Brigid Coady - No One Wants to Be Miss Havisham

BRIGID COADY

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Impulse 2015

Copyright © Brigid Coady 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover design by HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

Brigid Coady asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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,

downloaded, 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.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008119416

Version: 2016-11-17

For my family with love and thanks.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

Brigid Coady

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Jessica Marley was dead: to begin with. The notice of her death had been in all the major newspapers, her Facebook account was now a very sparsely populated memorial page and Edie Dickens had been to her funeral. Yes, Jessica Marley was as dead as a doornail.

This didn’t stop Edie from hoping that it had all been a bad dream. She glared at the calendar on her computer. The words ‘Mel’s Hen Night’ stared back at her. It was a mere two days before this ordeal and her greatest ally on the battlefield of nuptial nonsense was gone. Dead. Pushing up the daisies. Whilst Edie was stuck with going and worse, she was the maid of honour, which meant participating in the damn thing. Mel might be her oldest friend but they differed wildly in their views on weddings and suitable hen activities. Jessica hadn’t.

Who would complain with her about the ridiculousness of venue, the trite jokes and obscene games, plus the awful tackiness of the regalia that all, not just the hen, would be forced to wear?

And at the wedding itself… Edie would have no one to take bets with on how long the marriage would last and whether the groom had had his hand in the bridesmaid’s posy.

The thought that it was irrational to blame Jessica for dying did flit across the front of her brain, but it was quickly brushed away. Jessica was a veteran of the nuptial war and one of the rules was always “eye the food warily”. She should’ve spotted the cocktail stick holding the mini burger together. If she’d spotted it she wouldn’t have swallowed it, therefore causing the onset of peritonitis.

Death by canapé.

Another casualty of a wedding, just a little more final than the normal crushed dreams and plundered bank accounts.

Edie locked her computer screen, breathing more easily when the screen showed the regulation company logo, ‘Bailey Lang Satis and Partners’. She grabbed her bag and jacket and left to get a late lunch. She glanced at the empty seat at the other desk in her office. Rachel, her trainee, was taking yet another long lunch. It was getting ridiculous.

Edie swept along the corridor, taking some pleasure that people stepped out of her way.

Never let anyone stop you from being the best you can be.

She couldn't remember who had told her that, but it stuck with her. Along with her mother's maxim of ‘never let the bastards see you cry.’

"I can't believe he's actually working here!"

It was another solicitor, Caroline, who was speaking in a breathless voice like a boy band groupie.

"He's so sexy. When he smiled at me as he held the door open this morning I swear I almost fainted."

Carmel, one of the partners, was giggling.

As she passed them all standing in a knot by the Ladies she frowned. The office was not a place for socialising. It was a place to work. When she reached partner, there would be changes. Ever since her mentor, Ms Satis had been put on gardening leave for alleged work place bullying, it had gone soft. Was it bullying to expect the best from everyone? Edie pressed the lift button hard.

"Looks like the Shark is in a snit again."

She heard the whisper as it carried across the marble floor and hard walls of the lift lobby. The doors opened and she got in.

Never let the bastards see you cry.

The smell of cinnamon and buttery pastry filled her senses as she stood at the counter of the local sandwich shop. Her mouth watered at the memory of it melting on her tongue. An image of her dad laughing as he wiped the crumbs from her cheeks.

She thrust the memory back behind the walls in her mind. It was better to forget that and only remember that her mum never allowed pastries. Too calorific.

Plus Ms Satis had always advocated that a widening waist showed that a lawyer wasn’t taking care of the little details. Edie wasn’t sure she would ever reach the greyhound leanness of her mentor but she was giving it a good try. The thought of Hilary Satis kept the memories safer. Emotions had no place in a divorce lawyer.

“Oh come on,” she couldn’t help muttering under her breath.

Edie wanted to leave the shop as fast as possible whilst her memories were still ruthlessly corralled. But the one person who stood in front of her in the queue wasn’t moving. Why were people not prepared with the correct change when they came to pay for their sandwich? She tapped her foot and started tutting.

“I’m sure I have it right here.” The woman in front was digging through her purse and beginning to count copper coins out onto the Plexiglas counter. A key chain with a cube of photos of grinning children swung from it.

“For the love of God,” Edie didn’t explode so much as fire the words with laser pointedness at the back of the woman’s head. Edie took in the messy and poorly cut hair and wondered how the woman could’ve allowed herself out looking like that.

The woman turned in shock.

“Some of us work and you are costing me money. If you are incapable of counting out change then I suggest you ask your children to teach you.” Edie pushed past the woman as she said it, leaving the woman open mouthed and with tears starting in her eyes.