Friendship Never Ends

by Ella Dyson

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A big-hearted comedy about friendship, the 90s and the greatest girl band in the world Three independent women - and one man who lives for drama - haven't spoken to their best friend in 20 years, after an epic talent show disaster tore them apart during the height of Spice-mania. Self-appointed gang leader Carmen then decided to go it alone - Geri style. But now, in 2018, the school reunion is fast approaching. Friendship Never Ends tells the story of Carmen's plan to win back her former besties - Jemma, Ellie, Laura and Benny - ahead of the big night. But has Carmen really changed? And can their friendship ever really go back to how it was?

Release date: September 27, 2018

Publisher: Trapeze

Print pages: 252

Sample

Acknowledgements

Firstly, I’d like to thank my editor Sam Eades. Working with you has been such a joy, I’m so grateful you believed in me, and trusted me to bring these characters to life. I’m a considerably better writer than I was before I met you, and for that I will be eternally thankful.

I’d also like to thank Loma, my copy editor, Claire Keep from production, Brendan from editorial and Emily– for designing the fabulous cover!

Now, I’m afraid this is where you may have to indulge me. I’ve been writing imaginary versions of these in my head since I was a child, so I’m going to milk it. Don’t be surprised it if ends up even longer than the novel . . .

But I’d like to thank all of my friends, aptly, for helping me understand the meaning and importance of friendship, inspiring this book.

Firstly, the friends I’ve had since childhood. Jemma Sherwell – you got a character named after you, congrats! –Allison Paul, Vicky Shackleton, Ben Blackburn, James Crawshaw, Ellie Sills and Katie ‘The Kitty Kat.’

The friends I’ve had since Uni: Annabelle Lee, Rich Crow, Katy Garrioch, Charlotte Ware, Winnie Agbonlahor, Jessica Randerson, Kate Ryder, Gareth Carey, Charlotte Lee, Ian Hunter, Verity Cumming, Elle Jones, Jennie Sinclair, Louis Patrizio and Heather Marshall.

The friends I’ve made through work (and that’s a LOT of jobs): Clo Dunne – as if work could ever take credit for us . . .pah! – Dan Wootton, Rachael Foley, Emma Brankin, Nicola Fahey, Jessica Brown, Benjy Potter – don’t worry, Benny is only partially based on you, M’Lud – Marc Baker, Paul Sloss – I know living with me was basically work – and Jimmy McCloskey.

The friends that I just happen to also be related to: Sue Dyson (Mum), Tim Dyson (Dad), Jack Dyson, Sophie Everett, Oliver Dyson – and his wee family – Joan Eccles (Grandma), Aunty Julia and co., Alison and Oliver Wilson, John Sykes, Eleanor Dyson – bringing a new little friend along soon! – and Cat Pritchard, along with all the other Dysons out there (there are an alarming number!).

The friend that I also happen to be in love with, Egg (Lewis) x x x x x– and the many friends he’s brought into my life, my second parents Sarah and Andy Lewis, Rosemary Parkhill, and the whole extended Lewis/Lilley family.

I love you all and couldn’t have done this without you (so if it goes wrong it’s YOUR fault, OK?!).

And, of course, I formally dedicate Friendship Never Ends to the one and only Katie Innes. Without you, this book wouldn’t exist, in more ways than you’ll ever know.

I love you, and know our friendship will never end.

Chapter One

Carmen

I was doing what any sane staff member would do halfway through their Saturday shift; watching the clock, desperately, praying for 6pm – which was ‘buggering off’ time, as I liked to call it. I could have sworn five minutes had passed, yet somehow the second hand had only bothered to tick past ONE lazy minute. That couldn’t be right? Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the Sainsbury’s managers to fiddle with the clocks just to keep us here. I checked my phone. No, it was, somehow, right. I was in luck today though, it seemed. Before the boredom got too much and I was left with no choice but to suffocate myself with a Bag For Life, I saw there was a commotion in aisle three. My colleagues – read: fellow zombies who spend all day pricing aubergines – were rushing over, with the kind of speed you don’t usually see at our Sainsbury’s. The biggest Sainsbury’s branch in Huddersfield that is, management always remind us, as if we’re meant to beam with pride about it… I strained my neck to try and see what was going on. Definitely something. Five people had rushed over, even Pat who’d worked here since the dawn of time and could barely walk.

An old codger must have croaked it. Wouldn’t be the first time. We lovingly called our branch ‘Geriatric Sainsbury’s,’ as the customers were pretty much exclusively all one bunion-covered foot in the grave. Heart attack this time, perhaps? Or maybe someone had slipped on a broken jar of Branston Pickle?

‘Excuse me, love, are you serving?’ An old lady – no shock there – had shuffled up to my till.

‘I am indeed.’ It couldn’t be a death I realized, as I started scanning. The staff looked too excited for that – thrilled, even. They were now getting their phones out as if to take pics. And yes, admittedly, we were starved of entertainment, but we hadn’t quite started getting our rocks off over OAP corpses. Yet. Although the store was so cold it practically felt like a morgue, half the time.

My chubby-cheeked manager, Harry, was shuffling past me, his face red and shiny with glee.

‘What’s going on over there?’

‘Well, Carmen.’ He covered his mouth like this was top secret, and spoke in a loud whisper. ‘We’ve only got a celebrity in the store!’

I smiled a proper smile – one of only a handful of times I’d managed that in this place, surely. ‘Flippin’ heck. Who is it?’

Harry looked like he was going to burst with excitement. ‘Guess!’

I groaned. Does anyone ever genuinely enjoy guessing? ‘Really?’

He nodded, eyes closed, lips pursed. Harry loved to make people guess things, regardless of whether they wanted to.

‘Right. Um. Patrick Stewart?’

Chuckling, he shook his head. It was a fair guess though. Paddy boy was one of the only properly famous people to come from Huddersfield. And didn’t we just know it. He was forever cutting ribbons for new shops and making endless speeches at the uni. He would have been a major letdown.

‘Erm.’ Who else was likely in West Yorkshire on a weekend? ‘Someone from Emmerdale?’

Again he shook his head, barely able to contain himself.

‘Excuse me!’

I quickly beeped through a year’s supply of crackers. ‘For God’s sake, Harry, just tell me who it is!’

‘OK.’ He wiggled. ‘It’s Darryl Kenny! You know, from Man United!’

I went cold. No. Darryl Kenny. A name I was all too familiar with, and not just because he was super famous. Little did Harry know, I actually knew him. Personally. Not that I’d seen him since we were at school together, a million years ago, mind you.

‘Oh,’ I said to Harry, who looked disappointed with my lack of reaction. ‘Well, erm, better get back to work, eh?’

Harry waddled off to play guessing games with someone else.

I did NOT want to see Darryl. It had been forever. And he was a millionaire, famous football star, and I was working…here. Maybe I should take my break early?

Imagine the shame of him seeing me.

‘Carmen?’

I turned my head. And there he was. Superstar Darryl Kenny, from school, stood in front of my till. With a bunch of flowers – yellow roses – in his hand, wearing a grey Adidas tracksuit.

My heart took a nap. ‘Darryl?’ I played dumb. ‘Is that you?’

In reality, how could anyone not recognize him? Even if they hadn’t been to school with him. The man played for England, almost leading the team to victory in the last Euro Cup. Or World Cup? Whatever. I didn’t follow football. But he was seriously famous. In the tabloids, partying, appearing at charity gigs, pundit-ing on Match of the Day, he did it all. Worth £35 million, apparently, last I read.

‘Aye!’ He grinned, flashing straight white teeth, the kind only truly rich people have. Really, he looked gorgeous. I knew that anyway, from following his career over the years but, in person, as a grown man: Wowzer. He was breathtaking. ‘I can’t believe I’ve bumped into you, this is mad!’ He sounded genuinely excited. ‘I haven’t seen you since we left school! How’ve you been?’

I bit my lip, for a moment, as I tried to think of something – anything – impressive to say. But how could I impress him? I was in a purple and orange Sainsbury’s uniform, sat at a till, with hardly any make-up on, for crying out loud.

‘I’m good, great. Fab!’ And breathe. ‘Between jobs at the moment, you know, so just working here to tide me over before the next project.’ That was a lie. I’d been working here for fifteen years. God, even thinking the fact privately to myself was like a knife in my stomach. ‘And you!’ I was stuttering a tad. ‘I don’t need to ask how you’re doing, do I? With the footie, and all. Congrats!’

He shrugged, modestly. ‘Well, we aren’t having the best season. Still, we’re in with a decent shot for the FA Cup.’

I stared blankly at him. He might as well have been speaking Mandarin. Then I laughed, a bit manically actually, in case it was a joke. He looked confused. Better change the subject, I told myself.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ I twirled my hair, hoping I could keep his eyes on the blonde curls – that were washed, thankfully – rather than on my unfortunately under-made-up face. ‘I wouldn’t expect to see someone as, like, rich as you shopping here?’

I cringed at my own words. Was it tacky to mention how rich someone was? But fortunately he just laughed, warmly.

‘Just popping in to buy some flowers for my mum. She’s in hospital, I came straight over after training.’

‘Oh no. Is she OK now?’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Nothing serious. Plastic surgery. She wanted it for Christmas…’

I laughed again – less manically – still unsure if he was joking. He placed the flowers down on the belt, and I dragged my eyes from his – where they’d been locked – and beeped the roses through, enjoying the floral whiff I inhaled as I did.

‘So.’ His smile was just as cheeky as it had ever been. ‘You going to the reunion?’

Did he just stare at my boobs? My heart skipped a beat.

Reunion? I scrunched my face, then un-scrunched it, remembering that it was not an attractive look. ‘What reunion?’

He looked surprised. ‘Our twenty-year reunion… It’s next month. You must have heard about it?’

Well, obviously I bleeding well hadn’t…

‘Oh yes, course.’ I made out I’d suddenly remembered, as he handed me a twenty-pound note. Our fingers grazed as I took it, and a jolt went through me. A good jolt. ‘Yeah, I might pop by, if I have time. I’m guessing you won’t be going?’

He grinned. ‘No, I’ll definitely be there. Wouldn’t miss it.’ He took the change from my hand. Another jolt – then placed the coins in the RSPCA charity box. Cute. ‘Can’t wait to catch up with all the old crew. I hope you can make it. Would be great to spend some time with you, properly, after all these years.’

My heart was doing flips. Spend time. With me? And then, just when I thought I’d have to put myself in the recovery position, he winked at me. A sexy wink, too, not a sleazy one.

‘OK, Darryl.’ A real smile spread across my face. ‘See you there then, I guess?’

I now noticed my colleagues had crowded round, I’d been too puppy-eyed to notice them before, whispering and taking pictures. With one last bit of – enjoyably intense – eye contact, he flashed his blinding smile at me again, before walking out. ‘See you there, C.’

Wow. That was unexpected. My whole body was tingling. I’d just served one of the most famous men in the country. And, technically, my first ever boyfriend.

And was it just me or…was he flirting with me?

See you there, C.

That night, I was at home on the couch, alone as usual, with the Britain’s Got Talent results show on in the background. I wasn’t really watching it. Some annoying pop star called Daisy Dee was performing her new single before they announced which wannabe was getting axed. Watching was bittersweet; mainly because when I was younger, I always thought I was going to grow up to be a pop star, for real, instead of what I had become: a full-time Nectar point dispenser.

Curled up, I had my laptop resting on a cushion on my knee, open on Facebook. I’d checked my Events and, sure enough, I had been invited to the reunion, but must have missed the notification. Facebook had gotten really complicated in recent years; you practically needed to take an evening course to keep up with it.

June 8, the event was happening, at the actual school. That was just four weeks away. And there was going to be a talent show – it said – just like they used to do when I was a student. They were asking ‘alumni’ to get in touch and enter, as well.

With a shudder, I remembered the last time I’d taken part in one, in 1998 – me and my four best friends, The Huddies we called ourselves, during our last year of school. I winced. Two decades on and the memory of that day still hadn’t faded.

After hesitating for a few seconds, I clicked attending. Usually that would be the last thing I’d do. But Darryl was going. And he’d said it ‘would be good’ to see me there. His words, not mine.

I mean, in a way, he’d kind of asked me to go, hadn’t he? Like, a date? Sort of. The thought made me feel giddy, so I got lost in it for a few moments.

Imagine if I went, and me and Darryl ended up together (!). Me, with one of the richest and most famous footballers in the country. Or world, probably! I glanced over at the pile of bills in the corner. The warning letters were pouring in, thick, fast and in red bold font – which was the worst. I was really behind. It had been stressing me out no end this year.

I was behind with the mortgage on my home, which was the house I’d grown up in, the beloved pink haven – yes, it had pink walls outside, making it practically locally famous – that my parents signed over to me when they moved to Australia five years ago. I thought it’d feel a bit sad to move back in, alone, but it didn’t. I loved the place, three bedrooms, a conservatory, a sprawling garden – which since they’d left, was untended, sadly – and so many happy memories. And it was, as far as I knew, the only pink house in Huddersfield. And that was pretty damn cool. But what was not cool was my spending. And low wage. And how I’d struggled to make ends meet lately.

Still, I had to think positively. Today for the first time in…well, ages I felt like something amazing might be about to happen to me. Darryl was a sign. A sign that this slump I’d gotten into lately might be coming to an end. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. I was going to be spending an evening with my high school boyfriend, two decades on. And – plot twist – it very much seemed he still liked me. Yes, Darryl Kenny, Man United superstar, still liked moi, despite me having hardly any make-up on and wearing a rotten Sainsbury’s uniform. Imagine what he’d think of me all dolled up, looking my most Victoria-Beckham-glamorous?!

I looked at myself in the reflection of the laptop. Yes, I was definitely still hot. Not as hot as I was ten years ago, granted, but I knew I still turned heads. Fat lot of good that was in Huddersfield, mind you, where most of the men made Quasimodo look like Magic Mike, but there was no denying I still had ‘it’, technically.

But just before I treated myself to too much ego rubbing, that annoying voice in my head had something to say: But Darryl only dates models, TV presenters and pop stars, Carmen…

That was true enough. I’d kept an eye on his love life since school, reading about it in the red tops during work breaks. I’d never known him date anyone ‘normal’. There had always been a string of glamorous stars on his arm, stepping out of wanky parties, private clubs and snooty restaurants. Oh, how I’d love that to be me!

If only I actually was a pop star, like I’d always dreamed I’d be. Then he’d definitely think I was good enough to parade around London. I sighed. Lord knows, I had the voice to make it. And the look. But now I was probably too old. Almost thirty-six. Not that I looked it, but still.

If only there was a way of showing Darryl that even though life hadn’t given me the breaks, that even if on paper I wasn’t necessarily WAG-material, really, deep down, I was secretly more glamorous and worthy of a celebrity lifestyle than all the other pop stars and D-listers he’d dated before.

I had an idea. Maybe there was a way I could show him that…

Yes. That could work, I thought to myself. But I’d need some help to pull it off. I’d be too afraid to do it alone. And I knew just the people who would be able to help me.

Finally, after twenty years, it seemed it was time to reunite The Huddies.

Chapter Two

Ellie

‘Don’t forget to stretch, Mel.’

Mel managed to hold a steady glare, which was fairly impressive, really. It was a nice day for it out in Somerset Park, as long as we avoided the empty cans of Tennent’s Super.

Mel – who I’d known since school – had signed me up as her personal trainer six weeks ago, and we were definitely making progress with shifting the weight she’d put on after having her second baby.

‘Now, make like Taylor Swift – and shake it off,’ I said.

Being a PT, you can’t help but have a few go-to phrases you end up using on every client.

‘So, what you up to tonight, Ellie?’ Mel asked breathlessly, wiping her brow with a towel.

She shook, and I tried not to look at the excess skin around her belly. If she saw me looking, she’d think I was staring out of judgement, when nothing could be further from the truth. If I was looking it was, in fact, out of jealousy.

‘Nowt.’ I sipped from my water bottle. ‘Gonna head home. Make dinner for Egg.’

Mel shook her head. ‘You want to make the most of your life before you have kids.’ I tried not to flinch at the words. ‘You should be in the pub, getting as much Pinot down you as you can. I tell thee. I’d sell both me parents for a white wine spritzer right now, Ellie, honestly. They don’t tell you before you get pregnant that you can’t have booze when you’re breastfeeding, you know!’

I smiled politely. ‘I’m pretty sure they do, Mel...’

She made a ‘pfft’ sound. ‘Well, hopefully our Rihanna will be off the boob in time for the twenty-year reunion. I want to get shit-faced.’ I nodded, keen to get home. Or just away. She’d had her session now. Time was up. ‘You are coming to that, by the way, aren’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘I dunno. I don’t think I’ll be up for it, really.’

She looked at me like I was the world’s hugest bore. ‘It’ll be a laugh, Ellie.’

With a tight smile I said, ‘Well, I don’t know if my idea of a laugh is hanging out with people who used to call me Ellie-phant and Ellie the Belly at school.’

Mel giggled. ‘Oh, forgot about that. Well, you know, you weren’t the only one with a horrible nickname that stuck.’ She wasn’t going to say it. I think her nickname still haunted her even now. ‘And anyway, forget about Ellie-phant, look at you now!’ She gestured at my body, as if I hadn’t seen it recently. ‘You look like bleeding Elle MacPherson, for Pete’s sake. I’d want to show all of that off if I were you. I’m jealous, truth be told.’

Little did she know I’d swap my body for what she had in a heartbeat.

‘You’ll be back to your best in no time, Mel,’ I said, packing up my stuff, hoping she’d take the hint. ‘You’re doing grand.’

‘Cheers. I hope you’re right.’ She gazed into the distance, still showing no intention of leaving the park as dusk loomed. ‘Tony’s hardly touched me since we had Rihanna. Reckon another half a stone off and he might be back to bending me over the kitchen table like the good old days! Anyway, I’d better get off. See you next week, Ellie, love.’ I felt relief as she finally began strolling away towards the main road, towards her house. It’s not that Mel was ‘common as muck’, as my mum would say; after all, we’d grown up in a council house ourselves and were hardly eating caviar watching polo in our spare time. But Mel could be very off-putting, in truth. She called back: ‘And the reunion…seriously, be there! No excuses!’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I lied. I didn’t need to think. I didn’t fancy it, and that was that.

When I got home, relieved and exhausted in equal measure, I slumped on the couch. White walls, perfectly varnished flooring from Cornwall, charcoal drapes that elongated the windows. I’d done everything the designer had told me to, to make sure our central apartment – apartment sounded so much posher than flat, didn’t it? – was absolutely perfect. Just like out of an Ideal Home spread. Nothing missing. Nothing except…

I decided to torture myself and open Facebook. I clicked through the profiles of some of the people I went to school with. Ah, Jemma. One of my old best friends, who I was still close to, to this day. While munching on my kale crisps, I flicked through her pics. There weren’t many, but I gazed adoringly at the ones she had posted of her four-year-old daughter, Ivy. Gorgeous little thing she was, with her afro hair in mini-bunches and the cheekiest smile ever. There was a picture of Jemma – and her man Dave – with Ivy at the zoo, pointing at a giraffe like it was the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen. There was one of her finger painting, getting green smudged all over her adorable little face. So cute I could feel my skin tingling.

Solemnly, I moved on to Mel. Her profile picture had MILLIONS of pictures of her baby. Mel and I weren’t really friends at school but I think now I was her PT it felt like she was trying to force us to be. And that was the last thing I needed.

‘Love, stop that.’ Egg walked in, saw the screen, and wagged his finger at me, semi-jokingly.

I stuck my lip out. ‘Just five more minutes?’

He shook his head, defiant. ‘No way.’ He took the laptop from me, and then a big swig of Merlot. It was his second glass already, I couldn’t help but notice. ‘Hey, tell you what instead, why don’t I show you some Facebook pics that give me the green-eyed monster?’

I sat up. This was new. I was intrigued. He started tapping away on the keyboard next to me.

‘Here.’ He turned the screen so I could see it.

It was a picture of us together – in a crowd of drunken folks – at a Halloween party in 2015. He was wearing a b. . .