This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2024 by Jane Green

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781662518898 (digital)

  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Molly von Borstel

  Cover image: © photka, © JaySi, © Sinuswelle, © urfin, © New Africa, © little birdie / Shutterstock

  Lucy wishes it hadn’t taken an unanticipated divorce diet to feel beautiful. She also wishes she was not here, in this busy, buzzy bar, with a group of divorcées who are spending the night tossing their hair and flirting with (distinctly in)eligible (as far as Lucy is concerned) men, trying to be noticed.

  She’d give her right arm to be cozied up on a sofa at home, binge-watching Love Island.

  But here she is, in jeans that used to be skintight but thanks to her recent divorce are now falling off, platform sandals (Simon never allowed her to wear heels, for he didn’t want her towering over his five-foot, ten-inch frame. Incidentally, he’s more like five foot eight. On a good day), and an off-the-shoulder shirt.

  She feels ridiculous so dressed up, but this new group of women demands glamour. A flurry of texts went round this afternoon, about what they should wear. Lucy’s regular jeans, cashmere sweater, and trendy sneakers got a thumbs-down from everyone. So here she is, dressed to impress, even though there isn’t a single man in here she would be the slightest bit interested in.

  Lucy refuses to call her ex-husband a narcissist, because everyone else’s ex-husband is also a narcissist, and really, how is it possible that every single divorced woman in Fairfield County has an ex-husband who is a narcissist? I mean, how many narcissists can there be in the world?

  Except she recognizes all the behaviors these women constantly talk about. Husbands who controlled what their wives wore, what they bought, where they went. The diminishment and disdain. The wives growing smaller and smaller, losing themselves because it became just too hard to keep fighting. When they looked in the mirror, they didn’t remember who they were.

  All the women there tonight hate their former husbands, each of whom, it seems, tried to destroy them during the divorce. Said husbands hid finances, called the cops on fake child abuse charges, and in one particularly awful case, planted extremely dubious and illegal material on the ex-wife’s computer, which didn’t bode well for either parent.

  Lucy is by no means a paragon of virtue, and isn’t the slightest bit fond of Simon, but he is still the father of her daughter. She still has to deal with him. Allowing herself to dwell in a state of anger and resentment is not helpful. She tries not to think of him much at all.

  The door to the bar opens, and a group of men walks in. They have the look of married men, in their untucked shirts and quilted vests, but their energy is less weekend barbeque with the kids, more pretend to be singletons on the prowl.

  “Married, but hot,” says a woman called Nancy, a toweringly tall redhead with impressive cleavage. “Black Leather Jacket may have to buy me a drink.” She catches the eye of the man in the black leather jacket, and beckons him over with a sly smile and a significant hair toss that catches on Lucy’s lipstick and spreads it across her cheek.

  Wiping her face, Lucy stands up and excuses herself. “I’m just going to the bathroom.” She waits for one of the women to come with, but they are all busy sizing up the new men, so Lucy totters off to the bathroom by herself, wishing she hadn’t worn platform sandals, wondering at what time she can leave without being seen as a party pooper.

  A quick scroll on her phone shows her that KC is thoroughly enjoying her night with Clancy the babysitter, which, according to TikTok, is consisting of pancakes and chocolate sauce for dinner and a Taylor Swift dance party. Thank heavens for Clancy, even if she doesn’t know how to stack a dishwasher and each time Lucy comes home, the kitchen always looks as if ten thousand bombs have exploded. KC loves her, and that is the only thing that matters.

  She washes her hands, wipes the lipstick off, and realizes she swapped purses and doesn’t have anything other than her phone and keys with her. No lipstick. Not even lip balm.

  Another woman walks in, fresh faced, gorgeous. She leans over the sink and checks her makeup, redoing her lipstick and fixing her already-perfect hair.

  She notices Lucy watching her. “Are you okay?”

  Lucy shakes herself out of the reverie. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I forgot my lipstick.”

  “Here. I have a new one I haven’t used yet. Have it.” She rustles in her purse and pulls out a brand-new NYX lip gloss, then hands it over with a smile. “It’s the wrong color for me, but it will look great on you. Do you need anything else? I have powder, perfume, painkillers, tampons.”

  “Wow. You’re so prepared. I bet you were the girl in high school who always had a spare eraser.”

  The woman laughs. “No. But I was the girl in high school who was sneaking out to smoke cigarettes under the bleachers.”

  “Aha! The secret rebel.”

  “Not so secret. Thank God we had no money, or I would have been sent off to one of those scary wilderness retreats.”

  Lucy lights up. “I was just reading about those. Terrifying.”

  “In Paper magazine?”

  Lucy nods.

  The woman puts her hands together in prayer and looks up to the ceiling. “She reads Paper magazine! Thank God! There is at least one other cool woman in suburbia.”

  Lucy flushes at being thought of as cool, particularly by this woman, who possesses an innate confidence, the kind of cool that Lucy has always wished she had.

  The woman peers at her. “So, what is someone like you doing in a sorry-ass place like this?”

  Lucy rolls her eyes. “I’ve been asking myself the same question all evening. Against my better judgment, I agreed to join a group of newly divorced women for a girls’ night out. I was picturing great conversation and a bit of much-needed laughter. I didn’t realize it meant desperately flirting with a bunch of dads who are pretending to be single. More to the point, what’s someone like you doing in this sorry-ass joint?”

  The woman sighs. “A goodbye drink for a work colleague.” She looks around. “Sometimes I really miss New York.”

  “How come you’re out here?”

  “Initially for love, and when that blew up, I liked the trees, and having a yard, and how easy life is. So I stayed. How about you?”

  “Here initially for my husband’s job, and now, divorced, with a twelve-year-old daughter.”

  “Hmmm. Happily newly divorced or did the bastard cheat on you?”

  Lucy finds herself laughing. Unlike most of the husbands of the other women who have joined her tonight, Simon did not, as far as she knows, have an affair.

  “I wish he would have done. Maybe I would have fared better in the divorce.”

  “Well, he’s an idiot, but then again, most men are. Let me guess. Narcissist?”

  Lucy sighs. “Who knows. I think perhaps all narcissists are just men who can’t help being arses because they haven’t been taught how to process emotions. Are you single?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Perhaps not a coincidence that you’re here on what appears to be either singles night, or a meat market.”

  The woman laughs. “If only I’d known. I’d much rather be home watching Love Island.”

  Lucy closes her eyes dreamily. “A girl after my own heart.” She opens her eyes. “Do you work locally?”

  “I’m a freelance illustrator, but I also have a part-time job at Terrain. I work in the garden section mostly. Gardening’s a passion of mine.”

  “Me too!” Lucy’s eyes light up. “What a great place to work!”

  “Come in and we’ll have coffee. I’ll give you my discount if you want to buy anything.”

  Lucy smiles as she extends a hand. “I’m Lucy.”

  “You’re English, right? My mom’s English.”

  “No! Where from?”

  “Guildford.”

  “No way! That’s so funny!”

  “I make a great cup of tea. Milk and sugar. Proper builder’s tea. I’m Elle. I mean it, by the way, about Terrain. I’m working Wednesday and Thursday afternoons this week. Drop by.”

  “Done,” says Lucy, with the sense that she and Elle will become fast friends, despite the age difference, for Elle has to be in her late twenties. “By the way, I love your scarf.”

  Elle looks down at her embroidered velvet scarf. “Thank you! It was a gift from my aunt.” She looks back up. “Is it weird to suggest we swap numbers?”

  “No! I wanted to ask the same thing!”

  “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in.” They exchange phones, before Lucy rejoins her group to say goodbye. She doesn’t need to stay here any longer; finding a potential new friend is the very best thing that could have happened tonight. She is finally free to go.

  God, I’ve missed having a best friend, she thinks, waiting outside for the Uber, smiling. She has missed her best friend Sally so much, but Sally is still in London, and the time difference makes it too hard. Not to mention the fact that Sally is popping out babies roughly every twenty months. They barely speak anymore. It’s the daily best friend Lucy misses—the person you call to talk about nothing and everything, several times a day.

  Not that this woman is likely to be a best friend. How ridiculous I am, she thinks, grateful the Uber is clean, the driver kind, the journey home short. To think I may have found a best friend after a five-minute chat, an unlikely meeting in the bathroom of a bar.

  But isn’t that often how the best friendships start?

  Terrain is mobbed as Lucy wanders around later that week, picking up candles, kitchen accessories, things she admires but would never actually buy herself. Into the garden section, then outside to the actual garden, weaving around discounted plants given that summer is over, firepits, and teak garden furniture she wishes she could still afford.

  “Lucy!” Elle appears from under a counter in a small wooden hut, her blond curls hidden beneath a wool beanie. “You came!”

  The two hug as Elle grabs a package from behind the counter and shouts over to a colleague that she’s taking a break.

  Inside, they find a table. Elle slides something in tissue paper across the surface. “Forgive me. I only had tissue paper.”

  “What is it? You didn’t have to get me anything!”

  Lucy gasps as she unwraps the paper to reveal a scarf much like the one Elle was wearing the other night, the scarf Lucy had admired. She unfolds it, not knowing what to say, how to thank her for such an unexpected and delightful surprise.

  “It’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you bought me a gift!”

  “I went online, and this is the closest one I could find. Do you really like it?”

  “I love it. Thank you. This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a while.”

  “Apparently gift giving is my love language.”

  Lucy blushes. “That definitely works for me. I have no idea what mine is. I suspect it might be gift giving, too, although acts of service might be in there as well.”

  “Good. That means you’re a good person, which is always a relief when you’re meeting a stranger for tea after a five-minute bathroom chat. You’re not a secret serial killer, are you?”

  Lucy laughs. “How about you? Any secret single-white-female vibes?”

  “Definitely not. I love being around English people. It reminds me of my mom. Here’s to the universe for sending us both to the bathroom at the same time.”

  “My lipstick heroine!” Lucy raises her tea in a toast.

  “To new best friends!” They clink cups as Lucy feels a soft, warm blanket envelop her heart.

  Lucy’s phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her bag to see that it is Sally, trying to FaceTime her. This is such a rare occurrence, she usually drops everything to take Sally’s call, but not today. Today she drops the phone back in her bag and smiles at Elle.

  “Anyone important?”

  “Yes. But I wouldn’t be able to hear her. I’ll call her back.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sally. My best friend in the UK since forever and ever.”

  “I don’t think I could ever have a best friend who lived in another country. How do you stay in touch?”

  “It’s hard. The time difference, and she’s super busy.”

  “I have a rule that best friends have to be in the same country, and preferably in the same town.” She winks at Lucy, who feels honored.

  “Hey, I’ve been invited to some after-party tomorrow night for a band playing at the Klein. I wasn’t going to go, but . . . would you have any interest?”

  Lucy would have to find a babysitter for KC, but an after-party, any kind of party for that matter, might be fun. “What time’s the after-party?”

  “Eleven p.m.”

  Lucy yelps. “Absolutely not. My idea of a good night is getting into bed at nine. And a great night is bed by eight.”

  Elle adjusts her beanie. “That’s why I’m never going to have children. Every mom I know says the same thing.”

  They start texting that afternoon. Lucy is her best self during the text exchanges. Funny, clever, pithy, warm. As a longtime journalist, she has always known how to write, but writing is also her job, not something that necessarily brings her joy. This new friendship has lit a spark, and the words flow from her fingers with ease.

  What is it precisely about Elle that Lucy likes? Her familiarity with everything English, of course, but more than that it’s her curiosity, her warmth, a sense of ease in her skin that makes Lucy relax when they are together.

  They have read the same esoteric books and are now sending novel recommendations back and forth.

  Should we start a two-woman book club? Elle writes. Lucy smiles to herself: she was about to suggest the same thing.

  Come and see my garden. Lucy invites Elle over. Before it gets too cold and raggedy. I’ve still got Cosmos blooming and it’s lovely. Hot chocolate by the firepit? Tomorrow night?

  Only if it’s hot chocolate with a large slug of bourbon.

  Deal.

  The garden is Lucy’s passion and purpose, her pride and joy. She transformed the builder’s-special back lawn into an oasis, planting birch trees and white Annabelle hydrangeas around the perimeter, placing a gravel courtyard in the center, low-slung all-weather rattan sofas facing each other across a firepit, green cushions—all Home Depot, albeit trying to come back in a future life as Terrain.

  Terra-cotta pots frame the courtyard, filled alternately with boxwood balls and white cosmos. It is the garden Lucy has always wanted, rambling and wild on the outside, English order and French pea gravel lending formality and beauty.

  She has bought WhistlePig bourbon and Cadbury hot chocolate. Playing on their shared English heritage, she found Hobnobs and milk chocolate digestives in the international aisle at Stop & Shop. Or should she serve cheese? All these years in America and still she feels odd serving cheese platters at any time other than after dinner. Still, she makes one, truffle cheese and fig jam, grapes and Marcona almonds.

  She has a momentary fret about what to wear, then scolds herself. This is not a date, she thinks. This is a friend. You don’t have to be anyone you’re not. A final check in the mirror as she scoops her hair back in a ponytail, aware of how excited she feels. Sally always said be yourself and you will attract the right people.

  Sally! Oh shit! She completely forgot to call Sally back yesterday. She sends a hurried text apologizing.

  Wanna facetime now? Kids are sleeping, comes the reply.

  Can’t. Have someone coming here in minutes. Will call later. Love you. Xxx

  “KC?” Lucy pauses in the doorway of the den, where KC is snuggled up under a fleece blanket, the television on, although she is lost in her phone. “Have you done your homework?”

  No answer.

  “KC! Homework?” This time she looks up and nods. “Okay. I have a friend coming over. Bedtime on time tonight, okay?”

  A mumble that might be acquiescence, might just be noise. Lucy walks over and plants a kiss on her distracted daughter’s head, before continuing outside.

  “This. Is. Gorgeous!” Elle steps through the side gate, flowers in her arms, which she hands over after the hug. “I wanted to bring you something in a pot, but there were only mums and I hate mums.”

  Lucy grins. “Thank God. I hate mums too. These are beautiful. Thank you.”

  They smile at each other, delighting in every small thing they share, all the ways in which they are similar, an unspoken sisterhood already forming.

  “This is the perfect house,” Elle says as Lucy gives her a tour. “It’s gracious, elegant, and cozy. I would never leave. Well, hello!” Elle walks into the den as KC looks up from her phone. “Who are you?”

  “This is my daughter, KC. KC, this is Elle.”

  KC thinks for a second. “Elle like Legally Blonde?”

  Elle nods. “Exactly. But it’s a coincidence. Hey, how do you know about Legally Blonde? How old are you? Sixteen?”

  KC twinkles with delight. “Nah. I’m twelve.”

  “No way. I do not believe that. Who are you into?”

  KC frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “Harry Styles? Taylor Swift? Ice Spice?”

 

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