The Thirty List
Everyone has one.That list.The things you were supposed to do before you turn thirty.Jobless, broke and getting a divorce, Rachel isn’t exactly living up to her own expectations. And moving into grumpy single dad Patrick’s box room is just the soggy icing on top of her dreaded thirtieth birthday cake.Eternal list-maker Rachel has a plan – an all new set of challenges to help her get over her divorce and out into the world again – from tango dancing to sushi making to stand-up comedy.But as Patrick helps her cross off each task, Rachel faces something even harder: learning to live – and love – without a checklist.Praise for The Thirty List'A fresh new voice in romantic fiction' – Marie Claire'Warm, witty and lots of fun - a fantastic new voice in women's fiction' – Melissa Hill'There’s a whole “list” of reasons I loved this book – and I know you will too!' – Fabulous magazine
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EVA WOODS grew up in Ireland and lives in London, where she writes and teaches creative writing. She likes wine, pop music and holidays. And she thinks that online dating is like the worst board game ever invented. This is her first romantic comedy.
To Alexandra Turner,
my favourite primary-school teacher
Table of Contents
If you believe the films, there should be a moment in life when it all comes together. When you’ve got everything you ever wanted, and your happy ending is here. The music is swelling. Everyone’s smiling at you.
Well, this was mine. This was my happy ending. And I was more terrified than I’d ever been in my life.
Beside me in the portico of the church, Dad was nervously tying and retying his cravat, ready for the short walk we were about to undertake. It was only thirty seconds, tops. But once it was over, nothing would be the same again. I’d be married to Dan. I’d be someone’s wife.
‘All right, Muffin?’
‘Just a bit … you know.’
‘Nervous?’ In fact, I was frozen in terror, unable to move my vintage-style Mary Janes a single step forward. ‘I don’t blame you. All those eyes looking at you.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s just like my recurring nightmare about being on Countdown and only able to make three-letter words.’
‘Yes, it’s exactly like that.’
‘Except I’ve got my clothes on in this one.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Inside the door of the church, the organ was already playing. I hadn’t wanted it—we weren’t religious, but it meant a lot to Dan’s family. I could see his mum, her enormous hat dominating the front row, and his dad looking frail, leaning on a walking stick. He’d had a stroke the month before and was still wobbly. I’d suggested we postpone the wedding, but Dan wouldn’t hear of it.
I clutched my posy of freesias, which was leaking water onto my ballet-length lace dress. My veil was snarled around my face, making me breathless. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Muffin?’
‘How do you know? I mean, how can you be sure? About the person you marry?’
‘Eh …’ He looked deeply uncomfortable, and not just because his tie was cutting into his neck. ‘You just meet someone, and you like them, and you make it work somehow. It isn’t hard. Not like Countdown.’
‘But at least Countdown has rules.’
‘You are … fond of Dan?’
‘Of course! Of course. We’re very happy.’ Eight years with barely a row, sliding easily into dating, cohabitation and now marriage. Of course we were happy. We’d even bought a house, in Surrey. After the wedding we’d be packing up and leaving Hackney with the police sirens and falafel joints and shop downstairs that still sold Panini stickers from the 2002 World Cup. Dan had casually suggested it a few months ago, right in the middle of wedding planning. There’d be more space, less crime, a garden. All those things you were supposed to want. I’d already given notice at my job in the cool little design agency above a tattoo parlour in Shoreditch.
‘Muffin,’ said Dad, growing alarmed at my failure to move. ‘We have to go in. Everyone’s waiting. Unless you …’
‘I’m fine! Fine! I’m just nervous!’ Through the crack in the doors, I could see eyes begin to turn, murmurs going up. Looking for me. At the front of the church, my sister, Jess, and my best friends, Emma and Cynthia, were already waiting in their lavender prom dresses. Jess as usual looked stunning. The vicar, a friend of Dan’s family, was in place. This was it, my moment. Just waiting for me to move forward.
Gently, Dad took my arm. ‘Come on, Muffy. You don’t want to go back, do you, call it all off? Because if you do …’
‘No!’ I loved Dan. We had a whole life together. I remembered what he’d said to me yesterday, before he went to sleep at his parents: ‘I’ll never leave you, Rachel. I promise we’ll always be together.’ He’d even stroked my face, although it was encrusted in an avocado skin mask.
‘Even if I look like this?’
He’d smiled. ‘You always look good to me.’
Dad patted my hand. ‘Well, if you can’t go back, you have to go forward. Your time’s up, Muffy.’ He began to hum the Countdown theme tune. ‘Do do-do do-do …’
‘OK, OK. I’m ready.’
‘You know what marriage is, Muffy?’
‘A nine-letter word?’
‘It’s eight letters, Muffs. Honestly, Maths never was your strong point. Anyway, it’s not a word. It’s a sentence.’
‘Um, that’s not helpful.’
‘What I mean is, it’s a beginning. It’s not an end.’
Far down at the end of the aisle, I could see the back of Dan’s head, his ears slightly red with the pressure of eyes watching him, his arms crossed in front of his dove-grey morning suit. I thought of our life together, our new house, our friends, our families. This was right. This was what you were supposed to do. I took a deep breath. ‘OK, Dad. Let’s do it.’
