Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Million Love Songs sees Sunday Times Top 3 bestseller Carole Matthews at her most fabulous. Feel-good and full of emotion, Carole will make your heart sing with this glorious listen.

After splitting up with her cheating ex, Ruby Brown is ready for a change. She's single again for the first time in years and she's going to dive into this brave new world with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. The last thing she's looking for is a serious relationship.

Mason represents everything Ruby wants right now: he's charming, smooth and perfect for some no-strings-attached fun, and yet Ruby can't help feel that something is missing. Joe on the other hand is kind and attentive, but he comes with the sort of baggage Ruby wants to avoid: an annoyingly attractive ex-wife and two teenage children.

And though Ruby thinks she knows what she wants, is it what she needs to be truly happy? It's about to get emotional in Million Love Songs.

Release date: January 4, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Hello, I’m Ruby Brown. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What do you need to know? Let’s see. I’m thirty-two and I live at Princess Sparkle Palace, Great Holm, Costa del Keynes. It’s one of the nicer areas of the city and I live in an enormous four-bed detached home which overlooks a lake.

Well, I actually have a self-contained apartment over someone’s garage. Someone who is a lot richer than I am. OK, even that’s over-egging it. I essentially live in a rented granny annexe that you can’t swing a cat in. It’s not sparkly. It’s not a palace. It’s a granny annexe. But it’s my granny annexe, mine alone. And the lake is real. I try to convince myself that what my home lacks in size it makes up for by having a great view. Every morning I wake to the sound of quacking ducks. That has to count for something, no?

My birthday is 6 June. So I’m a Gemini. That makes me sociable, communicative and ready for fun. Frankly, a fat lot of good that’s done me. It doesn’t say ‘gullible’ anywhere on the list of Gemini Traits, but I am. Really, I am.

I’m actually trying really hard to be my most sociable, communicative and ready-for-fun self at the moment, as I’m recently divorced from my husband and am starting out on a New and Exciting Life as a footloose and fancy-free single woman once more. At least, that’s the plan. Though I have to confess that I’m currently feeling a little daunted by the whole thing. Simon and I had been together for five years and you kind of get out of the habit of being by yourself, don’t you? I feel as if I’ve lost one of my limbs. One that I’ll be able to manage without in time, obvs, but it’s still bloody tough getting used to it.

When Simon and I parted – more acrimoniously than was probably needed – I walked away from my job, my home, my friends, my everything. Madness, I know. But I was heartbroken – still am – and felt cut loose. I needed a fresh start where no one knew me, where my pain didn’t say hello before I did.

If you met me, you’d think that I was the most staid and responsible person on the planet. I’m not known for my irrational behaviour or my impulsiveness. I’m good old reliable Ruby. Look how far that got me! So I decided that I was going to become a new and different version of me. One that was open to adventure, spontaneity and fun. So I set about shaking it all up a bit.

My old job in finance at the council was the first major thing to go. I was comfortable in that job. It paid well and I’d accrued a ridiculous amount of holiday entitlement and an enviable, gold-plated pension pot. Though, in truth, I hated every minute I spent there. I hated the work, I hated my colleagues, I hated the beige carpet, I hated the group huddle we had every morning for fifteen minutes to discuss how we could ‘as a team’ improve our working practices. The whole thing made me want to claw my own eyeballs out. No one – except me – thought that stopping the stupid group huddles would be the best way forward. I did it because it was a ‘good’ job with virtually zero chance of being made redundant. And because I was a little bit frightened of change. That’s no reason to stay anywhere, is it?

As part of the New Year, New Me vibe I felt the world of local government finance would be better without my contribution. My boss would probably tell you that he felt much the same. There are better ways, I think, to spend your nine-to-five. I wanted to get out into the world, meet new people. New people who didn’t think that a suit from Asda was the height of fashion. I’m still young – relatively speaking – but I feel ancient and dull. I want to get out there and mix it up a bit before I am actually too decrepit to enjoy it. In the words of Freddie Mercury, I want to break free!

So I’ve entered the heady world of hospitality instead. I know you’re thinking Event Organiser or Wedding Planner, something exciting like that. What I’ve actually done is become a waitress at a posh gastropub on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. Which seems to mean nothing more than having a lot of pancetta and butternut squash on the menu and writing said menu on a chalkboard. The pay is terrible, the holidays even worse. Yet, strangely enough, I love it. I enjoy meeting new people every day. The customers are fun, mostly, and the team I work with is great. I know what you’re thinking. So ask me again if I still like it in a year’s time. However, this really is only a stopgap job until my confidence in myself is restored and I decide what I’m doing with my new and exciting life.

What else can I tell you? I love music, films and anything containing copious calories. I love Kylie Minogue, though I am probably twice her height and size. Unfortunately, the only thing I share with Kylie is that I have the same penchant as her for picking The Wrong Guy.

In my younger days, I did my share of dating truly dreadful men. Though, much like Kylie, I never actually managed to spot how dreadful they were until after the event. I even went as far as marrying one of them – the aforementioned Simon. More fool me. Though he wasn’t horrible when I married him.

He was lovely. We laughed a lot. He bought me roses. Only from the local One Stop Shop, but that’s more than a lot of men do. We were good together. I thought he was the love of my life. It was such a shock when it all went horribly wrong.

But all of life is a lesson. So now I’m done with relationships. I’ve given up on men, the lot of them. I’m concentrating on being Single and Fabulous. Though, at times, it feels like a steep learning curve. I’m opening myself to new opportunities. I’m going to be like that bloke who said yes to everything for a year. I’m going to see where life takes me.

I need to get a bit of a wiggle on with it, too. I feel as if time is running out for me to fulfil my dreams. And I have dreams, you know. I’d like my own home one day, a car that starts without me having to swear at it, more money coming into my bank account than goes out of it, a job that suits my skill set – whatever that might prove to be. They’re not big dreams in the scheme of things, I admit. They’re probably quite small. But they’re my dreams.

Though, one day, I do hope to own a unicorn.



So. What are the first things you do when you find yourself unceremoniously divorced? I tell you what you do. Change your job. We’ve already covered that. Then you drastically change your hairstyle, lose some weight and take up some reckless and possibly life-threatening pursuit.

Ergo, my long brown hair is now a sharp-cut blonde bob. I might as well see if it’s true that blondes have more fun. If I’m honest, I think they just take more selfies. They also spend a lot more time dyeing their hair. On the weight front, I’ve dropped a stone simply due to the inability to eat while crying. I’m thinking of marketing it as the Next Big Thing diet plan. Weight Loss the Weeping Way! Believe me, the pounds drop off. Life-threatening pursuit? I’ve signed up for scuba-diving lessons. I know.

I’m not sure that the opportunity for scuba-diving is that widespread in Milton Keynes, but I tried Zumba and found my musical coordination abilities are seriously lacking. When everyone else was whooping and grapevining to the right, I was shimmying to the left all by myself. Plus they were all wearing tight, multi-coloured Lycra clothing that jingled when they moved. That’s never going to be a good look. To add insult to injury, the instructor was nineteen, size six and shouted a lot. When is that ever going to do anything for your self-esteem? Plus, doing Zumba isn’t exactly a life challenge, is it? Whereas scuba-diving might well be – given, especially, that I’m frightened of water. Particularly going under it.

At this point, I’m thinking that rally driving might have been a better idea. Thought I do already have many points on my licence as another part of my End of Relationship Rehabilitation was to buy a sports car. Don’t get carried away and imagine a Porsche. This is an ancient and well-loved Mazda something or another that has more rust in evidence than polished chrome and smells vaguely of mould. The boot has a bag of those silica crystals in it to extract moisture – put there by the previous owner, I hasten to add. The moisture issue hasn’t just been since I took possession. It’s the sort of car that middle-aged, recently divorced women with no money drive. But it’s my Mazda, rather like my granny annexe. Even though there are dents on every body panel, it shows that it’s seen life and I love it just the same.

I should fill you in a bit more on my marriage, then you’ll understand where I’m at and why. I’d been with Simon for five years. A year of dating, a year of living together in a rented house in downtown Leighton Buzzard before we wed. So we hardly rushed into it. I met him in real life, at a work conference – unusual in these days of Tinder and e-dating, I think you’ll agree. He was in local government too. Traffic Management. It’s more interesting than it sounds. Well, not that much.

We met at a Social Responsibility weekend at a posh hotel. After all the boring presentations about initiatives to assess and take responsibility for the company’s effects on environmental and social well-being, he bought me a drink in the bar afterwards. Three drinks, actually. Then we got a bit socially irresponsible together back in my room which was quite nice. My heart went pitter-patter and everything. All the things it’s supposed to do when it clocks true love. After that, we started seeing each other regularly and I fell in love. I thought he did too.

When we got married, it wasn’t a big do. We had a quickie register office ceremony with a few friends and family. Our wedding breakfast was a finger buffet at my parents’ house afterwards. Maybe that should have told me something. Simon wanted no fuss, the smallest wedding possible. Turns out he may have even preferred it if I hadn’t been there.

I was seeing stability, lasting love, buying a home, a mortgage, joint bank account, pensions, kids. Turns out, Simon was seeing the woman from the local One Stop Shop where he went to buy my roses. The one who wore false eyelashes with little pink crystals on them. I also found out during one of our more heated break-up arguments that she had similar pink crystals on her vajayjay too. Classy. I might have gone to certain somewhat unsavoury lengths to attract a gentleman in the past but, believe me, I’ve never resorted to crystals on my lady parts. Serves me right for asking what she had that I didn’t. TMI. Still, five years down the swanny for that, so what do I know.

I found out about Simon’s infidelity on Christmas Day. He sent one of those heartfelt texts, full of declarations of love and signed with a dozen kisses and sexy emoticons. It just wasn’t for me. I was the one who got the Lakeland spiralizer and a seventy-nine pence card from Card Factory.

The first Christmas we were together, he bought me a box of After Eight mints with a diamond pendant hidden in one of the packets. Cool, eh? Romantic even. It wasn’t exactly the Koh-i-Noor, but it was so unexpected and thoughtful of him that I was bowled over. I find that a solo, surprise jewellery purchase is always a good thing in a man. This year, spiralizer. I think that says all it needs to about how far our relationship had declined in a short space of time. Not that I haven’t used my Lakeland spiralizer quite a lot. It’s great. The number of things you can do with a spiralized courgette is simply amazing. You just don’t want one as a major gift from your loved one, right?

Simon left on Boxing Day. Packed a box – I’m sure it’s not called Boxing Day because of that – and went to live with The One of the Crystalled Vajayjay. I couldn’t bear to stay in that house on my own – the one which we’d shared together. Where we’d loved, laughed and made our plans. Neither, quite frankly, could I afford the rent on my salary.

So I handed the keys back to the landlord and moved away to Milton Keynes without a backward glance. Not a million miles – barely ten miles down the road. And I know what you’re thinking – Milton Keynes! Why not the golden sands of Cornwall or the fabulous hills of Lake District or the heather-strewn borders of Scotland? Somewhere you’d go on holiday and yearn with all of your heart to go back. Why Milton Keynes? No one aspires to live in Milton Keynes. But, you know what, it’s flipping great here and sometimes too much change is unsettling. Everything else was up in the air. I needed somewhere different but familiar, if you know what I mean. Plus I needed a new job and quick. Milton Keynes has everything you’d ever want. Good shopping, good theatre, a surfeit of lakes and more trees than you can shake a stick at. The concrete cows. Don’t mention the cows – everyone does. IKEA is a three-minute drive from my house. What’s not to love? How far do you have to go for your BILLY bookcases? Think about it.

My granny annexe is great too. Honestly. I can have it all decorated from one end to the other with a super-size can of magnolia and a free weekend. At least in theory. I have, of course, yet to put this to the test. It’s not exactly Princess Sparkle Palace yet – but, believe me, when it’s all nice and freshly decorated it will be both sparkly and palatial.

Cleaning? An hour tops. My kind of housework. I still need some bookshelves putting up and my wall art from Next is still stacked behind the sofa awaiting attention, but I’m pretty much settled in now. Sadly, the thing I miss most about Simon is his ability with power tools. I can tell you now that’s not a euphemism for anything. It might have taken months of cajoling, but when he set his mind to it he was a demon with a Bosch hammer drill. And that’s, essentially, the hardest thing about being single. You have no one else to do … well … anything. You fly solo with finances, decisions, outings, holidays. All of it. The grind of being the only one is relentless. I have to think about everything. Sometimes I think my brain will go into overload with all it’s got to hold in there. Yet it’s infinitely better than being with someone who thinks having a sparkly noo-noo is more important than a sense of humour or integrity. I must remember that.

Anyway, I’d better get a move on or I won’t have my shiny new job to go to. I grab my bag and jump into the car which only requires three f-words before firing into life. Maybe it needs a new battery or alternator or something else under the bonnet which may not be quite right. Another thing that guys are very useful for. I’m perfectly capable of doing it, but when you’re a couple you kind of automatically fall into Blue Jobs and Pink Jobs, right? I’m already sorted with putting out the bins myself and if I had any grass, I’d be perfectly fine about cutting it. I’m just going to have to get used to googling car maintenance stuff.

I’m on the late shift at work today which means I go in for four o’clock and am lucky if I’m home at midnight. The plus side is that I get most of the day to myself to chill out, read, watch telly and put off the hour’s housework for as long as I can. You win some, you lose some.

The pub is called the Butcher’s Arms and is one of a chain of five similar pubs in the area owned by a small, family-run company. It’s set in the lovely village of Great Blossomville, about a ten-minute drive out of Milton Keynes’ city limits and into the leafy Buckinghamshire countryside. It has a thatched roof, overlooks the village green and usually has about three hundred top-of-the-range cars parked outside it – making our relationship with the long-suffering residents of Great Blossomville somewhat tetchy. Inside, it’s all stripped wooden floors, chalk blackboards and artfully arranged things made out of hopsack.

The drive is lovely and I take the time to turn up my music, letting Kylie soothe me, and enjoy the countryside around me – while fully maintaining my concentration on the road at all times, obvs. It’s spring and the hedges are coming shyly into bud. The sun’s out in force today and the worst of the winter feels long behind us. Everyone feels better in spring, don’t they? It’s all that new life, new hope shtick. I’m happy to buy into it, though. It makes your heart soar just a little bit, doesn’t it? I won’t be downtrodden and disillusioned. I’m going to be bright and filled with optimism. You heard it here first!

This year, for me, is onwards and upwards.



Parking in one of the spaces reserved for staff right next to the bins, I hurry inside. We’re not busy at this time of day although we always have our regular retirees who drop in for an early-evening pint. As well as catering for vegans, gluten-avoiders and lactose-intolerant customers, we are also dog-friendly. Canine companions are allowed in the bar area, so a few of the older guys who live in the village pretend they’re taking their pooches for a walk and come straight here for a swift hand-pulled craft beer instead. A couple of them queue up at the door for opening time at twelve. We serve afternoon teas too and the last of the ladies enjoying those are just getting ready to leave. I drop my bag and jacket into my locker in the staffroom and tie on my apron. My hair gets a bit of a fluff and I whip round with some fresh lippy. Gotta look the part.

When I head out into the restaurant, Charlie Clarke is at the desk, taking a phone booking.

‘Hi,’ I say, when she hangs up. ‘Cut it a bit fine today. Sorry.’

She shrugs. ‘Lunch was a bit manic, but we haven’t exactly been rushed off our feet since.’

Charlie has been a great friend since I started here. You know some people you just bond with instantly and become firm friends for life? Well, Charlie is one of those. She’s the same age as me – thirty-eight pretending to be thirty-two or less – and we have the same silly sense of humour.

Despite my bravado, I can confess to you that I felt so low when Simon left that I didn’t know what to do with myself. In fact, I barely recognised the person I became. Despite the fancy haircut, the new job, the new apartment, I’d completely lost my confidence. I think I have a lot to offer in a relationship, yet my husband’s head was turned by a sparkly noo-noo. That’s got to hurt. Charlie has been such a tonic though. We’ve shared so many laughs together that she’s helped me through some dark hours. Mostly because she’s as jaded with life as I am. We are both bruised and a little bit broken.

Charlie’s small and curvy. She’d be the first to tell you that. Our mutual muffin tops are a constant topic of conversation. She has a cheeky face and there’s always a beaming smile on it, even if she’s feeling rubbish inside. Her hair is her pride and joy and I can’t tell you how much or how long she spends on it. It’s long, dark and lustrous. She straightens it within an inch of its life and has one of those flash hairdryers which cost a few hundred quid. For a hairdryer. Makes my twenty-quid Babyliss look a bit pants. For work she has to tie it back in a ponytail which she resents with every fibre of her being. She’s not married. Never has been. Charlie is resolutely single, but that’s not to say she isn’t hopelessly in love. Hopeless being the operative word.

My dear Charlie only has eyes for Gary Barlow, he of Take That mega-fame. She’s been a serious fangirl since they first came on the music scene. No other nineties band will fit the bill. You can keep your Wet Wet Wet and your Westlife, thank you very much. Whenever you get in Charlie’s car or go to her flat, the hit tunes of Gary and the lads are blasting out. She follows Gary to gigs all over the country but, in certain circles, isn’t considered a truly hardcore fan as she’s never travelled abroad to see him. Mainly due to lack of funds rather than lack of inclination. I think, if she could, she’d go to the ends of the earth for Mr Barlow. She has a cardboard cut-out of him in her living room. The first time I went back to her place, late at night, he scared the bejaysus out of me. I thought she was being burgled. She’s the only person I know who looks forward to the beginning of every month simply because she gets to turn over a new Gary on her calendar. She can’t wait for August because he’s doing a yoga pose wearing very small black shorts.

‘I’ve got to shoot off sharply when I’m done.’ Charlie gets a tray and starts tidying the nearby tables while I scan the bookings for this evening. Tonight’s steak night, which is always popular. Two steaks and a bottle of decent red for forty quid. ‘I’m seeing the Take That tribute band tonight. Take Off.’

See? Total fangirl.

We both launch into the first few lines of ‘Could it be Magic’. In my short time here, I’ve been tutored well. ‘I’d forgotten it was tonight.’

‘Shame you couldn’t come. It’s a good crack.’

‘I would have loved to. I couldn’t get anyone to swap shift.’

‘You need to be on your toes later.’ She pauses, cloth in hand. ‘Our dear lord and master is in da houzz. Apparently.’

‘Mason Soames?’

‘The one and only.’

Wow. This is my Big Boss. The one I’ve yet to meet, despite having been here for two months already. ‘What’s he like?’

‘A twat,’ she says. ‘But a handsome twat. He looks a bit like that movie star bloke – Tom HigglePiggleBum.’

‘I know he’s supposed to be my boss, but I haven’t met him yet.’

‘That’s because he’s never around.’

‘Why is that?’

Charlie shrugs. ‘I guess being the owner’s son bestows on him a certain amount of largesse. If he was in any other business he’d probably be given the boot.’ My friend rolls her eyes. ‘He’s supposed to be our Events Director yet he seems to spend most of his time in Klosters or Monaco or somewhere. Nice work if you can get it.’ More eye-rolling.

‘What does he actually do?’

‘Do? Good question. Mostly he turns up in his Aston Martin and gets on everyone’s tits. That’s what he does. Whenever we have an event, Jay and I organise it. Shagger generally sweeps in when it’s all sorted and takes the glory.’

I laugh. ‘I still can’t believe you all call him that.’

‘Not to his face, obvs.’ Charlie laughs too. ‘That’s probably a sackable offence. Still, you’ll know why when you do meet him. He’s a smooth sod. He’s probably tried it on with every single female that comes through those doors. I don’t think he can help himself.’

I shake my head, dismayed. ‘Now I really can’t wait to make his acquaintance.’

‘Don’t take your eyes off his hands or they’ll be down your pants before you know it.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ A lecherous boss. Lovely. Just when it was all going so well.



I make sure that everything’s spick and span in the restaurant. I smile brightly at the customers as I greet them at the desk and bustle about all evening being generally efficient and bright. Before I get a chance to turn around, it’s eleven o’clock and the last of the stragglers are leaving as I’m wiping down the tables. It’s at that point when Mason Soames finally rocks up.

He needs no introduction. Instantly, I can tell it’s him. A throaty engine and a shower of gravel in the car park announces his arrival. I glance out of the window and there’s some slick silver beast in one of the reserved parking spots. A moment later the door swings open and a vision in a light grey suit strides in. Charlie’s right – he does, indeed, favour Tom Hiddleston. He’s tall, over six feet, lean and more handsome than is good for a man. As Charlie pointed out, he is, no doubt, a smoothie but she hadn’t managed to convey quite how good-looking he is. His fair hair, with just a hint of curl, is swept back but he runs his fingers through it as he comes through the door nevertheless. His features are fine, almost delicate, his skin lightly tanned. Mason Soames carries himself with the air of a man who never has to try too hard. He’s certainly quite classy – even given some of the posh stuff we get in the restaurant. I bet he’d look fabulous in a tuxedo.

I’m standing with a pile of menus in my hand and become aware that I’m staring. Our eyes meet and he smiles widely at me. I try to recover my composure as I give him a professional smile back.

‘Hi. I’m Mason.’ His gaze is steady, searching when he extends a hand to shake mine. ‘You must be … er …’

‘Ruby,’ I supply. ‘Ruby Brown. Your new waitress. Well, new-ish.’ I might not have met the boss yet, but I already feel like part of the furniture.

‘Ah. Right. Yes. Of course.’

‘I’ve been here for two months now.’

‘Right. And I haven’t.’ He’s still beaming at me and his smile is quite disarming. ‘I’ve been skiing for the season.’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I say.

‘But now I’m back.’ He claps his hands together. ‘Is Jay around?’

‘No. Night off. I’m in charge.’

‘Fine. You’re the very person I need then. Why don’t we shut up shop together and you can tell me what’s been going on here while I’ve been away?’

I don’t point out to Mason that it’s nearly my home time and maybe he should have come in a bit earlier for this chat. Still, there are just two tables left to leave and one party is getting their coats on already, so I won’t be long. The couple in the corner are so wrapped up in each other that they might get down and dirty on the table and I don’t want to be wiping up after that. I think I’ll take their bill over to them.

‘Give me another ten minutes to finish up here and then I’m all yours.’

Mason raises an eyebrow.

That came out wrong.

Flustered, I tap in the bill for the happy couple and hurry it over, interrupting their footsie. They take the hint, pay up and leave. I lock the door behind them, clear their table and turn off the lights in the restaurant. When I go through to the bar, Mason has dimmed the lights in there and is standing behind the counter. He’s taken off his suit jacket and has rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, showing off tanned arms with a down of blond hair.

‘What’s your poison?’ he says, leaning on the bar and fixing me with eyes that are the colour of summer sky – now that I come to look. They glint at me even in the low light. Always beware of a man with twinkly eyes. Charlie has told me as much.

‘Diet Coke, please. I’m driving.’

‘Ha. Me too. I’m making myself an espresso,’ he says. ‘I’ve a party to go to later and need something . . .