Lindsey Kelk - About a Girl

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2013

Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2013

Cover illustration © Bree Leman

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2013

Lindsey Kelk 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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007497980

Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007497997

Version: 2018-09-20

‘Outrageous, witty, exciting and romantic, we simply adored this sparkling read’

Closer

‘Leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside’

Company

‘Kelk has a hilarious turn of phrase and a sparkling writing style … A frothy and fun read’

Daily Express

‘Perfect for those wishing to escape from the reality of cold winter nights. ****’

Heat

About my girls, Della, Beth, Emma and Terri.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading – One in a Million

About the Author

Also by Lindsey Kelk

About the Publisher

I never meant for things to get so out of hand.

I’d lost my job. I’d lost the love of my life. My mum wasn’t talking to me. My best friend was epically pissed off. My flatmate probably had a hit out on me by now, and in twenty-four hours I would likely be homeless.

But, you know, swings and roundabouts.

Considering how incredibly cocked up my life was, I felt surprisingly chipper. Happy even. Stretching out as far as I could, I curled the tips of my fingers around the headboard and scrunched my toes up in the crisp white cotton sheets that had found their way to the foot of the bed. Everything was still, everything was calm, and I was smiling. Somewhere across the room, I heard a phone beep. Instead of jumping up to see who needed what and just how quickly I could get it for them, I concentrated on the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and pressed my lips together to refresh the tingling sensation before it faded away. The stubble burn that tickled my cheeks was altogether more stubborn. I was so happy.

My best friend had been wrong. Everything was going to be OK. Probably. Not that there hadn’t been some sketchy moments over the past week. Not that I hadn’t considered having myself committed. More than once. But now it was almost over. I’d survived. This afternoon I would get on a plane back home. I would call everyone who needed calling, and instead of behaving like a jabbering shell of a human, I would be cool, calm and collected and make things right. If I could get through this past week, I could get through anything.

Seven days ago, if anyone had even given me a hint of what was ahead, I would have crawled underneath my desk and refused to come out. But as I had learned from every television show I had ever watched and every book I had thought about reading, you never knew how strong you were until you had to find out. I was definitely stronger than anyone had reckoned. Either that or I was clinically insane. It was a fine line.

The phone beeped again.

It was all going to work out. The photos were taken; the photos were great. Paige was going to be very happy. Mr Bennett was happy. Kekipi didn’t seem too bothered either way, but you can’t have everything. All I had to do now was spend the rest of the morning lying in this bed reliving all the terrible things I had just done with a terrible man, and by this time tomorrow I’d be practically home.

Rolling onto my stomach, I was very, very glad I couldn’t see the state of myself. My too long hair was all tangles, my carefully applied make-up was now carefully applied all over the pillowcases, and, let’s face it, post-orgasmic smugness isn’t a good look on anyone. If I had seen me right now, I might have wanted to punch me. Not that post-orgasmic anything was a look I was terribly familiar with. Well, the bad hair and terrible make-up, yes, but the smug ‘I just got shagged rotten by a very handsome man’ part? Not so much. There had to be a way to do post-coital with an air of class, surely. This was something they really did need to start teaching in schools. Maybe at the same time the nurse took the girls away to explain all about the wonderful world of tampons she could give you a rundown on what to pack in the morning-after kit. If there was one thing women needed to know, it was how to get thoroughly seen to without your gentleman friend sandpapering the top three layers of your skin completely off your face in the process.

Three more beeps.

No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, my phone wasn’t giving up. With a tiny, sad sniff I realized I was going to have to answer the bloody thing. Only it wasn’t on the nightstand where I always left it. Because this wasn’t my nightstand. And I had no idea where it was hiding. My beautiful red silk Valentino dress was on one side of the room, my bra on the other. Somewhere in the middle, there was a white shirt and a beach towel. And from deep inside a pile of carelessly discarded man clothes, another iPhone started chiming along in time with mine. It was a veritable chorus of communication. Together, they sounded a bit like a One Direction song. I gave up. Screw you, Vodafone.

‘Vanessa?’

I watched the huge bamboo fan on the ceiling spinning round and round and round and tapped out the rhythm of the phones, making no effort to answer either them or the man in the bathroom.

‘Vanessa?’

Oh, right. That was me. Sort of.

‘Yeah?’ I called back, scanning the room for my knickers. The biggest problem with crazy, tear-your-clothes-off sex was that once you’d torn off your clothes and had the crazy sex, the clothes were hard to locate in a dignified fashion. It was impossible not to feel a bit slutty scrabbling around on the floor looking for your pants. It was all well and good if you were one of those girls who slinks around starkers after sexytimes, but I wasn’t really a naked person. I was very much an ‘always sleep in a nightie in case the house burns down’ person. I mean, I still called it ‘sexytimes’, for God’s sake, and as we all know, if you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it.