The Stepmothers’ Support Group. Sam Baker
sighed. ‘Is it worth me even looking at the other?’
‘Probably not,’ Nancy said, as she gave Eve the top line on the alternate case study. She was right. Although the woman had set up a business, she was selling scented candles from her Notting Hill living room, there was nowhere near enough human interest to garner readers’ sympathy. Also, she was blonde.
‘We’ll go for Melanie,’ Eve said, forwarding the photo to her editor, having added the relevant details. ‘I know Miriam usually demands a choice, but there’s no time to mess around. I’ll square it with her.’
‘Tell me again why there’s only one option?’
‘Because the other is blonde and we’ve got three of those already. Plus, her marriage hasn’t fallen apart and she didn’t launch one of the most successful start-ups of the year from the ashes of her relationship.’
‘And why do we have three London-based case studies?’
‘Because we’re paying David a thousand quid to do the shoot and she has to be at the studio in under two hours.’
Miriam wasn’t thrilled. But Eve also knew her boss could spot the difference between a rock and a hard place, as surely as she knew when she was wedged between them.
With her editor squared, Eve headed down the office to the picture desk. Thank God Melanie Cheung was size 10. That way, they’d be able to scrounge some samples from the fashion department, before they were returned to the designers.
One of the designers, Caitlin, was regaling the picture editor with a weekly update of the dating woes of a thirtysomething singleton.
‘You could hardly move for groovy dads,’ Caitlin was saying. ‘You know, sexy, slouchy thirtyish, maybe fortysomething, cute little kids in matching jeans and kiddie Converse. All carrying eco-shoppers stuffed with locally grown asparagus. Although, I mean, how local can it be if you buy it in Queens Park?’
‘So what’s your problem?’ Jo, the picture editor, asked. ‘I thought hunting down a groovy dad was your preferred weekend pastime.’
‘Me and the rest of the single female population of north London,’ Caitlin sighed. ‘Anyway, the problem with the Queens Park farmers’ market crowd is they usually come with a groovy mum attached!’
The art department rang with laughter. ‘You don’t live anywhere near Queens Park,’ Jo said. ‘What were you doing there anyway?’
‘Hunting. I had a tip-off,’ Caitlin said, lowering her tone and pushing subtly highlighted hair out of her blue eyes. ‘Anyway, I have a plan.’
Jo waited.
‘Even groovy mums and dads split up,’ Caitlin said. ‘So somewhere in there has to be a groovy separated every-other-weekend dad. That means changing my MO. From next weekend, I’m going to take my sister’s kids as bait and disguise myself as a groovy estranged mum. That gives me five days to train my nieces to answer to Phoebe and Scarlett. If you see me hanging by the organic cheese stall with two adorable little girls, do me a favour—don’t blow my cover.’
Jo grinned. Looking up from her screen, she spotted Eve. ‘Got one?’
‘Yup,’ said Eve. ‘And she’s perfect. She’s sample size and can be there by two.’ She gave a bow to accept the applause that wasn’t forthcoming.
‘What d’you think of Caitlin’s idea?’ Jo asked. ‘I mean, you’re the expert. Does it sound like a plan?’
‘Sorry, groovy dads, not my specialist subject.’
Jo and Caitlin snorted in unison. ‘Hello!’ said Caitlin. ‘Earth to Eve Owen. Ian Newsome is the patron saint of them all. Added to which, he’s famous. Famous and a widower, which makes him the Holy Grail too. All the sympathy, none of the nightmare ex-wife. Come off it. All you need now is the rock and you’re home dry.’
Caitlin paused, waiting for Eve to reply.
When Eve didn’t, Caitlin tilted her head to one side, a look of expectation lighting her face. ‘You haven’t split up, have you?’ Far from sounding sympathetic, her voice revealed thinly veiled excitement. Eve realized her colleague was a split-second away from asking if she was ready to on-gift Ian’s phone number.
‘In your dreams,’ Eve said.
Was Ian a groovy dad? It had honestly never occurred to her.
Maybe he was.
In fact, Ian and Caroline Newsome had been the full groovy mum and dad package.
‘Come on Eve,’ Caitlin’s words echoed up the office in Eve’s wake. ‘Tell us how you pulled it off.’
Eve shrugged and kept walking.
She shrugged because, in all honesty, she didn’t know how someone like her—just pretty-enough, just brightenough and just successful-enough—had bagged a catch like Ian Newsome. And having met his children, she didn’t know how on earth she was going to keep him, either.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long.’ Ian rolled over and planted a lingering kiss on her forehead. ‘I couldn’t get any decent overnight cover. Also, to be honest, their suspicions have been on high alert since they met you. Especially Hannah’s. They’re not stupid, after all.’
Eve wriggled up the mattress, so his lips trailed down her face until their lips met. His blue eyes were open, staring into hers as he began to do previously unimaginable things with his fingers. They didn’t say anything else for a long time.
‘I know it’s not ideal and I promise it won’t be for ever. Now they’ve met you, that’s the first hurdle over with. We just need to take it slowly, give them a chance to get used to the idea of there being someone else in our lives,’ he paused. ‘Someone important.’
Same subject, different setting.
They had dragged themselves out of bed and were now camped on Eve’s living-room floor sharing an impromptu picnic.
Joy surged through her. She felt irrationally, stupidly happy. As if she were fifteen again. Not that she’d ever felt like this when she was fifteen.
Smiling, Eve reached over the tea towel that doubled as a tablecloth, laden with pitta bread, hummus, carrot sticks and tubs of salads, to squeeze his hand. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘The kids come first. You don’t need to explain.’
‘I do, though,’ he said. But his smile was grateful as he leant forward to kiss her again. As he did, the front of his shirt fell open, and Eve couldn’t help but stare at the trail of fair hair that led down his lean body into the waistband of his jeans.
When they were together, she felt sick with longing.
She loved him so much she felt physically ill with wanting. And when they were apart too, most of the time. It was just that, sometimes, at night or on a Sunday, when Ian had spent the weekend with the kids, and she’d exhausted Sky Plus and was on her fifth DVD of the day, she couldn’t help wondering if they really stood a chance.
There was no way he would have allowed her within a mile of his children if he wasn’t deadly serious. But this wasn’t a regular, every other weekend stepmum arrangement. There would be no collecting the children on Saturday morning, dropping them back on Sunday evening, and having the following weekend to recover. This was full-time, 24/7.
She didn’t know if she could handle that. More importantly, she didn’t know if the children would let her try. But she did know she wanted to.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc shook in her hand as she refilled his glass and then her own. When she looked up Ian was staring at her. ‘You all right?’ he asked.