Love at First Slice, page 33
‘It wasn’t my fault Finger Food went global; that was your fault. Well, Michael’s really, I guess. His PR, and the fact I was labelled as the girl who stole Quinn Blake from the fifth sexiest actress in the Star Life poll,’ George replied.
‘Can you give me a warning if you’re going to snog? I don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity,’ Adam announced.
‘Adam! I’d rather you didn’t use that word,’ Heather called.
‘Kiss, pucker up, lock lips, neck, cop off—’ Adam continued.
‘Hey, have some respect,’ Quinn ordered him.
Heather adjusted her sunhat and reached for her mineral water.
‘Why not get Marisa in the pool? Quick, go – and close your eyes,’ Quinn said as he leant forward and kissed George.
‘God! I don’t care how in love you are. Your parents snogging in front of you just isn’t right,’ Adam announced, throwing the sun cream back down and walking over to Marisa.
George watched Adam trying to entice Marisa into the water. He tickled her, made her scream and then took hold of her hand and gently kissed it.
‘He called me Dad the other day, you know. It was a slip of the tongue and he corrected himself afterwards, but he still said it,’ Quinn informed her.
‘I don’t want him to call me Mum, especially with my mother here. Plus it makes me feel old and I do not want to feel old, not when I’ve only just got married. OK, well technically for the second time, but who’s counting?’ George asked.
‘Not me. So how does it feel this time around? Was it better getting married on the beach or better in Scotland in the rain?’ Quinn enquired.
‘Do I have to be honest?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the beach. How about you?’
‘I’m just glad I can remember this one,’ Quinn told her, laughing.
‘And I’m never going to let you forget it. The only way this ring is being removed is by surgical procedure,’ George informed.
‘Please! I’ve had enough of those!’ Quinn exclaimed.
‘I just meant I’m never letting you go. I’m yours,’ George said, taking hold of his hand and putting it to her chest.
‘Yes, you are,’ Quinn said and he leaned across his lounger and kissed her again.
‘Oh. My. God! Like pass a bucket! They’re at it again! Get a room already! It’s sick,’ Marisa yelled at the kissing couple.
‘So how she used the word there – was that a good “sick” or a bad “sick”?’ Helen wanted to know.
‘BAD!’
‘Good, most definitely good,’ George replied, holding Quinn’s gaze.
PLAYLIST
Set the mood for Love at First Slice with this suggested playlist!
Crazy in Love – Beyoncé
The Time (Dirty Bit) – The Black Eyed Peas
Wherever You Will Go – The Calling
Beat Again – JLS
The Thong Song – Sisqo
Sweet Child O’ Mine – Guns ’n’ Roses
Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman – Bryan Adams
Use Somebody – Pixie Lott
Thunderstruck – AC/DC
Is This Love? – Whitesnake
(I Just) Died In Your Arms – Cutting Crew
Let Love In – The Goo Goo Dolls
Back in Black – AC/DC
Someone Like You – Adele
Secret Smile – Semisonic
Back to Black – Amy Winehouse
Running Scared – Ell & Nikki
Bailamos – Enrique Iglesias
Smooth – Santana
Stay With You – The Goo Goo Dolls
White Wedding – Billy Idol
Grenade – Bruno Mars
November Rain – Guns ’n’ Roses
Like I Love You – Justin Timberlake
Are You Gonna Go My Way – Lenny Kravitz
Rebel Yell – Billy Idol
Let’s Make A Night To Remember – Bryan Adams
Cosmic Girl – Jamiroquai
Bamboleo – The Gipsy Kings
Amazing – George Michael
Light On – David Cook
Just Another Day – Jon Secada
Marry Me – Train
MORE FROM MANDY BAGGOT
We hope you enjoyed reading Love at First Slice. If you did, please leave a review. If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is available to purchase in paperback, hardback, large print and audio.
Mr Right Now, another uplifting romantic read from Mandy Baggot, is available to buy now by clicking on the image below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…
Chapter One
Bird poo and porridge were basically one and the same bloody thing as far as Kate was concerned. Well, at least they were when it came to stains. No matter how much you scrubbed, no matter what product you used, you were always left with a white residue that stood out a mile.
A pigeon had shit on her in the car park, all over the shoulder of her one decent work jacket. Old-style M&S she had picked up at a charity shop but still in good condition. That meant the first four chargeable units of the morning had been spent trying to get the mark off. And it was, as always, to no avail. You could still see it and now it didn’t look like bird shit, it looked like a semen stain.
It was 2.00 p.m. now and she had just noticed another mark on her sleeve. This one was definitely porridge unless a bird had got very intimate without her knowledge. Judging by the hard, crusted, almost concrete look about it, it had possibly been there for weeks. She hadn’t had a chance to get to the dry cleaners in ages. Giuseppe gave her a good discount and his mother’s special recipes for everything Italian, pasta and tomato based, but dry cleaning was still something she considered a luxury. And, every time Kate went in to Giuseppe’s, she suspected he knew she hadn’t tried any of the recipes because she couldn’t cook and she was sure he could smell that.
The M&S jacket was one of those wool mix ones that you couldn’t just put in the washing machine, which was probably why it had ended up in Marie Curie. The last time she had risked the washing machine with a jacket like that, it had shrunk to something not even a size-six model could force herself into.
She hurriedly slipped it off her shoulders, ripped a paper towel from the wall and wet it under the tap. For the second time that day, she began dabbing and scrubbing and cursing under her breath, getting hotter and more frustrated by the second. It wasn’t shifting; the paper towel was disintegrating until the only things rubbing the stain were her fingers. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She had spilt coffee on her desk this morning and had to share the lift with Smelly Milo from the post-room; the Ready Brek was the last straw. It felt like her world was ending. This couldn’t be how it was going to be from now on. She didn’t want to feel tired all the time, inadequate all the time and she didn’t want to be sorting out soiled clothes all the time, especially her own. What was next? Incontinence and the nursing home? She was only just past thirty.
She was just about to give in to the emotion threatening to spill out when the door to the toilets swung open with a bang and in walked her boss, Miranda Marsh.
Blonde hair swishing, a reek of designer fragrance, and the familiar tip tap of her Jimmy Choo’s introduced her. Now was no time for losing control. A stiff upper lip was required and more restraint than a stag party in a lap dancing bar.
‘Oh there you are Kate,’ Miranda remarked, standing uncomfortably close to her as only she could.
She was wearing a Jigsaw suit that fitted like a glove. No charity shop cast offs for her; she was a Per Una woman if ever there was one. Miranda was a size eight, petite, always smart, always organised, completely bloody annoying and unstained.
‘Yes, here I am. Sorry, is Mr Coombs here already? I was just coming,’ Kate spoke hurriedly, putting her jacket back on and crossing the damp sleeve behind her, out of sight.
‘No he isn’t. He’s cancelled again! Silly bloody little man, that’s the third time. And this time, he didn’t bother to make up a plausible excuse, just muttered something about his granddaughter needing his professional opinion on buying an MG,’ Miranda replied with a sigh, turning away from Kate and checking out her reflection in the mirror.
‘Oh that’s a shame,’ Kate remarked, not meaning it at all.
She had a tonne of work on her desk already; she could do without meetings with clients until she had broken the back of it.
‘He’s a time waster anyway, that man. Too much money, not enough to keep him occupied in his retirement. I really don’t know why we bother acting for him. A change to his will here, a bit of conveyancing there and that ridiculous trust fund he insisted on setting up. It isn’t going to make us millionaires, is it?’ Miranda continued, putting her hands in her long, blonde hair and preening it.
Kate didn’t respond. She knew that the ‘us’ didn’t really include her; it meant Randall’s, the firm of solicitors they both worked for. Kate was a legal executive and Miranda was a solicitor. There wasn’t much difference in their legal knowledge and ability, but being a solicitor and the head of the department meant Miranda had her eyes on the prize that was partnership.
Kate, on the other hand, didn’t really know what she was doing practising law. It had been a choice between that and engineering, according to a very dodgy questionnaire she had gone through with her school careers adviser many years ago. There had been nothing else she had a yearning for. So she got on the study treadmill, looked at all the right books, attended all the necessary courses and passed all the exams for the heart-flipping excitement of drafting wills and dealing with dead people. Still, the pay was reasonable and she got the occasional bag of home-grown marrows from Mr Jarvis who seemed to change his will as often as he changed his fertiliser.
‘You haven’t forgotten Friday, have you Kate?’ Miranda said in a way that was more of a statement than a question.
Kate watched her; she was still looking at herself in the mirror and pouting her lips at herself. She looked like someone with a horrendous facial tic.
‘Friday?’ Kate queried a chill running up her spine. Oh God!
She knew exactly what Miranda was going to say next and she was desperately trying to sound like she didn’t for lots of reasons.
‘Yes, the dinner at the Grand, Peterson Finance,’ Miranda reminded.
‘Oh yes, yes, Friday, of course. I hadn’t forgotten, I just, couldn’t remember what day it is today,’ Kate answered lamely.
‘Good! Perfect! I knew you wouldn’t! I have finally found the dress after weeks of searching and I can’t wait to wear it. It’s just like the one Kate Winslet wore to the Oscars, you know the one, don’t you?’ Miranda spoke with a wide, red lipstick smile, turning her attention back to Kate and finally away from the mirror.
‘Er, um, yes of course, that dress. I can’t wait to see it,’ Kate replied.
She didn’t have a clue what Kate Winslet had worn to the Oscars on any year she had attended and she didn’t really care that much either. The Oscars had no place in her life at the moment and in fact, never had. The only Oscar she knew of was a woolly-faced owl in one of Bethan’s story books.
Kate smiled at Miranda and tried to ignore the extremely uncomfortable feeling that was creeping over her at the thought of a large social engagement she didn’t want to attend. She hadn’t been out much lately: a couple of dinners with some of her childminder Hermione’s friends from the Medieval Fair Society and a pizza and vodka night with her secretary Lynn and some of the other very young secretaries who seemed to be able to drink their own body weight in shots.
‘So, who are you bringing?’ Miranda enquired, looking straight at Kate with her ice-blue eyes.
They were shark’s eyes, large and emotionless, like a great white. They showed signs of ferocity but very little common sense.
Kate froze for a moment and gawped at Miranda as if what she’d said had been in a foreign language and she hadn’t a clue how to translate. And then she realised Miranda was still staring at her, waiting for her to respond. She needed to speak to stop her mouth from hanging open. What to say? Try not to scream.
‘I… haven’t decided yet,’ Kate said hurriedly, internally cursing herself.
‘I see! Checking out that little black book. I like it! Perfect! OK, well, Collins deceased calls for me; how are you doing with the Slater case?’ Miranda asked, turning the conversation back to business.
‘Fine, yes, I’m doing fine with that,’ Kate replied swiftly.
Yes, she was doing fine with that, not even registered the death certificates with the banks. Well, he’d only been dead three months and she’d been busy.
‘Good! Perfect! Let me have the papers when you’re done,’ Miranda said and flashed Kate another pearly white smile before heading out of the door.
Kate smiled back, waiting for the door to close. As soon as it did, the smile fell from her face. Who was she trying to kid? She just couldn’t cope. It was eight months on and she was as useless now as she was at the start. All she wanted to do these days was cry, cry and cry some more. Everything was hopeless; she had been a terrible wife, she was a terrible mother and a very extra terrible legal executive. And now today, she had terrible, terrible bird shite and porridge down her only good jacket. And if all that terrible stuff wasn’t enough, now she had to find a man to take to a dinner on Friday night. She didn’t know any men; she didn’t really know how to go about getting one. What was she going to do? Let herself be humiliated by Miranda like always? Turn up alone and be a laughing stock for not having a date, or cry off and be a laughing stock for trying to avoid turning up without a date? There was no winning situation here.
She could feel tears pricking her eyes but quickly the door opened again and Kate fixed her smile back on like it was a pair of false lips from a Christmas cracker. She eked the smile wider, acknowledging the entrance of Dorothy from accounts, stretching her mouth so wide that it hurt. She had got used to conjuring up a happy expression now; she had practised at home in front of the mirror. She had the ‘good morning’ smile for when she came into the office first thing. Not too wide with the mouth, crinkling the eyes slightly. She had the ‘yes, I’m absolutely fine, thanks for asking’ smile. Slightly wider with the lips, showing teeth. And she had the ‘life is wonderful, I’m getting on without him’ smile which was as wide as her lips would allow and complete crinkling of the eyes until they were almost closed. Oh and laughter if required.
She waited for bouffant-haired Dorothy to close the cubicle door and then she hurriedly left the toilets before she started up a conversation while she peed. She always did that and Kate found talking while listening to someone else peeing quite unsettling. It just wasn’t right.
She sat back down at her desk, determined to have a proper stab at the Slater file. It was a horrible case, a farmhouse (agricultural relief), two small companies (business property relief), and an argumentative family (no relief at all).
She looked at her screen and stared at her reflection. It was horrible. What was she doing worrying about pigeon shit on her jacket when she looked such a mess? Her hair was a state because she hadn’t had time to shower and her straighteners were broken. It was also in desperate need of a cut. It was naturally dark and thick which had been an asset when she had time to brush and style it, but now it had started to resemble a Halloween witch’s wig.
Today, she also had larger-than-normal grey bags under her eyes due to Bethan waking her up at 2.30 a.m. and 4.00 a.m., unable to locate her dummy. And to top it all off, this morning’s lipstick, which she had scrawled on while reverse parking, was now just a thin line on her bottom lip.
She clenched her teeth together and swallowed another urge to cry. This was all Matthew’s fault. It wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. She should have been feeling confident, comfortable and settled in her life, not the complete opposite.
Matthew, her husband – well, ex-husband technically – had left her and a then sixteen-month-old Bethan, eight months ago. He claimed he hadn’t taken to fatherhood, it wasn’t what he wanted, it had never been what he wanted and she had pushed him into it. Kate hadn’t known what to say the day he announced this. Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ had been playing on the radio, Bethan had been happily hammering on her highchair tray with a spoon and she had been standing in her dressing gown, milk down her front and Rice Snaps in her hair. He had mumbled something about going to his mother’s and then left the room. She was still stood in the same position, staring blankly at her babbling daughter, trying to take in his words, when he had come back down the stairs carrying two suitcases, already packed.
She had absolutely fallen apart. She hadn’t known what to do. She didn’t know who to turn to or what happened next. For days, she lived some sort of half existence where day and night merged together around episodes of In the Night Garden and Zingzillas. She couldn’t face work, she rarely got dressed and Bethan kept saying ‘Daddy’ at really inopportune times, like when she happened to let her eyes flit over the wedding photo on the dresser, or when she found an item of Matthew’s clothing in the laundry basket. She needed help.
Help had come in the shape of Hermione Wyatt. Realising that you didn’t get money in the bank by sitting around in your nightwear watching This Morning, Kate knew she had to go back to work. But because in her misery she hadn’t been able to face taking Bethan to nursery, she had lost her place there. At first, in angry tones, she had tried calling the manager a Nazi. Then when that hadn’t worked, she had offered to pay for the time Bethan had missed. The manager said no and Kate broke down, sobbing until the hand piece was wet, trying to quote passages of law in an effort to frighten Mrs Hitler into giving her back her place, but even that had no effect on the hard-nosed manager.
So, she found the nearest childminder with a vacancy and got Hermione.
Hermione was eccentricity personified. She spent all day potato printing, hula-hooping and biscuit making with three of her own children, and a strange-looking, dark-haired boy called Cyrus who would only communicate by whispering.
