The Hen Night Prophecies: Hard To Get

by Jessica Fox

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Fate, hope and charity influence Charlotte's romantic destiny as the third prophecy in the addictive HEN NIGHT PROPHECIES series is revealed: ' Love will come through hope alone.' Communications officer Charlotte loves her job at the Arts Council - it's just a shame she has to share the office with her ex-husband, who also happens to be dating her boss. If there's one thing that Charlotte doesn't possess in her current romantic predicament, it's hope. So when she finds herself in the beautiful Yorkshire moors visiting the Council's current funded projects, including the aptly-named Hope Foundation, she can't resist a wry smile. But it's not long before Charlotte has three potential suitors to choose from: her repentant ex Richard, devoted single-parent Paul, and the notoriously dashing but ever-so-moody Heath. Perhaps Charlotte has reason to hope after all...

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 292

Sample

Charlotte Sinclair was pressed for time and much as it pained her to forgo her usual double espresso she knew being late for work would annoy her even more. Charlotte was never late anywhere and she had absolutely no intention of changing the habit of a lifetime. Even Superman might have struggled to make it from Lambs Conduit Street and through the gaggle of commuters to Farringdon, so when Charlotte made it to the Arts Council’s offices with time to spare, it was nothing short of miraculous.

‘You look stressed,’ commented Richard, perching his neat Paul Smith-clad backside on the edge of Charlotte’s desk and grinning at her.

Charlotte glowered back at him. She wasn’t a morning person, never had been and never would be. Richard really ought to have worked that much out by now.

He was her ex-husband, after all.

‘Care to share?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you,’ Charlotte said coolly, booting up her ancient PC and taking off her jacket. ‘I’m far too busy to chat.’

Refusing to meet his eyes she fixed her gaze on her computer screen. Charlotte drummed her fingers on the desk impatiently. She was rushed off her feet and every second counted. There were a million and one emails lurking in her in-box – everything from a troupe of juggling lesbians to a fire-eating opera singer – and the last thing she had time to do was exchange pleasantries with her ex.

‘Come on, Lottie, don’t be like that.’ Richard crinkled liquid-brown eyes at her in a winning smile. This might work on everyone else but it had no effect on Charlotte. She’d be more won over by the sight of Alan Sugar naked than by Richard on a charm offensive.

‘I’m not being like anything,’ she said patiently. Bloody computer! A snail with a limp would’ve moved faster. She made a mental note to go and nag her line manager about getting the system upgraded. And if he continued to ignore her, she’d have to dig out her tap shoes from 1987, figure out a routine and approve her own Arts Council funding to pay for it!

‘Relax!’ Richard’s strong fingers closed over her own frantically drumming ones. ‘The computer will start in a minute. Just give it time.’

‘I don’t have time. Believe it or not some of us actually have work to do.’ Charlotte yanked her fingers away, resisting the urge to squirt them with a big dollop of her antibacterial spray. Richard’s whole touchy-feely ‘we’re good mates’ routine drove her insane. After eighteen months, you’d think he would’ve realised she found it too difficult to be his friend.

‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘I take it you’ve missed out on your double espresso?’

Charlotte frowned. Was there anything more annoying than a smart-arse, except maybe a smart-arse who knew you inside out? And how typical of Richard to assume it was lack of caffeine making her tetchy rather than the fact that he got on her nerves more than a dentist’s drill. Shouldn’t he be locked away in Accounting and Auditing, obsessing over a calculator?

‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘Or rather, I would be if I was allowed to get on with my work. Some of us have to, you know. We’re not all sleeping with the boss.’

‘That was below the belt, Lottie.’ Richard’s eyes grew dark with hurt but Charlotte didn’t care. His poor-old-me routine didn’t wash with her.

Not these days, anyway.

‘Please don’t call me Lottie. You know I hate it.’

‘I’m sorry. I give up. I was only trying to be civil.’ Raising both hands in surrender he slipped off her desk. ‘But, seriously, you really need to stop frowning, Lot – err, I mean Charlotte. It’s going to give you lines.’

‘Being over forty, you’re the expert so I’ll take your word for it,’ Charlotte replied calmly. Inside, though, she was seething. If she wanted to sit at her desk and scowl until the Grand Canyon appeared between her eyes, then it was up to her and nothing to do with anyone else, especially not Richard Sinclair.

‘Anyway,’ she continued smoothly as her computer finally woke up and allowed her into her emails, ‘there’s always Botox to sort out wrinkles. But as far as I know they haven’t yet discovered a cure for hair loss.’

Richard’s hands instantly flew to his temples where, despite his thick head of curls, he was starting to look a little thin. Yes! Direct hit! Many times Charlotte had watched Richard checking his hairline in mirrors, glass doors and any shiny surface he came across. She still knew his weak spots (or should that be bald spots?) just as he knew hers. She was just toying with the idea of winding him up a bit more when Suzie, their pretty blonde boss and also Richard’s partner, joined them.

‘Do you think my hair’s thinning?’ Richard asked her, looking worried.

Suzie ruffled his curls affectionately and dropped a kiss on to his cheek. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re as gorgeous as ever.’

Richard swelled with pride as he basked in the warm sunshine of his boss’s admiration while Charlotte rolled her eyes. This billing and cooing was all very well for them but it was pretty distracting for everyone else.

‘Suzie, do you actually need me for anything? If not, I have plenty to do and I’d appreciate some quiet to get on with it.’

Two perfect pink circles appeared on Suzie’s peachy cheeks. As though suddenly aware that she was in the office and not the bedroom she slipped her arm from Richard’s shoulder. It is pathetic the way she can hardly bear to be apart from Richard, thought Charlotte. They were like Siamese twins joined at the tongue, just like her brother and his new wife Zoe.

‘I’m calling a meeting,’ Suzie said quickly. ‘My office in five, OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Charlotte coolly. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of a discussion with my colleague, so if you would . . .’

She locked eyes with Suzie, but Suzie looked away first. All this time on and still she can’t bear to look me in the eye, Charlotte thought. But it no longer gave her the sense of satisfaction that it once had – in fact, it just made her feel sad. And very, very weary.

‘No problem. Just be there please,’ Suzie reiterated, trying to regain her composure. Her cheeks still stained pink, she turned sharply on her heel leaving Charlotte and Richard alone.

‘Yes, boss!’ Richard called after her, raising his hand in a mock salute but, once Suzie’s slender frame had vanished back into her office, the smile faded from his lips and he shook his head despairingly.

‘Do you really have to be so hard on her? None of this is Suzie’s fault.’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Ahh, the guilt trip. You must have a season ticket.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ he pleaded. ‘Can’t we put the past behind us? We had our good times . . . You even used to laugh at my jokes.’

‘I was faking,’ she said, implying that her laughter wasn’t the only thing she’d had to fake in their relationship. But she had to admit that she missed Richard’s daft sense of humour.

‘Ouch,’ he said, smiling, but clearly hurt. ‘Seriously, though, we do have to work together. Can we be friends?’ He held out his hand, tanned and strong, the nails well shaped and beautifully manicured, each with perfect half-moons. Suddenly a memory flashed before her vision like the glittering scales of a fish flickering through sun-dappled water. That same hand was cupping her cheek and tracing the curve of her lips before straying lower to caress her breast . . .

Oh no! Stop right there! Charlotte ordered herself. You are not having these thoughts! No way!

‘Friends?’ she echoed incredulously.

‘Absolutely. We shouldn’t let a silly falling out get in the way of our friendship.’

Inside Charlotte was screaming and stabbing him to death with a Bic biro, but outwardly she remained cool and collected. She’d done more than her fair share of screaming and crying when she’d been married to him.

‘A silly falling out?’ she repeated slowly. ‘Is that really how you see it? Richard, we didn’t have a row over what to have for dinner! I was your wife and you left me. Worse than that, it only took you three days to find someone else! Friends are supposed to be loyal to one another!’

‘Lottie,’ Richard sighed heavily, ‘you’d finished with me, remember? You asked me to leave!’

‘I asked you to give me some space for a while!’ She bunched her hands into fists. She was not having a scene in the office. No way. Lowering her voice she hissed, ‘You wanted us to have a baby, Richard, it was a major step. It wasn’t like you’d asked me to go and pick up a pizza!’

‘And what was so wrong about that?’ he shot back. ‘Most women in their thirties would be over the moon to have a baby with their husband, but not you, Charlotte. Oh no, that was one commitment too far for you, wasn’t it? Were you worried about wrecking your amazing career or your figure? Or maybe –’ his voice dropped and suddenly his eyes were filled with a wistful expression – ‘you just didn’t love me enough?’

For a second she was speechless, struck dumb by the unfairness of this accusation. If they’d had a baby, she knew that the tiny person would have owned her heart and soul. No baby could ever have been so wanted. But what about Richard? Would he have loved them both enough to sacrifice the freedom that he so enjoyed? To swap his latest impractical sports car for a Family Wagon or to collect nappies rather than vintage wine?

A baby was for life, not just for wet weekends.

She’d had to be sure, had to make certain that they both wanted the same things. What if he got bored once the novelty wore off and the colic kicked in? Or became so absorbed in his work that he never had time for them? Or what, a nasty little voice had whispered, if you can’t cut it as a mother? What then?

She sighed. ‘There’s no point raking over this again; it’s ancient history. Let’s move on.’

‘Like you did, you mean?’ he said, eyes still doey.

‘That’s rather ironic,’ Charlotte replied calmly, quitting her mailbox and shrugging into her jacket. ‘It took you three days to go from wanting a child with one woman to shagging another. Has the Guinness Book of Records contacted you yet?’

‘What about you? I blinked, and suddenly you were filing for divorce,’ Richard shot back, his eyes bright with indignation. ‘You never even gave me a chance to explain!’

As she fastened her jacket Charlotte’s heart was doing a flamenco. She detested dirty laundry airing, loathed dredging up these horrible memories.

‘There was nothing for you to explain. It was all very clear,’ she reminded her ex-husband firmly. ‘You proved beyond all reasonable doubt that my instinct to think things through was the right one. So actually, Richard, I owe Suzie, don’t I? If it hadn’t been for her I could have made one huge mistake.’

Richard stared at her. ‘How can you be so indifferent? I really missed you when I moved out.’

For all of three days, thought Charlotte darkly. Then she sighed. He would never get it.

‘Of course you did,’ she said. ‘The fridge didn’t fill itself, dinners didn’t appear by magic and – unless I’m very much mistaken – man might be able to land on the moon but he hasn’t yet managed to give himself a blow job! Now unless you want to be in the bad books with your latest lover, I suggest you make a move to this meeting because we’re late.’

And scooping up her notebook and pen Charlotte stalked off leaving Richard staring open mouthed behind her.

‘How the hell did I ever marry someone so cold?’ he said finally, but she chose to ignore him. So he had the impression she didn’t care that he’d moved straight from her to Suzie without so much as brushing his teeth? And just like everyone else in the office he thought she was fine with the situation, did he? Well, good. She’d much rather they all believed she was a cold sarcastic old bag than that they knew about all the nights her pillow had been wetter than a British summer. No, it was infinitely preferable that everybody took her to be as tough as old boots because that way nobody would ever know the sad, pathetic truth.

Richard Sinclair had smashed Charlotte’s heart to smithereens.

While Suzie banged on about the latest government subsidies and funding targets Charlotte zoned out, doodling on her notepad to look busy. Dredging up the unpleasant memories with Richard was the emotional equivalent of ripping off a scab. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as over things as she’d believed.

How dare he try to blame me for the divorce? Charlotte thought furiously, her fingers gripping her pen so hard that her knuckles glowed through her pale freckled skin. That was a case of false memory syndrome if ever she’d heard it. Charlotte had loved Richard from the minute she first saw him to the second before he confessed his infidelity. The warm, tanned caramel skin, lean lithe body and those melting Maltesers eyes never failed to make her grow weak with molten lust. Richard had always been more than enough and she loved him totally and utterly, trusting him one hundred per cent to feel the same way.

What an idiot she’d been.

So much for forsaking all others. He’d only lasted three days before his dick had got the better of him. Three days to forget seven years of marriage, the endless dinners, ego massages and passionate sex. Three days to fall into the arms of Suzie.

How could he ever imagine she could get over that?

So when Richard had pleaded for a second chance, Charlotte hadn’t wavered for a nanosecond. As far as she was concerned he’d proven beyond any doubt that he wasn’t committed to her or the family he claimed he wanted so much. On the fourth day she’d filed for divorce, wanting to put it all behind her as soon as possible, and Richard had moved in with Suzie on the fifth.

‘Last item on the agenda,’ Suzie was saying, her firm tone dragging Charlotte back into the present. ‘The Yorkshire projects have finally been given the go-ahead from Head Office to move to stage-two funding – subject, of course, to approval.’

There was a brief ripple of applause from the people gathered in the office.

‘You don’t need me to remind you how vital it is that projects get stage-two clearance,’ Suzie continued. ‘Allocation of funding enables charities to continue the good work that they’ve begun. Richard and I will be visiting the projects in person. We’ll be working hard to prepare some detailed interim reports.’

I bet you will, thought Charlotte, jabbing her pen nib into her pad. A few days cosied up in some plush hotel would no doubt be written off to expenses somewhere along the line, too.

Suzie shuffled her paperwork together. ‘I have every confidence they’ll both be approved for funding. The Hope Foundation and YORC appear to have done some excellent work.’

The word ‘hope’ made Charlotte smile in spite of herself as a silly memory flitted through her mind.

Love will come to you through hope alone.

A few months ago her baby brother Steve (Some baby now! He was in his thirties and over six feet tall!) had been about to get married and, to her great surprise, Charlotte had been invited to his fiancée Zoe’s hen night. Although she liked Zoe, they weren’t really close, being as diverse in personality as they were in looks. Charlotte was tall and angular with red hair and a natural inclination to keep herself to herself. Zoe, on the other hand, was a small and slender blonde with the face and personality of an angel. She was also very gregarious and loved nothing more than gathering her nearest and dearest around her at every opportunity.

I suppose I’m one of her nearest and dearest now, Charlotte had thought as she RSVP’d to her Hen Night invitation. Past experience had taught her there was little point making excuses. Much as she would rather be indoors, happy to be miserable and antisocial in front of the telly, Zoe would only find another way to include her. Maybe they needed a spectre at the feast? And if so, who better for the job than bitter and twisted old Charlotte?

So on the evening of Zoe’s hen party she’d grabbed a couple of bottles of red and dragged herself over to Richmond. She’d been resigned to a night of giggling, L-plates and nail painting. She’d even expected a stripper or a gorilla-gram.

What she hadn’t expected was a visit from a psychic.

That little surprise had been the handiwork of Libby, Zoe’s scatty twenty-four-year-old sister. A ball of uncontained energy, Libby could scarcely sit still for ten seconds at a time before bombing around on her skateboard, zapping hapless aliens on her Xbox or jumping about with the Wii Fit. Just looking at her made Charlotte feel exhausted and more ancient than Methuselah. Had she ever been that young and impulsive, so confident that life was brimming with great opportunities just crying out to be grabbed with both hands? As the hens sipped their drinks and bubbles of excited conversation had risen and popped like champagne fizz, Charlotte had felt herself becoming more morose by the second. Of course she’d never been as full of beans as Libby or as open and as loving as Zoe. How could she have been? Life had kicked her in the teeth when she was only twelve and, as far as Charlotte could see, it had been downhill from then on in.

But as the hen night progressed she’d (mostly) kept her cynicism at bay, watching as Zoe opened her presents and chatted excitedly about the big day. She’d felt almost maternal listening to the younger girls’ conversation. They were all so hopeful that they’d find love and happiness, their lives stretching before them like fields of untrodden snow. Hers was all slushy and ruined, she’d thought bleakly, as would theirs be one day. But she had held her tongue, knowing that there was time enough for dizzy Fern, serious Priya and lively Libby to discover for themselves that Prince Charming invariably turned back into a toad once you’d kissed him. Her cynicism didn’t quite extend to Zoe and Steve, though, because she knew that her brother loved his fiancée with all his heart. Steve was one of the good guys but, and here was the rub, he was still a man and therefore programmed to be a complete disappointment to womankind.

That came with having a willy, in her experience.

When Libby announced that she’d booked a tarot reader for a bit of a laugh (no strippers for Zoe which was clearly a big let down as far as Fern and Priya were concerned), Charlotte was more than ready to scoff at the clichéd predictions of love, marriage and children that she knew would be trotted out more times than the donkeys on Blackpool Beach.

She’d show that phoney psychic a thing or two.

Thinking back to the darkness of Zoe’s conservatory on that warm June night Charlotte shivered in spite of herself. Although she’d been rather disappointed with how ordinary Angela, the psychic, had appeared – a curly grey perm and Marks and Spencer’s slacks weren’t quite in keeping with the hooped earrings and jewel-hued skirts she’d been expecting – the reading itself had been spookily accurate and many things had resonated . . .