Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Abbie laughs. “Oh, but what a fun night.”
“I’ve still got memories coming back to me,” I say, looking down at my phone again. We had gone out for dinner at Amazonico, our favourite restaurant—a little pick-me-up, an obligatory breakup dinner with my girls. It was all very civilised until we moved to the bar area and the Porn Star martinis came out. My white COS dress was absolutely ruined, covered in black marks, and I have no idea how. I frown, looking at Abbie. “You pushed Charley home in a shopping trolley,” I say, another flashback coming to me.
Abbie gasps. “Yes! So that’s where it came from.” We chuckle together, the mystery of the Tesco shopping trolley that appeared in Charley and Lloyd’s front garden solved. “And we got a rickshaw back to mine.”
“Oh God,” I murmur, now recalling Bonnie Tyler blaring from the speakers as the driver pedalled like a maniac to get us home. “Hey, has a transaction come through yet from Amazonico?”
“No.” Abbie frowns around the word. “So weird.”
It is. The morning after, all of us with fuzzy heads, we tried to remember who got the bill. And couldn’t. None of us had a payment on any of our cards, and it was then we realised none of us recalled paying. Horrified, I called the restaurant with my tail between my legs. Apologised. I was told there was no need, the bill was paid. But none of our cards had been charged. Still haven’t. So weird. “How far away is this spa, anyway?” I ask.
“About forty minutes from Charley’s, maybe.”
“And where is it?”
“Arlington Hall. South Oxfordshire.”
“Sounds posh.”
“Doesn’t it?” she sings happily, reaching for the screen on her dashboard and flicking through the radio stations as I look across at her fresh, makeup-free face.
“Thanks for this,” I say quietly, and Abbie glances at me briefly, before taking her attention back to the road.
“Any more flowers?”
“Some last Friday and some yesterday. Mum’s house is starting to look like your florist.”
“He should buy them from me. I’d give him a discount. Has he called again?”
“A few times,” I reply. “It’s easier not to answer.”
She nods, thoughtful, knowing why I’m taking that stance. Guilt. It’s lingering like a bad smell. Speaking to Nick will only enhance it. Cowardly? I don’t even know anymore.
I gaze out the window, falling into a daydream. Truth is, he didn’t really do anything terribly wrong, except declare out of the blue that he wanted marriage and kids. Like . . . immediately. Things changed from that moment. I felt myself withdrawing, and Nick pushed on the matter more. Suddenly, the small things we had in common felt . . . irrelevant. He liked numbers, I liked numbers. We shared the same network of work friends, and the conversation was always the same. Work. Finance. Financial planning.
Until he made the conversation about babies and marriage. Constantly. I couldn’t breathe. I told him I wasn’t ready. And he told me I wasn’t getting any younger.
He told me I was selfish. That I owed him some kind of commitment.
That was the end of me and Nick.
As we turn onto Charley and Lloyd’s street, I laugh, seeing our friend standing on the pavement outside their London semi with her rucksack. “She’s been there the whole time,” I say, glancing down at my phone. Which is off. So I find the clock on the car display. Exactly twenty-one minutes since she last called Abbie. Charley starts hopping on the spot, waving her arms madly, like we could miss her waiting on the kerbside, jumping like a demented jack-in-the-box.
Abbie starts smashing the ball of her palm on the horn, and I look at her, exasperated. “Why all the noise today?” I ask. “This is supposed to be a peaceful, Zen day.”
“Are you kidding?” she says, swerving into a space before looking up and down my cream pencil dress.
I open the door and get out on a grimace, pulling the lever of the seat to release it before climbing into the back, leaving the front seat for Charley. I smile at the Tesco shopping trolley that’s still in their front garden.
Abbie starts hitting her horn again as Charley dances around the car and chucks her bag into the footwell. She falls into the seat and brushes her curly strawberry-blond hair back while blowing out the side of her mouth. “Finally.”
Abbie ignores her light dig. “We remembered where the trolley came from.”
“Oh, where?”
“I pushed you home in it.”
Charley stills in her seat, thinking, as more flashbacks come to me, the three of us cackling like witches as we bumped Charley across the pavement. “That explains my bruised coccyx. I thought I’d slipped down the stairs.” She starts hitting the dash. “Go, go, go.”
We laugh as Abbie zips out of the space and zooms off down the road, Charley turning in her seat to look past me out the back window.