When Annie Thomas agrees to give her ex away at his wedding to his boyfriend, she thinks she’ll be fine. With her three children at her side, she can handle anything. Then she finds out her gorgeous first ex-husband Evan Llewellyn is flying in from his glamorous life in New York to attend as well!

An unexpected pregnancy ended their relationship and as she stumbles through the ups and downs of life as a working single mum – helping everyone else find a happy ending along the way – Annie refuses to believe their old and incredibly hot spark can still exist.

It’s only when she and Evan are forced to face up to the past together that they’ll discover if they can have their own happily-ever-after too!

Also by Darcie Boleyn

Wish Upon a Christmas Cake

Something Old, Something New

Darcie Boleyn

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Darcie Boleyn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047487

Version date: 2018-06-20

DARCIE BOLEYN

has a huge heart and is a real softy. She never fails to cry at books and movies, whether the ending is happy or not. She loves to travel and is happiest in the snow with a pair of skies strapped to her feet. Darcie is in possession of an overactive imagination that often keeps her awake at night. She always wanted to be a Jedi but she hasn’t yet found suitable transport to take her to a galaxy far, far away. She also has reservations about how she’d look in a gold bikini, as she rather enjoys red wine, cheese and loves anything with ginger or cherries in it – especially chocolate. She fell in love in New York, got married in the snow, rescues uncoordinated greyhounds and can usually be found reading or typing away on her laptop. Darcie loves to hear from readers, you can follow her on Twitter at: @DarcieBoleyn

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Thanks as always to my nine. I love you all so much and I am so proud of you!

Huge thanks to my editor Charlotte Mursell, for your patience and encouragement, especially when I thought I needed to start all over again!

To my fellow Carina authors, thanks for answering my many questions during research, writing and editing, and for your support and friendship.

To the authors, readers and bloggers I interact with daily – you guys are stars!

Love,

Darcie xxx

For LK, with love.

XXX

Chapter One

Dog Poo Divorce

Coffee. Check.

Fresh air to clear head after last night’s leftover Christmas Shiraz. Check.

Dogs in the garden for morning poo. Check.

So here I am, shivering on the back doorstep early on a Sunday morning. It’s cold but dry for once. Dawn is breaking on the horizon and… wait, okay, I can’t see the horizon because of the six-foot fence and the house behind mine, but the English teacher in me is being poetic.

The sky is a beautiful shade of red and… okay, it’s not really dawn either. It’s eight-thirty but it does feel really early. On a weekday, I’m used to being up at five-thirty and I begin hurtling through the day until I flop exhausted on the sofa at nine p.m., yet on Saturday and Sunday, rising any time before ten o’clock feels early.

Perhaps it has something to do with the wine haze this morning. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have finished off the bottle, but then, I don’t drink through the week – well, not every day anyway – and is one glass after a hard day at work actually binge drinking? So I feel entitled to a glass or two at the weekend. I rarely go out anywhere so wine and chocolate tend to be my little treats. The trouble with red wine is that it just sends me off to sleep so quickly. It’s a legal and easy way to get hold of a sedative. Besides, the youngest two are at their father’s this weekend and my eldest, well, she was busy studying.

Janis turned seventeen last summer and has her A-levels coming up in May and June. She tells me she’s studying and I hope that she’s being honest. It’s so important to me that Janis succeeds, that she doesn’t follow in my errant footsteps and make the same mistakes. I know I’m lucky in that Janis is fairly sensible. She’s always had an old head on her shoulders. I wonder sometimes if it’s because I had her so young, as if nature sought to compensate for my youth and naivety by giving me a wise baby. After all, she got ten A* grades at GCSE. She’s bright and she works hard. She’ll be fine with the jump to A-level, I’m sure. She is, sadly, going through a bit of a phase regarding me and I seem to irritate her more than I used to, but I’m hoping that it’s just hormones and possibly tiredness from all the studying, and that she’ll soon adore me in the way she always used to – before she turned into a serious teenager.

My attention is dragged to my two British bulldogs Dragon and Fairy Princess. Yes, interesting names for pets dogs but Henry named one and Anabelle the other.

What on earth is that?

Dragon has just divested himself of the BIGGEST poop in the world – please excuse my vulgarity, talking about dog faeces, but when you have three children, no subject is taboo – and…

Oh no, not again! There’s something white and stringy in it.

Eek!

Worms.

Shit!

Literally.

I jump up and down on the spot, forgetting my half-full cup of coffee, which spills over my fluffy white dressing gown. I just get squeamish at the thought of parasites, especially with young children around. I’ve seen the warning posters at the doctor’s surgery about dog poo and how young children can get it into their eyes and go blind, or pick up worm eggs that they then digest and…

I approach the offending pile, which steams mockingly in the cool morning air, for a closer inspection. I don’t want to do this but as the responsible adult of the house I have to. I mean, who else would do it? Who else would mow the grass, sort the recycling and take the rubbish out? I brush away the cloud of loneliness before it can engulf me. I’ve no time for self-pity, especially not today.

I hold my breath as I lean forwards.

Yes, there is indeed a long white stringy thing wound into the mocha swirl. But part of it is sticking out of the top and waving in the breeze. And… is that writing?

I glance around the garden, looking for a tool, something to probe the smelly pile with. Dragon watches me, his big pink tongue hanging out of his wide mouth as he dons his happy face. I hope he doesn’t think that this is a game. His stubby tail wiggles with excitement. I shoot him a warning glance. He raises his eyebrows in the way that only bulldogs can, then hurries off to sniff Fairy Princess’s behind.

So…

An abandoned lollipop stick on the step of the moss-covered plastic playhouse attracts my attention. That will be my weapon of choice.

I crouch next to the brown swirl of stinky matter, well aware that I will have to clean this up before the kids come out here, and assess how best to extract the worm. Or whatever it is masquerading as a worm. But worms don’t have writing on them, do they? So it’s not worms. I sigh with relief.

But then, if it’s not worms, what has my dog eaten?

I roll up my sleeves.

Here we go.

I wiggle the stick into Dragon’s waste and lift out the white material. Yes; it’s definitely paper, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s… ‘Dragon!’

He glances up from his rather intimate grooming of Fairy Princess and eyes the lollipop stick in my right hand. He knows. He knows damn well what he’s done.

He’s been eating my post again.

****

‘That’s just disgusting!’

I glance from the dirty lollipop stick to the horrified face of seventeen-year-old Janis. There’s no look as scornful as that of a teenage girl; they just have this way of combining venom with distaste in a way that can make even a grown man tremble. I’ve seen it firsthand, believe me. Take Mr Watford-Browning who used to be employed at the school where I work. That man – once the dynamic and enthusiastic Head of Art – turned to drink because of a group of girls who terrorised him during their time at high school. It’s not funny, not at all, but I see those girls around now and they’re all grown-up with children of their own; you wouldn’t think that they were once so mean. They tormented him on a daily basis until he locked himself in his cupboard. It culminated in him being prised out of there by the caretaker and a burly PE teacher during a fire drill. They couldn’t find him at first, then one of the girls confessed and the deputy head sent the two men in to find him. It was dreadfully sad to see the quivering wreck he’d become. I heard recently that he now has his own gallery in Camden and that he’s very successful. It gives me hope, that life can continue after teaching and that people can achieve their dreams, even if the road is a rocky one at times.

‘Mother!’ Janis snarls and I stiffen. I do wish that she wouldn’t call me Mother. It’s like being called by your full name, surname and all, in gym class. You know you’re not going to get off lightly and the humiliation is made worse by the fact that your jiggly pubescent thighs are encased in totally unflattering navy gym shorts. Painful. Degrading. Best left in the past.

‘Um… morning Janis. Nice to see you up so early.’

‘What do you mean early?’

‘Well… it’s not even nine yet.’

Janis glances from me to the kitchen clock then back again.

‘That clock has stopped. Don’t you remember you were going to buy a new battery for it? It’s gone eleven.’

My heart speeds up and I feel last night’s Shiraz recycle in my veins. Oh no! Henry has a football match this morning and I promised I’d be there. I must have slept for longer than I realised. Sometimes my responsibilities overwhelm me and I live in fear of being found inadequate at the only thing I’ve ever really been good at: being a mum.

I peer at the poopy thread of letter hanging off the lollipop stick, then back at Janis.

Everything freezes for a fraction of a second. In that moment, I could change what is about to happen but I do not move. Why don’t I move? The fates are against me as time begins again, and Dragon and Fairy Princess bound over to the doorway, eager to beat each other to greet my daughter. In that stubborn bulldog way, they pay no heed to the fact that I’m in their path. Dragon knocks my legs from under me and I am hurled backwards, landing with a thump on my back.

I lie still, surprised and winded, staring into the sky, vaguely registering that slate-grey clouds are gathering like ominous puffs of smoke.

Can’t put the washing out today.

‘Mum?’ Janis appears at my side, leaning over me to look at my face. Her perfectly arched brows are knitted together above her beautiful green eyes. ‘Mum… are you okay?’

I blink at her, suddenly tearful at her change of tone. Mother has been replaced with Mum. She does still love me.

‘Mum, sit up.’

I do as she tells me, shaking my head to clear the fuzzy feeling. I can almost hear the cartoon birds twittering as they flutter around me. From the kitchen doorway, Dragon and Fairy Princess hang their heads guiltily, tongues dripping glutinous dog saliva over the wooden floor.

‘Oh Mum.’

‘What… what’s wrong, Janis?’

I peer around me, wondering if I’ve actually hurt myself but the shock has prevented me from feeling the pain.

I move cautiously, wiggling fingers and toes but nothing seems to be broken. Nothing hurts.

‘Mum you fell into the dog poo.’ Janis backs away from me, wrinkling her cute little nose and folding her arms over her chest.

The lollipop stick lies next to me, sticking up in the grass, and the paper waves free like some kind of soiled flag, held in place by one sticky end. I can just about make out two words that have survived a trip through Dragon’s digestive system.

Two words that will change my life forever.

Two words I once thought… hoped… I’d never read again.

Decree absolute.

Chapter Two

Bed Hop

My first thought on waking is that my divorce has been finalised.

It is over. Finished. My second marriage crumbled to dust.

Irreparable. Gone. Forever.

However many times you say it, in whatever way, it means the same thing.

I failed. Twice.

Of course, this wasn’t entirely my fault and the main reason we’re getting divorced now is because Dex intends to marry again, but growing up I never thought I’d be divorced once – let alone twice. In fact, I had no intention of getting married at all but life often holds a few surprises. I had such big dreams of travelling the world and being an acclaimed photographer, of attending swanky parties and winning awards for my work featured in National Geographic or the Sunday Times supplement. But none of it happened that way.

I think then of the invitation that’s sitting downstairs in my kitchen, an innocuous looking cream envelope with my name written on it in spidery calligraphy. I tucked it between a council tax bill and a reminder from the vet about the dogs’ boosters. Even though the invitation is out of sight, I know it’s there, a pregnant rectangle of card, an invitation to a wedding yes, but also to accept that yet again, my life is about to change. The wedding will be a clear sign that we’re all moving on, that we’re all being very mature and accepting about things, and that I’ve given Dex and Trevor my blessing. It will also, I suspect, bring Evan back to England and this thought makes my stomach flip.

I sigh. I should get up and begin the first Monday back at work after Christmas but I’m reluctant. It’s dark and cold. The heating should have come on but the timer must be playing up again. Unless I forgot to reset it. It means I’ll probably have to call a plumber out and it will cost the earth and I can hardly afford that right after Christmas. All these little things mount up and can become big things if I let them. But I won’t let them. I’m the responsible adult here and I have to stay strong for the kids. Have to get up, get them up, get myself ready, get them ready, go out and be presentable then earn a wage so that I can keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. I have to set my children a good example. I have to provide them with security and stability. I have to be their centre, their role model, their guide.

Gah…

Sometimes… just sometimes, it all seems too hard. Especially on a chilly January morning right after Christmas. The worst time of the year.

To be alone.

I pull the duvet over my face and breathe in the sweet, comforting – yet scientifically fabricated – essence of jasmine and honeysuckle. It helps a little bit.

My thoughts drift, as they sometimes do – in spite of my repeated vows not to indulge myself because this behaviour really is ridiculous and helps no one – to that first Christmas with Evan when life seemed so full of excitement and potential. Meeting at university in our shared major class of communication studies, we’d quickly become inseparable. Growing up, I’d sworn that I’d never fall in love, never get married or have children, vowed that I would be self-reliant and never allow a man to hurt me. However, one kiss from Evan and I was hooked. As hard as I tried to remain rational about him, it was impossible. With his bright blue-green eyes and long, curly black hair, he was like a singer from a rockband. But unlike an unreachable celebrity, he was real, right there for me to love. And he loved me too.

I shouldn’t do this; but sometimes it’s nice to think about the good times. Before I was even divorced once, before I knew how painful love can be. But I did love him and life seemed so full of hope when we first got together. We were both going to be successful at our chosen careers – Evan wanted to be a music journalist and work for Kerrang or NME, while I wanted to be the next David Bailey. We planned on travelling the world and meeting all sorts of people. In my head, it was a dream I could enjoy because it meant that I’d get to keep my independence and earn a good wage whilst being in love. We knew we’d be separated on occasions, but that was all right too, as we’d be saving for our future and building a life together. In my bohemian undergraduate haze, I never thought much beyond the initial days of our life together after graduation. I didn’t fine-tune the marriage or family details because I just didn’t want to face those scary hurdles, not even in a daydream. But life has a way of making you face your fears even when you try very hard not to.

Just before Christmas, in the final year of my studies, I applied to do a Masters of the Fine Arts in Photography following graduation. Then things took an unexpected turn. I had to admit that I was feeling unwell, but for a while I tried to blame the pressure of my studies and my part-time job. I was exhausted and felt quite faint a lot of the time, even after a good night’s sleep. Things smelt funny, my breasts grew tender and coffee made me heave. I was, of course, pregnant. We were being careful and using condoms but nothing is 100% and we got caught out. I was terrified because it seemed to mean the end of our hopes and dreams. Evan was shocked when I told him but he swore that he’d support me, stay with me and care for the baby.

So we gave it a shot. For the baby. For us. For the dreams we’d shared.

I wonder now, with hindsight, if I was destined to destroy my own relationships; if my father bowing out as he did shaped who I would become. I’ve watched enough TV to know that it probably did. I desperately didn’t want to become a product of my upbringing, a kind of clichéd stereotype, but perhaps it was inevitable.

Ironically, in spite of my beliefs that releasing Evan from domesticity would allow him to realise his dreams, he didn’t become the rock journalist he thought he’d be – following an uncertain career where the income would have been unstable, a career that wouldn’t have suited parenthood. Instead, being an ICT whizz, he made his fortune in CGI for movies and games, and now, although he has one main employer, he travels all over the world to work with different gaming organisations and on movie sets. This means that he’s often invited to attend movie premieres that feature his work and, likewise, promotional events surrounding the release of new computer games. He makes regular and impressive maintenance payments for his daughter. I sometimes wish he could give her more of his time, instead of so much money, but she seems okay with it and besides, I’m not sure how the dynamics would work if he lived nearby.

Janis was an accident but one I cannot regret, even though having her changed the course of my life forever. I don’t think that Evan regrets her either but he also lives his own very busy life. I just sometimes wish Janis had come along a bit later on, when I was more prepared. That’s why having Henry then Anabelle was like a second chance; for me and for Janis, because it gave me the opportunity to build the family unit for her that I felt she deserved.

I run my hand down to my belly and feel its slightly squidgy flesh. Anabelle is four now and I haven’t exactly done what I could have to improve my body, but who has time for all that unless they’re a celeb? I’d love to be able to fit in more time for me but I can’t see how I can do it. There’s always so much else to do.

‘Mumma?’

I jump and look at the bunched up quilt next to me. I dig through the mound to find little Anabelle smiling up at me.

‘Morning Mumma.’

Her cute blonde head tugs at my heartstrings. My baby.

My poor baby… from a broken home.

‘Hey sweetie… when did you come in?’

‘In the dark. I was scared.’

‘Oh angel, there’s nothing to be scared of.’ I tell the age-old lie. There’s everything to be scared of in this life. Everything. Getting older, getting cancer, losing the person you love, getting divorced, losing your job, having no security…

I lean forwards and kiss her forehead. She smells vanilla sweet as always. She still has that baby aroma of custard and almonds. It probably has something to do with the fact that I still use baby shampoo on her but then it’s not worth using anything else because if it gets in her eyes… well, let’s just say that I don’t want passers-by calling the police again because they thought that we were all being murdered. That was an evening I never want to repeat. And that handsome young policeman turned up and caught me in my threadbare pyjamas with greasy hair and not a scrap of make-up. Just typical.

But this morning, underneath Anabelle’s sweetness, is a metallic tang that catches in my throat and stings my eyes. It’s not unlike ammonia.

I sit up and push my hair behind my ears; I mean business.

‘Anabelle… do you have something you want to tell me?’

‘No, Mumma.’ Oh that face and that cute little voice. Those big blue eyes so innocent and adoring. I would do anything for this child.

‘Are you sure, Anabelle?’

‘Mother!’ The scream shatters the silence of the morning like a china teacup hitting a tiled kitchen floor. No, make that ten china teacups. The dogs start to bark downstairs. I hear feet pounding across the landing and Janis appears in my doorway, holding her bedsheet aloft.

I look at my daughters. Thirteen years between them. One dark, the other fair. The older one clad in her fleecy pyjamas, the younger one dressed as a fairy princess. (Anabelle often swaps her wet pyjamas for costumes – she’d dress as a fairy or a princess every day if I let her.) Both beautiful, both highly intelligent. Both manipulative; competitive; mutually adoring; keepers of my heart. Behind Janis, Henry appears in a superhero onesie with the top pulled down so that the sleeves hang down around his waist. No doubt he’ll have been too hot during the night; he’s constantly like a little furnace. He rubs his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

I shrug, accepting that another Monday morning of mayhem has begun. No chance of another ten minutes under the duvet now. ‘It appears that Anabelle has performed a nightly bed hop… again,’ I tell my son.

Anabelle crawls onto my lap, the comfort of her petite warmth marred by the nostril-stinging pungency of urine. I resist the urge to cover my nose and instead sniff her hair.

Henry sighs like an old man then heads for the bathroom, while Janis throws her sheet onto my bedroom floor, harrumphs, and stomps away. I hold my baby to my chest and sigh. Anabelle is having some trouble with staying dry at night. I, obviously, blame myself. My youngest also likes to cuddle all of her family in turn during the small hours. Since I got Henry a cabin bed, he’s been relatively safe, but Janis and I are often targeted. Trouble is, Anabelle invariably has an accident then moves on to the next dry bed. Last night, she must have wet her own then moved into Janis’ before a repeat performance, then finally ended up in mine. I took Anabelle out of those pyjama pants you can get—kind of a nappy for bedwetters that’s meant to seem like underwear—because I thought she might be relying on them, which in turn wouldn’t help her to stay dry. Anabelle does have a plastic mattress protector on her bed, but it’s not exactly fair to ask Janis to have one too. I just keep hoping that Anabelle will grow out of this and that it’s a phase all children go through, but I’m sure that my other two didn’t take this long. Yet as I keep telling myself; they’re all different.

The joys of motherhood…

But as Anabelle wraps her arms around my neck and plants a big kiss on my chin, I just don’t care. Sheets will wash. Beds will dry. The mattresses will just be a bit smelly until I attack them with a freshening spray.

And that will have to wait until this evening, because right now, hugs with my own little princess are more important.

12 Keying.