Mum’s the Word
Whoever said life began at 40 was dead right…A riotous romantic comedy about never-ending motherhood, second chances and growing old disgracefully.What do you do when:Mr Could Do Worse dumps you on the very night you think he's going to propose?Your twenty-something son turns up on your doorstep, with a broken heart and dirty washing in tow?You find out you're going to be a granny – at 45?Your son's maybe ex-girlfriend's father starts making wickedly naughty suggestions?Your ex's new bit of stuff wants to become your new best friend?Your 70-year-old father is dating someone young enough to be your sister?You make the same mistakes you made in your twenties two whole decades later?You can't get the one person you want out of your head?You grab the vodka and wonder if you're too old for all this crap…
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KATE LAWSON
Mum’s the Word
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
A Paperback Original 2008
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
Extract from Kate Lawson’s new novel © Kate Lawson 2008.
This is taken from uncorrected material and does not necessarily reflect the final book.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847560520
Ebook edition © June 2008 ISBN: 9780007284092 Version: 2018-05-29
To Phil, and my family and friends – you know who you are. Oh and my sister Angela, who keeps complaining that she never has anything dedicated to her. With love, K x
With special thanks to Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor, Max and the team at HC and Phil, who had no idea when we got together what sharing life with a writer would be like. He has now …
Contents
‘Candles, corkscrew, wine …’ Susie’s gaze moved slowly across the table, which was standing in the bay window of the sitting room, overlooking the garden. It was early summer and still warm, the long day just beginning to soften into evening. A breeze, gently strumming the leaves on next door’s laburnum, brought the heat down to a gentle purr.
Through the open windows, a string of fairy lights strung between the branches of the trees, bright as glow worms, twinkled and shimmered, picking out the shrubs and pots on the terrace, while the honeysuckle and glittering dark green climbers rambled nonchalantly up over the wicker trellis, perfuming the air – the whole thing set off by the golden glow of the sun sinking in the west.
‘Serving spoons, salt and pepper.’ Susie glanced up at the clock; another ten minutes and Robert ought to be arriving, always assuming he wasn’t late. Time, as Robert had once pointed out, wasn’t really his strong suit. Although actually it wasn’t time that was Robert’s problem, it was punctuality that gave him the slip. He seemed to think people had nothing better to do than wait for him, which was why Susie had cooked a casserole – although her instincts told her that tonight he would be on time. Tonight was special. Memorable. Important.
She smiled and tweaked the curtains straight. The sitting room looked wonderful, like something out of the Sunday supplements. Susie Reed entertains at home in her stylish Norfolk country cottage.
There was a vase of pink peonies in the centre of the table and acres of lighted candles arranged on various shelves and side tables close by, reflecting and glittering in the only two crystal glasses to have survived marriage, children, divorce and now singledom in the cottage on the edge of Sheldon Common. There were French-blue cotton napkins, casually folded and dropped onto the side plates – Susie didn’t want to look as if she was trying too hard; spotless matching cutlery – Robert had a whole thing about smears and the odd bit of broccoli welded on by the dishwasher; alongside a little dish of pitted olives and some bread-sticks.
In the oven the main course – chicken breasts, tiny button mushrooms, roast garlic, spring onions, ginger, cashew nuts and strips of red pepper – was doing interesting things in a clear stock.
While Susie patted and fluffed and tweaked, Milo, her mongrel, watched her from the rag rug in front of the hearth, wondering about chicken division vis-à-vis faithful hounds and long-standing lovers.
