Love, Lies and Lemon Cake

by Sue Watson

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Love, Lies and Lemon Cake is a hilarious, bittersweet comedy about taking your life back before it's too late.Faye Dobson has lost her sparkle. Living on film star fantasies and vague memories of a marriage that once was, she can't help feeling that life is passing her by. She dreams of being whisked to Paris for dinner, making three wishes at the Trevi fountain and having sex under the stars. But the wrinkles are multiplying, her husband's passion is for plumbing, and the nearest she'll get to Rome is a take-away pizza.So when Faye meets Dan the gorgeous Australian surfer guy working in the local deli she can't help but wonder what it would be like to see the world. He is blonde, tanned, ten years younger and bakes the most amazing lemon cake. Unlike her husband Dan actually listens to Faye, his smile makes her feel fizzy inside, and when he smiles... Oh. My. God.But is Faye being silly? What would Dan see in someone like her? Even if he did have feelings for her, could she give up everything to be with him?What people are saying about Sue Watson...'Laugh-out-loud funny, this book is exceptionally good.' Chick Lit Club'a talented chick lit author with fresh and unique voice and going on my list of all time faves.' This Chick Reads'Love, Lies and Lemon Cake is a deliciously hilarious book that will have you laughing out loud and rooting for the new Faye! From vajazzled lady parts to fake bake, orange self-tanners, Sue Watson's humour is brilliant and spot on! This is the perfect book for summer! Don't walk, but run out and get this book. You will be glad that you did!' Book Mama blog'Sue's writing is witty and heartfelt in just the right amounts.' One More Page'Sue has an absolutely amazing way of making you feel the emotions of her characters, and making you step into their shoes.' Kim the Bookworm-

Release date: June 24, 2014

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘I want you,’ he breathed, sliding his warm hand under my gown, then slowly, sensuously along my thigh. I lay back on the white sunlounger, the infinity pool lapping at my toes, him lapping at my neck, all hot breath and sensual friction. Dressed only in diamonds and Fake Bake, I smiled provocatively, playing hard to get and stirring on the lounger so he could enjoy me in the best possible light. In his free hand he held a dirty martini to my lips and I swallowed gratefully, framed perfectly by the Hollywood sign nestling in those star-studded hills.

‘Ryan... I shouldn’t be here,’ I said, admiring the way he held his glass and moved his hand around my body at the same time. It can’t have been easy, like rubbing your head and patting your stomach in sync.

‘I have washing to do,’ I panted. ‘Then I have to.... ah... clean the windows, and then I’m... oh... making the tea.’

He didn’t care; he was too wrapped up in lust, his twinkly eyes and film star fingers caressing my whole body, and aching for the moment I would be his. I wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last he made passionate love to by an aqua infinity pool in LA. With total disregard for my washing pile and in complete denial of my filthy windows and uncooked tea, he gently pushed his knee between mine, panting in my ear about just what we would be doing next. The stars were out and I lay back in his arms, waiting for the passion to explode, when the sound of Craig’s voice bore through the air like a bloody bullet.

‘Are you going to spend all day in that bath?’

I looked up. Ryan Gosling’s twinkly eyes faded through the mists of steam and foamy bubbles, along with the dirty martinis, white leather sunloungers... and hope.

Unlike Ryan, the last time Craig had touched my thigh was about two years before when his hand had slipped as he turned over in bed... asleep. We’d been married for about a hundred years so romance was a distant memory and sex something I only saw fleetingly on TV. After the usual passion and wanting of the early days, we’d settled down to married life. The chaste goodnight kiss, the ‘did you have a good day?’ for a while, which then petered out into nothing and, like siblings sharing a house, we carried out our rituals and roles independently, while pretending to ourselves everything was fine.

While my daughter was growing up and I was juggling work and childcare, I was happy to live like this, with no distractions, but recently I’d begun to question where my life was going. Was this it? A life lived on film star fantasies and vague memories of a marriage that once was? Craig lived for his work and had long ago given up on romantic evenings fuelled with wine and sweet nothings; he was always too busy. For my part, I’d given up competing with his plumbing business and the sheer excitement that leaking stopcocks and faulty faucets brought him. Faced with the glittering prospect of a flange crisis at seven a.m. the next morning, Craig found it hard to contain his excitement and had little left for a night of marital sex with his middle-aged wife. Ryan Gosling, Brad Pitt and the boys, however, had plenty of time for me, even if it was only in the Hollywood of my head.

I climbed out of the bath and dried myself, trying to remember how it felt to have someone else’s hands on my back, round my undressed waist. I craved the warmth, the body of another human—a real man as opposed to the film stars I could only dream about.

It wasn’t just the lack of sex; I missed the physical affection and closeness we’d once had, and with each day merging into another, before I knew it another loveless year had gone by. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried; a few months before, I’d taken the bull by the horns and suggested we have ‘an early night’. He'd looked at me like I was mad.

‘But... Top Gear’s on...’ he’d gasped, incredulous, and as always missing the point.

‘We could go to bed and you could record Top Gear,’ I answered trying to keep my voice seductive while wanting to smack him in the face.

‘That would be stupid,’ he answered incredulously. He didn’t look at me, just continued staring at the TV screen while slowly turning the pages of Plumbing Monthly. Craig had all he needed right in front of him. Who needed sex with a human when you had a pressure-reducing valve glistening and just begging to be fitted? Tightly.

‘Yes, going to bed together would be very stupid,’ I’d snapped back, trying to push all thoughts of poison and paying a hitman from my mind. It had been a while and, being generous, I wondered if Craig may be a little shy and needed more encouragement. I put both arms around him awkwardly and, closing my eyes and pretending he was Brad Pitt, I kissed his face. I’d read in a magazine at work that if you behaved in a loving way with your partner, even if you didn’t feel the love, it would come... So imagine you’re feeling deep resentment, disappointment and nothing towards your partner during the dying embers of what was once something like love (just an example, you understand). If you then force yourself to hug and kiss them like you are back in love, all those pesky feelings of deep, dark hatred and unadulterated loathing will be replaced by love and affection. I was ready to give anything a go. My negative feelings towards Craig were causing my skin to flake. It had to be worth a try. My worry was that the very act of hugging him may turn into an act of violence on my part. It was no coincidence that Craig was planning a new patio in the summer, and I was thinking less about decking and more about where to hide the body.

Kissing Craig was like sucking lemons and, as I pulled away, he looked at me, surprised. Going against my gut feeling, I thought of the shared mortgage, gave him another smouldering look and left the room. I went upstairs and carefully took out the faded nightie I saved for holidays and sprayed ‘Angel’ all over it. Wafting it around the room, I tried to set the scene so when he came upstairs the ‘intoxicating and alluring’ fragrance would render him helpless to resist. I’d read this ‘love tip’ on GetYourManHotNow.com. and, also taking the website’s advice, dotted a few lit tea lights around the room so it would be just like a love scene from a film where they fall into a room, dazed by lust and glowing by candlelight. But Craig saw tea lights as a fire hazard, so rather than upset him, I blew them all out. I’d save them for Johnny Depp, who never complained about a little fire in the bedroom.

After about ten minutes he still hadn’t appeared, so before I lost all interest and went to bed with Good Housekeeping and a slice of cake, I padded back downstairs. I stood in the doorway of the living room, waiting for Craig to look up from his magazine. He didn’t.

‘Craig. Would you like to go to bed... with me?’ I tried. It was my last-ditch attempt to see if there was anything at all left in our marriage. His silence hit me like a slap as he turned from the screen and looked me up and down.

‘Not tonight, love. Clarkson’s testing the new Audi.’

Even if he genuinely preferred to watch Jeremy Clarkson drive a fucking car than have sex with me, the least he could do was fake it. After all, I was willing to lie back and think of Johnny Depp... surely he could do the same with Jeremy Clarkson? When your own husband rejects you in the bedroom (the living room doorway, to be precise) for a loud, opinionated, middle-aged man driving a fast car, it’s a sign that:

a) You need to shave your legs.

Or b) Your marriage is in deep shit.

I gazed sadly at myself in the steamy mirror, recalling this last rejection only months before. When did we stop loving each other? Did it happen in a minute, in an hour? Or had our feelings slowly decayed over the twenty-odd years we’d been married? Like a lifeboat at sea, disillusion and regret had slowly seeped in and we were all but capsized. I was torn between accepting my fate and fighting for something better—and recently I’d been dreaming of the latter. I didn’t want to live the rest of my life and never feel another hand on my thigh, the frisson of passion, that first kiss with strange lips... the kiss with someone I loved.

When we were first together, Craig would look into my eyes and tell me he loved me every single day. I was always the crazy one who booked weekends away at the last minute, ran into the sea fully clothed, sang the loudest karaoke and always had a funny story to tell. Once he came home from work and I’d set up the tent in the back garden, with a bottle of cava and a takeaway because we couldn’t afford to go on holiday. He’d said one of the things he loved most was my optimism and the way I never let anything get me down; ‘You are such a dreamer,’ he’d say, his eyes bright with love. Funny how later in our marriage he used the same words to criticise me for forgetting to pay a bill or trying to see something from a positive perspective; ‘Oh, you’re such a dreamer, Faye. Why don’t you see what’s in front of you and stop always looking for the happy ending?’ he’d yelled in my face. ‘Because there isn’t one!’

I knew one thing for sure: Craig wasn’t my happy ending. My heart would sink at the scrape of his key in the door each evening and it was impossible to imagine how once upon a time I’d been excited about seeing him after work. I’d recently read an article in a glossy mag during my coffee break at work, ‘How to Get Your Marriage Groove back,’ which suggested it was common for married couples to suffer a dip and, like an infected wound, as long as you got it in time, it wouldn’t kill your relationship. But the time had passed for saving the life of our marriage. I was now forty-two and couldn’t bear the thought of staying with Craig for another twenty-odd years until it was too late. But what could I do? And where could I go? I had plenty of time to plan my escape as I sat in my chair near the window, silently waiting for bedtime as the TV droned on.

Still in my towel I wandered into Emma’s room to breathe in the remnants of her perfume and pretend she was still living at home. Emma’s was the only room with a full-length mirror—I didn’t want one in ours; after the age of thirty, a full-length mirror is not something one wants to be confronted with on a daily basis. I held my breath, stood to face it and dropped my towel. I tried not to make an agonised noise as the towel fell, but staring at the horrible truth, I couldn’t help it. The body that had once skipped along beaches in bikinis, wiggled past boys in tight jeans and carried my beautiful daughter to full term was gone. What replaced it had lumps and lines and, though I optimistically spotted a bottle of Emma’s left-behind scented body lotion and began slapping it on, I knew this was a far bigger job than mere lotion could cope with. Scaffolding would be more appropriate for this task I thought, suddenly spotting wrinkles on my knees. I didn’t even know it was physically possible to have furrowed knees.

That face cream I’d bought from Debenhams hadn’t worked either, I noticed, trying not to think of the new knee crisis and going in for a facial close-up I knew I’d regret. Apparently there was a scientific formula inside that extremely expensive little pink pot that imitated babies’ skin cells. Mandy the Beauty Therapist I worked with had insisted I would be transformed from being an ‘old and wrinkly forty-two-year-old’ (her words) to looking like a perky eighteen-year-old again in just two weeks! However, it was now exactly two weeks since I’d started this new regime and I still looked like a forty-something me and not the glowing, well-preserved supermodel pictured on the label.

‘It’s not moisturiser; it’s like something from a science-fiction film,’ Emma was keen to point out when I’d called to tell her about my new face cream.

‘Mum, think about it—if it worked as they say and your own skin absorbed these cells and reversed the ageing process, you’d literally be a time traveller... or a baby!’

We laughed at that. She had a point and she'd always been more sensible and down to earth than me, more like her dad in that respect.

I looked back at myself in the mirror. Faye Dobson forty-something faced with the physical manifestation of gravity, empty nest and married life with an indifferent plumber stared back at me. My head, heart and body were in limbo—we had no place in the world; my leaky lifeboat was cast adrift and I wasn’t now needed on anyone’s voyage.

I opened my wardrobe and waded through a few old skirts and dresses. I hadn’t been anywhere in the past few years to justify a nice dress or a pair of heels. It occurred to me I hadn’t worn high heels and an evening dress since before Emma was born, and she was now twenty-one!

Then I spotted the bright pink rucksack on top of the wardrobe. I pulled it down, blowing off the dust, and smiled to myself, recalling how I’d bought this bag as an eighteen-year-old with global travel in mind. I clicked apart the plastic locks on the bag. It was probably old-fashioned now in its garish pink with blue piping, but I’d loved that rucksack, spending all my birthday money on it and convincing myself it was ‘an investment’ because I would use it all the time travelling to all those places I'd dreamed of. I was going to see the world with that bag. It was small but I’d be able to squeeze in everything I’d need.

I didn’t use it once.

I held it to me, imagining the airports, the ferry terminals and mountain treks the bag had never seen. Reaching in, I was reminded of all the other things I’d dreamed about but never done. I tipped the bag up onto the bed, scattering the photos, friendship bracelets, hair toggles, postcards and maps, and like a magpie my eyes went to a scarlet silk dress. I unfurled it gently from the aged tissue paper it had lived in all these years. It was still heavenly soft and strikingly red. I was nineteen again and at the seaside with Alex, the only boy I’d ever kissed apart from Craig. I was deliriously happy as we wandered arm in arm, the seagulls yelling above us—a stolen weekend by the sea. The dress had been in a shop window on a mannequin and when I’d tried it on, Alex had said I had to have it because I looked beautiful, just like Julia Roberts. It cost a fortune but I decided to spend it on the dress instead of eating that month. Like the rucksack, I saw it as another investment in my fabulous future—a future of world travel, scarlet dresses and good-looking college boys like Alex.

I slowly put the red dress back into the now crispy tissue paper. It had never been worn. Too late now. Perhaps Emma would like it? I picked up a purple Filofax, all the rage in the eighties before the Internet and online diaries. My whole life had been in this purple faux-leather book. I opened it, landing on a page with three scrawled words: My Living List. ‘Oh, God, I’d almost forgotten about this...’ I sighed under my breath. It had been my plan for my life, a list of all the hopes and dreams I’d once believed I could achieve. How naive I was.

My Living List

Learn to Ice Skate

Lose 10 lbs

Make a wish at the Trevi Fountain in Rome (then ride a pistachio-green Vespa through the streets.)

Swim naked in the ocean

Drink champagne on a New York roof garden

See a Santorini Sunset

Eat macarons in a Parisian tea shop

Be a bride

Be a mum

I closed the Filofax, my heart squashed somewhere inside the purple covers. These random desires had been jotted down years ago, between A-level revision, putting make-up on, making music tapes and drinking lager and lime in the pub with my friends, all long gone to other lives. Reading through the list again, I could see it wasn’t as random as it first appeared; these things had an order to them... ending in marriage and children. I liked things in their place and, subconsciously, even as a slightly chaotic, hormonal teenager, I’d planned my life in a certain way. Going through the list, I was hoping to tick off a few, but it was only when I came to the end I realised I could only tick the last two. I’d achieved only a fraction of the life I’d planned as a young woman. It was like I’d been waiting at the bus stop for my life to turn up but it had been cancelled. And no one had let me know.

I looked through the postcards. Other people’s travels from places I’d never been, from half-remembered friends. A girl with a lisp called Melanie I’d known briefly at university had sent me a card from New York. Almost twenty years old, the colours were now washed out, the picture cracked from the many times I’d held it and looked into it. I turned it over and read the few scribbled words:

‘Dear Faye, I finally made it to NYC! Mel x’

‘Good for you, Mel,’ I thought, sitting on the bed and gazing into it again. I was years older and wiser, but the picture still had the same effect on me. A rooftop in New York on a dusty golden evening; the stars were emerging above, the city lights bright and blurry below. Two glasses and a bottle of champagne on a table for two—and if you kept on looking, in the distance a shadowy couple were dancing.

When I’d first received the postcard, I had been both scared and exhilarated by it. Pregnant with Emma and still in a state of confusion that my life had changed radically within a few weeks. I was unsure about the decisions I’d made, worried about the pregnancy, the birth, my future, my baby’s future. Yet I found it a comfort to look into this postcard. I’d spent many hours longing for escape to a rooftop in New York at dusk.

Once Emma was born, I’d packed my foolish dreams back into the rucksack, put it on top of the wardrobe and bought a nappy-changing bag instead. Once she’d arrived I couldn’t imagine a life without my perfect baby, the safety of my marriage and my neat little home. I was the lucky one I thought, and had no lust for Melanie with the lisp’s glamorous, childless existence in New York.

I jammed everything back into the rucksack, a symbol of my failure to achieve anything. I didn’t put the postcard back with everything else, though; I kept looking at it, fascinated by the scene, imagining myself there, a saxophone playing in the distance, distant traffic sounds rising like smoke from the streets below. The picture filled me with the same fear and exhilaration it had when I’d first received it all those years ago, but now it gave me a twist of hope. Sitting on my bed wrapped in a towel on a wintery morning in the Midlands, I could hear that saxophone, remembering the life I’d once hoped for and how far from that I had landed.

‘Christ, are you out of that bathroom yet?’ Craig’s voice cut into the mists of time like a bloody sledgehammer. ‘I’ve got a crimp fitting system to put in today and you’ve made me late waiting for the bathroom... I’ve got a street load of frozen pipes to do this morning.’

‘Sorry, I was out of the bathroom ages ago—meant to tell you,’ I said, entering the kitchen and taking a slice of warped pleasure from his fury at the news he’d been waiting for nothing.

His face was flushed with anger and I wanted to throw his mug of tea at him—resisting not because I didn’t want to hurt him but because I didn’t want to spend the morning in A and E with his scalded face. I ignored him and put some toast on. It was early February and Craig’s favourite time of year, when combi boiler problems blossomed everywhere needing his surgeon-like attention. Throughout the season, Craig’s skilled hands were paid handsomely to warm frozen pipes lovingly back to life. Shame he couldn’t do the same for me.

‘I won’t be home tonight; I’m spending an evening at my lover’s penthouse apartment,’ I said, spreading low-fat butter on my toast. . . .