It seemed to Hope that life rarely came with satnav, but just this once it was obvious which way she should go. She was heading for the unknown, for having adventures and seeing the world, but with safety wheels and a job to come back to. There was no earthly reason to stay in London … or rather there was only one reason not to go …
‘Just so you know, I’m not waiting for you,’ said a gruff voice behind her, and Hope turned round to see Wilson standing in the kitchen doorway. He had paint splattered in his quiff and little dots of emulsion on the lenses of his glasses, which might have been why he was looking so grumpy.
‘I know,’ Hope said, scooching along the sofa, so Wilson could sit down next to her. ‘You have mentioned it once or twice.’
‘Just so we’re clear.’ Wilson clinked his beer bottle against Hope’s. ‘Play your cards right, though, and I might come out for Christmas.’
‘Unless you’ve fallen in love with a model.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Or you’re shacked up with a surfer.’
‘But if I’m not and you’re not, then you’re going to be in a world of trouble if you don’t come and spend Christmas with me.’ Hope leaned back against the sofa cushions. ‘Did you see me climb up the ladder with a pot of paint in one hand?’
Wilson nodded. ‘Yeah, I did. Hard not to, when you were telling everyone that you were climbing up the ladder with a pot of paint in one hand.’
Hope stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned and reached out a lazy hand to ruffle her hair, which she’d decided to keep short.
They sat there in silence, sipping beer and watching the sun cast shadows on the garden, which had been Hope’s pride and joy. If Wilson had taught her one thing, apart from how to check the air pressure in her car tyres and where to source the really good vintage, it was to enjoy being quiet without the need to fill the space with empty words. She rested her head on his shoulder and didn’t feel even a little bit guilty that all her dearest friends were working like slaves to paint her flat.
It was perfect, and it lasted for three minutes, until there was a commotion behind them and Hope looked round to see Susie being carefully helped by Jack down the two steps that led to the garden.
‘Is there room for a little one on that sofa?’ Susie asked, and when Hope agreed that there was, she waddled over.
Even though she was only halfway through her second trimester, Susie had perfected the lumbering gait of the heavily pregnant and was now gingerly aligning her arse with the sofa as if she was eight months gone with triplets.
The sun glinted off Susie’s rings: the engagement ring that was not the same ring that Jack had offered Hope, and the platinum band he’d put on Susie’s finger when they were married the month before at the Dover Street Arts Club on a Wednesday afternoon during term time, so Hope could offer her excuses and an Alessi juicer from their wedding list. She hadn’t quite got used to the bittersweet pang when she saw the rings, and yes, there had been some dark days and darker nights when she’d cried herself to sleep, but she was crying for a fantasy that had never been real. Jack had only offered her marriage and babies as a last resort, but he’d gone to Susie half an hour after kissing Hope goodbye, and within six months, he was married and whipping out photos of the ultrasound at every opportunity. It turned out that he did want to settle down after all; he just hadn’t wanted to settle down with Hope, and that hurt. Or niggled when she thought about it too much, in the same way that the scar on her palm itched when she got angry.
‘Mopey Hopey is back in the house,’ Susie teased, as she smoothed her hands over her beautifully rounded belly. ‘Sad to be leaving?’
‘A little bit, I suppose,’ Hope admitted, glancing over at her rosebushes that she’d nursed through greenfly and groundfrost. Their little basement flat hadn’t felt like home ever since that Saturday night the previous September. She’d spent far too much time here huddled into her own misery, as her hopes and dreams had slipped away, like salt spilling through her fingers. ‘But I won’t miss the smoking oven, or the faulty wiring, or the sea-grass carpet.’
Jack had gone to get a bottle of beer but now he perched on the arm of the sofa next to Susie so he could stroke her hair. ‘There must be a few things you’ll miss,’ he insisted.
Hope thought about it. ‘I’ll miss the Golden Lantern’s crispy aromatic duck,’ she said finally. ‘That’s about it.’
She expected Jack to get some crack in about how she always thought about food before anything else but, as so often happened these days, there was nothing left to say, and Jack and Susie started to have a murmured conversation between themselves.
Hope turned to Wilson, who rolled his eyes, but the effect was lost thanks to the splodges on his glasses. ‘You’re covered in paint,’ Hope told him softly. ‘Shall we see if Marta’s turned up with the white spirit?’
Susie winced when they got up, as if the cushions shifting was bringing on the Braxton Hicks, and Jack placed his hand on her bump and Hope, who knew him so well, knew his face better than her own reflection in the mirror, had never seen him smile so sweetly. She’d loved Jack with all her heart, but she’d never made him as happy as Susie did.
‘Remember to email me your details,’ he muttered vaguely, as Hope brushed past him.
‘I’m not leaving for another two weeks,’ Hope said, but he was nuzzling Susie’s neck, making her giggle as she pretended to squirm away.
‘You all right?’ Wilson asked, once they were in the shadowy cool of the kitchen.
Hope glanced out of the window at the golden couple now smooching on the sofa, then tore her eyes away to look at Wilson, so solid and still by comparison, his expression stern, until she reached up and, with the edge of her nail, dislodged a blob of paint from the corner of his mouth.
‘Never better,’ she assured him, as she continued to pick away at the paint flecks that covered his face. ‘How did you manage to get paint in your sideburns? Even Blue Class don’t get themselves into such a mess.’
‘You’re hurting me,’ he growled, then smiled as Hope kissed each spot better. ‘Think you missed a bit.’
Then she kissed his mouth, which was relatively emulsion-free, and it was only when they heard Marta and Iban come through the front door that they broke apart.
About the Author
Sarra Manning is an author and journalist. She started her writing career on Melody Maker, then spent five years on legendary UK teen mag J17, first as a writer then as entertainment editor. Subsequently she edited teen fashion bible Ellegirl UK and the BBC’s What To Wear magazine.
Sarra has written for ELLE, Grazia, Red, InStyle, the Guardian, the Mail On Sunday’s You magazine, Harper’s Bazaar, Stylist, Time Out and the Sunday Telegraph’s Stella. Her best-selling young adult novels, which include Guitar Girl, Let’s Get Lost, the Diary Of A Crush trilogy and Nobody’s Girl have been translated into numerous languages.
She has also written two grown-up novels: Unsticky and You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me.
Sarra lives in North London.
Also by Sarra Manning
Unsticky
You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me
For more information on Sarra Manning and her books, see her website at www.sarramanning.co.uk
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NINE USES FOR AN EX-BOYFRIEND
A CORGI BOOK: 9780552163286
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448126101
First publication in Great Britain
Corgi edition published 2012
Copyright © Sarra Manning 2012
Sarra Manning has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A
CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sarra Manning
Copyright
Sarra Manning, Nine Uses for an Ex-Boyfriend
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