The Idea of Him
From the New York Times bestselling author of THE MANNY comes a vibrant novel of love, life lessons and learning to trust yourselfAllie Crawford has the life she always dreamed of – she's number two at a high-profile PR firm; she has two kids she adores; and her husband, Wade, is handsome and heroic and everything she thought a man was supposed to be – running a successful news magazine and, best of all, he provides the stable yet exciting New York City life Allie believes she needs in order to feel secure and happy.But when Allie finds Wade locked in their laundry room with a stunning blonde in snakeskin heels, a scandal ensues that flips her life on its head. And when an old flame calls, a new guy gets a little too close for comfort, and the woman wants to befriend Allie, she starts to think her marriage is more of a facade than something real. Maybe she's fallen in love not with Wade – but with the idea of him.Captivating and seductive, told in the whip-smart voice of a woman who is working hard to keep her parenting and career on track, The Idea of Him is a novel of conspiracy, intrigue, and intense passion – and discovering your greatest strength through your deepest fears.
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014
Copyright © Holly Peterson 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Holly Peterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
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.
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Source ISBN: 9780007233052
Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007583881
Version: 2014-08-05
To my four parents in their starring roles as role models: Sally for teaching empathy, Pete for personifying drive, Joan for dispensing wisdom at every turn, and Michael for setting a high intellectual bar for all of us.
Table of Contents
9. No Choice but the Grindstone
20. Playing the Procrastinator
29. Please Don’t Let This Happen
The taxi driver took off down Seventh Avenue as if he’d just mainlined a pound of crystal meth. This guy was on a kamikaze mission, reckless even by New York standards where taxi drivers charge down the streets with no regard for their passengers’ lives.
“Slow down, sir, please!” I yelled through the opening in the glass partition as I contemplated ditching this driver at the next corner.
He slammed on his brakes. “Okay, lady! I’ll slow it down a little. Yeah.” But when the light turned green, he began weaving between cars and playing chicken to blow past the giant city buses. We brushed a bike messenger who retaliated with a fisted punch on the trunk. I again waffled about getting out, but it was that bustling time of early rush hour just before the taxi shift change, when I wouldn’t be able to get another, so I stayed put and latched my seat belt. Besides, my kids were waiting for me at home, and I was already half an hour late leaving the office.
I sat strapped in the ratty backseat, tossed back and forth down the length of Manhattan’s Seventh Avenue like a Ping-Pong ball.
This car is going to crash.
The lethal night of the plane accident came back to me in waves, starting with the instinctual pangs telling me not to step up from the tarmac onto the slippery, rickety staircase of the little six-seater. This plane is not made for all this stormy snow, I had said to myself that night. And I was right.
So much of my life had gone according to plan since then, much of it mapped out in a two-decades’-long fit to fix wrongs—the most evil happening on the eve of my sixteenth birthday that winter night, eighteen-years and four-months ago.
MY FATHER HAD been planning the trip all year. He had told Mom it was his chance to spend a few days one-on-one with his only child, teaching me the secrets of ice fishing at his favorite spot on Diamond Lake up north. He’d been talking about this as long as I could remember, and, finally, a week before my sixteenth birthday, Mom said I was old enough to go.
Dad had handed in his boarding pass outside, and he came onto the small commuter plane in Montreal, dusting snow off his beard and shoulders once he managed to jam his huge frame into the seat. I knew Dad saw the fear in my face and tried his best to reassure me. All I could think about was how small and fragile that plane seemed against the howling winds outside. Deep down that voice was telling me this was a bad idea, but I kept my mouth shut at first. I didn’t want to look like a frightened little girl.
