Chapter 1
SOPHIE
‘Yes, right there, just like that. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.’ I am seconds from an earth-shattering orgasm when I suddenly wake up.
‘Mum!’
I sit bolt upright in bed, beads of sweat on my brow, and my breath shallow. Did Harlow actually cry Mum, or did I dream that too?
‘Mummy!’
‘So, not a dream then,’ I mutter, flinging back the covers and rushing out my bedroom door. ‘Coming!’ I bellow as I race down the stairs.
I enter the kitchen to discover a shocking tableau: my ten-year-old with her arms wrapped tightly around our giant ginger cat Hobbes, who has a live mouse in his mouth.
All three of them stare at me wildly, eyes like saucers.
‘Fuck.’
‘Mum!’
‘Sorry.’
As I slowly approach, the mouse starts wriggling, then Hobbes does too and Harlow is very close to losing her grip on him. ‘I’m going to take Hobbes and you run and open the back door, okay?’
‘Kay.’
‘Now!’
I snatch Hobbes and Harlow shoots past me and opens the door. Two steps behind her, I launch Hobbes out onto the back patio, where he lands deftly on all four feet, then slam the door shut. The mouse is on its own.
I turn to Harlow, who now has tears in her eyes.
‘But the mouse. I was trying to save it.’
‘I know.’ I cross to her and pull her in for a hug. She’s grown again, and her face now rests between my boobs. ‘But that’s nature, Lo. Hobbes is a cat and cats hunt mice. If we were in medieval times, that would be his job.’
Harlow pulls back abruptly, giving me a harsh look.
‘Cats still have that job today, Mum – in factories and on farms. They’re called mousers.’
‘Oh right,’ I reply, once again reminded that the Year Five curriculum is far more varied and in-depth than it was when I was ten.
‘And Hobbes is domesticated,’ she continues. ‘Why is he hunting mice?’
Now, this is a question I can answer with confidence.
‘Because of instinct. Because that part of Hobbes’ brain is hard-wired to hunt. His ancestors were hunters, so he’s a hunter.’
Her mouth flattens into a sceptical line.
‘If you don’t believe me, ask Mr Patel when you get to school.’
She eye rolls dramatically.
‘Can’t say I’m loving all the eye rolling, Lo. Now upstairs and hop in the shower.’
‘Fine.’
Harlow makes a big show of huffing out of the kitchen, then stomping up the stairs.
‘Bloody hell, she’s not even a teenager yet,’ I grumble to myself. Though she has made a pot of tea – my sweet, thoughtful daughter is still in there somewhere. Hopefully she won’t be consumed by the snotty tween who has started showing up on occasion.
I pour myself a mug of tea and doctor it with milk, then take it to the kitchen table where I have a view of Hobbes playing with the exhausted mouse.
He looks up proudly, as if to check that I’m watching, but I look away, too squeamish to witness him finishing the job. Instead, I watch the sky lighten, my mind drifting back to the dream I was having before Harlow’s shouting woke me up.
I was having sex with Drew Parker.
All my sex dreams – and my wide-awake sexual fantasies – are about Drew Parker, the hottest bloke I’ve ever laid eyes on. Well, since Daniel.
Dark-blond wavy hair he wears slightly too long so it flops over one eye, a jawline, nose, and cheekbones to rival Michelangelo’s David, a mouth so full it elicits dirty thoughts of steamy, wet kisses and scream-inducing oral sex, ice-blue, almond-shaped eyes framed by stupidly long black lashes, and the sort of body that yells, I work out five times a week, which he shows off by wearing slim-cut trousers and fitted dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the most perfect forearms ever seen on a man – anywhere.
To top it off, he smells divine – far better than anyone has a right to smell – like sex and spice and all things nice.
And that voice! Deep and rumbling, making his American accent sound almost musical.
It gets under my skin that voice. In a good way.
He’s the sexiest man in my orbit – no question.
Which is unfortunate, because he’s also a smug, arrogant, up-himself prick and my work nemesis.
Other colleagues offer to be a sounding board when I need to noodle on a problem, or ask my opinion when they’re stuck.
But Drew Parker wouldn’t know collaboration if it poked him in the bum.
He’s a lone wolf – and I’m not the only one who thinks so.
He’s late to every meeting – apparently, his time is more important than anyone else’s – and swans about the Emberstone offices like he owns the place.
He was also shortlisted for an industry award last year. For the Hargreaves Christmas ad campaign. The one I’d hoped to land – was sure I’d land.
But at least no one knows how much I lust after him. Not even my work wife, Jane – forty-four, divorced, and the closest I have to a best friend.
‘Mum! Coco’s on the phone!’
Coco is my mother-in-law. When Harlow was born, she said she was far too young to be called any of the more traditional monikers for a grandmother, and as her name is Connie – short for Constance – she opted for Coco.
For years, Harlow thought everyone’s grandmother was called Coco – even my mum, which caused a teeny bit of consternation. And of course, toddlers struggle with the ‘K’ sound at first, so for a while there, Connie was Toto.
‘Coming!’ I shout back.
God, when did we become a family of shouters? Should I be trying to curb this behaviour, or is it part and parcel when you live in a two-storey terrace house?
I gulp down some lukewarm tea, dump the rest in the sink, then head upstairs. The second I pick up my phone, Harlow starts belting out Sabrina Carpenter’s latest song from the bathroom. I’ll have to keep an ear out – last time she sang every word, including the ones she’s not allowed to say.
‘Hi, Connie. Sorry, I was downstairs.’
‘Not to worry. Is that horrible noise my granddaughter?’ she asks.
‘Either that or Hobbes found his way back inside and is yowling about his latest conquest. He brought a mouse in this morning.’
‘Oh, dear – that sounds awful.’
I snigger, imagining Connie’s face distorting with distaste. There’s no way she would have handled the situation the same way I did. She would have directed Harlow to drop Hobbes on the floor, dragged Harlow out of the house, then waited for an exterminator.
‘So, what’s up?’ I ask.
‘I was wondering… that work party of yours. Do you think I could bring someone?’
This is about Emberstone’s Family & Friends Party – pushed back to this weekend due to unseasonably hot weather all of September.
Hard to pull off an outdoor party for employees and their families when the weather cracks 33°C three weekends in a row.
This Saturday we’re expecting a reasonable 20°C with a light wind and a low UV index – I’ve checked.
‘I’m sure that will be fine,’ I reply, keeping my tone casual – but oh my god!
Connie divorced Daniel’s father so long ago that I’ve never actually met him. I’ve also heard enough stories about him over the years that I don’t want to. And she never goes on dates. We have that in common.
‘Excellent,’ she replies, a smile in her voice.
‘So, anyone I know?’ I venture.
‘Mmm?’ She’s being cagey and I laugh quietly to myself. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I look forward to meeting him. Or her,’ I add – purely for my own amusement.
‘Oh, Sophie,’ she says with a resigned sigh, ‘if only I did prefer women. I imagine life would be so much simpler.’
My mouth falls open, then widens to a smile. How, after all these years, can my mother-in-law still surprise me? And that’s two surprises in a single conversation.
‘You know… you could bring someone too,’ she says in that ‘helpful’ way of hers.
The smile falls off my face like a boulder bouncing down a mountainside.
This isn’t the first time she’s said something like this – nor the second nor third. Connie has been on at me for a while now. She wants me to ‘get back out there’ and ‘move on with my life’.
The problem is that I met my Prince Charming when I was twenty-two, we fell madly in love and started a life together, then he died.
How am I expected to move on from that? And move on to what exactly? I’ve already had my fairy tale.
‘Anyway, I’d best be off – let you get on with your morning,’ she continues when I don’t say anything. ‘See you on Saturday,’ she adds with a chirruping lilt to her voice. It must be the mystery man – Connie hasn’t sounded this upbeat in ages.
We end the call right as Harlow sings one of the contraband words.
‘Harlow!’
‘Sorry, Mum!’
I cradle my phone in my hands.
You could bring someone too.
I stare at the photo of Daniel on my bedside table – so handsome he still takes my breath away.
‘You get it, don’t you, babe? How can I possibly find someone as perfect for me as you were?’
That’s something most people don’t understand about being a widow: just because my husband’s dead, doesn’t mean I’ve stopped being in love with him.
Which is why, after Daniel’s death, I threw myself headlong into my career.
That was my version of getting on with life – at first, I used work as a distraction, raising my hand for every project on offer.
Then I grew to love it – meeting with clients, divining what they need (which often differs from what they want or what they think they need), then crafting an advertising campaign to knock their socks off.
And I’m good at it – no, great at it. An advertising whizz.
So, between being Harlow’s mum and my role at Emberstone, my life is full. I certainly don’t need to start dating.
Sex on the other hand…
Let’s just say that I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman and I have needs. Which is why I dedicate a decent portion of my time indulging in sexual fantasies about a certain colleague – and have a standing order for AAA batteries.
I’m not just surviving, I’m thriving. Or some bullshit like that.
‘Right, babe?’ I ask Daniel’s photo.
‘Mum, I’m finished in the bathroom.’
‘Okay.’
With my husband’s smile in my head – and my heart – I go and get ready for work.