One Midnight With You, page 1
ONE MIDNIGHT WITH YOU
SHARI LOW
To our beautiful new grand-daughter Emme…
We’re so happy to have you in the world with us, little one,
and we love you beyond words… x
CONTENTS
New Year’s Eve
On This Hogmanay, You’ll Meet…
8 a.m. – 10 a.m.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
10 a.m. – Noon
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Noon – 2 p.m.
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
2 p.m. – 4 p.m.
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
4 p.m. – 6 p.m.
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
6 p.m. – 8 p.m.
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
8 p.m. – 10 p.m.
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
10 p.m. – Almost Midnight
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Midnight – Morning
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
More from Shari Low
About the Author
Also By Shari Low
About Boldwood Books
NEW YEAR’S EVE
Or in Scotland… Hogmanay (hog-mah-nay): the last day of the year, one of enthusiastic celebrations and historical traditions enjoyed by Scots as the year ends and the new one begins.
ON THIS HOGMANAY, YOU’LL MEET…
Ailish Ryan, 54 – Newly divorced mum, primary school teacher, recently moved from her family home to a two-bedroom flat where she is supposed to be embracing single life. And she will – just as soon as she works up the motivation to get out of her comfy clothes and Crocs.
Eric Ryan, 58 – Ailish’s ex-husband. Suave silver fox and director of a successful marketing company. Commonly known as the ‘Adulterous Arse’.
Emmy Ryan, 29 – Daughter of Ailish and Eric, a nurse specialising in elderly care at Glasgow Central Hospital. Currently concerned about the life expectancy of her relationship with…
Cormac Sweeney, 32 – Emmy’s boyfriend of almost a year. A firefighter who belongs on one of those fund-raising calendars because his muscly shoulders are wide enough to be June and July.
Minnie Ryan, 78 – Emmy’s gran on her dad’s side, Ailish’s mother-in-law, married to Henry for sixty years, usually to be found with her knitting needles.
Yvie Danton, 35 and Keli Clark, 30 – Emmy’s friends and fellow nurses on the elderly ward at Glasgow Central.
Rhonda Nichols, 54 – One of Ailish’s best friends from high school. Owner of a chain of hairdressing salons, divorced, now living her best life and aging as disgracefully as possible.
Gwen Millen, 54 – Ailish’s other lifelong friend, interior designer, defiantly dealing with major health issues.
Gino Moretti, 79 – Gregarious but stubborn founder of Gino’s Trattoria. Father of Dario, Bruno and Carlo, husband of the late Alicia Moretti.
Dario Moretti, 54 – Former chef, now head of the family business, currently carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Nicky Moretti, 52 – Dario’s ex-wife, still close friend, work colleague, sounding board, all-round voice of reason and irrepressible sarcasm.
Carlo Moretti, 36 – Dario’s lovely brother, owner of Carlo’s Cafe, a trendy bistro in Glasgow, Yvie Danton’s fiancé and all-round good guy.
Matty Moretti, 30 – Dario and Nicky’s son, chef at the family restaurant, prone to volatility and requires work on his un-sunny disposition.
Brodie Moore, 54 – Dario’s best mate since high school, now a top commercial lawyer who represents the Moretti family business in return for love and great pasta.
Sonya McGregor, 64 – Straight-talking, eternally loyal cleaner at Gino’s Trattoria, gran to Ollie, the light of her life.
8 A.M. – 10 A.M.
1
AILISH RYAN
Ailish checked behind the couch for the bra that she’d tossed aside last night. In a previous era, an errant bra-toss may have been a frantic action in the throes of passion. Now it only occurred because removing the constraints of the elastic bondage was her favourite part of the day and frequently happened the moment she walked in the door. It probably wasn’t ideal in case of unexpected guests, but she didn’t get many of those nowadays. Actually, she didn’t get many expected ones either.
Divorce did that. Empty nests did that. Leaving your home of almost thirty years for a two-bedroom flat where you don’t know your neighbours did that. In moments of reflection, she conceded that these factors were also responsible for her Croc collection, her indoor, knee-length fleece hoodie and her addiction to Netflix box sets. Probably also the reason she was now bent double over the back of the sofa, peering into the abyss to see if her bra was there. It wasn’t.
Bugger. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that she should be handling both the bra situation and her general existence so much better. For a start, she should maybe have leapt out of bed when she’d woken at 8 a.m., instead of cosying down with the new Anna Smith crimefest for over an hour, before grudgingly getting up at the very last minute, but, well, it gave her time to psyche herself up for the day. Adjusting to a solo life after the end of a thirty year marriage was a process and she was in no rush to get to the end of it. Some women flourished when they started a new chapter in their fifties. Joined a gym. Or a dating agency. Started doing Pilates. Travelled. Got glammed up and had sex with thirty-year-old men. Or maybe that was just one particular woman close to Ailish’s heart…
Her front door opened and the case in point teetered in on four-inch Cavalli stiletto boots that made Ailish’s feet tingle in her Crocs. Spotting the head pop up from behind the couch, her friend, Rhonda, startled and clutched her hand to her Wonderbra in dramatic fashion. ‘Flippin’ hell, you scared me. What are you doing lurking in the shadows like that?’
It was hard to respond given that Ailish was being blinded by the whitest set of teeth in Europe, courtesy of Rhonda’s recent trip to Turkey. It had resulted in a two-week fling with a thirty-five-year-old tour rep and a set of gnashers that a Love Island contestant would kill for. The thing was, much as it would be easy to cast scorn and derision in her friend’s direction, no one could deny that five years after her amicable divorce from husband number three, Rhonda’s post-marriage glow-up had left her looking at least ten years younger, fitter and healthier than ever before. Ailish kept telling herself she should follow in the footsteps of her friend’s towering heels, but she was afraid of heights and she just wasn’t mentally there yet.
It had only been eleven months since the sale of her marital home had landed her here, and exactly two years tonight since her marriage to Eric had imploded. A psychologist on one of the podcasts she listened to in the bath said a transitional event could take years to process, and there were several stages of emotions to go through. Ailish had already decided that her ‘wallow and eat biscuits’ era was going to last a while longer.
‘Happy Hogmanay to you too,’ Ailish greeted her intruder. ‘And I’m not lurking, I’m looking for my bra, and last time I checked this was my living room. Is this a good time to point out that I only gave you a spare key for emergencies?’
‘It is an emergency. I’m doing a juice cleanse and I need to pee on a fifteen-minute schedule otherwise my bladder is going to explode like a garden sprinkler in a drought. Rhubarb and wheatgrass juice. But it’ll be worth it when I get into my dress tonight. I bloody love New Year’s Eve. Anyway, hurry up, it’s time to go. I’ll be right back.’
As Rhonda teetered off to the loo, Ailish spotted her bra under the dining table and retrieved it, then pulled her arms out of her black jumper and using well-practised contortion moves managed to manoeuvre her 42Ds into their restraints. Mission accomplished. If Tom Cruise had to deal with this shit every morning, all that saving the world stuff would feel like barely more than a trifling inconvenience.
Now fully dressed and almost ready for the outside world, Ailish kicked off her Crocs and swapped them for her trusty Ugg boots, accessorised with the parka she’d bought last year to walk her labradoodle, Patch. The beloved thirteen-year-old pooch had passed away peacefully in his sleep just two weeks before the sale of their old house had gone through. It was as if he’d decided that life in a modern, second-floor, two-bedroom flat wasn’t going to work for him after a lifetime living in a cottage with a dog-heaven of woodland right behind it. Sometimes Ailish thought that after everything that happened, losing Patch was more painful than losing Eric.
Her stare went to the brown envelope on the kitchen island. Her official decree of divorce. Confirmation. It was done. Over. And the fact that the paperwork had arrived on the last day of the year made it seem even more poignant. At this exact time, on the morning of Hogmanay two years ago, she’d been happily married. Hours later, her marriage was done. Today, she was unhappily divorced. Maybe by t
The door to the hall opened and Rhonda click-clacked back in. Ailish did a top to toe of her friend’s outfit. Black leather-look skinny jeans, those gorgeous boots, a cream ribbed polo neck and a beautiful camel-hued wool jacket that reached her thighs, accessorised with a cute little camera bag. Ailish wondered if it was just her imagination or did the large shoulder bag she was pulling onto her own arm feel even heavier than normal? How did anyone actually get everything they needed for a full day in one of those tiny bags? Where would she put her banana, her purse, hairbrush, phone, glasses, spare glasses in case she lost the first pair, deodorant, perfume, a book, her Kindle, emergency plasters, the tweezers she hadn’t used in a year and a half and the plethora of other things that she never left home without?
Rhonda’s gaze went to Ailish’s chest. ‘The nips are pointing straight ahead. I take it you found your bra?’
She was rude. She was crude. And for the forty-odd years since they’d met on day one of high school, Rhonda had been infuriating her, exasperating her and making her laugh, often at the same time. This morning was no different.
The corners of Ailish’s mouth turned upwards. ‘Hoisted up and ready to go.’
‘With those boots on?’ Rhonda eyed her Uggs with undisguised disdain.
‘Yep, and no judgement or I’ll slash your tyres.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t have to say it out loud – you know what I’m thinking. Now, let’s go visit our pal, and if you could walk ten feet behind me so no one knows we’re together, that would be a true act of friendship.’ With that, Rhonda swayed her tight arse right out the door, leaving Ailish, still laughing, to lock up and follow her.
The cold air of the Glasgow morning hit Ailish like a snowball to the face as soon as she stepped out of the building. She would happily have turned around and gone right back inside if it weren’t for the trip they had planned today. The same one they’d taken every day for the last fortnight, since Gwen, the third person in their lifelong trifecta, had been admitted to Glasgow Central Hospital.
As always, Rhonda drove, because she said hell would freeze over before she swapped the comfort of her Mercedes for Ailish’s clapped-out, twenty-year-old Volkswagen Beetle. ‘Only way I’m getting in that car is if I’m starring in Herbie Rides The Menopause, and I get to shag Ryan Gosling in the back seat,’ she’d sneered last time Ailish had suggested that she drive them. Not that she minded today. The heating hadn’t worked in her Herbie for at least a decade and it was so old it still had a DVD player instead of the fancy bells and USB whistles in Rhonda’s swanky ride, so Ailish was happy to take the loss on this one.
The flash Merc was just one of the perks of Rhonda’s hard-earned success. She owned three hairdressing salons – one in the West End, one on the South Side and one in the city centre – but after three decades of slogging long, back-breaking hours to build her business, she now had great managers in all of them, which allowed her to be so much more flexible with her own time.
Ailish’s days teaching six-year-olds at Weirbridge Primary School on the outskirts of the city had far less flexibility, but most of the time – vomiting epidemics and the occasional insufferable parent aside – she loved both her job and the extended holidays that came with it.
There was still almost a week until the first day of next term, which meant that she could devote as much time as needed to her friends and family. Although, trying to navigate a new ‘normal’ on post-separation Christmas celebrations had hurt Ailish’s heart. She’d had Christmas Day lunch with her daughter, Emmy, and her boyfriend, Cormac, but Ailish had left after the dessert to let Emmy get organised to go have dinner with her dad’s side of the family. Tempting as the sofa, a box of Quality Street and sobbing over It’s a Wonderful Life was, she’d refused to give in to self-pity and instead, had taken herself off to keep Gwen company in hospital for a few hours. They’d watched The Holiday for the thousandth time on Gwen’s laptop, shamelessly made objectifying remarks about young Jude Law, sucked the caramel out of Lindt balls and made each other laugh until the ever-patient nursing staff finally announced that extended visiting was over for the day.
She’d been back every day since, usually in the company of the woman sitting next to her now.
It was a twenty-minute drive from her flat in Clarkston, on the South Side of the city to the hospital, so Ailish clicked on her seatbelt and settled into the heated seat.
‘Chat or music?’ Rhonda asked, as she always did.
For the first week after Gwen had been admitted, they’d talked all the way there and back, but the conversations were always on the same three topics.
Ailish’s post-divorce ‘moving on’. Or lack of.
Rhonda’s latest escapades on dating websites, or post-date post-mortems.
Or Gwen. Her treatment. How she was doing. How they’d make her smile today and take her mind off the bastard disease she’d been fighting for months now. Surgery. Chemo. Endless tests. Bloodwork. Scans. Their hearts were broken for her. They’d talked about it all in minute detail day after day until there was nothing left to say, so now they stuck to trivial stuff when they were going there and back. What mattered most was that they walked into the hospital upbeat and positive, and ready to lift Gwen’s spirits.
Ailish and Rhonda were Gwen’s chosen ‘framily’ and her most frequent visitors. Her elderly parents now lived in Aberdeen, she was an only child, and she’d never found anyone she loved enough to marry or have children with, so she’d led a very content, successful, unattached life until now, with a few long-term romantic relationships, but none that she’d chosen to make permanent.
‘Music for a bit. Unless anything mind-blowing happened since I saw you yesterday?’
‘I could make stuff up?’ Rhonda offered, with a teasing grin. ‘Or I could tell you about my dream last night, but you’d probably disapprove. There was nudity.’
‘Urgh, don’t make me wish I’d brought earmuffs,’ Ailish shot back, feigning horror. ‘Shove some music on and spare my fragile soul.’
Rhonda pressed a couple of buttons on her steering wheel and the opening bars of ‘One’ by U2 and Mary J. Blige filled the vehicle. Rhonda, eyes on the road, asked the most important question. ‘Do you want to be Mary or Bono?’
Ailish didn’t hesitate. ‘Mary. You know Bono gets right on my nerves. It’s the wearing dark glasses inside thing.’
Rhonda batted her eyelash extensions. ‘I forgive him for that because he contributed to the longevity of the holy male mullet back when I was starting out. There was a hairstyle that provided endless amusement, especially when it also involved squads of blokes coming in for perms, just to make the mullet extra bouncy. I think I washed the hair of the entire Scotland football team at one point or another – made a fortune in tips.’
The memory of that made Ailish smile. Back in the late eighties, before they were even old enough to legally drink, seventeen-year-old junior hairdresser, Rhonda, would regale her and Gwen with all the gossip of every famous encounter while they got ready to go out on a Saturday night. If they managed to use their flashing smiles and fake IDs to get into a club, the night would be a win. If not, they’d get chips and head back to Rhonda’s house to play a Simple Minds album and have a dance party in the bedroom, because her mum worked nights in a bar.
