If Only

by Angela Marsons

Genres: Family Life; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

“I want Michael Hunter to fall so deeply in love with me that he can’t bear to be more than fifty feet away,” Cher declares to her best friends over cheesecake and wine. But what if she’s searching for happiness in the wrong place? As Cher types up letters about overflowing rubbish bins in a job she hates, she dreams of Michael Hunter. He’s gorgeous, smart, funny and he’s about to become her new boss. But he barely looks at Cher except to ask for a coffee refill. How can she get him to notice she’s the perfect girl for him? While Cher ignores the warning from workmate Dan that Michael is bad news, her friends have their own problems to fix. Sarah is longing to start a new life with a man who won’t commit, and bride-to-be Deb should be looking forward to her wedding, but her future mother-in-law is turning it into a nightmare from hell... If only her fiancé could see it that way. So, when one summer evening, over several glasses of wine, Cher, Sarah and Deb stumble across an old book and decide to cast a wishing spell, they don’t think for one minute that it will come true. It’s just three best friends having a laugh and throwing some herbs around the garden. Or is it? Totally unputdownable, absolutely full of laugh-out-loud ‘I’ve so done that’ moments, and plenty of emotional twists and turns that will keep you refilling your wine and racing through to the end. The perfect romantic comedy for fans of Shari Low and Sophie Kinsella.

Release date: July 6, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘Please, Mr Williams, I need to leave work on time tonight. I did mention it yesterday.’

Cher could hear the pleading tone that had crept into her voice, but she wasn’t proud.

‘That’s unfortunate, Cher, but I didn’t know then that Mr Hunter would want to see me this evening.’ He smiled without regret. ‘I might need you after I’ve seen him. He may have something urgent for me to do.’

Of course, a memo that would ensure world peace. An email that would end famine in Africa. Or, more likely, a fax to one of the retail tenants in the shopping centre, she thought.

She sighed deeply, just so he’d appreciate her sacrifice. Thanks to him, she was now going to be late for her own girls’-night-in party. Sarah and Deb would be chuffed to bits. She was host this evening to a night of pasta, wine and a dose of Tom Hardy on Netflix.

‘I’ll just wait here until you get back then, shall I?’ she asked miserably.

‘Umm… no, Cher, Mr Hunter is coming down here to see me.’ The self-importance was as clear as the widening dark blue circle peeping out from beneath his armpit.

‘He… he’s what… but… he can’t,’ she protested, surveying her appearance. She glanced down at her chunky boots – suitable for a spot of fell walking. Her hastily applied lip liner had long since attached itself to a crusty baguette. If she’d known Michael Hunter was to make a royal visit, she’d have worn heels and mummified herself in Spanx.

‘As the centre manager, he can go wherever he chooses, and I’m not sure the opinion of a secretary would deter him.’

The false nails on her right hand dug crescent-shaped indentations into the flesh of her palm. He knew she hated the term secretary. It always provoked a vision of short skirts, nail polish and sitting on the boss’s knee.

‘Hello, Cher. How are you?’

‘H-Hello, M-Mr Hunter,’ she blurted out, feeling her cheeks turn Christmas red.

She pushed back a clutch of unruly black curls to gaze up into eyes that were like smoked glass, set in olive skin. His fringe rested untidily on eyebrows that arched attractively. He walked towards the door into Mr Williams’s office. It was good to watch that perfect, sporty bottom go.

‘Black, no sugar would be wonderful,’ he said with a grin as he closed the door.

Cher gazed after him and remembered Indecent Proposal, a film her mother used to watch. She pictured Michael Hunter as Robert Redford, but younger, and herself as Demi Moore and prayed he would offer her an indecent proposal. Would she sleep with him for a million pounds? More accurately, would he sleep with her for a million pounds and would her bank manager sanction the overdraft?

It wasn’t just his physical attributes that she admired, although there was a lot there to admire, but his whole demeanour. He exuded confidence and control with a take-charge attitude that was reassuring. Yes, she knew some of the guys called him cocky and arrogant, but she didn’t see him that way.

Her own mini crush on his good looks had developed into something deeper, and it was all down to Peppa Pig. Just a couple of years earlier, the popular children’s TV character had been touring shopping centres during the school holidays. So popular were the events that crowd control failed completely when fights broke out due to parents jostling their kids to the front of the throng. Every member of staff had been called to the event to assist, but only when Michael Hunter appeared, standing at a safe distance, and uttered the words, ‘Shut it down,’ did things start to calm down. Peppa Pig left the stage, the crowd dispersed and catastrophe was averted. There were some that thought he should have helped with the crowd control and the complaints that other staff members had to deal with, but she understood that wasn’t up to him. He was paid to make the big and unpopular decisions and he had done that, and she respected him for it.

She reluctantly dragged herself back out of the twilight zone and scrambled up from the chair. Coffee. He wanted coffee, she recalled, as her right leg brushed against a splinter of wood protruding from the edge of her desk.

‘Shit,’ she cursed, surveying the damage. A ladder ran the length of ankle to calf, pausing to create a crop circle before disappearing beneath the fabric of her skirt. Could I look any worse? she wondered.

She checked that no coffee granule had found its way through the filter into his cup as it so often did into her own. ‘Shoulders back, chest out’ she recalled from an assertiveness book she’d bought on impulse. ‘Improve the demeanour, get noticed’ it said on the first page, which was all she’d read before accepting the fact that it bored her rigid. The first act of assertiveness was to throw the bloody thing in the bin.

She raised her chin and stretched her neck to create the illusion that she was taller than five foot three in socks and inched, crab-like, into the room to avoid attention being drawn to the gaping hole in her tights. God, how can he resist me? she thought ruefully as she inched back out, ignored by them both.

Back at her desk, a couple of words that she’d inadvertently heard came back to her. Downsizing and Audit. This is not good news, she realised as laughter erupted from the inner sanctum. Oh good, everything was okay then. Unless he’d come down to fire her, she realised. That would explain why Mr Williams was laughing.

She switched the computer back on and considered typing the three memos that had landed on her desk during the last two hours, but decided against it. Despite advances in technology, Mr Williams remained old school. He wrote letters, memos and emails longhand and then plonked them on her desk to type and send. Given that he was unlikely to produce a mountain of work the following morning, they would keep her occupied for the first twenty minutes of a day that was sure to be no different from the rest.

She clicked on the Solitaire icon that provided a shortcut to the most used program on her computer. The cards unfolded and she began the psychological game that she always played. If she won the game, her legs would suddenly look great in Lycra or the clothes in her wardrobe would miraculously come back into fashion.

She decided to give the game more of a challenge. ‘If I win this hand,’ she whispered to herself, ‘Mr Hunter will ask me out for a drink.’

She began clicking on the cards, eager to find out if the prophesying game was on her side. She snatched her hand away from the mouse as voices sounded close to the other side of the door.

‘She’s not PA material, but she’s loyal,’ she heard Mr Williams say quietly and knew instantly that he was talking about her.

She’d tried to convince herself that Mr Williams liked her, until he admitted that she managed to irritate him much of the time. While she was busy trying to arrange a hurt, offended expression, he’d explained that she was too argumentative and that he wished she’d never been taught to ask ‘why’, as it was the most overused word in her vocabulary. She had almost mentioned that there were a few others that she used in relation to him but had closed her turbo mouth just in time.

Michael Hunter swaggered past her towards the lift. She smiled in his direction, but he’d already stepped inside.

‘It’s okay, Cher, you can go now,’ said Mr Williams quietly from the doorway. She was out of her chair on the word ‘can’.

She paused. ‘Are you okay?’ She cursed herself for asking after what she’d just heard.

‘I’ll be fine. You go home.’

Alarm bells rang immediately. Mr Williams didn’t like her going home very much. He was like a stick of rock: if you cut him open, he had the company name running right through him. And he didn’t approve of people who came to work just for the money.

‘Can I help?’ she asked, stealing a furtive glance at the clock on the opposite wall.

He deflated and sank to the leather couch.

‘The Tenants’ Committee is commissioning an audit of the management team.’

‘Why? Is the rent too high?’

He smiled at her like a tolerant uncle. She tried not to be irritated. If she knew little about the running of the department, it was only because he didn’t involve her.

She resolved to look for another job the following morning. This was not new: the same thought occurred to her almost every day, either while she was filling the percolator or unjamming the decrepit printer.

This was not the dream that had pulled her through her business admin course at college. She had never wanted to create, like Sarah, or dominate, like Deb. She craved organisation.

The order of the nine-to-five workforce had appealed to her all her school life, ever since she sat watching the school administrator while waiting for the nurse to bandage her grazed knee.

She had gazed with awe as Mrs Johnson answered telephones while clicking away on an ancient PC. The sound was sharp and efficient. She fielded enquiries, found paperwork for the headmaster, lesson plans for the teachers and timetables for the students. She remained calm and friendly while people swamped her desk – all needing something before the bell signalled the next lesson – and everyone smiled and thanked her. She was one person but necessary to everyone around her.

When, years later, Cher was given the opportunity to spend her Work Experience period at a multinational steel company in the city centre, she chose, instead, to spend it with Mrs Johnson in the school office. Watching how the entire school seemed to revolve around and rely on that one person strengthened her own resolve. She wanted to be that one person. She wanted to be the hub. She had focused her qualifications towards Business Studies and Commerce, imagining herself as the indispensable aide to the director of a thriving, international business. Instead, she typed letters about overflowing rubbish bins and faulty automatic doors.

‘No, Cher, the rent from the shops has nothing to do with us. That goes directly to the landlord. It’s the additional service charge which covers cleaning and maintaining the premises.’

‘Oh,’ she said, purely because he paused.

‘We’re being audited next week, to ensure that, as the managing agents, we’re providing value for money.’ He shook his head, causing his glasses to move from the bridge of his nose. ‘They’ll go through all our documentation, asking all sorts of questions.’

‘But there’s nothing to hide, is there?’

‘Heavens, no. There are no shady dealings or anything like that. It just places me in a precarious position, that’s all.’

‘But as the operations manager you co-ordinate all aspects of each department. How could they do without you?’ she asked, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what he did except redirect paperwork all over the building. Her desk often resembled a Royal Mail sorting office.

‘Oh, Cher,’ he said quietly. ‘During an audit, one of the most dangerous people to be is middle management. The top brass look after themselves, and the workers are in no danger: they keep the place open.’

‘Umm… Mr Williams, do I need to update my CV any time soon?’ she asked, trying desperately not to be selfish and failing miserably.

‘No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about at the moment. The auditors will be more interested in what Mr Hunter called the “fat management”. If they can cut a salary or two, it’ll be a job well done.’ He paused, growing older before her eyes. ‘They won’t worry about people like you. Your salary doesn’t warrant their attention.’

She smiled, unsure whether she was pleased or offended.

‘They’re just trimming fat,’ he said absently.

‘Send them my way first.’

Mr Williams laughed at her poor attempt at humour. Yes, he was definitely worried. He never laughed at her jokes.

‘I’m… umm… I have to…’ She felt awful, but she could hardly expect Deb and Sarah to wait long for the luxury of cheap wine and frozen meals.

‘Of course,’ he mumbled, without looking up. ‘You get off home.’

She retrieved her helmet from under the desk slowly, so he could see her hesitation in being forced to leave him alone. He wasn’t too bad really. She didn’t blame him for his old-school outlook. But it did mean that she remained unchallenged and uninspired.

‘Hi, Cher. How’s the bike?’ asked Dan, the engineers’ foreman, as he passed her at the door. His sandy-coloured hair was ruffled on the right side of his head, as it often was by the end of the day, after many passes of a hand that swept it every time he was deep in thought.

Dan had joined the department a year earlier when the previous foreman had retired. Mr Williams had felt that none of the engineers had enough experience to consider them for promotion, and so he had recruited externally, directly into a supervisory position. Any hostility from the team of plumbers, carpenters and electricians had quickly dissipated when Dan had turned his small office into a mini break room and donned a tool belt. She heard his chatter all day over the radio as he moved from one job to the next, supporting and assisting his team.

From the very first day, when he’d taken the time to come and introduce himself, they’d fallen into conversation easily, especially when he’d noticed the card game she was playing on her computer and had suggested others that were free to download.

Over time, he’d started to share the odd joke with her, and she had been happy to reciprocate. On other days, he popped his head around the door to tell her that the wind speed outside was increasing. Crucial information when commuting on two wheels.

‘Fine but don’t call it a bike: you’ll have people think I own a proper one instead of a hairdryer on a frame.’

‘If it ever breaks down’ – he laughed, holding the door open for her; toned muscles pressed against the fabric of his shirt sleeves, and his tie hung loose beneath his open top button; he leaned forward conspiratorially as she passed – ‘I’ve got an old lawnmower you can borrow.’

‘Ha, bloody, ha,’ she replied.

She laughed off the numerous jokes at her chosen mode of transport. Some day she would take driving lessons again: once her pathological fear of the three-point-turn manoeuvre had subsided. That was one of the things she liked about her moped – if it needed turning she could just pick it up.

Dan’s low chuckle followed her into the lift. She wondered if he’d be one of the unlucky ones, but Mr Williams had said the workers were okay and she hoped Dan didn’t lose his job. He made her laugh.

It felt awful, knowing that people’s livelihoods were on the line and she couldn’t even warn them, although she wasn’t sure what she had to feel guilty about. With the new voice recognition systems, she could be replaced for fifty quid so she had enough problems of her own. The current one being that the cheesecake would never be defrosted in time for when her friends arrived.

She just hoped that Sarah would be late for a change, just like Deb was sure to be.

Sarah fingered the luxurious silk as it slid over her moisturised skin and hugged her curves perfectly. David loved sexy lingerie. Refined, not tacky, he always said.

She appraised her reflection and nodded appreciatively. This dusky pink teddy accentuated her small waist with a subtle gathering around the middle. The delicate lace edging teased her breastbone before dipping invitingly into her cleavage.

A swell of excitement churned her stomach. It would drive him wild when he found her waiting for him at the weekend, wearing this hot little number, covered only with an Indian-print silk kimono that brushed the top of her knees temptingly.

She smiled at herself as she pulled her blonde hair back, leaving only a couple of tendrils resting on her cheekbones. She would adorn her face with little more than foundation and a flash of tinted lip gloss. David liked her to look fresh and natural. Huh, if he thought that the natural look could be achieved without any help from Boots cosmetics department, he was seriously mistaken. She was twenty-seven, for God’s sake.

She admired herself openly with honest acceptance of her own sex appeal. Her eyes were big and innocent like a frightened deer, and even in anger they remained doe-like. Her favourite feature was her lips. They were heart-shaped and luscious and revealed a Hollywood smile. She knew that the whole combination was a killer as far as men were concerned, but she was becoming a little worried. Time, however fervently she fought against its onslaught, was leaving its mark on her. Shadows were appearing beneath her eyes, in spite of the eight hours’ sleep she enjoyed without fail.

Two very faint lines ran beneath her bottom eyelashes that refused to diminish underneath the creams and lotions she applied every night. They weren’t yet trench-like, but she knew they were there.

She turned to the side and examined the reflection in minute detail. Satisfied that the all-over tan accentuated the teddy to maximum effect, she removed it and draped it over a lavender-scented hanger, ready for the following day. If that didn’t win him away from his wife, nothing would. She knew every feminist that had ever breathed would be shaking their head in despair at the exploitation of her physical appearance to get what she wanted but, after so long waiting, she was desperate for David to make the right decision about their future.

She stepped into the shower, counting back to when they’d first met. Five years she’d been waiting for the day when he would realise that he belonged to her, that they had to spend their lives together. Five long years since he’d entered the bookshop where she worked.

She’d been instantly attracted to him. The first thing she’d noticed was his walk. It wasn’t a swagger, but it was confident and self-assured. He was wearing beige slacks and a rugby shirt that showed off tanned, sinewy arms covered with sexy dark hair. For a few seconds she experienced every cliché she’d read about in books: the world simply stood still and everyone else disappeared; her heart started beating a little faster in her chest; her mouth dried up; and she felt an overwhelming need to be near him. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before and had made her a little light-headed in its intensity.

She’d nudged Dora away slightly as he approached the counter. Her gaze was drawn directly to deep brown eyes that maintained contact with her own as he spoke. She appointed herself his personal shopper as he explained, with a charming smile, that he was shopping for books for his heavily pregnant wife. At that point, Sarah had immediately dismissed the fantasy that he would ask her out, though she allowed herself a little harmless flirtation as they shopped. Despite an obvious chemistry between them, she accepted that she wasn’t going to feel those well-defined arms pulling her against his wide, muscled chest.

Later, after he left with a collection of books, Sarah couldn’t even recall what they’d chosen. She only knew that for half an hour the book store had turned into an airless vacuum with no staff members, no Saturday-afternoon crowds and no pregnant wife. She tried to banish the thought of his athletic build and rugged good looks all day Sunday, but no amount of running on the gym treadmill eradicated the image from her memory.

The following Monday morning, he had appeared at the counter once again. Sarah almost swallowed her heart as it jumped into her mouth, and without asking she knew why he’d returned before he even spoke. His easy, confident smile sent blood rushing directly into her cheeks and frissons of electricity through her body. He invited her for coffee as a thank you. Internally, she’d fought the temptation and refused. The man had a wife, a pregnant wife. He wasn’t free. He wasn’t available. He belonged to someone else. He persisted though, and she felt helpless. Her whole being wanted to spend time with this man. She was drawn to him in a way she’d never been drawn to anyone else. Go for coffee, she justified to herself. It’s just coffee.

They headed to the nearest Costa, where he regaled her with tales of his recent trip to Marrakesh.

She listened in wonder as he explained how they used the heat from the Turkish baths for cooking bread. David talked of the communal ovens in narrow, crowded streets used by the entire community, and the night markets, bustling with dancers, and food vendors offering snails, fish and peppers. Sarah had barely spoken, hypnotised by his low, velvety voice.

More coffees followed, then a dinner date or two. Sarah worked hard to convince herself that they were just friends: two people enjoying each other’s company. The more she got to know him, the more she realised he wasn’t happy in his marriage. She knew her initial feelings of lust were deepening and that she was falling in love with him. On their third dinner date, she revealed her true feelings and told him that she couldn’t see him again. Much as she couldn’t stand the thought of life without him, she had to try and do the right thing. To her surprise, he’d admitted that he too had fallen in love with her and that the thought of never seeing her again was unbearable. That was the night they’d returned to her flat and made love for hours. It had been everything she’d dreamed of and had cemented her view that the two of them were meant for each other and that his marriage to Bianca was some cosmic accident that had occurred when the fates had been looking the other way.

In the early days, she had tortured herself with thoughts of Bianca, and she had tried once or twice to break it off, but she couldn’t imagine her life without David in it. She eventually reconciled to herself that Bianca got much more of David’s time than she did. She lived for the brief snatches of time they spent together.

Throughout the football season, their Saturday afternoons were idyllic. It was easier to keep Bianca from becoming suspicious through his purchase of a season ticket to Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club, which was inevitably followed by ‘a few beers with my friends, darling’, and so he wasn’t expected home until after six. During the few months separating the end of the season and the beginning of the new one, he was forced to be a little more creative, which meant he didn’t always make it.

He’d spoken proudly, once, of his own subterfuge, claiming that being the father of a girl, who would never want to share his Saturday afternoon football, it would work for years. It hadn’t been until two days later that Sarah had realised what he meant. She’d questioned his long-term plan, as he’d always claimed he would break the news to Bianca when the time was right. He had kissed her lovingly, saying it was merely a figure of speech.

Now, she shivered with delight at their imminent Saturday afternoon together. He’d sit and listen to the football game first, claiming that he should at least know what had happened if he was supposed to have been there. He’d mentioned that Bianca had no interest in football, so Sarah doubted if she even asked.

But it didn’t matter: Sarah loved their special afternoons. She pottered in the kitchen, cooking, while he sat. . .