Jenny Colgan - Working Wonders

To Robin Colgan and Dominic Colgan,

for all the reading I got in as a child while you

were playing First World War/sailing boats/

digging enormous holes for no apparent reason.

As annoying brothers go, you’re absolutely

the best a girl could wish for.

Cover

Title Page JENNY COLGAN Working Wonders

Dedication Dedication Dedication 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 Acknowledgements About the Author Praise Copyright About the Publisher To Robin Colgan and Dominic Colgan, for all the reading I got in as a child while you were playing First World War/sailing boats/ digging enormous holes for no apparent reason. As annoying brothers go, you’re absolutely the best a girl could wish for.

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

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘Stop kicking me.’

Arthur had been dreaming of thundering hooves, when suddenly the hooves came to life. Fay hadn’t been dreaming of anything, and redoubled her efforts.

‘I have to keep kicking you! Otherwise you don’t get up and go make the tea.’

‘Why don’t you use the energy you’re expending on hurting my legs to get up and go make the tea?’

‘What are you, a time and motion expert?’

‘Yes, actually!’

Arthur sighed. An argumentative approach to mornings with Fay had never benefited him before and seemed unlikely to start now. He rolled out of bed, wincing. Outside it was still dark.

‘There’s no milk!’

There was no reply, either. Fay had rolled over and grabbed the pillow, luxuriating in a few extra seconds of warmth – his warmth, Arthur thought crossly.

‘Do you want juice, water or ketchup on your cornflakes?’

Fay eyed him balefully. ‘I want you to remember to buy milk.’

Arthur moved into the bathroom impatiently, as usual knocking over several of the ornamental starfish and candles with which Fay insisted on cluttering up the place. The house was a boring estate semi in Coventry, not a New England beach house. No-one would ever, ever walk into their little bathroom and think – ah! Grooved wood! Perhaps I have been magically transported to a world of fresh lobster and windswept sands. Arthur had never been to New England. He briefly wished himself there, if only because the time difference would give him another five hours of delicious sleep.

Groaning, he stared sticky-eyed into the mirror and splashed water on his face. It was normally a nice affable face, although right now it looked cross and tired. He looked at his hair and resisted the urge to measure it. His floppy brown hair was one of his favourite things about himself and he was terrified of the day it would finally desert him, although it was bearing up all right (his forehead was just getting a bit longer, that was all). At thirty-two years old, the confused vertical groove line between his eyes was becoming permanent but his smile was lovely, which he would have known if he ever smiled at the mirror or in photographs, which he never did.

‘Hurry up in the bathroom!’

For God’s sake!

‘You’re not allowed to hurry someone out of the bathroom and still be functionally asleep, okay?’

He took off his pyjamas to get in the shower. When had he started wearing pyjamas? When had he and Fay stopped diving into bed naked as piglets all the time?

He briefly considered a quick Kevin Spacey in the shower but he had to get to work … oh, Christ, work. Arthur hit the plain white tiling with his fist. He’d forgotten.

‘Shit. SHIT!’

‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Fay, wandering past the shower curtain. She was wearing a hideous dressing gown. When you thought about it, he supposed, all dressing gowns were hideous. Why had he never noticed that before? The pattern had not yet been invented that didn’t render them staggeringly unattractive. Nighties were sexy and nudie was beautiful, but dressing gowns were like dating a sausage roll.

‘Why don’t you take off your dressing gown and get in the shower with me?’ he said impulsively. He suddenly wanted to do something cute and fun and detract from the fact that he had just remembered that today he was due to be interviewed about his job by some people who had the power to take it away.

‘I thought you were busy with all the tile hitting and cursing,’ said Fay, brushing her teeth.

‘I was, then I saw you, a vision of loveliness in acrylic.’

‘Uh huh. Well, personnel issues won’t just sort themselves out, you know.’

I bet they would, thought Arthur mutinously to himself. He’d been with Fay for five years and still wasn’t a lot closer to understanding what a recruitment adviser did now than when they first got together.

‘And don’t you have that survey thing?’

He groaned again. ‘Please, don’t remind me. And it’s not just a survey, it’s a total strategic review of our entire function.’

‘What, playing Sim City?’

‘Yes, that’s right, Fay. That’s what I do. I play computer games all day and deliberately make the traffic go slowly.’

He felt her raising her eyebrows at him.

‘Well, you’re incredibly successful at that. Anyway, the condoms are downstairs.’

Arthur stood in the shower and let the water cascade over him. This was new. He had a sneaking suspicion Fay wanted to throw away the contraception and get on with the business of having babies. She was thirty-one. He thought that might be it. Anyway, she’d taken to hiding the condoms in unconventional places, possibly in the hope that he’d be so carried away he would say not to bother. It wasn’t working, particularly not when she was wearing a dressing gown that rendered her nicely curvy body practically bovine.

He closed his eyes, wondering whether to risk shaving in the warmth (which would earn him a lecture and a bottle of Cif shoved into his hands). Suddenly he got a strong sense again of last night’s dream. The hoofbeats were pounding on snow. He could almost remember the smell of the sweating body of the mare … That was odd. How did he know it was a mare? Well, dreams were the most peculiar things; he’d never met a horse in his life.

‘Can you ride a horse?’ he asked Fay downstairs. She was now unattractively done out in a purple business suit with accenting scarf.

‘Why, would it be quicker getting me to work than the Mondeo? Is this your new scheme for the town centre?’

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘What are we doing this weekend?’

‘The Hunters on Friday night and some cheese and wine thing on Saturday.’