Sharon Griffiths - The Lost Guide to Life and Love

With love to the Amos men—

Mike, Owen and Adam—who

filled my life with football.

Cover Page

Title Page Sharon Griffiths The Lost Guide to Life and Love

Dedication With love to the Amos men— Mike, Owen and Adam—who filled my life with football.

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

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Tilly’s Recipes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Suddenly, the photographers stopped slouching and snapped to attention. They threw their cigarettes into the gutter and hoisted cameras into position, jostling for space and a good angle as the limo glided right up to the red-carpeted steps.

Dazzling flashes of light filled the autumn air alongside shouts of ‘Over here, Clayton!’ ‘Give us a smile, Tanya!’ ‘This way, darling!’

Before the limo pulled away, two taxis arrived. More shouts, more flashing lights. A glimpse of the top of a blonde head, a sparkle of jewellery, a protective male arm. Then a glimpse of expensively cut jackets and a fluid athletic movement as more men sprang from the taxi almost before it had stopped.

Our queue pushed forward, straining to see. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Jake, as I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to jump up and look. My view was blocked by the huge presence of the security man, whose massive head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, his broad chest straining the seams of his jacket.

‘Clayton Silver and some other footballers, I think,’ said Jake, over his shoulder, ‘and a couple of those girls off Hollyoaks or EastEnders .’

‘Oh, I hope we get in!’

The footballers and their glittering girls went in through the canopied entrance, shielded from view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.

When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…

Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.

The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?

Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.

There was nowhere to sit down. Well, there were plenty of tables in alcoves where laughing groups sat round ice buckets full of champagne and bowls of strange-looking drinks. But to get a seat you had to reserve a table and you could only reserve a table if you were going to spend serious amounts of money. Not hard, as Jake muttered, going pale as our two drinks took a huge chunk from his credit card. We were definitely out of our league. But we could pretend for a night.

As my eyes got used to the dim but changing light—an icy blue made everyone look like ghosts, almost green, like aliens from a cheap science-fiction film. I thought I could recognise some of the people—someone from a boy band perhaps, or the guy who played Hugh Grant’s little brother in something. But maybe it was just a look. All the guys looked like Hugh Grant’s little brother. Handsome is as handsome does , as my mother used to say, quoting her fearsome Granny Allen; but handsome is still very nice to look at. Everyone seemed to know each other—lots of shrieks and greetings and extravagant air kisses. I couldn’t see the footballers but there was no VIP area—the whole place was a VIP area—just a series of booths leading off the main room, and I guessed they were in one of those. Then I stopped looking, made the most of the music and leaned into Jake for a dance, surrounded by all the beautiful people.

This was all for work, of course. For Jake, everything revolves around work. Clubbing isn’t his first choice for a night out. And such a club…I spotted Kit Kenzo, who does that late-night music programme, all over the girl who does the football reports. Then that earl who’s a model, and I couldn’t help gazing at him over Jake’s shoulder. This was beginning to be fun. Then a tall elegant girl with the most perfect shoulders gazed with interest and a hint of envy at my earrings. Good.