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  Copyright

  AVON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Copyright © Polly James 2016

  Polly James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record of 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, down-loaded, 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.

  Source ISBN: 9780007548552

  Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007548569

  Version 2016-05-13

  Dedication

  For Mark, Daisy and Jack, as always – and for Becky Thomas, without whom there would be no book.

  “There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.”

  François de la Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Twenty-Seven Years Later…

  Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Spring

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Summer

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Autumn

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Winter

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Dan lets go of both oars and searches the front pockets of his jeans, looking more anxious by the second.

  “Shit,” he says. “Where’ve I put it?”

  I take no notice, as I’m too busy lounging in the stern of the dinghy and trailing my fingers in the water. The sky is intensely blue and I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. (I’m about to get even happier, though I don’t know that yet.)

  “A-ha!” says Dan. “I’ve found it. Thank God for that.”

  I’m still not looking at him, because now I’m friend-spotting amongst the groups of art school students celebrating the end of finals on the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park. The sun’s so bright, I can’t see properly without the sunglasses I dropped overboard the last time Dan kissed me, so I just wave vaguely in the direction of the crowds.

  Someone shouts something unintelligible across the water, at the same time as a duck squawks and Dan says something equally unintelligible.

  “What?” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Hannah,” says Dan, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Pay attention, will you? I’m trying to do something important here.”

  The boat bobs gently up and down as he adds, “I asked you if you’ll marry me.”

  I stare at him, wondering if I’ve misheard due to that infuriating still-squawking duck, and then he tries again.

  “I love you, Han. Marry me?”

  “Oh, my God, yes,” I say, “Yes, please.”

  I jump up and hurl myself towards Dan, just as he tries to pass me the small blue ring box that he’s holding, but then the boat rocks and tips me headfirst into the lake.

  Thirty seconds later, Dan has already dived in to rescue me from the weeds in which I’m now entangled, and has lost my engagement ring in the process – as well as the boat, which is drifting away.

  Fifteen minutes after that, we’ve swum to the bank and are outside the cafe, wrapped in blankets and toasting each other with mugs of hot chocolate, while being lectured on why you should never stand up carelessly in a dinghy by the owner of the one we allowed to drift away. That’s the exact moment at which an off-duty press photographer takes our photograph, the one that appears in the local paper the following day, under the headline: Loved-Up Art Students Make a Splash.

  Twenty-Seven Years Later…

  Winter

  Chapter 1

  It’s all the fault of the half-naked teenagers, or most of it, anyway. They’re staggering about drunkenly on the TV screen, and Dan is staring at them as if his life depended on it.

  “What the hell are you watching?” I say, as I come into the room bearing two mugs of extra-strong coffee to help prevent the hangover we’ll otherwise be doomed to have.

  It’s 12:30am, and we’ve been drinking geriatric drinks all night: Aunt Pearl’s way of thanking us for moving her belongings into her new retirement flat during the day. I don’t think port and lemon agrees with me, and it certainly doesn’t agree with Dan. It’s given him short-term memory loss, judging by the fact that he completely forgot to wish me a happy New Year when we heard Big Ben strike twelve on the radio, in the taxi that was bringing us home.

  Once we arrived, Dan got out of the car, unlocked the front door, and then headed straight for the sofa like a homing pigeon. One with opposable claws for operating remote controls, and a tendency to go deaf whenever wives ask awkward questions.

  I try again.

  “What is this programme, Dan?” I say.

  “God knows,” he says, taking the mug I pass him without moving his eyes away from the screen. “Brits in Ibiza, or something like that.”

  He must be able to sense my expression, as then he adds, “Probably the channel Joel was watching before he went out tonight.”

  It’s so useful having a supposedly adult son still living at home whenever you need to pass the buck. I doubt Joel would be caught dead watching this idiotic programme, not when he can view similar scenes any night
of the week when he’s out clubbing – and in the flesh, as it were. God, there’s a lot of that on this TV show.

  I shift about in my seat, suddenly uncomfortably aware of what I’m now wearing: mismatched pyjamas, to go with my rather less mismatched face and arse. They say either your arse can look good after the age of forty, or your face, but never both. When you get as close to fifty as I now am, both are past their sell-by date.

  “I can’t see the appeal of half-naked teenagers, myself – not since I stopped being one,” I say. “Especially not when they’re vomiting everywhere like this lot will be in a minute. Isn’t there anything better on?”

  Dan doesn’t reply. You’d swear he’d been watching this programme for at least the last two hours and it was about to reach a thrilling climax, given how hard he’s concentrating. I repeat what I’ve just said, and then I wave at him across the room, but he doesn’t react, and then I feign a coughing fit. Still no response whatsoever – none – so I pull off one of my slipper socks and throw it at him.

  My aim’s a bit off, but I do finally succeed in getting Dan’s attention. In fact, he almost jumps out of his skin.

  “What the fuck, Hannah?” he says, fishing the sock out of his coffee, and making a face. “Why did you do that?”

  “You were ignoring me,” I say. “Too busy ogling those girls with their boobs and arses hanging out.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” says Dan, who suddenly looks quite angry. Very angry, actually. I’m not used to seeing him like that, even during the stupid arguments we’ve been having recently. He did get a bit cross when I complained about him and Joel never putting toilet-roll inners into the bathroom bin the other day, but nothing like as cross as this. Now he looks as if he can’t stand the sight of me.

  “I was joking, Dan,” I say, quickly. It’s only half a lie, but he spots it, anyway.

  “Like hell you were.”

  Dan glares at me, and then he adds, “All I wanted was to chill out in front of the TV, after a bloody long day dealing with Pearl, and it didn’t matter what I was watching, as far as I was concerned. But if I had picked this programme on purpose, then who could blame me? The only flesh I get to see these days is on TV.”

  Dan seems almost as shocked by what he’s just said as I am, and there’s silence for a moment, as we both let his words sink in. Then I swallow, and say very slowly and clearly, “You mean that’s the type of flesh you prefer. You make that pretty obvious.”

  Did I really say that out loud? I laugh, to lessen the sting, but Dan has lost his temper now.

  “You can’t say something like you just did, and then laugh as if you didn’t mean it, Hannah,” he says. “And how exactly do I make my ‘preference’ so obvious?”

  I wish I’d never started this conversation now. It’s one thing to feel inadequate, but ten times more humiliating to admit to it, and then to explain why you do.

  “I just meant,” I say, keeping my head down and staring intently at a piece of fluff on the carpet, “that you make it clear that you don’t fancy me any more. I know I don’t look like the woman you married these days, but –”

  “You don’t act like her, either,” says Dan. “In fact, you’re nothing like her. You want me to be as miserable as you are, and God forbid that either of us should have any fun. So I don’t quite get what I’m supposed to fancy about someone who’s more interested in Joel and Pearl than in me, as well as in their stupid job, and who’s so obsessed with losing their looks that they walk around with a face like a wet weekend the whole damn time. That’s really bloody attractive.”

  I’m so stunned I don’t know what to say, or where to start, so I just sit there, twisting my hands in my lap, and trying to ignore the tear that’s rolling down the side of my nose and heading towards my mouth. Dan spots it and it seems to annoy him even more.

  “I don’t know why you’re crying, Hannah,” he says. “You started this, and normally you’d be the one with the killer line to finish it. So why don’t we just get it over with? I know you’re unhappy with yourself, but now you’re blaming me for it, and making me feel like a useless husband, too. I’m sick and tired of you trying to push me into saying I don’t fancy you, so here you are: I don’t. Feel better now?”

  I think it’s safe to say I don’t, and I feel even worse when Dan and I end up agreeing to separate. Happy New Year, Hannah Pinkman. Nicely done.

  Chapter 2

  Huh. Dan’s still sleeping in the spare room and doing that “no-talking” thing the rest of the time, even though New Year’s Eve was days ago. How can you have a row so bad that you decide to separate, then fail to mention it ever again? That’s just bloody typical. He obviously didn’t mean a word he said, which is really annoying, as I haven’t slept a wink for the last three nights.

  I’m like a sleepwalking zombie when I go back to work this morning, which doesn’t escape the notice of my boss, the Apprentice wannabe better known as the Fembot. At lunchtime, she writes my stats on the whiteboard in much larger writing than she uses for anyone else’s.

  “Hannah’s having trouble keeping up with us young ones today,” she announces to anyone who’s listening, at the same time as rising up on her toes and twirling around to show her arse off to its best advantage. What sort of dingbat wears hot pants to work, for goodness’ sake?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, when it becomes apparent that eye-rolling is insufficient, and some sort of verbal response is required. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a bit of a stomach upset, to tell the truth.”

  “I see,” says the Fembot, in the tone of voice that means, I don’t believe a word of it.

  I go to the loo four times in the next forty-five minutes, just to prove her wrong. Then, when she leans over the back of my chair to ask if I realise that I’ve been “spotted leaving my desk four times in the last forty-five minutes”, I tell her that there’s a highly-contagious bug going around.

  “Joel’s been ill with it for days,” I say. “He looks like shit. I hope none of you will catch it.”

  It’s only a small lie, given that Joel has had a three-day hangover since he overdid the drinking on New Year’s Eve, but it serves its purpose very nicely: the Fembot moves away as if she’s been electrocuted. She’s got a date tonight.

  “Go home, Hannah,” she says. “Right this minute.”

  “Are you sure?” I say, standing up and following her across the room, getting as close as I can and breathing heavily down her neck. I cough a couple of times, for good measure. Now she’s put the idea in my head, I really fancy an afternoon off – preferably spent sound asleep.

  “Yes, I’m positive,” says the Fembot, glaring at me. “You can work from home instead.”

  I hate modern jobs. In the olden days, when you were too ill to go into your place of work, no one expected you to work at all. Now you do everything on a computer or a mobile phone, you’d have to be dead and buried before you could get away with claiming to be unfit to work.

  I particularly hate my modern job.

  It isn’t the type of thing I thought I’d be spending my working life doing when I met Dan at art school all those years ago. Then we both thought we were headed for fame and fortune, or for something creative, anyway. Instead, Dan got such a boring job at the Council that he can’t even be bothered to explain to people what it is, and I ended up as a graphic designer for HOO, a question-and-answer site. (Officially, HOO stands for Helpful Opinions Online, but staff know it better as Halfwits’ Opinions Online, or Halfwits for short.)

  “Ahem,” says the Fembot, who’s obviously noticed that I’m no longer listening to whatever it is she’s going on about. “As I was saying, Hannah, you can email me that artwork from home tonight, but don’t forget it’s very urgent.”

  Only the Fembot would use the word “urgent” to describe a stupid “thumbs-up, happy face” icon. It’s not half as urgent as dealing with a husband who does his wife’s head in by saying something terrible that he doesn’t mean, the
n taking a vow of silence afterwards. I’m going to make Dan talk to me tonight, as soon as he gets home, and sod the Fembot’s bloody icon.

  * * *

  Oh, my God. Dan says he meant what he said the other night. He really did. Twenty-seven years of marriage down the drain, just like that.

  He comes home just as I’m waking from my nap, but doesn’t say a word until Joel goes out to meet his girlfriend. Then he takes a deep breath and hits me with it. (Not the breath, obviously.)

  “So,” he says, turning off Netflix and putting the remote control out of reach. “I guess we should talk about what we’re going to do. I’m assuming you haven’t told Joel yet?”

  “Told him what?” I say, annoyed at missing the last five minutes of Breaking Bad.

  “That we’re splitting up,” says Dan, as if it should be obvious. “I haven’t said anything about it so far, as I didn’t see the point in stressing him out until we’d got it organised.”

  Oh, brilliant. Dan’s worried about stressing Joel out – Joel, who’s oblivious to almost everything once he’s smoked a joint to celebrate finishing work for the day. And what about my stress levels? I could have a heart attack at any second, at my age.