Engaged to a man who clearly doesn’t want to commit, at least not to her, she’s dumping him and embarking on solo motherhood.
The child of a single mother herself, she’s turned out just fine, hasn’t she? With a successful career and a home of her own she has everything she needs. She’s not looking for a new life partner just a donor and she’s not expecting anything from him, much less involvement.
But it isn’t as easy as she expected, especially when a dishy doc keeps popping up.
Cringe laugh along with Esme as she discovers life rarely goes to plan, sometimes it’s just so much better.
Great for fans of Sophie Kinsella, Portia MacIntosh or Sophie Ranald.
My new release Save the Date is now available on Amazon, currently just 99p/c.
Here’s a taster from the opening chapter…
‘Shall I see if I can get you an interview today?’ He grabbed at his desk phone and started to call them.
I nodded dumbly and smiled. ‘Have you got any other jobs suitable for me? I’m happy to apply for any position.’
He smiled back and shook his head, holding up a finger to silence me as he waited for the call to be answered. He smiled brightly as it was. I know that trick, well, doesn’t everyone?
They could see me in twenty minutes. Wasn’t I lucky?
I pasted on my own bright smile and agreed that I was. Twenty minutes, that sounded desperate to me. They were desperate, but then so was I. I needed a job and not just because I wanted to build a new life here and buy a house but because I’d just got paid from Temper Tantrums, less than normal obviously, and I’d had to hand most of it over to Charlotte to cover my share of the rent. By then I’d already told her I wouldn’t be coming back, citing the family reasons excuse again to stop her asking why. I could never tell her why. I could never say that she had betrayed me because she had no idea she had. Why would she? And now was not the time to be telling her.
I was putting all that behind me.
When I left the recruitment agency, clutching, in my hands, a scrappy piece of paper with the interview address on it, I stood outside and looked over the jobs they had advertised in the window. They were mostly for warehouse operatives or shop assistants. I’d have been happy with any of those except that the salaries were below what I needed. Dad had already told me how much I’d need to get the mortgage I wanted and the receptionist job only just made it.
I trogged along to my interview, stopping briefly outside Gough and Tipton, in my head I was already calling them Cough and Tickle, and I pushed open the door and strode in.
‘Yes?’ the current receptionist said. She was old, I mean well past retirement age and some, she had a little-old-lady perm and looked weary to the point of exhaustion.
‘I’ve come for an interview with Mr Gough.’ Out came my bright smile again.
‘Thank God for that,’ she said, picking up the phone. ‘Antony, your girl’s here.’ She plonked the phone down, pointed to a door and turned to me. ‘Go on in, love.’
So I did.
Antony Gough sat in a chair so large that it felt as though it filled the room. Mind you, it needed to be large because Antony was large. There was a strong aroma of stale pasty in the air and I hoped it wouldn’t cling to my clothes and hair. He hauled himself off the jumbo chair by leaning on his desk, and thrust a chubby hand at me.
‘I’m Zoe Tydeman,’ I said, taking his hand.
‘You’re a lovely young thing,’ came his reply. His brow was sweaty and he licked his lips.
I blinked several times. I really couldn’t believe my ears or my eyes. Should I just turn on my heels and leave right now? I stood there for a few more seconds, maybe as long as ten seconds all the while wondering if I had misheard him, not that I was mis-seeing the saliva running down his fat chops.
‘Why don’t you sit your lovely bottom down?’ he said, waving his big mitt at a chair.
‘I don’t think I will, thank you.’ With that, I turned around, yanked open the door and stomped out.
‘Oh,’ the old lady receptionist said. ‘That was quick.’
‘Quite. Someone should have a word with him. He’s disgusting.’ I headed for the exit.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean anything…’
I frowned at her and nodded as she scurried off towards his office.
‘Antony, what happened?’
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I heard him say. I stepped outside and took a big lungful of fresh air as I let the door bang closed behind me.
I rang the agency and gave Cam a tongue lashing. What the hell was he playing at sending me there? His defence was that he thought a London Girl would be able to handle an old letch like Antony Gough.
‘Idiot,’ I said, ending the call.
Fortunately, there were two other employment agencies and I gave them both a call while sitting in a little café by the market place and stuffing a pasty into my face. The irony was not lost on me that all that getting affronted had given me quite the appetite for a pasty, evidently.
Unfortunately, neither agency had anything suitable at the moment but they both had the job with Cough and Tickle on their books and I’m pretty sure they knew what Mr Gough was like. In this day and age, I ask you, how it is allowed to continue? And yet it does; Charlotte was accosted at work once, the man actually grabbed her buttock, from behind. She stamped back onto his foot with her heel then elbowed him in the paunch. He gave her a wide berth after that but who knows who else he pestered? She complained, but as there were no witnesses, nothing could be done.
Here in the UK we’re stuck in another grim version of lockdown. When will it ever end?
On Saturday, to cheer ourselves up me and the husband had a Christmas dinner for two: turkey, stuffing, pigs in blankets, roasties and my favourite, Brussels sprouts. We also had Christmas pudding and cream, followed by after dinner mints. Then we watched the final of Strictly Come Dancing and saw Bill Bailey aged 56, win! Yes! His competitors were 19, 19 and 32.
And we went to bed feeling a little stuffed and sick, but it was worth it.
We had Christmas dinner again on Sunday because it’s impossible to cook a dinner like this that only lasts a day. It’s a tough life.
We hope to spend Christmas Day with our family – if Boris and his doomsayers don’t cancel it in our tier like they have in London.
Let’s hope that 2021 brings us some joy.
Merry Christmas!!! I hope you are able to spend it with those you love.
Ruby Sutton hates Christmas and is determined it just isn’t happening this year.
After a shocking tragedy two Christmases ago Ruby finds herself unable to ruin another Christmas for her parents, which is what she did last year. So, she’s booked herself a little escape in a secluded cottage in Devon. She has everything she needs for her hideaway holiday and intends to while away her time soaking in the bath, reading books, knitting (yes, really) going braless, and not blow drying her hair at all. That’s the plan: Christmas is officially cancelled.
Just before she leaves for her break, she discovers the cottage is called Christmas Cottage – a strange name for what is normally a summer rental. Is it an omen? Could be, but she arrives late at night, snuggles down and has the best night’s sleep she’s had for two years.
It’s going to be great, isn’t it? Except there’s been a mix-up, the cottage is double booked, it snows and she’s trapped with the ever smirky and smiley, Noah Steele. So much for going braless…
Will Ruby discover the joys of Christmas again? Will Noah ever stop smiling?
It’s only SIX days until my Christmas romcom Escape to Christmas Cottage goes live! Here’s an excerpt from the second chapter….
An hour later, having rinsed off the restorative masks I’ve had on both my hair and face, and read three chapters of my book, a murder thriller – not sure how wise choosing that was given I’m all alone – I force myself out of the bath.
In the living room the logs in the burner are roaring away. I’m not sure that was still lit when I passed through an hour ago, and even I, with my limited knowledge of such things, know that log burners don’t last all night unless topped up. Someone has been in here. Local boy, no doubt. I don’t like the idea of that and decide that once I’ve retrieved my shopping from the car, I will be deadlocking all the doors. Happily, there’s no sign of him now.
I stand in front of the log burner, my back to the warmth. It’s so nice, I even lift the back of my towel to let the heat warm my bare skin. I feel as though I can do anything I like here, be myself, indulge my misery, allow myself to be happy, even run around naked – once I’ve deadlocked those doors. A ray of weak sunshine pushes its way through the windows and bathes my face, I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation.
I can hear the silence, the peace of this place. No memories – or at least not mine – running through the walls, no resentments, no accusations, just peace. I can be me. The me I used to be. Perhaps.
The snap of a door opening and my eyes ping open.
Standing in front of me is the local lad. Glistening chest wet from a shower, a towel around his waist, he’s towelling his wet hair, his face obscured. Damn cheek.
A low growl.
Then I see it. The dog. The biggest dog I’ve ever seen. It sees me and moves in a blur, grabbing my towel in its beastly jaws. Yanking so hard that I cannot hold on. I’m knocked off my feet by the power of the dog’s grasp, collapsing in a heap in front of the log burner. Attempting to cover myself with my hands – not an easy task given the size of my boobs – I’m yelping and howling as though I were a dog myself.
‘What the f…’ a male voice says, the local lad, the interloper. ‘Kong, drop.’
The dog drops my towel, the lad, though actually, clearly, not a lad, but a big hairy man, retrieves my towel from the floor and, in one swift movement wraps it around me.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says.
‘Sorry? Sorry?’ I scrabble to get up, gripping my towel around me. ‘What are you even doing in here? Who the hell are you?’
‘I was wondering that myself. About you, obviously.’ Is that the hint of a smirk on his face?
‘Me? Me? I’m the idiot who rented this place for ten days, not some part-time woodchopper nipping in to use the facilities. I’ll be reporting you to Mrs Lane.’ I grip my towel tighter, pulling it up around my neck.
He’s smiling now, definitely smiling. How bloody dare he?
‘What are you bloody smiling at?’ I’m incensed now.
‘Sorry,’ he says, but the smile remains. ‘I’ve rented this place too.’
‘No you haven’t. You’re the local la… man who chops wood. I saw you. Out there.’ I point my finger rather awkwardly, in the general direction of the garden but have to keep my elbow clenched to my body because I don’t want my towel to dislodge again.
‘Y-e-s-s,’ he says, drawing out the word. ‘I was out there chopping wood, because I told the owner I was happy to chop it. But I’m not local and I have rented this place.’
‘No.’ I cannot believe it.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘There’s obviously been a mix up. Somewhere.’
For a second or two I’m speechless. A mix up? How? Why?
He stands before me, still glistening, then starts to dab himself dry with his hair towel. His body is lean, but muscled. His body is not at all like Cliff’s.
‘Well, yes,’ I snap. ‘I suggest we both get dressed then come back and discuss this properly.’
‘Okay,’ he turns away.
‘Yes, and you can put your giant dog outside too please.’
‘Kong,’ he calls and the dog trots alongside his master as the two disappear back into the bedroom next to the bathroom, the biggest one and with the en-suite too.
‘Arrogant bastard,’ I mutter. I do not want that dog menacing me inside my own holiday getaway, my Christmas escape.
I have a new book out soon, it’s currently up for pre-order on Amazon. It’s a lovely, cosy, Christmas romcom. Read it while you have your hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate – something the characters do a lot…. Here’s a taster from the first chapter:
‘What are you doing for Christmas, Ruby?’
I swear the next person who asks me that is going to either get a punch in the face or I’ll vomit on their shoes. Which would be worse? I am only standing at the water cooler, filling my glass and minding my own business.
‘Oh, you know, just the usual, family stuff, quiet one.’ I force out a bland little smile before feeling obliged to return the query. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, first we’re going to Paul’s parents’ place for brunch, then it’s over to mine for Christmas dinner at six, with all our lot… blah, blah, blah.’
Suddenly, I realise she’s stopped talking and I have to respond even though I haven’t been listening to most of it because it’s the same old stuff everyone says.
‘Sounds fab,’ I say, my voice rising at the end, trying to sound interested and positive. ‘Have fun.’ I turn and shuffle back to my desk and wonder how much longer this hell will continue.
It’s our last day at work before Christmas. We’re not working tomorrow, which is Christmas Eve, and everyone is hoping we’ll be let off early today. Even me. Not because I want to get home and start stuffing my turkey or trimming my tree or any of that crap, just because I want to get as far away from jolly, festive people as I possibly can.
‘Suppose we’d better put some of this away,’ someone says, starting to pick baubles off the tacky plastic tree wedged on top of the filing cabinet. I look away. Don’t involve me in that, I didn’t put it up and I’m not taking it down. I can still feel the daggers of disapproval flung my way when I wouldn’t participate in this farce. ‘Not even a bit of tinsel on your desk?’ someone had questioned, before backing off when I’d barked, ‘No, thanks.’
I hate Christmas. In case you hadn’t guessed. I haven’t always hated Christmas, but I do now.
The office door opens and I watch my friend, Zara, waddle towards me. The smile on her face lasts from the door to my desk.
‘Hey,’ I say, genuinely pleased to see her.
‘I’m so glad it’s my last day.’ She flops down in the seat next to mine, rubbing her immense baby belly.
‘You got lots of nice stuff.’ We had her leaving to have a baby presentation an hour ago and I’ve never seen so much baby paraphernalia. ‘Do you need a hand getting it home?’ I hope she doesn’t, I really do. I know that’s selfish.
‘No, my colleagues will stuff it in the car for me and Ben and the kids will get it out at home.’ She smiles, then nudges me. ‘I bet you just want to get off out of here, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I cannot lie.’
‘Who knows, by the time you get back from your little jaunt, I might have had this baby.’
‘When’s it actually due?’
‘4th Jan, but as it’s number four, it could come any time.’ She gives a little light laugh as though having a baby is like popping to the loo, but we both know that the last time was hell on earth for her and the baby. Personally, I think she’s mad to do it again, but what do I know? She said that she didn’t like families in uneven numbers, definitely didn’t want three children because there’s always a middle one, and she didn’t want that. She’d been a middle one herself and she definitely didn’t want that for her own children. Hence number four; I still think she’s mad.
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t need any help…’
‘No, you’re fine. What are your plans? Car packed ready to go straight off?’
‘Yes. Clothes and stuff. But I’m going to go food shopping before I get on the motorway. It’s so cold outside that I don’t think I need to worry about anything I buy spoiling, do you?’
‘God, no. It’s bloody freezing outside. Snow forecast, apparently. Not that I believe it. We’ll just get drizzle like we always do. At least this year we won’t be having thermostat wars all over Christmas like we usually do, Ben too hot, me too cold. I’ve got my own hot water bottle here.’ She pats her baby bulge. ‘I almost envy you.’
‘What?’
‘The peace and quiet. It’ll be the usual bedlam in our house and inevitably tears before lunchtime on Christmas Day. Mine probably.’ She rolls her eyes and stands up. ‘Have a good break, Ruby. Recharge those batteries. Message me when you get back. They’re letting me go now, cos I’m special.’ She grins and as I look at her I see how tired she looks. She should have finished work weeks ago, in my opinion, but it’s none of my business.
I stand up and give her a quick hug, mostly because she expects it. I swear her baby girl kicks me hard as I lean in. With three boys already, Zara was determined to try for a girl. I dread to think what would have happened if this one had been a boy too. Would she have tried for baby number five? Then a sixth if it wasn’t a girl, to keep the numbers even?
‘Message me if anything exciting happens.’
‘I don’t know if you’ll even receive messages down there.’
‘It’s Devon, Zara, not deepest, darkest space.’
‘I did tell you it was remote, though, didn’t I? We couldn’t even get a phone signal until we’d driven five miles away from the cottage.’
‘Yes, but that was fifty years ago.’
‘Shut up, you. Well, ten years, I suppose. In the days before we had children.’ Zara’s face takes on a wistful look and she smiles to herself, a secret little smile. ‘I think we conceived our eldest there.’
Too much information for me. ‘I was looking through the pictures Mrs Lane sent me again this morning,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘It looks like just what I need.’
Zara flops back down into the chair she’s just vacated. ‘Show me. Show me.’
….I’ll post an excerpt from chapter 2 soon.
Escape to Christmas Cottage is due out on 30 September and is available for pre-order now. Just 99p/c for a limited time.
And finally, it’s here. My new release has taken me longer than normal to finish. There are good reasons for this, not least of all the covid-19 lockdown and the ensuing panic and absolute disbelief that such a thing could happen in the 21st century. Pandemics are the stuff of history, surely. What next, aliens landing outside Bucky Palace? There is another major reason why this book is so late, but you’ll have to read to the end to find out because if I tell you here, it’ll spoil the story.
Pamela Rigby has waited her whole life for this holiday and nothing is going to spoil it.
She’s saved long and hard for a month-long Caribbean cruise, but can’t afford to go alone. Hooking up with Fiona on an internet forum seems like the ideal solution. A seasoned traveller and frequent cruiser, Fiona appears to be the perfect companion. If only Fiona wasn’t so obnoxious, if only Pam hadn’t been so trusting. Then there’s Carl, a boy from the past, a man now…
Set sail with Pam as she discovers that you can’t spend your whole life hiding.
Ideal for fans of Marian Keyes, Sarah Heywood or Richard Roper.
After ten years together they’re having the most perfect wedding, ever…
Lauren always knew that Leeward was ‘The One’ and can’t wait
to be his wife. The slimmest and blondest she’s ever been in her whole life;
Lauren has a dress to die for and she is most definitely not a bridezilla.
But will the big day turn into a wedding to remember for all the wrong reasons? Will the internet ever forget Lauren’s rendition of IWill Survive?
Join Lauren on her journey to move on, even if it does mean
taking advice from her stroppy sister and her opinionated, matchmaking
great-grandmother – or Leeward’s gorgeous brother who’s offering her a shoulder
to cry on and just can’t seem to stay away.
Will Lauren stick to her mantra of sooo not looking for a
man? Will she ever trust another man again?
If you’re a fanof Sophie Kinsella, Jill Mansell or Sophie Ranald, don’t miss Lauren’s witty, heart-warming and poignant, feel-good journey.
CJ Morrow - the inside stories 