The Girls Take Manhattan

Book 5: Girls On Tour

by Nicola Doherty

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Meet the Girls on Tour - Poppy, Lily, Maggie and Rachel. Four ordinary girls who have the most fun in faraway places. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll lose your heart. Perfect for fans of Jill Mansell, Debbie Johnson and Fiona Collins. 'The classic beach read for die-hard romantics everywhere' Irish World on The Out of Office Girl Join Poppy, Lily, Maggie and Rachel as they jet to New York - and face a big secret in the Big Apple. When Lily invites the girls to attend a VIP event in Manhattan, they all jump at the chance. Poppy especially is thrilled to escape her impending 30th birthday with a weekend of Cosmos and red carpets. But none of them have any idea what Lily is really planning. Or how a single weekend can turn your life upside-down ... With non-stop fun and flirty frolics, this is a girls' weekend not to be missed. Expect the unexpected, the utterly hilarious and unforgettable, on this rollercoaster ride of love, laughs, surprises and sparks. You have a VIP pass to join each girl's adventure, so pack your bags and buckle your seatbelts, because just about anything is possible...

Release date: March 26, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 69

Sample

Shuddering, I put the magazine quickly back on the rack. I’ve read those articles before. They all tell you useless things like ‘acquire one perfect white shirt’. I, too, acquired that one perfect white shirt thinking it would make me look like Katherine Hepburn instead of a crumpled barmaid at the end of her shift. Don’t get me wrong: I, Poppy, am not the kind of person to get in a flap over turning thirty. I just don’t want anyone to know it’s happening next week. Or read a stupid list about all the things I should have done by now.

Instead, I’m going to write my own list. Number one: ‘Go to New York for the weekend with three girlfriends for mystery VIP event.’ Tick tick tick! I’m in Heathrow, about to jet off to Manhattan with Maggie and Rachel. Our friend Lily is organising some VIP event and managed to swing us three nights free in the Mercer, a swanky hotel in SoHo. She’s refused to give us any details about what the event is, but who cares? It’s in New York!

‘Hey beaudiful. I’d recognise that ass anywhere,’ says someone behind me in a terrible American accent. I turn around to see Rachel, her long dark hair unbrushed and her denim shirt buttoned up wrong, looking exhausted and wired at the same time. As soon as we’ve hugged hello, she starts dancing around, singing tunelessly. ‘Rum rum rum, rum rum rum rum, do doodle dee …’ She tails off. ‘No?’

‘Sorry, darling, I give up. What is it?’

‘Sex and the City!’ Rachel exclaims. Her BlackBerry buzzes and she whips it out eagerly. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters as her thumbs dart around at bewildering speed. ‘I’m over-stimulated. Big case on at the minute. I’ve been up all night working and drinking Bed Rull, I mean Red Bull. Can we get a coffee? Where’s Maggie? Where do we check in? We’re going to New York!’ She tries to stuff her BlackBerry in her pocket, drops it, retrieves it and jumps up and down again.

‘OK, calm down,’ I say, guiding her towards Costa. ‘We’re meeting Maggie here, remember? I need coffee too. I never sleep well before a flight, plus my mum rang me at six a.m. You won’t believe what she was on about …’

‘What, what?’ Rachel asks breathlessly. ‘Let’s sit here. No, here. No, here! Here’s the best!’

I don’t think now is the time to discuss my manic mum with my manic friend. Instead, I hold the table while Rachel buys our cappuccinos, and close my eyes and take deep yoga breaths as I recall my conversation with Mum this morning.

In an attack of unprecedented madness, my mother has decided it’s her duty to remind me that the women in my family tend to have – urk – very early menopauses. Hers began at thirty-five, apparently. And she thinks I should celebrate my thirtieth birthday by sharing this fact with my boyfriend.

‘That reminds me,’ she said innocently this morning, after giving me her views on Obamacare, which was already a bit much when I was half-asleep. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Charlie yet?’

‘Seriously, Mum!’ I growled, sitting bolt upright, my happy dream of marshmallows and Michael Fassbender gone forever. ‘For the last time. We have been together ten months. Charlie is twenty-six years old. I can’t start telling him about my menopause!’

‘Well, I don’t think it’s a very good sign if you’re afraid to have the conversation. But if you are—’

‘Afraid! The only thing I’m afraid of is being mental.’

‘If you are,’ she continued relentlessly, ‘I’d be more than happy to talk to him myself and make sure he knows the situation. I’m friends with him on Facebook, you know. I think you can get one cycle of IVF free on the NHS, but ideally—’

I stood up, clutching one hand to my head. ‘Oh my God. Mother. If you dare bring this up with Charlie I swear to God I will never speak to you again.’ I knew this wasn’t the best way to handle the situation, or put her off, but I was so incensed I couldn’t think straight. Why couldn’t I just lie, like a normal daughter? ‘Yes, Mum, I’ve briefed Charlie about the state of my ovaries and he is on-message.’

Mum is obviously nuts to be worrying about my menopause. But the really annoying thing is, there is a grain of truth amongst all the crazy. Charlie is more than three years younger than me – twenty-seven in June, thank God. In a week’s time, we’ll be in different decades. He might not want to settle down – or think about a family – for at least ten years. How can I possibly bring it up with him? It’s way too soon. But if I don’t –

Aargh. I am evicting my mother from my head. Thank God Charlie didn’t stay the night and come with me to the airport, as he’d suggested. Imagine if he’d overheard our conversation! Early menopause: classic seduction tool.

‘Hey, where’s your steamer trunk?’ Rachel says, plonking down two cappuccinos, three giant pastries and about twenty paper napkins, sugars and coffee-stirrers. ‘Did you donate it to a museum?’

I roll my eyes at her. ‘Of course not. It’s been repurposed as a bedside table. I will admit, this wheelie thing is a tad more practical.’

‘I’m not sure what I’ve brought,’ says Rachel, swallowing half her coffee in one gulp and biting into a pastry. ‘I packed quite quickly. I know I brought my swimsuit. Maybe a few swimsuits. Oh, look, there’s Maggie. Maggie! Over here!’ She waves frantically before adding in a loud voice, ‘What the hell is wrong with her?’

Maggie is trudging towards us, head down, pulling a wheelie suitcase that’s the size of Rachel’s and mine put together. Normally so chic and well groomed, she looks as if she got dressed in the dark: baggy leggings, pink trainers and a very unflattering green sweatshirt. Her short brown hair is flat and messy, and she’s not wearing make-up. This wouldn’t be too odd with anyone else, but Maggie is a person who wears eyeliner to the gym. Maggie without mascara? Are these the end times?

‘Hi,’ she says, sitting down heavily.

‘How. . .