight years. Eight happy years.
But somewhere along the way, Mason decided he didn’t want to have kids anymore. And for years, he didn’t bother to tell me he’d changed his mind.
“All right, that’s the final box,” Max says, clapping his hands together as he straightens, folding the collapsed cardboard under his armpit.
Now, I’m starting over. My biological clock feels more like a bomb, and I can’t shake the feeling that my thirties have been stolen from me.
And while society loves to preach how your thirties are the new twenties, and women don’t need a man—girl power and all that—reality feels far less empowering.
When you’re in your thirties, childless, freshly single, and forced to include your brother on your new lease agreement to be accepted, that “independence” everyone raves about shrivels entirely.
When I divulged my marital status, the realtor pursed her lips and tilted her head, dragging her gaze from my messy hair down to my worn-in trainers. It was bloody demoralizing.
I felt about as welcome as a used tampon.
“Thanks. I really appreciate your help,” I say, shooting Max a crooked smile. I tug him in for a side-hug.
“What else are brothers for, right? Heavy lifting’s part of the deal.”
I peer around the small, dimly lit kitchen. Max has unpacked and organized the entire flat. He also accompanied me to property inspections, covered my legal fees, and even took care of moving costs. He’s been a lifesaver.
Mason bought me out of our red-bricked terrace home in Central London—the one I loved more than anything.
I’d designed every inch of it: the lush green courtyard, the provincial interior décor, the fully renovated, state-of-the-art kitchen.
But, on a teacher’s wage, I never stood a chance of keeping it. Alas, here I am.
It was supposed to be our forever home. Though I suppose rattling around in a large empty house would be depressing without the family I’d imagined.
“Gemma and April should be back any minute,” Max says, mussing my hair, “so I’ll leave you to it. Give me a buzz if you need anything, okay, Weasel?”
Gemma and April have called and texted every day. No matter how often I cancel our plans, they’ve never given up on me. After helping unpack my bedroom and bathroom, and arranging my bookshelf, they dashed off to grab supplies for tonight.
I swallow a lump, nodding. “Will do.”
“And Anna?”
I lift my brows. “Hmm?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to shower.” He winks.
“Oh, bugger off,” I say, giving him a light shove.
He chuckles. “Have fun tonight.”
Not likely.
He leans in to pop a quick kiss on the top of my head before leaving. I look around for something to keep me busy until the girls get back. I know: wine.
I pluck a bottle of chardonnay from a box of six, unscrew the cap, and pour myself a generous glass. Then, I take up position on my sofa with a packet of crisps and get stuck in.
I came to terms with the split a long time ago, but now that the Final Order has been granted, it’s official.
Our marriage is legally dissolved. It’s strange to think that you can spend years loving someone, knowing someone, building and sharing a life together, only to become strangers again.
You aren’t the first person they talk to about their day.
The first person they say good morning to and the last person they see before they go to sleep.
Slowly, they withdraw until eventually they’re gone and you’re left with nothing.
Wondering if you could have done something different.
The newly signed papers mock me from the coffee table.
Yesterday, on my way home from the lawyer’s office, I was feeling so morose I even stopped by a fertility clinic and grabbed a few brochures about egg freezing and donor sperm.
I never would have predicted that—not that there’s anything wrong with it—I just thought I’d be experiencing parenthood with Mason.
I haven’t heard from him since the ink dried. Not a single I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, or maybe I should have been honest about my feelings sooner, or even I hope you have a happy life.
Instead, there was silence, which hurt even more.
Two glasses later, Gemma and April swan in, brandishing a bag of cosmetics and a fistful of coat hangers, a dress suspended from each one. Black, red, royal blue—you name it, they’ve bought it.
April’s totally out of breath, arching her back and pushing out her round belly. “Christ, those stairs are awful.”
“They aren’t that bad,” Gemma says with amusement in her voice.
“You haven’t been carrying a tiny human around in your uterus for six months,” April says.
“No, I haven’t.” Gemma shrugs. “But I am rather constipated.”
April huffs a laugh, shaking her head.
April and I have been best friends for over twenty-seven years. We met in Year 1, both new kids at school. I’d just moved back to Central London after living in Fiji. My family moved around a lot when I was younger because of my dad’s hotel work.
I met Gemma through April, in our mid-twenties, and the three of us have been inseparable ever since.
“All right,” Gemma says, snapping her fingers at me. “Put the glass down and get your arse in the shower.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “We’re going out.”
“It’ll take a lot more than a shower and a case of makeup to polish this turd.”
“What turd?” April asks.
“Me, April,” I reply, jabbing a finger to my chest. “I’m the turd.”
Gemma’s lips twist into a half-smirk. “The most beautiful turd I ever did see.”
I shoot her a sarcastic smile.
I’m curled on the sofa in what I’ve been wearing almost every day since the separation: leggings and an oversized jumper.
“Come on! You said you’d go out with us,” April says, her voice gentle. She steps forward and drops to a crouch in front of me, her long auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders.
Gemma settles into the cushions next to me. “We need to do something to mark the occasion.”
Leveling her with a look, I toss a potato crisp in my mouth with an unladylike crunch. “What occasion? My divorce?”
April places her hand on my knee, her sapphire eyes sincere. “You haven’t been out in ages. You thought it was a good idea when we first mentioned it.”
She’s right, I haven’t been out in months. Seven, to be exact. And I really don’t feel like starting tonight.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m perfectly happy nesting in my butt-dent, thank you very much,” I reply, grabbing another crisp.
April rolls her eyes before darting her gaze to the papers on the coffee table. “Maybe I could put those away for you?”
I wave my hand. “Just leave them.”
“Come on, Anna,” Gemma says, pushing her wire-framed glasses further up her nose. “We could go to the fancy bar at Gray Hotel? There are usually hot rich men there. They’re always a bit of fun.” She pumps her eyebrows.
I scrunch my nose. “No, thanks. I really don’t feel like going out anymore.”
“It seemed like you were looking forward to it,” April presses.
“Yeah, because you two were.” I sigh. “Can we just order a takeaway and watch a movie? Please?”
Their eyes flick to each other briefly before returning to mine.
“You sure?” April asks, covering my hand with her own.
I nod. “I’m sure. I’m really not up to it.”
“Fine,” Gemma says, flicking her finger at me. “We can stay in this time. But it’s your birthday next month. We are going out for that, okay?”
I purse my lips. “Fine.”
Her mouth tilts up in a grin. “All right, pass me that wine.”
We huddle together under a pile of blankets, passing each other snacks and sipping on wine—or, in April’s case, sparkling water.
April snatches the crisps from my lap. “What do you want to watch?”
I roll my lips, thinking. “Hmm. Notting Hill.”
Gemma’s hands link together over her heart. “Ugh, I love that movie. The part where Hugh Grant shows up to the press conference to win Julia Roberts back? Swoon!”
“I love that scene,” I murmur, shoving another handful of junk food in my mouth.
We spend the rest of the evening watching ’90s rom-coms and chatting about books. And when they eventually leave, returning home to their happy lives, I close the door and look around my empty flat.
Only then do I crawl into bed and let myself fall apart.