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Back A Bumpy Year Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Olivia Spooner
  3. A BUMPY YEAR
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. Acknowledgements
  48. About the Author
  49. An Invitation from the Publisher

Having travelled so often for work, I have a staple list of items I always pack. Exercise gear (including running shoes), a universal adapter plug, tweezers, comfy socks, a pair of equally comfy trackpants, Marmite (for emergencies) and a dress. A dress that I can wear to a last-minute dinner invite or cocktail party. A dress that can be folded into a suitcase and not need an iron. It took me a while, but I have said dress on my body and I’m extremely grateful I found it on my shopping expedition last week. I was looking for several items that I could wear to work and that would disguise my growing belly. When I tried this dress on, I knew it was a winner.

The wide shoulder straps mean I can wear a good supportive bra and the smoky-blue fabric falls in neat, gathered folds from the straight-across neckline to my thighs. It not only makes my boobs look less obvious, but it also disguises my belly and accentuates my toned arms and legs. With the strappy silver sandals, a good application of make-up and my long blonde hair swept into a loose bun, I look OK.

I’m putting on delicate leaf-shaped earrings when Scott knocks. It’s ridiculous how nervous I’m feeling. I know this isn’t a date in the usual sense, but it’s still a date, as in, I’m Scott’s date for the night. Plus, I won’t know anyone. Chances are we’ll arrive and then Scott will walk off and spend the night talking to his mates, leaving me to fend for myself. It’s something I should be used to. Pete was a master at it – though he always sought me out towards the end of the night, drunk and horny. At least I won’t have that part to worry about. I’m confident Scott won’t make any amorous move on me.

“Wow,” Scott says as I open the door. He gives a low whistle. “You look stunning.”

“Thanks, you’re not too shabby yourself.”

I’ve always had a soft spot for a man in a suit and Scott’s tailored striped suit and white shirt with the top button undone is quite something.

“It’s uncomfortable as hell,” he says, wriggling and grimacing. “Give me shorts and a T-shirt any day.”