A Year of Being Single: The bestselling laugh-out-loud romantic comedy that everyone’s talking about
‘A fabulously entertaining story!’ –Rachel’s Random Reads (top 1,000 Amazon Reviewer)Three friends. One year. Absolutely no men…Imogen is supposed to be on the most romantic weekend of her life and instead she’s quickly realised that her current boyfriend definitely isn’t ‘The One’ and actually One Big Mistake.Frankie is fed up. Fed up of her good-for-nothing husband and her four, unappreciative children. Well, they hardly notice her anyway, maybe it’s time to shake it up a little…Grace thought she had the perfect life. Gorgeous little boy and perfect, hardworking husband. Or rather, she did, until she realised her husband was shagging his ‘work’.These single ladies don’t need to put a ring on it…right?Perfect for fans of Jane Costello, Helen Fielding and Fiona Gibson, don’t miss this brilliant debut bestseller from Fiona Collins!What readers are saying about A Year of Being Single:‘It’s harder than it seems to stay single for a year…a fabulously entertaining story!’ – Rachel’s Random Reads (top 1000 Amazon Reviewer)‘A laugh-out-loud hilarious book with a deft turn of phrase and a very real grasp of what it’s like to be a woman…a real cut above your usual chick lit!.’ – Sam (top 1000 Amazon Reviewer)‘Not at all a predictable ending…something a little out of the ordinary.’ – Sal’s World of Books‘Fiona’s writing style is wonderful and packed with warmth and humour.’ – Bookaholic Holly‘I loved this book and read it in one night – I couldn't put it down!’ – Amazon Reviewer‘A light-hearted, fun read, perfect for a rainy day, or lying on a beach.’ – Ceri (Amazon Reviewer)‘Absolutely wonderful…A joy to read. I would recommend this book wholeheartedly.’ – Michelle (NetGalley Reviewer)A thoroughly enjoyable, light-hearted and fun read.’ – A Spoonful of Happy Endings
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Best friends Imogen, Frankie and Grace decide to test whether the grass really is greener on the single side of the fence…
Imogen is supposed to be on the most romantic weekend of her life and instead she’s quickly realised that her current boyfriend definitely isn’t ‘The One’ and is actually One Big Mistake.
Frankie is fed up. Fed up of her good-for-nothing husband and her four, unappreciative children. Well, they hardly notice her anyway, maybe it’s time to shake it up a little…
Grace thought she had the perfect life. Gorgeous little boy and perfect, hardworking husband. Or rather, she did, until she realised her husband was shagging his ‘work’.
It’s time for a change – and to ditch the men who are dragging them down! It’s time for a year of being single. Swearing off men, these single ladies don’t need to put a ring on it…right?
Perfect for fans of Jane Costello, Helen Fielding and Fiona Gibson, A Year of Being Single is the laugh-out-loud debut that everyone’s talking about!
A Year of Being Single
Fiona Collins
FIONA COLLINS
lives in the Essex countryside with her husband and three children, but also finds time for a loving relationship with a Kindle. She likes to write feisty, funny novels about slightly (ahem) more mature heroines. Fiona studied Film & Literature at Warwick University and has had many former careers including TV presenting in Hong Kong; talking about roadworks on the M25 on the radio; and being a film and television extra. She has kissed Gerard Butler and once had her hand delightfully close to George Clooney’s bum. When not writing, Fiona enjoys watching old movies and embarrassing her children. You can follow Fiona on Twitter: @FionaJaneBooks
Thanks go to my brilliant editor, Charlotte.
To Elizabeth Davies, for reading my first ever manuscript and helping me in so many ways.
To Mary Torjussen – I couldn’t have done it without you. See you at The Ivy!
And to Phil and Emma Cunningham for inviting me to Ascot and being wonderful hosts.
Contents
They had a charter. An unofficial one. It wasn’t written on parchment scroll in swirly feather quill or drawn up on foolscap by a portly, provincial solicitor or even scrawled in biro on the back of a magazine. It wasn’t written down anywhere. But it was a charter, nonetheless, and it went something like this:
They were independent women – self-sufficient, autonomous. They could change their own light bulbs and the batteries in their smoke alarms, refill their own windscreen wash bottles in their cars, put out their own bins, carry their own suitcases, take their own cars through the carwash and unscrew the lids on their own jars. If they didn’t know how to do something they would ask each other, as one of them probably would. Or they would ask Google and work it out.
They would provide each other with emotional support and babysit each other’s children. If one needed another, they would come over.
They had freedom, they had power; they could please themselves and would make sure they did.
None of them had a man. None of them wanted a man. None of them needed a man.
And they would be single for one year to prove it.
If Imogen had screamed out loud, no one would have heard her. If she’d screamed, it would have been swallowed by the unconcerned Paris traffic roaring below. If she’d screamed, nobody would have given a monkey’s. Least of all, the giant male ape inside her sumptuous hotel room.
She was standing on the tiny balcony of a massive hotel room, on the top floor of an enormous hotel. A room that she was paying for. The Ape’s contribution was zilch. He thought it enough to enjoy the room and the balcony and the whole posh Paris hotel experience as fully and as enthusiastically as possible. Especially the bar, the breakfast buffet, the three gorgeous restaurants and the extensive room-service menu. He’d enjoyed the whole trip. He’d larked about photo-bombing people at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, stuffed his face with madeleines at Blé Sucré – whilst attempting a French accent that made him sound like a crumb-spitting Pepé le Pew – and danced up the escalator to the Louvre with a silly grin on his face… Oh, he’d had a great time.
He was enjoying himself at this very moment. As Imogen grabbed the balcony’s railing and flung her head up to the heavens and the grey Paris sky – to ask, Why? Why another bloody loser? – he was stuffed into a Chesterfield armchair and tucking into another sodding triple-deck club sandwich, irritatingly picking up each triangular section by the cocktail stick that held it together, and nibbling round the stick like an appreciative beaver. It was his fifth that weekend.
