Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read
First comes marriage. Then comes divorce. Then it’s every woman for herself …When Charlie’s husband Matt tells her that he wants a divorce she has to start from scratch. Suddenly single, broke and approaching 40 she is forced to return to her childhood home in the Yorkshire moors.Living with her father and eccentric siblings could be considered a challenge but soon Charlie finds her new life somewhat refreshing. Now that she’s single she’s got no need to dye her roots nor to be the perfect wife and she can return to her first love- painting.But just as she begins to feel settled, handsome, bad-tempered actor Mace North moves in down the road and starts mixing things up for Charlie in more ways than one …Every Woman for Herself is a hilarious account of divorce and dating from Sunday Times besteller Trisha Ashley. Perfect for fans of Katie Fforde and Carole Matthews,the country setting and rom-com storyline make this the perfect summer read.Praise for Trisha Ashley:‘One of the best writers around!’ Katie Fforde‘Full of down-to-earth humour.’ Sophie Kinsella‘A warm-hearted and comforting read. Trisha at her best’ Carole Matthews‘An absolute delight. Every Woman for Herself is a laugh-out-loud read that leaves you feeling pleased with the world’ Take a Break
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TRISHA ASHLEY
Every Woman For Herself
For my father, Alfred Wilson Long, with love.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Alien Husbandry: 2001
Chapter 5: The Prodigal Daughter
Chapter 6: Pesto in the Kitchen
Chapter 8: Dangerous to Melons
Chapter 24: Strange New Powers
I’m delighted that Avon are reprinting Every Woman for Herself, because I have to admit it’s still my favourite literary child – and it’s obviously a favourite with readers, too, since not long ago they voted it one of the top three best romantic novels of the last fifty years, a great honour.
I haven’t rewritten it, merely tweaked a couple of errors into shape, brushed its hair and made sure it had a clean handkerchief, so since it was first published by Piatkus in 2002, it’s obviously very much of its time. But then, think how relaxing it will be to visit a remote Yorkshire valley with no phone signal for miles and only a dodgy dial-up internet connection. The Brontë family managed quite well without them and I hope you will too.
Happy reading, everyone!
Trisha Ashley
Got up at the crack of dawn to kill the Fatted Breakfast before driving Matt to the airport, only to discover that aliens had stolen my husband during the night and substituted something incomprehensibly vile in his place.
I expect their replicator was having a bad day. I distinctly remembered marrying a gentle, long-haired, poetry-spouting Jason King lookalike with a social conscience, but what was facing me over the breakfast table was a truculent middle-aged businessman, paunchy, greying, and flaunting a Frank Zappa moustache seemingly edged with egg yolk: but I knew better. The alien snot was the clincher.
It was not a pretty sight, but fascinating for all that.
I went to peer into the kitchen mirror to see if I’d changed as well: but no, I still looked like a miniature Morticia Addams.
‘Charlie,’ the Matt creature said impatiently, ‘did you hear what I said? About wanting a divorce?’
I certainly had; what did he think had ripped the veils of delusion from my eyes? But I was temporarily deprived of speech as almost a quarter of a century of married life flashed before my eyes in Hogarthian vignettes: Flake’s Progress.
The inner film came to a jerky halt. ‘Yes,’ I said finally, nodding. I understood.
Unfortunately my memory was not of the selective kind, a cheery sundial remembering only the happy hours, so my recollections were freely punctuated with loss. Lost mother, lost virginity, lost babies, lost husband, Lost in Space.
Charlie Rhymer, this was your life.
For some reason, Matt seemed disconcerted by my reaction. ‘We’ve grown apart since I’ve been taking these foreign contracts, and I’ve come to realise that this will be best for both of us. In fact, we can divorce right away, since we’ve been separated for more than two years.’
‘How can we be separated when you’re here?’ I asked, trying to get my head around this concept.
‘But I’m not really here, am I?’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m in Saudi.’
‘But you’re back for quite long holidays between contracts – and you said it would be better if I stayed here.’
‘You would have hated it – you know you don’t even like leaving the house, let alone the country.’
‘But that’s just York – it’s got the wrong sort of outside. I’m fine at home.’
‘This is your home.’
‘I meant Upvale, and Blackdog Moors.’
‘You seemed eager enough to run away from it with me.’
‘That was love, and unplanned pregnancy, and Father.’
Matt said earnestly, ‘Charlie, it isn’t that I’m not still fond of you …’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘In fact, thank you for having me.’
He ignored that; I’m not sure he even heard it, like most of the things I say.
‘It’s just that I’m not getting anything out of this marriage,’ he continued.
‘You make me sound like a bank. What were you expecting to get out? More than you put in?’
‘At least there are no children to complicate things,’ he said, which was a very low blow. He was starting to make me feel quite sick.
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, Charlie, but we really can’t go on. I’ve been offered a long contract in Japan, and I can’t afford to continue maintaining two households.’
‘But the house … the mortgage?’ I said, my brain starting to limp onwards a bit, now the first shockwave had broken over my head. ‘What will happen?’
‘The divorce will go through quickly if we’re both in agreement – my solicitor will send you things to sign. Then I’ll pay you maintenance every month, so you won’t have anything to worry about. The solicitor will get in touch with you and explain everything.’
