Everything is Fine

by Gillian Harvey

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'Just the escapism we need right now' EVENING STANDARD

'Hilarious and relatable' WOMAN

'A perfect weekend read' GRAZIA

Jessica Bradley has it all: the perfect boyfriend; influential healthy-eating blog; successful PR company and wonderful daughter, Anna. Or at least that is what her thousands of followers believe.

The truth is, her boyfriend just broke up with her in four words on a post-it; her zest for healthy-eating has all but disappeared; her PR success is all reliant on her now not-so-honest online-life and she just got caught eating her daughter's Coco-Pops.

So as they say: fake it 'til you make it. A few little white lies and phoney smiling selfies and Jess can keep up appearances. But when her real-life starts to spiral out of control how can Jess tell the truth from the lies? And will she be able to seize real happiness when it is right in front of her?

Hilarious, heart-warming and oh-so relatable, Everything Is Fine is perfect for fans of Louise Pentland, Anna Bell and Lindsey Kelk.

'Funny and uplifting' BELLA

'Hilarious, heartwarming and relatable' NEW! Magazine

'Made me laugh out loud so many times!' Lucy Vine

'Feel-good, funny, and very relatable' Anna Bell

'Funny and honest' Elizabeth Buchan

Release date: May 28, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

#bestmealoftheday#protein#healthyfats

The morning hadn’t begun well.

For a start, the picture of poached eggs with salmon Jessica had posted on Instagram – #breakfastgoals – had drawn thirty-seven negative comments from an online fitness forum whose members had criticised both her choice of eggs (free range, but not organic) and the fact that she was eating salmon at all (#fishhavefeelings).

She hadn’t the heart to tell her trolls that actually she wasn’t eating any of it – in fact, she’d literally cooked it up so she could photograph it on her new mock-vintage plates and pretend she was living the life of Riley (if Riley was, as one of her trolls had termed her, ‘cruel and thoughtless’).

It had been fun at first when she’d started the diet and fitness blog and begun tweeting and posting snaps on Instagram. Being answerable to the ten or so followers she’d used to have (at least two of whom were her parents) had been a way to keep herself motivated.

Then, a year ago, when she’d met the muscle-bound gym-loving Dave, everything had changed. One picture of his ripped torso on Twitter and suddenly her blog had had more hits than Taylor Swift.

Dave was one of those people whose passions were infectious (he’d also given her chlamydia in the first month, but they were over that now) and she’d suddenly found herself pumping iron and posting the kind of selfies usually only taken by millionaires with buttock implants. The clicks on her blog had gone through the roof, and she’d even had a post-workout picture of her sweaty cleavage go viral.

But who can keep that level of commitment up long-term? she thought. After all, she was only human, and had eaten so many eggs in various guises recently that she’d forgotten what it was like to do a normal poo.

Scraping the poor, murdered salmon into the bin, she guiltily poured herself a generous bowl of her daughter Anna’s choccy snap-snaps in its stead and sighed like an addict shooting up as the forbidden sugar hit her taste buds.

At first, this popularity thing had been great: thousands of people seemingly fascinated by the size of her bottom, or the fact that she had abs in a certain light. But what Twitter giveth, Twitter can also taketh away, she’d soon found. Hardcore fitness fans could be mean and would unfollow at the first sign of cellulite or minor menu mishap.

It wasn’t as if she’d been fat in the first place. She’d lost the seven pounds she’d set out to shed when she’d started her blog and had already been back in a size 10 by the time Mr Sexy had swanned into her life. She’d intended to wind up the blog after meeting her goal. But once Dave had arrived on the scene, she’d found she couldn’t – she was addicted.

Not addicted to the gym; she’d happily cosy up in her PJs most evenings, and felt a sense of rising panic when she woke on workout days. And definitely not to the clean-eating-inspired, protein-fuelled diet plan that she and Dave had come up with over a cup of decaf, bean-free coffee. But addicted to having the perfect man on her arm and feeling – for the first time in her life – popular.

She hadn’t exactly been an ugly duckling as a kid, but her painful teenage shyness had placed her firmly in the unpopular category. At school, the only boy who’d ever shown an interest had had buck-teeth and a propensity to grind them against her own when they kissed. (Yes, kissed. When you’re that low down in the social pecking-order, you take what you can get).

Even at uni, she’d never felt she fit in – perhaps one of the reasons she’d dropped out after two years. She could talk a good talk in a seminar, but when it came to social stuff, she was right back in the school playground. Sure, she’d had a boyfriend or two, but she’d never been brave enough to approach anyone popular or ostensibly good-looking. Instead, she’d tended to date misfits – the perfect face, finished off with enough teeth to furnish a whole village; a stonking great hooked nose; or a laugh that sounded like a donkey on speed.

Now she had Dave and a whole new body, she’d (accidentally) become an ‘influencer’ (as one monthly women’s mag for the over-thirties had recently termed her). And the likes, retweets and followers she’d gained had given her the confidence boost she’d needed all her life.

What’s more, her little business – a public relations enterprise that had been ticking on well enough with its four clients – had suddenly had a raft of enquiries from people who felt sure she could get them in the Daily News. She’d even taken on staff! Two people whose income and her abs were interlinked.

‘Jessica Bradley seems to live a charmed life,’ a journo had enthused in a recent write-up. ‘Perfect body, successful business, charming home and dream boyfriend …’

‘That’s just it,’ her best friend Bea had told her when Jessica had laughed at the article in disbelief. ‘You’re great at seeing the best in everyone, except when it comes to yourself.’

Problem was, Jessica thought, pouring a second helping into the bowl, living through her online image meant she could never relax, never let her guard down. Maintaining her following meant a lifetime of eating millet when she really wanted Maltesers; creating free-from recipes and posting them as #foodporn; and snapping inspirational workout pics to post on Instagram. Most of the time, it was worth it. But recently she’d felt as if she’d sell her soul for a Big Mac.

‘I don’t know why you bother,’ her mum had said recently, sniffing at her date-sweetened, non-chocolate, low-fat brownie crispbreads. ‘When I was your age, I was too busy bringing you up to plaster pictures of my supper all over the neighbourhood. And since when was sugar bad for you? It never did your father any harm.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ her brother had laughed when she’d recently confessed to him that she’d set the bar too high for herself. ‘Just enjoy it! It’s not as if anyone knows you properly anyway. You don’t have to stick to all the fitness stuff in real life.’

‘That’s just it, Stu,’ she’d groaned. ‘People come to me expecting to meet the Jessica Bradley! I can’t exactly sit there in a string vest covered in chip fat and let it all hang out.’

‘Thanks for that image.’

‘I can’t even talk to Mum about it – she’s started commenting on my blog now!’

‘Take it down then!’

It was easy for him, though, wasn’t it? Mum and Dad’s first-born and firm favourite. Straight As at A level, university degree, well-paid job and barely a tweet in sight. Whereas she’d been a dropout with a kitchen-table start-up until her bone-broth and date doughnuts, teamed with candid shots of Dave’s bod, had caught the eye of the masses. Now her firm was turning over five times the revenue it had a year ago and it all pivoted on her accidental fake lifestyle.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Anna sloped sleepily into the room, eyes half shut. ‘Hey!’ she added, suddenly animated with indignation at the sight of Jessica shovelling down the choccy snap-snaps. ‘They’re mine!’

‘Don’t worry, there’s loads left.’ Jessica slid another bowl across the table.

‘It’s not the point! If you keep eating them, what am I meant to have for breakfast? The one thing that’s meant to be just for me!’

‘Sorry – look. Here you go.’

‘Nah, thought I’d have toast today,’ came the response.

As Jessica watched her daughter cut two wedges of bread and squash them into the toaster, it occurred to her that this little girl – on the cusp of her teenage years – was one of only two people in the world who knew that whilst Jessica might still retain the accolade of being ‘one of the most influential fitness bloggers on WordPress’ she had, in reality, morphed into a middle-aged fraud with a penchant for sugary children’s cereals.

The other person in the know was Dave, who’d noticed the fact that the woman who’d once been huffing and puffing next to him on the treadmill six nights a week had gradually cut back on her activity levels. He’d also caught her a couple of times recently at the biscuit tin when she’d thought he was out and looked at her with such horror that she’d felt as if he’d seen her shooting up heroin.

‘Carry on with the blog,’ he’d told her, his brow furrowed with concern as he’d gently removed half a biscuit from her hand. ‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone about the Hob-Nobs. This can be our secret. And don’t worry,’ he’d added, like a sponsor soothing an off-the-wagon alcoholic. ‘We’ll get you back on track.’

What he didn’t realise was the ‘blip’ he’d described her as having was actually not a blip at all. It was the original, slightly softer-edged, chocolate-loving, more relaxed Jessica Bradley re-emerging, like a chubby butterfly from a size-8 chrysalis.

But before she’d had a chance tell him that she actually quite liked the other, slightly less intense track that she’d slipped onto (after all, the food was better along this route), she’d had a big PR client approach her – Little Accidents, a feminine hygiene product. Suddenly her potential revenues had skyrocketed.

‘We wanted someone with a great social-media presence,’ Linda, the account manager had gushed. ‘It’s all about getting out there, don’t you think? Getting the message out that if you’re incontinent, then that’s really OK. Even sexy!’

And as Jess had nodded her way to signing the biggest contract of her life, she’d realised that it wasn’t Jessica Bradley PR they were signing with at all – it was Jessica Bradley, brand ambassador, retweeter extraordinaire, #fitspo, toned-stomached, Instagram queen. She was signing up to a life of tweeting pictures of her low-fat, low-calorie, low-sugar, low-flavour, mock-chocolate cake and having to eat the damn stuff too.

‘I love your blog,’ Linda had added as they’d shaken hands. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you do it all!’

So here she was. Caught between two diets.

‘Mum, is Dave taking me this morning?’ Anna said as she sat down with her barely browned, butter-coated toast. Her light brown hair hung neatly against her shoulders; she’d clearly got up early this morning to curl the ends. Jessica wondered, again, where her daughter had inherited her lovely hair – it certainly wasn’t from her. Jessica’s hair looked reasonable after a wash and blow-dry, but any style it was forced into would soon break down over the course of a day.

Anna’s hair must be from her dad’s side of the family, she thought, although it was hard to remember what Grahame’s hair had been like before it had started to drop out.

‘Not sure. Why?’ she said.

‘It’s just, well, can he drop me round the corner from school this time? He’s so embarrassing.’

‘Anna! He is not embarrassing.’ Although Jessica knew what her daughter meant. Recently, Dave had taken to wearing his gym gear outside of his circuit training classes. And she didn’t want to be disingenuous – he had, after all, got a great body. But you had to be a special kind of bloke to get away with the bright yellow, budgie-smuggling Lycra leggings he’d started to favour. She’d even come home the other day to find a skintight onesie in a plastic bag on the bed.

The man didn’t even own a bike.

‘He is! He’s totally embarrassing. He always wants to walk me right to the gate. Like I’m, what? Eleven or something!’ Anna’s face screwed up with distaste. After all, she hadn’t been eleven for, like, nine months.

‘OK,’ Jess nodded, relieved Dave’s apparent crime was just babying Anna rather than parading in his new ‘ergonomic leggings’ in front of her friends.

Where was he, anyway? He’d need to get a wriggle on if he wanted to get to the gym between the school run and work.

‘Am I at Dad’s this weekend?’ Anna asked.

‘Yeah, that OK?’

Anna nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s good.’

Jess struggled to keep the questions inside – did good mean better? Was Anna enjoying sipping vegan hot chocolate and wearing her hand-knitted slippers around Mr and Mrs Perfect’s house? Playing with Forest and River, their adorable twins? It had been ten years since she and Grahame had broken up and she did wish him all the best – of course she did! She’d even forgiven Tabitha, his new wife, for her part in their split. But it would be nice if he could stop living such a perfect life. Nice if he screwed up occasionally. Just in a minor way. Just to make her feel a little bit better – the odd shameful skid mark on the otherwise unsullied Y-fronts of his perfect life.

‘Good,’ she said at last. Christ, was that the time? Where was Dave? ‘Isn’t it time to get going?’ she added. ‘Or at least get dressed? Dave will want to leave in a minute.’

‘Oh, is he back?’

‘What?’

‘He popped out, so I thought, well, I don’t exactly have to rush do I?’

‘Popped out?’

‘Yeah. I saw his car going this morning.’ Anna said, taking a bite out of her toast.

‘Oh.’ Perhaps he’d popped out for milk. But they had plenty of milk. Jessica mentally checked: soya – yes, goat’s – yes, oat – yes. They even had coconut water and something called ‘nectar of wheat’.

Then she saw it. The note propped against the porridge oats on the kitchen counter. She walked over and casually picked it up, as if she’d always known it was there.

‘What’s that?’ Anna asked, crunching her toast.

Jessica felt the same sensation in her stomach that she had when she went too fast over a speed bump, or woke up the day after eating too much bran.

I’M SORRY, it said. IT’S OVER.

Shit.

‘What is it, Mum?’ asked Anna again.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, her mind whirring. Surely things hadn’t been going badly? She’d have known, wouldn’t she? Her eyes darted to the slight muffin top that had developed over the top of her skinniest jeans. Was it the weight? The fact that she’d been in top condition and now occasionally skipped her nightly sit-ups in favour of a Prosecco and Poldark?

She felt hot, salty tears welling in her eyes. Surely it couldn’t be just down to her gym-dodging? Maybe he’d found someone else? Maybe those evenings she’d skipped the gym had opened up a window for a perfectly honed, freakishly fit gymbo to take her place; proving both her paranoia and – oddly – the evolutionary theories of Darwin right in the process.

Slipping out of the kitchen and into the loo, she washed her face and looked at her flushed complexion in the mirror.

‘No,’ she said. She wasn’t going to let this happen.

Dave was the best thing in her life right now, and he couldn’t just leave her! She’d just signed with Little Accidents. The phone was ringing off the hook. She was gaining about a hundred followers a day. Instagram – while a bit abusive – was raising her profile. And Dave with his bulging biceps was part of the deal. His muscly good looks; his dark, brooding eyes; his revealing mirror selfies from the gym changing room. It all helped. And, well, the sex wasn’t bad either.

Plus, she loved him. Of course.

He was part of the structure of Jess Bradley enterprises, integral to her blog.

Gone.

She needed to fix it fast. And one thing was sure.

Nobody could know.

Chapter Two

Love having the time to drop my daughter at school! #ownboss #proudmum #parenting #motherhood @StarPR

‘Mum, we’re going to be late!’ Anna moaned as they reversed out of the drive. ‘And do you have to wear those giant sunglasses?’

‘Yes, I do, actually,’ Jessica snapped. She’d done the mum thing of swallowing her emotions and pasting on a smile, but she knew her eyes would be a giveaway. She couldn’t turn up tearful on the school run or she’d attract nosy mums like a magnet. ‘I’ve … my hay fever’s flared up again.’

A decade ago, when Anna’s dad Grahame had ditched Jessica for someone ‘more on his level’ (which had turned out to mean someone with a 36DD bust), Anna had been a toddler. Meaning Jessica could palm her off on the grandparents and wallow under her duvet (until her best mate Bea had used a mixture of coaxing and bullying to get her out of bed).

When the two-year-old Anna had noticed Jessica’s red eyes on her return each day, she’d been interested rather than worried, poking her fat little fingers into them with fascination and peeling the lids open.

Jessica missed the days of probing fingers, however sticky. Much easier to deal with than probing questions.

‘OK. Well, can you drop me—’

‘Anna Bradley, I will drop you by the gate and watch you walk in. And when you’re a mum, you will understand why!’

‘But Mummmm! I’m twelve! Half my friends walk to school.’

This was, actually, true. Was she babying Anna too much? She’d wanted another baby after Anna was born, but then Grahame had said he couldn’t commit to a second child right then because of a “work project” (which had turned out to be less of a business affair and more of a romantic one). He’d left shortly afterwards to set up a new life with a younger, more organic model. Now, due to her dodgy genetics, Jessica’s ovaries were probably shrivelled up like raisins.

Mum was fond of graphically recounting how she’d gone through the menopause before forty, so Jessica was probably right on the cusp. ‘One day I was having my monthlies, the next I’d dried up like a desert lagoon,’ she’d told them over Christmas dinner one year. ‘It was like someone had turned off the taps! Cranberry sauce, anyone?’

Unless Jessica was gifted a newborn by a kindly stork, Anna was destined to be babied for a good few years yet.

‘Sorry,’ Jessica said, in an uncharacteristic fit of honesty. ‘I don’t seem to be able to help it.’

Her daughter softened then. ‘S’OK,’ she said. ‘I hate walking anyway.’

Jessica pulled up outside the school behind a triangular-looking Smart car and something that looked like a Land Rover but wasn’t.

‘Bye, then.’ Anna grabbed her bag and gave her mother’s arm a little rub.

‘Hang on,’ said Jessica, leaning over and giving her daughter a proper hug.

Anna squirmed a little in her embrace. ‘Mummm!’ she protested. ‘People will see.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, with a what can you do? shrug as Anna got out of the car, red-faced.

She was just about to rev up and get the hell out of there before the last-minuters arrived and hemmed her in, when a cascade of glossy hair tumbled through the window. A woman, her horsey face perfectly made up, leaned in.

Jessica self-consciously tucked her dark-blonde hair behind her ears. She’d given it a cursory brush before setting off, but hadn’t bothered with the straighteners. Being confronted with a barnet fit for a shampoo ad made her even more conscious that she wasn’t looking her best. She had a beauty appointment before work, too, so hadn’t bothered with make-up.

‘Jessica!’ the woman/horse said, in the kind of breathy, excited tone that people use when they’ve found a long-lost relative, or been given the gift of a lifetime. ‘I thought it was you! Wow! Love the sunglasses! I didn’t realise those giant frames were back in vogue!’

‘Thanks.’

A manicured hoof thrust its way towards her and Jessica shook it briefly.

‘I’m Liz – you know, Jasper’s mum?’

Jasper was a malnourished-looking boy in Anna’s class. He and Anna had played together briefly as toddlers.

‘Oh, yes. How are you?’ Jessica smiled, painfully aware that she was due at a salon to trial one of the latest trends in facials for an on-blog advertorial.

‘Yes, yes. Fine.’ Liz waved her hand dismissively as if she was never anything else. ‘I just wanted to say, it’s been ages since we caught up.’

‘Yes.’ Because we developed an intense dislike for one another after you told me that Anna was a bad influence.

It had almost been a decade ago, but Jessica had never quite forgiven Liz for suggesting that Jasper’s new-found love of the word boobies must have come from the then three-year-old Anna. It had been true, mind … but still.

‘Anyway, I’m organising another of these quiz nights,’ the hand waved again. ‘You know, raising funds for the school, blah blah blah. And then I thought – why am I writing these questions when I know a professional writer. I’ve read your blog, of course. And I thought, who better to write the questions and – um – maybe get a bit more interest in it all, you know, than the famous Jessica Bradley! As featured in Fit Woman magazine,’ she whinnied, using her fingers to make virtual quotation marks.

‘Well …’ The last thing Jessica wanted to do was add something else to her workload.

‘Of course, if you’re too busy … It’s just that, we’re so hoping for the new minibus this year …’

Jessica felt a sudden rush of guilt. Would it really hurt her to write a few questions for a quiz? She could probably do it in her sleep. And this was Anna’s school; potentially Anna’s minibus. Anna was always moaning that Jessica never turned up for anything except parents’ evening (which apparently ‘doesn’t count’).

The main drawback was that it would mean working with Liz – one of those perfect mothers whose involvement in everything and seemingly endless enthusiasm left Jessica feeling like a complete parental failure.

‘Of course. Of course. I mean, I can’t stop now. I’m … uh, having a facial. But I’ll give you my number,’ Jessica found herself saying. Perhaps she ought to offer Liz a job. When she failed to raise a client’s profile, Liz could gallop in and make potential customers feel guilty enough to buy anything.

‘No need. Got your email,’ Liz winked conspiratorially. ‘Website,’ she mouthed.

A car beeped behind. In the rear-view mirror of her Citroën, Jess could see a vehicle that was either a minibus or a small lorry. Either way, she was quite grateful for the excuse to get away. ‘Well, speak soon!’ she said revving the engine slightly.

Liz straightened herself and shook her glossy mane into place. ‘Yes, looking forward to it!’

Jessica put the car into first and started towards the city centre.

‘One of the benefits of blogging,’ she’d said to her new PA, Candice, last week when the email had arrived offering her the treatment, ‘is the freebies.’ A salon, a new ultra-modern place and part of a national chain, had offered her a trial of their new skin-rejuvenating ‘LifeForce’ facial in return for an ‘honest’ online review.

Since the Dave-effect had netted her a fantastic following, Jessica had been gifted everything from gym shoes to bleach-your-own-bumhole kits. People were approaching her with offers of paid-for posts, and she was showered with freebies every morning in the mail.

Some opportunities she’d turned down – the DIY dentistry kit; the puréed fish eye plan; a build-your-own luxury coffin workshop. Others, she’d taken up either because the product was desirable or, like this one, because it would drive a lot of traffic to her site. And traffic, as she now knew, was more important than all her training, experience and bulging contacts book combined.

‘Their website gets over a hundred thousand hits per month,’ Candice had trilled across the room. ‘First page of Google. Could be good for business.’

Good for business. Candice had only been at the firm for a week and a half, and was barely into her twenties. But that meant, of course, that she was representative of the younger generation; she had a finger on the pulse.

When Jessica was younger there had been a natural progression to most people’s careers. You’d start at a lowly position and work your way up, gaining experience and expertise. Younger staff would look at those more senior as mentors and educators. Now, women of her generation were getting out of date – like a forgotten pack of ham at the back of the fridge. You missed an online trend and it was over.

Rather than hide in the shadows, she’. . .