Lessons in Love
A warm romantic comedy about teaching old dogs new tricks…Two women: one small difference between them - The letter Y,.Firstly there's Jane Mills - she's suffering from a broken heart, no job and a house she can't afford. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Jayne Mills can afford anything she wants, but at what cost to herself?In her late 20s, Jane's up for a challenge. Fast approaching 50, Jayne's had more than enough of them. Meeting Jane after a mail mix-up, gives her the chance to assess her choices, and the glorious opportunity to remake the one that she most regrets. It seems that even late along the road, you are never too old to learn new tricks…For anyone who's ever wondered what became of the one who got away or dreamed of escaping on a grown-up gap year, this is a wonderfully warm read about finding answers to life's troubles in the unlikeliest of places.A sparkling romantic comedy about lost chances found and walking in someone else's shoes, perfect for fans of Jane Green and Tess Stimson.
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KATE LAWSON
Lessons in Love
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Kate Lawson 2008
Kate Lawson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847560926
Ebook Edition © 2008 ISBN: 9780007328963
Version: 2018-06-12
To the men in my life—Phil, Ben, James, Joseph, Sam and Oliver, who between them continue to give me all the lessons in love a girl could ever need.
Contents
‘Dear Ms J. Mills, we are delighted to inform you…’ Jane Mills read the letter again. Apparently she had won an all-expenses-paid trip-of-a-lifetime for two to a destination of her choice from one of the following…
Or at least she would have done if the letter had been delivered to the right Ms J. Mills at the correct address. It had arrived, along with a new cheque book and card, three store-card bills—the other J. Mills appeared to have a penchant for shoes and handbags, so they did also have that in common—and a dental appointment for two fifteen, Thursday week.
Jane hadn’t meant to open them. The post had arrived first thing Saturday morning, while Milo and Boris, her cats, had been mugging her with a mixture of impatience, persistence and some very overdone fawning, and she had been caught in the no man’s land between a can of Felix, the kettle and tea bag dunking, and most certainly not within striking distance of her glasses. So, while the kettle was boiling she’d opened the letters with a paper knife. Someone else’s letters. All of them.
The paper knife, with its plump little kissy Cupid for a handle, and a blade meant to represent his bow and arrow, had been a Christmas present from Steve and still had a phoney evidence tag tied to it with white string. It read:
Steve Burney, in the library with the dagger.
Merry Christmas, Sweetie.
I will love you for ever. S. xxx
Which he had to have given to her at around the same time he had been sleeping with Lucy Stroud and Carol what’s-her-face from Requisitions, and very possibly Anna, although nobody was quite sure if that was just Steve’s wishful thinking, and as Anna had now moved to Shrewsbury they might never find out. It had occurred to Jane that he had probably bought the knives as a job lot and had the evidence tags photocopied to save time.
She glanced down at the paper knife on the kitchen table. Damned shame she hadn’t stabbed him in the library.
She had found out about Steve a couple of weeks ago, actually 11 days, 18 hours and 51 minutes ago, when Lucy had taken her to one side at work, and said, ‘Actually, Jane, there is something I think that you ought to know,’ in a way that Jane knew wasn’t about paperclip allocation. Apparently everyone already knew about Steve, from the man on the mop in Janitorial Services, right through to the heads of departments. Humiliating didn’t even come close.
Steve had probably been rolling around on the natural cream wool carpet in front of his bloody woodburner with one of them while Jane’s perfectly wrapped present sat there, all innocent and unaware, under Steve’s delightfully decked, colour-coordinated, non-shedding lodge-pole pine. The bastard.
Steven James Burney—Jane let the name roll around her mouth even though the sound of it made her feel sick. They had been together almost a year and in quiet moments she had got to the point of trying out her name with his: ‘Mrs Jane Burney, Mr and Mrs Burney Mills, Mr and Mrs Mills Burney. Mrs Jane Burney-Mills’—although she had drawn the line at actually practising her signature, at least in public where anyone might see her. There was still a photo of them on a weekend break in Rome tucked under a magnet on the fridge door. Side by side at the Trevi Fountain. She couldn’t bring herself to take it down. Not yet.
