The Three of Us

1. Carly

Chapter 1

Carly

T hirty-one and still single. According to my mother, she of the ‘nab him and marry him before you’re twenty-five’ generation, there must be something wrong with me. Either I’m trying too hard and putting men off, or I’m not really trying at all.

I’m sure, in another life, she would have made a very passable Mrs Bennet, desperate to marry off a string of eligible and not so eligible daughters before they ended up on the shelf. At least I’m the one and only daughter, but even so, Jane Austen has a lot to answer for!

If I would just get my head out of a book and pay more attention to my hair. Deal with the frizz and maybe add some highlights to my natural, and rather boring, mousey mop.

If I would just stay away from my usual pints of cider and sip at something smaller and more ladylike, preferably while gazing up all dewy-eyed at some man, leaving just a hint of cleavage on show so he can see what he’s missing, although, of course, I must never give it to him. Not until I have the ring on my finger anyway.

If I could just be more… girly, then, in Mum-speak, I will have cracked it. I’d have a husband in the bag, and in my beautifully made Laura Ashley-clad bed, in no time at all.

If only it were ever that straightforward, or that simple.

Exes. There have been a few, I have to admit. Some who have got as far as the meet-the-parents milestone, some I would never have dreamed of taking anywhere near. The odd one-night stand too, whose names I’d struggle to remember the morning after, let alone now, but the less my mother knows about that side of my life the better. She may be only just turned sixty but there’s something very old-fashioned and traditional about her. Gran was the same, so it must be in the blood, God help me. All jam-making and aprons and little lace doilies on the dressing table. Mum’s a bit of a worrier too, and an even worse one in the last few years, since she lost Dad and has had to take on all the worrying for two.

Okay, she’s right that my success rate with men has not been all it could be. But, in my defence, none of them have been what I would call husband material. But I let them all slip through my fingers, according to Mum. And now look at me. All her friends’ daughters, and quite a few of their sons, are settled, spoken for – and there’s me, like the last unwanted doll in the shop, still perched firmly on the shelf. It would never occur to her to lay the blame at the feet of any of the men I’ve had the misfortune to know, either biblically or otherwise. I’m just too critical, apparently. I expect too much.

He’s too plain? ‘Looks aren’t the be all and end all, Carly,’ she says. ‘And looks soon fade anyway. After all, they can’t all be Richard Gere, can they? A few wrinkles, a receding hairline, a bit of a belly are to be expected as time passes.’ No, it’s dependability I should be looking for, according to her. A good steady job. And if he’s not already successful, then at least he should have prospects. Someone who’ll work hard to build a career, pay the bills, and who’ll keep his whatsit in his trousers when he’s away from home. She wanders off into some tale about Auntie Sybil and Uncle Harold and how she should never have taken him back after all that business with his secretary, but I choose not to listen. Maybe he loved his secretary. Maybe he married the wrong woman. Who knows?

He’s too boring? ‘Your father could have bored for England,’ my mother says. ‘Especially once you got him started on mortgage rates or pest control or cricket, but he knew how to mow a good lawn, and look at how nicely he decorated the hall.’ I know she doesn’t mean it. The glint of tears in her eyes tell me that she would give anything to hear him talking about those pesky aphids, or even all that unintelligible leg before wicket stuff, again. She misses him a lot more than she’s prepared to let on. As much as I do, and probably a whole lot more. She found her perfect man and she’s trying her best to make sure I do the same. It’s just that her idea of perfect isn’t quite the same as mine.

So, I’ve set my sights too high, it would seem, turning away perfectly decent men just because they fail what she regards as my impossibly unrealistic compatibility test. But I know it’s just that I don’t actually fancy them. That’s the real reason why. Because there’s no chemistry, no spark.

Spark? When I try to explain, she stares at me in disbelief at the very mention of the word. ‘What’s a spark when it’s at home? Wait too long for a spark and there’ll be nothing left to burn,’ she says, or words to that effect. I’ve left it all terribly late and I should now, it seems, despite me being too silly to realise it, be out there grabbing at any half-decent, run-of-the-mill bachelor who shows the faintest glimmer of interest in me, before someone else gets there first, before the pool is empty and all that’s left for me to pick from are the ones every other girl has already rejected. The way-too-old, the mummy’s boys, the pig-ugly or, God forbid, the divorcees, back for a second bite of the cherry, with kids and maintenance payments and vicious ex-wives and all sorts of other accompanying baggage.

To listen to my mother, I’m at the last chance saloon and have been ever since I turned thirty. The clock is ticking. Let’s face it, she’s desperate to be a grandmother, and who provides the sperm is hardly more than a detail.

Which is exactly why I decided, right from the start, not to tell her about Jack. Never to tell her about Jack.

Not to tell her that he was quite possibly the best-looking man I had ever seen and that, for the last five years, I have been secretly comparing every man I meet to him, and not one of them has come close.

Not to tell her that he comes from some out-of-the-way Norfolk village nobody’s ever heard of and that he grew up on a farm. ‘All those big boots and baggy overalls,’ she would tut, ‘and just think of the mucky fingernails and where they might have been!’ How can she say that, with Dad always being so caught up in his beloved allotment and bringing clods of earth and the hint of manure into the kitchen on a pretty much daily basis? ‘No, no, that’s different,’ she would say. ‘Growing veg was a hobby for your father, not a job. He was a bank manager, Carly. Never forget that. Respected. Looked up to.’

I could tell her that Jack wore a suit these days and worked in an office, but I don’t even know if that’s true anymore. He went back there, didn’t he? To the village, and a life I know nothing about. He could be spending his days knee-deep in mud or with his arm up a cow for all I know.

I certainly couldn’t tell her that the sparks were flying so high the first time Jack touched my hand that I could have done with Dad’s super-duper lawn sprinkler, just to cool myself back down. Or that there was more chemistry brewing in the back bar of the Rose and Crown that day than in all the test tubes in my brother Sam’s favourite old toy chemistry set, multiplied ten times over. Light the touch paper and stand well back. Or is that what they say about fireworks? Come to think of it, there were a fair few of those flying about too.

If I close my eyes, I can still see Jack’s face as clearly as ever, can still feel his fingers as they interlaced through my own, in that instant instinctive way that nobody else’s ever have. Well, except Dad’s perhaps. There was always something warm and safe and wonderful in my dad’s big all-encompassing hands.

It’s his voice I find hardest to recall. I don’t mean Dad’s, which I’ve spent a lifetime listening to and will never forget and, as Mum has never found the courage to delete it from the answerphone message, I can still hear anytime I need to. No, I mean Jack’s. A voice I never had the chance to get to know that well, or to memorise forever. I have to think back, to something he actually said, bring the exact words into my mind first and then, if I’m lucky, the voice that spoke them will follow. I dread the day that doesn’t happen, when I can’t remember, when he becomes just a black-and-white photo of a man (not that I’ve actually got a photo of him, in colour or not, despite frantically searching through Facebook and Instagram and finding he’s just not there) and I can’t get him – the essence of him – back, if only for that wonderful fleeting moment.

Oh, Jack. How could you have done this to me? Started breaking my heart before I’d even given it to you? Before you even knew it was on offer?

It was all a case of bad timing. No, not just bad timing. It was bloody awful, couldn’t-make-it-up, terrible timing. The worst. Because the one really big thing I definitely cannot tell my mother about Jack is that, just three months after that firework moment that changed my whole life, he got married. To somebody else. Rings, bells, pageboys, her probably in some huge dress like an over-whipped meringue, carnations in buttonholes, and a cake almost as tall as I am. The whole clichéd shebang. It was all already arranged, planned, paid for, before we’d even met. A girl from his village. Someone he had promised to go back to just as soon as his six months working in London were over. Someone he cared about and couldn’t possibly hurt. And didn’t want to. Well, why would he? It’s like poor romantic Elinor Dashwood all over again, so heartbroken when she hears that her secret crush, Edward, has married his long-time fiancée Lucy Steele. Only that had been a total misunderstanding and he was still single, still hers, after all. What were the chances of that happening to me? Pretty much none, I reckon. Bloody Austen, with her false hopes and unrealistically happy endings.

Jack was the love of my life. We belonged together. I sensed it, felt it, just knew it, absolutely and instantly. Still do. If only he had felt it too.

Why was he taking such a huge step? He was young then, only twenty-four, just a couple of years younger than I was, and way too young to be tying himself down. There was time for all that, later, much later. Why couldn’t he have seen that? That he could wait, put it all off for a few years, until he was sure, that he still had a choice. But it seemed he had made that choice and had no intention of changing his mind. The trouble was, apart from turning up at the church and making a complete fool of myself (which, to be honest, right up until the day of the ceremony, I hadn’t completely ruled out), there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. So that was how it ended. How I lost Jack, my Jack, to the other woman, the woman who is now his wife.

But now, completely unexpectedly and right out of the blue, it looks like he might be back.

It’s a Tuesday in early August, a sunny day, and I have no after-work plans except to relax and enjoy a couple of drinks in a pub garden with my friends Fran and Suze, sharing a big plate of chips with both ketchup and mayonnaise on the side because we never can agree on which is best, and a good old gossip. And most of that is about Rosie, once a stalwart member of the gang and now swallowed up in so-called domestic bliss, which roughly translates as being buried up to the eyeballs in crying babies, soggy nappies and never-ending piles of dirty washing. Living what my mother would regard as the dream life, but for me the jury’s still out on that one.

From the moment Rosie had told us she was expecting twins, we’d lost her. All she could talk about was morning sickness and stretch marks and antenatal exercises and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, when the time came, we had to hear all the gory details of the actual birth too. The gas and air, the pain, the stitches, her husband, Syd, turning a ghostly shade of white and almost hitting the floor.

That was three months ago, and since then… no booze, no sneaky fags, no girly shopping trips (unless ordering feeding bras and extra-large knickers online counts), no fun at all. It was like a perfectly normal girl who had spent the last fifteen years or so with a drink in one hand and a mascara wand in the other had suddenly been taken up into a flying saucer by aliens and returned looking pretty much like the same person but utterly, utterly changed. Like she’d had some kind of irreversible motherhood makeover. Maybe that’s why those sci-fi films always seem to call it the mother ship.

‘Projectile vomiting,’ Suze is saying when I come back to the table with our second round of drinks balanced on a tray. ‘It actually hit the wall, apparently. The far wall, you know, the one by the radiator, not the one by the sofa. Sprayed everywhere like someone had been pebble-dashing the place. Can you imagine?’ I try really hard not to. ‘I suppose she was lucky it was only one of the little buggers. Just think what it would be like if they were both at it at once.’

‘Stereo sick.’ Fran screws up her face. ‘Yuck!’

‘Must we talk about sick? It’s enough to put me off my chips.’ I slide back along the bench next to Fran, grab two lukewarm chips from the almost empty plate before anyone else can, and take a sip of my ice-cold cider to help swill them down.

‘Yeah, you’re right, Carls. We get enough of that from Rosie when she’s here. At least let’s spare ourselves the baby talk while she’s not.’

‘ Here? She’s never here.’ Suze pinches the last chip, twirls it around in what’s left of both the ketchup and the mayonnaise until it’s bright pink and bites it in half.

‘True. When was the last time either of you actually saw her, or spoke to her? Other than on Facebook, I mean.’ Fran eyes the empty plate and reaches for her purse. She’s going to go inside and buy more chips. No surprise there. It’s what she always does.

‘Dunno. Three weeks, maybe?’ Suze shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s all weighing clinics and mother and baby groups for our Rosie nowadays. Her idea of a social life. There’s no time left for any of us.’

‘Do you think we’ll end up like that?’ Somehow, I find the idea depressing, as if all my mother’s dreams for me are one day going to culminate in me turning into another Rosie. ‘All married and maternal and bored out of our brains?’

‘Oh, God, I hope not.’ Fran eases herself along the bench and stands up. I swear I can feel the seat tip in my direction as soon as her rather large bottom has vacated the other end. She and Suze are sisters but you’d never guess unless you were told. Fran’s a redhead, while Suze seems to change her hair colour as often as her men. Fran’s also two years younger but getting on double the size. She really shouldn’t keep buying more chips, but I’m not going to be the one to tell her. I’m sure her working in a sweet shop doesn’t help either. Far too many Crunchies and Dairy Milks and nowhere near enough exercise. I thought my love life was bad enough but, since I started sharing a flat with her, I get to see at close hand when she goes out and who with, and I can guarantee that poor Fran’s love life is currently non-existent. Not that she seems to care. She’s actually the happiest and most laid-back person I know, so she must be doing something right.

‘So, have you met the new IT consultant they’ve brought in at work yet?’ Suze asks once Fran has gone inside. ‘He was getting out of the lift this afternoon when I was on my way upstairs and I took the opportunity of saying hello. Drop-dead gorgeous, or what?’

Suze and I have worked together in the accounts department at Mandrake’s Insurance for three years now. She was the one who told me there was a job going and put in a good word for me, so I know I should be grateful, but sometimes I do wonder if mixing up our social and business lives quite so closely is such a good idea. Here we are, for instance, supposedly out for a nice relaxing drink or two and the conversation still comes back to the office. A place I’d like to get away from and forget about once I’ve walked away every night. There are other downsides too. We burst into giggles at work just a little too often for a start, and sitting side by side all day makes it hard to have any sort of private life. She sees everyone I speak to in the office and can overhear every call I make. Still, that goes both ways, I suppose, and it is nice having a buddy to work with instead of some of the bitches I’ve had to put up with in the past.

Suze can be a bit of a flirt though, even when she’s at work, and eyeing up any new male member of staff has long been a hobby of hers. She keeps a little not-so-secret star chart in her top drawer, just a jokey thing really, but it’s divided up into sections for looks, charm, sense of humour, bum… and she marks them all out of ten. This new guy has clearly scored highly.

I laugh as she waves her hand about in front of her face as if fanning it furiously will calm the red-hot thoughts that are clearly in danger of making her self-combust.

‘That good, eh?’

‘Oh, yes. Sex on legs. Tall, dark, handsome. I wouldn’t say no, believe me. He even smells divine!’

‘I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Well, not yet anyway. Maybe I’ll take a stroll up there tomorrow and take a peek.’

‘Well, he definitely smiled at me, so just you remember that I saw him first and don’t you go muscling in. Not that he’s exactly available, to be honest. I did just happen to notice he was wearing a wedding ring, but a girl can dream…’

‘I don’t know about dream. Looks more like drool to me! And haven’t you forgotten you’re meant to be going out with Sean Miller? He seems like a nice enough guy.’

‘He’s okay, I suppose. It’s only been a couple of months though, Carly. We’re hardly joined at the hip. I like to keep my options open.’

I laugh, because Suze has been keeping her options open for so long that I don’t think she ever has any intention of closing them. No matter who she’s seeing, she always seems to have one eye open for someone better. She’s so scared of missing that elusive Mr Ten-Star who could walk into her life at any moment and sweep her off her feet, that she never lets any real-life ordinary man get close enough, however nice he might be. That’s pretty much what my mother says about me, I suppose, but in Suze’s case it’s completely different. She’s still waiting for her ideal man and I’ve already met mine.

‘So, what’s his name then? This new dream of a man I’m not allowed to snatch from under your nose? Not that I would anyway. Probably best we both steer clear, if he’s married.’

‘He said his name’s Jack. Jack Doughty or Dockery, or something like that. I’m sure I’m going a bit deaf lately. I sometimes wish we all had to wear name badges, then I wouldn’t have had to try and work out what he said. And a badge pinned in just the right place would be the perfect excuse to stare at his chest. Still, I suppose we’d get the men staring at ours too if we all had to wear them, so maybe it’s not such a great idea.’

I’ve stopped listening. I’m sure my heart rate has suddenly shot up because the blood is thumping around my system and making my pulse race. There’s heat rushing to my face and I think my hands are starting to sweat just a little bit. Jack? A gorgeous IT man called Jack, with a surname that sounds something like Dockery? That’s what she said. But it can’t be him, can it? Jack? Jack Doherty? My Jack Doherty? Back in London, after all this time? And working right here in the same part of town, in the same building, for the same company, as me?

Fran has come back from the bar and is settling down beside me, a chip from the plate she’s just plonked on the table already halfway to her mouth. ‘What have I missed?’ she asks, chomping down on the chip and blowing frantically because it’s too hot. ‘Whatever it is you’re talking about, our Carly’s gone all pink.’

‘Or who ever,’ Suze says, suddenly noticing what Fran saw straight away. ‘What is it, Carly? Is it Jack Whatever-his-name-is? Do you know the guy?’

I close my eyes for a moment and try to stay calm. ‘If it’s who I think it is, then yeah, I probably do. Or did, anyway. A long time ago.’

‘Really? Come on then. You can’t stop there. Don’t keep us in suspense. Tell all. And we want all the juicy bits. When? Where? How? And, most of all, did you?’

The truth is that Suze and I just know each other so well. Too well, maybe. If I had met Jack at any time in the last three years, she would have known about it, sensed it, squeezed every last detail out of me. Luckily, my Jack time was long before I came to work at Mandrake’s, back when Rosie was my best friend and Suze and I would only see each other a couple of times a month at most, so he’s managed to pass under her radar.

Nowadays, nothing gets past her, and now she’s got Fran interested too.

Four curious eyes are staring at me, waiting.

I don’t speak. I’m not sure I would know what to say if I did.

‘Oh, my God, you did, didn’t you?’ Suze is getting all excited now. ‘You dark horse, you! So, how come we don’t know about this? I thought we told each other everything.’ She reaches across the table and tilts my chin up with her finger, so she’s looking right into my eyes, and then she just gently shakes her head. ‘You and the gorgeous Jack. Carly Young, you lucky, lucky bugger.’