Second Chance Read online

  Second Chance

  by the same author

  Straight Talking

  Jemima J

  Mr Maybe

  Bookends

  Babyville

  Spellbound

  The Other Woman

  Life Swap

  Second Chance

  JANE GREEN

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  Published in 2007

  1

  Copyright © Jane Green, 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Lyrics from ‘Goodbye My Friend’ on p. 93

  used by permission of Seagrape Music © 1988

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright

  reserved above, no part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,

  or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior

  written permission of both the copyright owner and

  the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90121–3

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Piers Simon, who will always be missed.

  Acknowledgements

  I am often dubious about extended acknowledgements, but there have been so many angels in my life this past year who have guided me through with their love and support, and to whom I remain eternally grateful. My gratitude and unending thanks go to the following…

  Deborah Valentin and Dani Shapiro, for their extraordinary wisdom, advice and love.

  Roe Chlala, Jody Eisemann, Brian Russell, Kathy Steffens, Nicole Straight, and all the many friends who showed me, with grace and humility, that there is another way.

  Joan Burgess, Fiona Garland and Andy Bentley, Anthony Goff, Kim and Niv Harizman, Bob and Jane Jacobs, Steve March and Rob Rizzo, Lisa Miller, Louise Moore, Deborah Schneider, Gail Sperry, Jonathan Tropper, Susan Warburg, David and Natalia Warburg.

  And finally to Ian Warburg. For bringing me back to myself. And for everything else besides. I love you.

  Prologue

  The wine has been drunk, the pasta demolished, three-quarters of the tiramisu polished off. Were you to peer through the window you might think you were looking at a group of old friends laughing, catching up, having a wonderful time, never seeing the gossamer-thin threads of grief that are woven between them, that have brought them together again after all this time.

  Look a little more closely and you’ll see the way the brunette – Holly – has a tendency to drift off into space. How she’ll gaze into her wine glass, lost in a memory, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye; how the blonde – Saffron – will lean over and ask gently if she’s okay, lay a hand softly on her arm with a squeeze; how Holly will nod her head with a smile as she blinks the tear away and gets up to clear a dish that doesn’t yet need clearing, wash a bowl that doesn’t yet need washing.

  Observe how the thin girl with the short, mousy bob watches them both with concern, her eyes softening as she sees how Saffron is able to comfort, how after all this time apart Saffron doesn’t feel the slightest bit awkward about reaching out and making Holly feel better. There is a part of Olivia that wants to be able to do this too, but she has spent years trying to find comfort in her skin, in who she is, in being someone who has not followed the paths expected of her, not being a lawyer, or a doctor, or a super-successful, highflying businesswoman, and, while she thought she was happy, finding herself surrounded by her school friends has brought back those insecure feelings of old: not being good enough. Clever enough. Ambitious enough.

  His name is not mentioned for a while, they are too busy focusing on catching up. They go around the table, haltingly at first, as they fill one another in on who they are now, where their lives have taken them.

  ‘Short summaries, please,’ Paul requests with a grin. ‘No more than two sentences to start off with, I think.’

  ‘Christ.’ Saffron looks at him in amazement. ‘Over twenty years since we left school and you haven’t changed a bit. Still trying to be the boss.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll start,’ he says. ‘Freelance journalist for various newspapers and a few men’s magazines. Quite successful, quite enjoy it. Evenings and some mornings spent writing, as I said, the great British novel. Small house in Crouch End but fast car to make up for –’

  ‘–small penis?’ Olivia remarks.

  ‘Not small, average, I think, but no complaints from Anna.’

  ‘Tell us all about Anna.’ Saffron raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Swedish, thirty-nine, gorgeous. Also highly tolerant, given she puts up with me. As you know, founder of fashionista.uk.net. As a result she is frighteningly trendy, which is stunning given she’s married to me. Desperate for children, have been trying for two years, and currently undergoing yet another bloody round of IVF after which I think we may have to resign ourselves to having cats. Anna is the best thing that has ever happened to me, but starting another cycle with this awful Synarel nasal spray that turns Anna into the hormonal horror from hell, so not particularly looking forward to it. Hopefully,’ he looks around the room and attempts a smile, ‘this time will be the last time, hopefully this will be successful. Keep everything crossed for us… Saffron? Your turn.’

  ‘That was more than two sentences,’ Saffron says softly. ‘But I will keep everything crossed for you. So… me. Actress, a bit of theatre, hopefully big role coming in major film with Heath Ledger. Split time mostly between LA and New York. Am very happy with someone, but complicated so can’t talk about it. No children, animals, or other dependants, but good circle of friends, although have to say, nothing like being with people you’ve known almost your entire life.’ She looks at each person sitting around the table and smiles. ‘Having a shared history is something you just can’t create with the new ones. No matter how much you like them, it just isn’t the same.’

  ‘And… time’s up,’ says Paul, looking at his watch.

  ‘My turn?’ Olivia sighs. Here it is. ‘Um. God. Where do I start?’

  ‘At the beginning?’ Paul offers helpfully.

  ‘Okay. Did drama at university, which was ridiculous really as nowhere near confident enough to be an actress.’ She looks nervously at Saffron, who gives her an encouraging smile. ‘Played around for a few years doing various jobs – worked at health-food store, ran book shop for a while, then asked to volunteer at animal sanctuary. Seven years later, run the
place and love it. Gorgeous flat in Kensal Rise, and–’ she takes a deep breath, wondering why on earth this should be so hard given that it has been six months since George left – ‘and still single. Was in relationship with George for seven years, but he upped and left and is about to marry ghastly American girl called Cindy, and now I am planning on turning into the crazy old woman with a million cats and dogs.’

  ‘No one else on the horizon?’ Paul is surprised.

  ‘Well… oddly enough Tom put me in touch with someone from his American office. We’ve been emailing for a few weeks, and he’s coming over here soon, but what was fun and sweet seems just awful now, since… everything. I feel really weird about even meeting him.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Saffron says. ‘You have to meet him, especially if Tom set it up.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I just feel completely unready for a relationship,’ Olivia confesses.

  ‘Darling,’ Saffron shrugs dramatically, ‘who’s talking relationship? I bet you haven’t been laid for six months.’

  Olivia blushes and looks over to Holly for help.

  ‘Okay,’ Holly laughs as she interjects. ‘My turn. That fine arts degree wasn’t a complete waste of time as I’ve managed to make a somewhat decent living over the years. I’m an illustrator for a card company, although my dream is to work on children’s books. Met Marcus in Australia at twenty-five. He seemed, on paper, to be everything I was supposed to be looking for in a husband, now rather think no one should get married before the age of thirty.’ Olivia raises an eyebrow and Saffron’s eyes widen slightly. ‘Whoops,’ Holly said, knowing that she had drunk too much. ‘Did I say that out loud? Oh well. Two gorgeous children, Oliver and Daisy, and truthfully Marcus is a pillar of strength. Really. So strong. He could move mountains. Harbour secret fantasies of running away with kids but know that’s just typical of an old married woman thinking the grass is always greener. Have to say, in all, life’s pretty good.’

  Holly pauses. ‘And to finish, I sent Tom an email because I hadn’t spoken to him in ages, and I never heard back. What about you lot? When did you last speak to him?’ Holly looks up at each of them, and the tension, almost undetectable but nevertheless present all evening, now dissipates.

  Finally it is safe to talk about Tom. They have spent the evening talking about themselves, reminiscing about school days, but none of them wanting to bring up Tom, none of them knowing the appropriate way to talk about him, knowing what to say. None of them ready to face the reason they are all sitting in this room. Friends reunited. After twenty long years.

  Chapter One

  Tom wakes up first. Lies in the blackness and sighs as he reaches over to turn off the alarm clock. Five thirty. Blinking red, beeping madly, waiting for him to bang it off. He turns his head to see if Sarah has woken up, but no. She is still soundly asleep, rolled on her side, breathing heavily into her pillow.

  He packed the night before, so accustomed now to these business trips, to getting up in the middle of the night, looking out of the window to check that the town car is waiting in the driveway, the driver killing time by reading the New York Post, a large cardboard cup of steaming coffee in hand.

  The pay-off, as he and Sarah both know, is that these business trips won’t be for ever. Soon his company, a large software company, will have finished buying the smaller start-ups and, as chief executive officer, he will be able to concentrate on growing what they already have. He’s thirty-nine now and in another three years or so hopefully his annual bonuses will allow him to think about doing something else. Some money will have been put aside for the kids’ college accounts, and he’ll be able to retire, maybe buy his own business, do something that doesn’t involve travel or a commute, time away from the family.

  In the bathroom, he trips over Tickle Me Elmo and shakes his head in exasperation before smiling at the memory of Dustin, two years old, giggling uncontrollably alongside Elmo until his elder sister, Violet, grabbed it away, leaving Dustin in floods of tears.

  A hot shower, the last of the packing, and he’s ready to go. Back into the bedroom to kiss Sarah on the cheek. ‘Love you, Bunks,’ he whispers, using their pet name for each other, a name they’ve been using for so long they don’t even remember how it came to be.

  Sarah stirs and opens her eyes. ‘Love you,’ she murmurs. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after six. The town car’s here. Are you going to get up?’

  ‘Yup. In a second. Have to get the kids ready for school.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll take pictures of Dustin in the play, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sweetie. Promise. Have a safe journey.’

  ‘I will. I’ll call before I get on the train.’

  ‘’kay,’ and Sarah smiles and sinks back into the pillows and falls fast asleep again before Tom has even made it to the front door.

  Across the Atlantic Ocean, just as Tom’s town car pulls out of the driveway, Holly Macintosh also wakes up: 11 a.m. Today she has taken the day off, exhausted from the past few sleepless nights when the routine is always the same: she stumbles through her bedroom, hits the light switch just outside the doorway of her tiny bathroom, and sinks her head in her hands as she sits on the loo. This has started happening every night. At more or less exactly the same time, Holly wakes up needing to pee, and by the time she climbs back into bed her mind is up and racing, and these last few nights she has still been awake when the sun comes up.

  Last Sunday she had just managed to fall back into a deep sleep when Daisy came in, clad in mismatched socks, her brother’s Spiderman pyjamas, and Holly’s favourite cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. Daisy demanded Weetabix, and Holly stumbled out of bed shooting daggers at Marcus, who, she was convinced, was merely pretending to be fast asleep.

  And last night again, she was up all night. She lay in bed, her eyes closed, trying to ignore the occasional snore or grunt from her husband, too deep in sleep to notice her. Usually when his snoring becomes too irritating to bear, even though she is wide awake and not even pretending to be attempting to get back to sleep, she will shove him over from his position lying on his back. ‘Snoring,’ she will hiss, suppressing the urge to prod him hard enough to push him right out of the bed.

  Holly turned on the light last night, waiting as her husband stirred, then rolled over again, still sleeping. She gathered up a magazine from the pile on the floor next to her bed, resigning herself to yet another of those long, long nights, those nights that render her almost senseless in the mornings.

  This morning, a zombie in oversized men’s pyjamas and moccasin slippers, Holly just about managed to get the children up and dressed. ‘Don’t start,’ she said warningly to Oliver, who is never at his best in the mornings, and particularly now that his four-year-old sister has discovered exactly which of his buttons to push to start the tears falling, and with huge enjoyment has incorporated it into her daily morning routine.

  The au pair stumbled down at the end of breakfast, and Holly smiled gratefully as Frauke bent down to get the children buttoned up, slapping some ham and cheese on pumpernickel bread for herself and holding it in her teeth as she took Daisy and Oliver by the hand.

  ‘I’m not working today,’ Holly said. ‘But I’m exhausted. Another bad night. Would you mind organizing a playdate or something this afternoon? I’m just desperate to sleep. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frauke nodded, with her stern morning face – the result of having gone out last night with six other au pairs and staying up until much too late drinking Starbucks. ‘I will phone Luciana, although the last time I tried to see her she was thirty-six minutes late, which was not good. But I will try again. Don’t worry, Holly. I will keep the children out of the house today. Perhaps a museum.’

  Holly sighed with satisfaction. She finds herself describing Frauke to friends as ‘my grown-up daughter from my first marriage’. Her other friends complain about their au pairs, but Holly feels constantly and consistently thankful that Frauke has come int
o her life. She is organized, strict, loving and happy. When Marcus goes to work and it is just Holly and Frauke alone with the kids, the house always feels lighter, happier, the energy changing entirely.

  So now, awake again at 11 a.m., Holly gets up and makes herself a cup of tea, loving how quiet the house is in the middle of the day. This is the house she and Marcus lived in together well before the children were born. It is the house she bought expecting to fill it with children and animals, neighbours and friends popping in at all hours of the day and night. A house we can grow into, she thought. A house that will truly be a home.

  Holly’s mother was an interior decorator, and every house Holly had lived in as a child had been a project. As soon as the project was finished, the Macintosh family was on the move again. Holly had had bedrooms in every colour of the rainbow. She had had blue fairies, yellow Laura Ashley, hot fuchsia and gold leaf. She had attempted to stop attaching herself to these houses, but couldn’t help the secret hope with every new move that perhaps this house would be the one her mother would fall in love with, perhaps this time she would finally have a home.

  When she and Marcus found this house in Brondesbury, Holly knew that she would never leave. Five bedrooms for all the children she was convinced they would have, a large garden for barbecues and swing sets, a huge, dilapidated kitchen that Holly started mentally reorganizing as soon as they first saw it.

  There is no doubt at all that it is home. Holly bought every piece of furniture herself, she trawled through dusty, fusty antique shops, spent months going to car-boot sales looking for that one special find, even buying several pieces on eBay, and getting burnt only twice. (One time it was a sofa that was supposed to be in great condition but it turned out that the picture on eBay was of a different sofa; and the other was an antique cherry sideboard that turned out to be riddled with woodworm.)