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Back When Life Gives You Lemons
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
  3. Dedication
  4. Part One
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Part Two
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. Chapter Eighteen
  24. Chapter Nineteen
  25. Chapter Twenty
  26. Part Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-One
  28. Chapter Twenty-Two
  29. Chapter Twenty-Three
  30. Chapter Twenty-Four
  31. Chapter Twenty-Five
  32. Chapter Twenty-Six
  33. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  36. Part Four
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-One
  49. Chapter Forty-Two
  50. Acknowledgements
  51. Keep Reading …
  52. About the Author
  53. By the same author:
  54. About the Publisher

Whatever the reason, I’m pulling the cold, flabby omelette from the carrier bag now, lifting a windscreen wiper carefully and sliding my eggy offering under it, then rubbing my greasy hands on the front of my jeans and running away. As I ride home in a taxi, I try to picture his face when he sees it, but I can’t quite bring it into focus.

‘Good night out, love?’ the driver asks, his gaze meeting mine in the rear-view mirror.

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ I reply, thinking: it was, in a way. At least, no one can say I didn’t make the most of my child-free night.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sunday, September 29

Like the mature, sorted woman I am, I wake up fully dressed on the sofa, shoes still on, cringing as the memory of last night’s mission starts to filter into my hungover brain. My phone rings, and I scramble off the sofa and retrieve it from my bag.

Andy! In panic, I run through what to do if accused: deny, obviously. Are you mad? D’you think I have time to go around putting omelettes under windscreen wipers? Act outraged. Suggest that it was probably just some random drunk person wandering by. (Ahem). Who happened to have an omelette about their person. Maybe they stole it from a hotel breakfast buffet? A fried egg would seem more feasible. Christ.

The ringing stops, and by the time he calls again (which I knew he would) I’m primed to sound purposeful and together, as if have been up for hours, tackling jobs around the house, making the most of the day.

‘Hi,’ he says, ‘how’s things?’ He sounds oddly normal.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

‘Just wondered when Izzy’s back? I thought maybe she and I could spend the afternoon together?’

Perhaps he hasn’t needed his car today, and therefore hasn’t seen the omelette yet? Or maybe a fox took it in the night?

‘She’s not back till tomorrow teatime,’ I reply. ‘It’s a school in-service day.’

‘Ah, shame. Just missing her quite a bit at the moment, that’s all. Heard from Spence lately? He’s hopeless at replying to texts …’

‘Yeah, I know. I think he’s still in Italy.’

‘Yep, you’re probably right. Catch you soon, then.’

‘Okay.’

‘Oh, Viv?’

‘Yeah?’ My heart quickens.

A pause. ‘You didn’t …’

‘I didn’t what?’

‘No, it’s nothing. Forget I even said anything. See you soon, okay?’

Monday, September 30