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About the Author

Giovanna Fletcher is a number one bestselling author and podcast creator.

With eleven titles under her belt so far, she is one of the UK’s most successful women’s fiction authors; she has also written two non-fiction works focusing on parenting and motherhood. Her podcast Happy Mum, Happy Baby has over seven million downloads to date and has featured a range of celebrity guests, including the Duchess of Cambridge.

Giovanna is an ambassador for The Prince’s Trust, a patron for CoppaFeel!, and she also works closely with Tommy’s and Save the Children. In 2020 she was crowned I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here’s Queen of The Castle.

By the same author

Billy and Me

You’re the One That I Want

Christmas With Billy and Me

Dream a Little Dream

Dream a Little Christmas Dream

Always With Love

Some Kind of Wonderful

Eve of Man

The Eve Illusion

Happy Mum, Happy Baby: My Adventures in Motherhood

Letters on Motherhood

Dedication

To anyone who has ever walked alongside, in front of or behind me – all in the name of boob-loving CoppaFeel! – Thank you.

1

Zaza

A smile is plastered on my face. It’s a big smile – a toothy one, my huge mouth wide, my full lips stretched from ear to ear. I’ve been told on many occasions my smile lights up the room. Judging by the grins being fired back at me by our family and friends, I imagine my smile is doing the trick. Spreading joy. Spreading love. Playing its part.

By my side, Liam says something funny. The crowd cackle and cheer. He pulls me into his hip with one big swoop of his arm and kisses me on the cheek. Perhaps as an apology? Did he just crack a joke at my expense? Does his affection mean to reassure me? Appease me?

I wasn’t listening.

I’d better listen.

I should be listening.

It’s not enough to smile.

I have to be present.

‘In all seriousness though, everyone in this room is in no doubt about who wears the trousers in this relationship,’ he says into the mic, his voice booming around the back end of The Plough Inn – our favourite pub in West London’s leafy Ealing that’s seen us in various states over the years: sober, tipsy, drunk, debauched, full of joy and love, tired, worried, scared, alone, heartbroken – utterly broken. Distraught.

Must.

Listen.

I look up at Liam’s dark eyes as my mind scrambles to make sense of what he is talking about, wondering what on earth he could be saying that’s keeping them all so entertained. That loving look. That softness. That kind expression that causes his eyes to crinkle as he looks back at me and gives the most loving of looks, taking in my face with such … pride. ‘I’m so lucky you scrolled into my world and allowed me into your heart,’ he says with alarming tenderness, as though he’s forgotten that dozens of eyes are on us.

‘And bed,’ jeers some twat who’s passing by, trying to be funny. I’m thankful for the interruption.

‘And that,’ Liam says nervously, his pale skin blushing as he turns back to our gathered loved ones. ‘I met the love of my life, and have been trying to show her how cool I am ever since – and before I get interrupted again, I know. Not very.’

My heart aches for him. He has been so good to me these past few months, trying to be my absolute rock even when I’ve had no idea what it is I want and need. I’m fully aware I’ve not been my usual self with him, conscious of a familiar old feeling that’s been creeping in no matter how much I’ve tried to push it away. But it’s expected right now given the events we’ve been through. Surely. I’m meant to be questioning everything I have in my life, right?

‘I might’ve held back from popping the question to retain a microscopic amount of control,’ he continues, holding his hand in the air while pinching his fingers together. ‘But I’m gladly handing it over knowing I’ll be spending every day of my life standing next to the woman beside me.’

The room melts with an audible sigh.

It’s romantic.

It’s beautiful.

It’s too much.

‘I just like the fact you thought you had some of the control to start with,’ I find myself quipping. They laugh. They erupt. It shakes my insides.

My eyes scan across the room, taking in the faces of people who seem so happy to be celebrating with us tonight. So many wonderful people we’re so blessed to have in our lives still, yet they can’t replace those missing.

My eyes fall on Vicky, my best mate, who I can see, even from this distance, is bleary eyed from the free-flowing prosecco and having to be supported by her husband Nick, who discreetly lets her lean on him. She’s made an effort tonight too. Her makeup, although now smudged and less defined, is a far cry from her usual shattered-mother-of-two look. Likewise, I imagine her being graced five minutes to quickly put a tong through her shoulder-length brown hair to give it a bit of life. Might’ve worked then but now it’s lacklustre and sad. Like us. When I saw her earlier, looking so composed and normal, it was like a warm blanket of reassurance had been placed around me. I’m so glad she’s here, despite me telling her not to put herself through it. But we’d both made a promise to Pia, and we had to do as she asked.

Vicky notices me looking at her and screws her face up into a grin, teeth on display. Her eyes shut as she juts out her chin – a gesture that makes her look the spitting image of her five-year-old-son Barnaby. She’s already two steps ahead of me in this grown-up game of life. She had the wedding and has moved on to have two kids too.

Now I’m on the path to having the same …

A heaviness lands on my chest at the thought.

I gaze back at Liam and the feeling doesn’t lift.

For the first five-and-a-half years of our relationship I wanted nothing more than this moment. I’ve wanted the commitment, craved that validation of our love – that declaration that I am the one he chooses over everyone else. And although I knew I never needed a ring to prove that to be the case – he is such a kind, loving and considerate soul, I realized in the end I did. Because that’s the thing, right? That’s where every failed relationship of my past should’ve been heading before it turned sour. The ring is how I know this is the real deal. That little piece of metal and that bling-bling diamond is what separates this love from the shit-shows and disappointments that came before. This is the path. This is what we all do. My friends all managed it – they’ve found the people who’ve declared their love despite the endless idiosyncrasies and flaws they stumbled across. My mates found the people who said, ‘You know what, you’re not perfect but I love you just the way you are,’ or better still, ‘You’re my kind of imperfect,’ and had worn the gowns or the suits to celebrate that match-up.

I saw them all doing it and wanted in on that narrative.

Liam is that storyline.

He was giving me all I’ve been hoping for. All I ever wanted.

Then Pia died.

One of my best mates exited the earth halfway through the narrative, married to another best mate Mike. It seems cruel and unfair that they weren’t afforded the rest of their story, one that should’ve been completed with the comfort and boredom of old age, of them settling in around the fire at night to do puzzles and eat cake while talking about the good old days.

‘To my future wife, Zaza!’ Liam beams, stepping aside and giving me the floor. He leads them into a cheer – my brother Rich making more of a barking sound as he whoops in his own enthusiastic way, encouraging my cousins to do the same.

Liam holds the microphone out to me and, to his surprise, I wave it away.

Ordinarily I’d make a speech. I’ve never been one to fall into the role of ‘submissive woman’ and allow others to speak on my behalf. I’ve never been one to hesitate when grabbing for attention and having my voice heard.

But not now.

Now life seems so fragile. So short. So uncertain.

Who knows what might accidentally slip out if I were to take that mic to my lips.

Not now.

2

Vicky

‘And they didn’t wake up at all?’ I ask again, following Rosie as she makes to leave. As usual our eighteen-year-old babysitter can’t get out of the house quick enough. She must’ve heard us wandering up the street because she was already wearing her coat and pulling her Ugg boots on when we stumbled through the door.

‘Erm …’ she thinks, pausing while glancing up the stairs. ‘Didn’t hear them,’ she shrugs.

‘Right,’ I mumble, handing her four ten-pound notes while not entirely sure whether to feel comforted by her vague reply or completely freaked out. Either my children have slept soundly not even realizing we’ve gone out, or they’ve woken up and she’s been oblivious while binge-watching her favourite trashy TV shows. I’m praying it’s the former as she’s ridiculously reliable and never cancels on us – ‘good’ sitters are hard to find.

‘See you then,’ she grins, stuffing the cash into the back pocket of her jeans and flying out the door.

I twist the key in the lock and pull the chain across, before kicking off my heels and feeling my feet instantly ache and swell as I walk across the wooden floors. I groan, feeling more than my age as I make my way to my husband Nick who has gone off on the hunt for food, our usual way to round off a night out. I find him, jacket and tie off, sitting at the kitchen counter.

‘Pizza?’ he asks with a smug grin, swivelling the cardboard box in my direction to reveal the Pepperoni Special Rosie has barely touched but was very specific about us ordering.

‘She didn’t eat it?’ I ask, sitting next to him.

‘You ordered a large. She doesn’t strike me as the sort to indulge …’ His eyes are firmly on the pizza but they might as well be on Rosie’s tight little butt.

I hate the wave of shame that washes over me at the thought. Shame for the bitchiness it drums up towards Rosie, and shame for how it makes me feel about my own wobbly and stretch-marked body. We’re not meant to feel this way about our bodies any more. We’re meant to embrace all our ‘imperfections’ and wear them with pride. That’s what us women are meant to do now. It’s hard to admit, but some days I don’t feel like doing all the things I’m meant to.

‘Her loss,’ I mumble, tearing off a cold slice and cramming it into my mouth before my brain has a chance to tell me not to. Grease escapes down my chin as I start chewing. It’s pure filth. My fuzzy head blocks out the remorse I know I’ll experience in the morning when I get up and feel the bloat of my tummy. Sod it.

‘For fuck’s sake, she’s not even washed up,’ I tut, noticing the leftovers from the kids’ dinners crusting up on stacked-up plates. ‘Or tidied up!’ I add, irked that the house still looks like it’s been struck by a tornado – crayons, pencils, Play-Doh, Lego, Moana dolls, teddies, Anas and Elsas, a pile-up of cars and dozens of splayed books cover the floor and surfaces, nicely framed with crumbs, discarded Cheerios or lumps of dinner that have been lobbed across the room by Chloe, who was angry at the offering of fish pie – a meal she loved last week but tonight might as well have been canned dog food.

‘Did you tell her to?’ Nick asks, pushing his glasses up his nose while his eyes stay trained on his pizza. The state of the house is my domain and it seems I’m the only one who gets riled at the continuous cycle of mess that occurs around us.

‘I pay her ten pounds an hour, Nick. I chuck in a free pizza and give her free rein of our wine cupboard … I didn’t realize I had to specify that she wasn’t just here to sit on the sofa and chat to her mates on Snapchat,’ I grumble.

‘Some people just need it spelt out. You can’t be angry about something when you haven’t expressed what you want,’ he says, folding more pizza into his mouth.

‘Yeah,’ I bite, even though I know it’s not his fault. ‘I should’ve done it before I left,’ I berate myself. ‘Sod getting a pair of tongs through my flipping hair. Scraping dried salmon flakes off the wall would’ve been a better use of my time,’ I say, while my thumbnail picks at the vandalized wall. Having grown up in a house where I felt scared to touch anything, I wanted my children to feel the opposite. The house is theirs as well as ours. It’s the people in the home that are the most important thing. That said, I’d love the kids to have a little more respect for the walls we’ve worked hard to secure around them.

‘Baby,’ Nick says, pulling my attention away from the dried fish. ‘You looked lovely tonight and that time was well spent.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, smiling at Nick’s ability to still make me blush even after all these years.

‘Worry about it tomorrow,’ he shrugs, unknowingly deflating my heart before grabbing another slice of pizza.

I’m surprised he can’t hear the expletives that are being thrown his way in my head. It’s yet another thing for me to sort out tomorrow while he swans off to the office and gets to be an independent adult who can talk to other grown-ups and pee in peace. At home my coffee, if I have time to make one, will sit cold and untouched while I get on with the mounting ‘to do’ list that the fishy wall has now been added to. There’s always something to be getting on with and doing, and that’s around Chloe’s constant whines and needs which mean it’s difficult to do even the simplest of tasks.

If, right now, Nick were to throw down his pizza, pick up a sponge and go to work on the fishy splodge on the wall himself rather than waiting for me to do it, it would be the sexiest, most dashing thing he’s ever done for me in his life. Sod buying me a dress and taking me to a fancy restaurant Richard Gere style, cleaning up discarded fish is where the pheromones are at.

I stop my stream of resentful moaning and tell myself I’m being unfair.

He’s helped me through lots.

These last few weeks have been utterly awful. The worst. When Pia got diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago we all knew things were going to get difficult – even if she did make us promise to stay positive and upbeat, proceed with no sympathy or talk of her being brave or inspirational – but I don’t think any of us really thought we’d be burying her. Not when she spent so much of the last two years travelling the globe with a smile plastered on her face. Our WhatsApp group is full of pictures of her on the edge of precarious-looking cliffs as she takes in the view, laughing under huge waterfalls while completely starkers and dancing with locals she and Mike had befriended en route. She was a feisty little lady who worked to make sure every moment counted and that she got what she wanted out of life. Death wasn’t that.

I swallow the emotion that builds in my throat. I keep saying I’m cried out, but I don’t think that’s true. Bless Zaza tonight. Standing up there like a mannequin at her own engagement party – a smile plastered on that I had to mirror back. I drank too much. I don’t want the cloudy head I currently have but I couldn’t help it. I had to keep sipping to get me through the questions and the tight smiles from Zaza’s family and friends – people I’ve loved chatting to in the past but tonight felt too close for comfort. Happy, happy, happy. Truth is the fizzy grape juice has left me grumpy and emotional and I know I’m prone to nit-picking when I shouldn’t on the occasions I’ve had one too many.

‘Beer?’ Nick asks, completely oblivious to my thoughts as he gets up and reaches towards the fridge.

‘No th–’

‘Fuuck!’ he shouts, his arms shooting in the air as he just manages to stop himself from flying backwards. ‘What the –?’ With one hand resting protectively on his chest, he reaches down and picks up the offending item with the other. He takes a moment before adjusting his black frames, looking like a jewellery dealer as he inspects one of Barnaby’s trains with a frown. ‘Nearly killed me.’

‘Didn’t though.’

‘No.’

We both get lost in our thoughts, staring at the wooden toy.

‘You’ll miss the death traps when you’re gone,’ I say. ‘There’ll be no one to keep you on your toes while you’re sunning it in LA in your swanky hotel overlooking The Hills.’

‘Sounds boring,’ he notes, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle.

‘Yep,’ I nod, the weight of the alcohol I’ve consumed making my head hang heavily. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Vic …’

‘I mean it. No. No, I don’t,’ I shake my head. ‘But I do. I really do.’ I sound like Chloe when she’s throwing around her stroppy demands and doesn’t really know what she wants, yet I can’t help but continue. ‘Six days for one meeting, you can do that from here on Zoom or Skype. Or use House Party to spice it up a bit – save yourself the flight, save the planet. Stay.’

‘It’s a pitch, Vicky. You know they work best face to face. Don’t make me feel bad.’

‘I’m not,’ I lie, aware that I’ve put him in a shit position and of the lecture he’s about to give to win me over and tell me he’s right to leave us yet again. I instantly wish I could gobble the words back up and unsay them. I’ve heard the spiel a million times and it never makes me feel better. It just hushes me up and eases his guilt as he goes.

‘Advertising is all about being in the room and engaging someone, letting them feel your energy and get excited by you getting excited by them. You know that. You remember what it’s like going into a room of creatives and giving over ideas you know they’re going to love.’

‘Remember it all well,’ I say, feeling the sting of being reminded of my former life as a daytime TV producer. Something I chose to give up when we had the kids. Our kids, my sacrifice … lovingly and willingly done, of course, because there didn’t seem to be another option I was comfortable with, but it feels like a different life. I’m a different person.

‘You know what it’s like when someone else pitches while you sit there thinking, “I could’ve sold that better.” I don’t want to send a junior over with this,’ he sighs. ‘And Vic, it’s not one meeting. If it goes well then it’ll be multiple meetings and mean big things for the company. For us. It’s important. Huge.’

‘Yeah …’ I know he’s right and I’m aware that I shouldn’t be metaphorically grabbing on to his ankles to stop him from going, but the thought of doing this alone, of him not being in the same time zone as me to make exasperating calls to … It makes me feel flat.

I’m so tired already.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ I mumble, because what else can I say without him thinking I’m the worst mother in the world?

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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