Peterson Monday to Friday Man

The engaging, funny and heartwarming bestseller you've not discovered yet!
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-83501-199-7
Verlag: Bedford Square Publishers
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

What do you do if you're 34 and recovering from being jilted two weeks before your wedding day? While friends are marrying, having children and moving to the depths of the countryside, Gilly Brown finds herself alone in London with just her little dog Ruskin for company. It's time to move on, so on a friend's advice she looks for a lodger, a Monday to Friday one, and finds handsome television producer Jack Baker. Gilly falls for Jack's charm and is transported into an exciting social whirlwind of parties, dining out and glamour. When Jack is introduced to Gilly's family and friends, it's only the attractive and eccentric Guy, the newest recruit in the dog walking group, who isn't quite so convinced about Jack's intentions. As Guy watches them grow closer, his suspicions of Jack and his feelings for Gilly deepen. Is Jack so perfect after all... and what exactly does he get up to at the weekends?

Growing up, Alice was always known to family and friends as, 'Alice, the tennis player'. Aged 18, she was on the verge of signing a tennis scholarship to America, but fate had other ideas. She began to experience pain in her right hand, which then developed into rheumatoid arthritis - an autoimmune condition which has been life-changing in every way. Alice's writing career began in her early 20s, encouraged by a friend who believed she might find it therapeutic to process the loss of her tennis and old life. Alice's books are infused with her experience of adversity and grief, and the love, support and friendship she has received. This all finds its way on to the page, along with a lovely dose of humour. Alongside Alice's writing, she is now a fully qualified psychotherapist. This was something she always wanted to do as she never forgot her first counsellor, who helped her to rebuild her life after her diagnosis. Finally, Alice loves dog walking, a glass of white wine and winning a game of cards. At heart, she will always be competitive. 'Alice the tennis player' is still in her, seen in her courageous fighting spirit.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Peterson, Alice

Leseproben

2

‘This is Dorset FM playing you your favourite hot summer tunes,’ the smooth-voiced radio presenter says, ‘and here’s another great track from a singer who needs no introduction.’ Next I am belting out, ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’ by Lionel Richie as I drive into the open countryside.

Ruskin, my dog, barks in protest on the back seat, before sticking his nose out of the window again, enjoying the wind against his face.

‘What’s wrong, Rusk?’ I call, glancing over my shoulder towards him. ‘I have the voice of an angel!’

He barks again, clearly saying I haven’t and that he’s not too keen on my musical taste either. He’s always been more of a Bach and Mozart man.

I pull over into the side of the road to let a tractor crawl past.

I think I needed to bump into Ed last weekend. I really do.

‘Nearly there, sweetheart,’ I promise Ruskin.

Following a friendly exchange between the tractor driver thanking me for waiting, and me thanking him for thanking me, I drive on.

I’m not going to dwell on it, I tell myself.

Ed looked handsome. Slim and tanned. I’d saved up for months to buy him that watch. I grip the steering wheel. ‘Look, Ruskin, isn’t it stunning? Look at the sheep and all this green space and blue sky! We are going to love it here!’

I’m convinced Ruskin and I should move out of London and make a new start in the country. I will miss London; I have so many happy memories. Dancing on Friday nights with my friends. Staying up until ?ve in the morning and then enjoying lazy breakfasts as the sun rose. On Saturday nights Ed and I would usually go to a party or dinner and when we returned home, we’d carry on drinking cocktails and stick some music on and be silly. I loved those evenings. The museums are some of the best in the world… though it is true to say I don’t make the most of them. Spital?elds and Camden markets on a Sunday. Ed introduced me to opera. I was never sure I was going to like it, but I found myself falling in love with my evenings at Covent Garden. It’s where he proposed.

It is hard to imagine living somewhere else… except recently… well, recently things have changed. For me London’s lost its shine. Maybe that’s because I’m single and many of my married friends have moved away. Only this morning did I receive yet another change-of-address card from an old school friend of mine, and on this card was a black-and-white illustration of a family waving goodbye as they ascended the sky in a hot air balloon, with the caption above, THE DIGBYS ARE TAKING OFF!

I drive past a thatched cottage, the front door open, letting in the sun. Now where in London would you be able to do this? Certainly not in Hammersmith, where I zigzag the pavements, avoiding one dodgy-looking person after another.

Late at night all I hear now are drunken voices outside my bedroom window and I wake the following morning to ?nd shards of glass on the road. My car was broken into last week. Admittedly I was stupid enough to have left my gym kit on the back seat. The bastards took all of my CDs except for The Best of Girls Aloud.

I arrive in a sleepy market-town square and park right outside Hunters Estate Agents. As I unbuckle Ruskin from his seatbelt, I spot my A-Z squashed under the passenger seat, keeping company with an empty plastic water bottle, a heap of crumpled parking tickets and… what the hell’s that? It’s some old tangerine peel. I’ll do a major tidy-up later.

Examining the parking sign, I discover with delight that I don’t have to pay. In London I can barely utter my name without being charged, so that’s another good reason to leave.

I open the door and walk into the middle of the room, Ruskin pulling me along at a pace towards a man sitting behind his desk.

‘Gilly?’ He stands up to shake my hand. ‘Gilly with a G?’ he adds cautiously with a wry smile.

I smile back, amazed by his memory. Dad used to say that I’d tell everyone I was different because my name was spelt with a ‘G’ and not a ‘J’. I think the last time I met Richard was in Dad’s kitchen. I must have been about ten; Richard would have been in his late teens. He had longish dark hair, was loud and con?dent. I remember thinking his cowboy boots were trendy. He’d come over for tea with his father.

I look at him now, guessing he must be in his midforties. I thought he’d be taller, but then everyone is big when you are still growing up. He’s solid in build with a crushing handshake and… oh my God… such terrible dress sense now! Why is he wearing a glaring yellow tropical shirt with pineapples on it? He must be going through a midlife crisis.

‘Good to see you again,’ Richard says, ‘it’s been a long time. How’s your dad?’ Richard is my father’s godson, and it was Dad who had suggested I see him if I really was keen on moving to the country. Richard’s father, Michael, and my dad met during their National Service and have kept in touch ever since. I remember Michael and my father reminiscing about getting up early in the morning to polish the toecaps of their boots until they shone like the sun, and constantly being shouted at by the sergeant. I had enjoyed listening to their stories.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he says, surveying me in my denim miniskirt, shades and pink Birkenstocks. I take off my sunglasses. Behind Richard’s desk, mounted on the wall, is a large black-and-white framed photograph of an aerial view of Dorset. ‘Cute dog,’ he comments.

‘Thanks.’ I glow with pride. Ruskin is my rescue dog, ?ve years old and a terrier of some kind with a tail like a palm tree, thick sturdy legs and a handsome head too large for his body. Children laugh when they see him but always want to stroke him. To my mind, he’s the most loyal man in my life and I won’t hear a word said against him.

After brie?y exchanging news about each other’s dads, Richard gets down to business. ‘So you’re looking to buy in this area?’

‘That’s right. I want an adventure,’ I say boldly. There’s no reason why I can’t take off like the Digbys, I think to myself.

‘I can’t remember… do you have family here?’

‘Yes, yes. My Aunt Pearl used to live in…’ I narrow my eyes, trying to remember. ‘Tolpuddle. That’s it. Tolpuddle.’ I remember, as a child, being sent off to Aunt Pearl’s during the summer holidays with my twin, Nick. We enjoyed it. She’d take us to lots of different beaches, and Nick and I climbed rocks and played ducks and drakes in the sea.

Richard crosses his arms. He has a strong square face, curly dark-brown hair and thick eyebrows.

‘Anyway, I drove through some lovely villages this morning,’ I decide not to tell him that some of these villages seemed half-dead, ‘and saw a cottage for sale in… Poddlehampton, or was it Puddletown… Puddlesomething anyway.’

‘Piddlehinton.’ He’s trying not to smile. ‘Would you like a coffee or tea?’

‘Oh. A cappuccino please.’

‘You’re not at Foxtons.’

I blush. ‘Instant’s great, thanks.’

He heaves himself out of his chair, walks up a couple of steps, and then he’s out of sight.

I look around the office restlessly before reaching down to stroke Ruskin, who’s lying under my chair.

I gaze out of the window, telling myself not to think about bumping into Ed and his new wife-to-be any more. When I’d stared into his face all I could think was I used to wake up to that face each morning. I know his every line, the shape of his mouth, the story behind his faded scar on the left-hand side of his forehead. I look down at my hands. She wouldn’t wear chipped nail varnish, or bite her nails. I wonder if Ed has told her the story behind his scar?

I am jolted from my thoughts by noise and cursing coming from the kitchen, and Richard asking me if I want milk and sugar. It sounds as if he’s having a fight with the mugs and the kettle is about to explode. As I watch a doddery man shuffle past outside, pushing a trolley on wheels, a ripple of panic sets in. What am I going to do here? Would I find a job easily? I’d miss my father if I left London. He lives in our old rundown family home by Regent’s Park. I don’t think he wants me to move, but you can never quite tell with Dad. I know Anna doesn’t want me to go. Like me she’s single, and she and I are like sisters. I’d miss my twin, Nick, too. I’d especially miss his children. Still, they could all come and stay, couldn’t they, in my idyllic country cottage with pale-pink climbing roses and a pretty front gate. I can see the girls now, running barefoot around my lawn, laughing and playing under the sprinkler. In the evenings we’d have fun picking raspberries from my garden.

I stroke Ruskin, thinking how much I’d also miss my Ravenscourt Park dog-walking friends. We’ve become an institution that meets every morning at eight o’clock, under the oak tree, come rain or...