Inhaltsangabe
See the happy bride-to-be!
Grace Fairley lives in South West London with her fiancé, Spencer, a divorce lawyer. They've been engaged for two years and still haven't set a date, a fact that has started to irk Grace no end. In fact, things just haven't been feeling right at all lately, and aren't they supposed to when you're with Mr. Right? Then Spencer goes and makes a fool of himself -- yet again -- on Grace's birthday, and she ends up walking to a taxi company to get a lift home. Alone.
See the guy who dumped her thirteen years ago!
Jimi Malik, a half-Indian, half-Irish writer and ladies man who lives in North West London, has surprised everyone -- himself included -- by deciding to settle down with Kylie, a twenty-one-year-old model from Canada. But when he bows out of his own stag night and goes to catch a cab home, he bumps into Grace Fairley and the past comes rushing back. Like the way they couldn't stand each other. And how their high school hair-pulling routine eventually turned into friendship, then something more. And how he never called again. She's still furious at him and he's still hot for her. But what's the harm in sharing a cab? After all, they're both getting married...Right?
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Alexandra Potter was born in Bradford in Yorkshire, England. She has lived in Los Angeles and Australia and is the author of two previous novels, Going La-La and What's New, Pussycat? She has also written for UK magazines including Elle, More!, OK!, and Vogue. She lives in Notting Hill, London.
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Chapter One
Snuggled deep into the womb-like depths of their king-size sleigh bed, Grace was drifting in and out of sleep. In a distant, disconnected place her brain was trying to tell her to get up, get ready, and go to work, but her body wasn't responding. Her limbs seemed to have been paralyzed overnight. Even her eyelids were refusing to open. She was just lying there. Thinking nothing. Doing nothing. Just breathing in. And breathing out. Slowly, dreamily, blissfully.
There was a flash of blinding light as the curtains were yanked back.
"What the...?"
Diving for cover, she scrambled back underneath the safety of her duvet. Breathing in the warm darkness she released a deep sigh of relief. Grace had enjoyed a lifelong affair with her bed, be it her childhood bunk bed, single, badly sprung university mattress, twenty something, backbreaking futon, or her current grown-up expensive oak number from John Lewis. Like lovers, they'd all had their good points and bad points, but she'd adored them all and never wanted to leave any of them.
Unfortunately it was Friday morning, and as a designer at a graphic design agency in West London, she had to get up for work. Groaning dully, she toyed with the idea of snoozing for five minutes. Fat chance. Sun was streaming in through the window and in the background she could hear the TV blaring away in the kitchen. Spencer had obviously left it on again, she thought, feeling a wave of irritation. Living with someone for three and a half years meant getting to know all of their annoying habits, and one of Spencer's was getting up, flicking on the portable in the kitchen, and then getting distracted and forgetting all about it.
But then Spencer's attention span was incredibly short. He was the kind of bloke who started things with good intentions, but then got sidetracked, changed his mind, and never finished them. Like running a bath but never getting in it, putting bread in the toaster but never eating it.
Getting engaged but never getting married.
"Babes, are you awake?"
Why did people do that? Deliberately wake you up and then ask if you're awake? Emerging from her goosedown lair, Grace prised open her welded eyelids. She blinked blearily, trying to focus on the gray shape in front of her.
"Uh...what time is it?" she mumbled.
"Seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty!" she screeched, her body jolting awake in indignation. She could have had another forty-five blissful minutes of sleep. A whole three-quarters of an hour. Grace felt robbed. Groggily peeling her tangled hair out of her eyes, she blinked again, her vision snapping into focus. The instigator of this heinous crime was wearing just a towel and leaning across the bed holding a pain au chocolat with a single pink party candle stuck in the middle. Grace felt the seeds of irritation wither away.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you," he began singing. His voice was a remarkably good baritone and whereas other men might have trailed off self-consciously, he proceeded to belt out the whole verse: "Happy birthday dear Grace, happy birthday to you." He finished with a little flourish on the end. "Happy Birthday, Babes."
Blimey. Of course. Her birthday. Sleep had caused a delay in registering, but now the last reluctant smudges evaporated and it clicked. Grace smiled up at Spencer. Just out of the shower, his dark blond hair was still wet, his tortoiseshell-framed glasses slightly steamy, and tiny drips of guava and citrus scented water were trickling across his enormous freckled shoulders and running down the dip between his pecs. For someone nudging his late thirties he was still in incredibly good shape, she thought proudly. It caused her to smile happily. What with his nakedness and the promise of a chocolate fix, it was a vision of loveliness.
And too good to be true.
In the four birthdays Grace had spent with Spencer, he'd never woken her up singing Happy Birthday. Never brought her breakfast in bed. He didn't go in for all that slushy sentimental stuff. And anyway, he was usually in too much of a rush, always in a hurry to get to the office, always promising to make it up to her later. Her mind began whirring up to full speed, clicking through the possibilities: he hasn't had time to buy me a present, he's got to work late tonight; he's forgotten to book a restaurant...
Spencer interrupted her thought process. "Can't a man wish his woman a happy birthday without there being something wrong?"
"No," she yawned, shaking her head.
His offended expression dissolved into a shrug of admission. "You know me too well."
Grace sensed her good mood was about to be crushed underneath one of Spencer's excuses, and folding her arms she leaned back against the pillows, a judge in PJs. "So come on then, own up," she demanded, but she was smiling. Well, it was a ceasefire of sorts.
"It's just that there's this case I've been working flat out on and it's being heard in court tomorrow."
"So we can't go out tonight," she concluded, cutting short what was no doubt going to be a long story. She'd lost count of the number of times plans had had to be cancelled because of Spencer's work commitments. If it wasn't some drinks party to welcome foreign clients, it was a corporate dinner, or a late meeting, or a pressing deadline.
"Hey Babes, let me finish." He pulled a face. If there was one thing Spencer hated, it was being interrupted. "Of course we're going out tonight. I've already booked the restaurant for nine, although admittedly I might have to meet you there a little later as there's this cocktail thing after work and I've got to show my face, have a quick drink..."
"A quick drink?" repeated Grace, grinning. "Isn't that an oxymoron in your case?"
"No in my case there's a couple with three kids, two lovers and a million-pound house, and I'm the one trying to clear up their messy divorce," he snapped irritably. As one of London's top divorce lawyers, Spencer was kept incredibly busy. He sighed, "Sorry Babes...it's just I've been working so hard on this case and...well...I know it's no excuse but I haven't had a chance to buy you a present." Taking off his glasses Spencer wrinkled his forehead so that the blond lock of fringe that always hung over his forehead, fell into his faded, denim blue eyes. To the innocent observer it would appear a spontaneous action, when really it was a technique that had taken years of practice. And one which, he knew, made him look adorable. "Would you mind if I just gave you cash instead?"
Now normally, Grace would be the first one to feel hurt if her boyfriend hadn't taken the time and effort to choose her a gift: she would assume he didn't care, that he couldn't be bothered, that he didn't love her. But with Spencer, she was actually relieved. She didn't mean to be ungrateful, it was just that, whereas she always bought him impulsive, outrageous, extravagant presents that had caught her eye, he always bought her presents that were -- dare she say it -- terribly practical.
Last year she'd unwrapped a leather box and flipped it open, thinking it was jewelry, only to discover a Mont Blanc pen. It was lovely, it must have cost a fortune, and it was extremely useful, but it was hardly the figure-hugging, chocolate satin Ghost dress she'd been dropping hints about for weeks. The year before it had been a mountain bike -- again it had been lovely, again it must have cost a fortune, with extra chunky tires and fifteen gears and all the extras, but she'd been exhausted just looking at it and was secretly relieved when it had been stolen less than a week later. And the year before that it had been a bag, but not a ridiculously dinky shoulder bag in the softest chamois leather she'd been craving, but a...
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