Sam Baker - The Stepmothers’ Support Group

No, she wiped the thought from her mind. Liam was many things, but calculating was not one of them.

‘Any luck with that case study?’

Eve was on the phone to Nancy Morris, a regular contributor to Beau . What should have been a straightforward ‘four women who…’ feature had turned into a nightmare when the fourth case study had pulled out that morning. The shoot was in two hours. Somewhere in London there had to be a woman aged twenty-eight to forty-five, who had turned emotional trauma into business success and could get to a photographic studio in Chalk Farm by two o’clock at the latest.

‘I’ve got two possibilities,’ said Nancy. ‘If Miriam hates them we’re up shit creek without a paddle; not to put too fine a point on it.’

Eve laughed. Beau ’s editor was notoriously choosy. Did they have the right age range, geographical spread and racial mix? And that was even before she’d approved photos of them. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

‘I’m e-mailing you the pics now. They can both do a shoot this afternoon, but the first is best, by a mile. Her name’s Melanie Cheung. She’s thirty-five, and she sold her home and ploughed all her savings into an internet fashion business after her marriage fell apart. You’ve probably heard of it, personalshopper.com ?’

Eve had. It was one of those genius, ‘why didn’t I think of that?’ ideas, mixing the high-end edited choice straight-to-your-desk ease of NET-A-PORTER, with a personal shopping service. When you signed up, you just put in your sizes, budget, colouring and examples of items and labels you already owned to give an idea of your personal style. And every week your personalshopper e-mailed you a tailor-made list from their new stock. Click on the items you liked, and they’d be delivered by six p.m., provided you ordered before one p.m. (And lived in London, of course. Everyone else had to wait twenty-four hours.) Not that Eve had bought anything. Most of the items had ‘investment’ sized price tags.

‘So there’s a good entrepreneur-rises-from-ashes-of-failed-marriage story,’ Nancy was saying. ‘And I think, if we dig around, there might be an I-wanted-kids/he-didn’t angle. If that’s not muddying the waters too much. I’ll play that by ear, if that’s OK?’

‘Sure,’ Eve said.

‘She lives in London, of course. Which means we have three London-based case studies. But realistically, at this short notice, anyone who can make a shoot this afternoon is going to be here already. Plus, she’s Chinese, so not blonde.’

‘Thank God,’ Eve said. ‘We’ve got three blondes already. You sure she can make it?’

‘Surer than sure. To be honest, I’ve already teed her up. I had to.’

Eve sighed. ‘Is it worth me even looking at the other?’

‘Probably not,’ Nancy said, as she gave Eve the top line on the alternate case study. She was right. Although the woman had set up a business, she was selling scented candles from her Notting Hill living room, there was nowhere near enough human interest to garner readers’ sympathy. Also, she was blonde.

‘We’ll go for Melanie,’ Eve said, forwarding the photo to her editor, having added the relevant details. ‘I know Miriam usually demands a choice, but there’s no time to mess around. I’ll square it with her.’

‘Tell me again why there’s only one option?’

‘Because the other is blonde and we’ve got three of those already. Plus, her marriage hasn’t fallen apart and she didn’t launch one of the most successful start-ups of the year from the ashes of her relationship.’

‘And why do we have three London-based case studies?’

‘Because we’re paying David a thousand quid to do the shoot and she has to be at the studio in under two hours.’

Miriam wasn’t thrilled. But Eve also knew her boss could spot the difference between a rock and a hard place, as surely as she knew when she was wedged between them.

With her editor squared, Eve headed down the office to the picture desk. Thank God Melanie Cheung was size 10. That way, they’d be able to scrounge some samples from the fashion department, before they were returned to the designers.

One of the designers, Caitlin, was regaling the picture editor with a weekly update of the dating woes of a thirtysomething singleton.

‘You could hardly move for groovy dads,’ Caitlin was saying. ‘You know, sexy, slouchy thirtyish, maybe fortysomething, cute little kids in matching jeans and kiddie Converse. All carrying eco-shoppers stuffed with locally grown asparagus. Although, I mean, how local can it be if you buy it in Queens Park?’

‘So what’s your problem?’ Jo, the picture editor, asked. ‘I thought hunting down a groovy dad was your preferred weekend pastime.’

‘Me and the rest of the single female population of north London,’ Caitlin sighed. ‘Anyway, the problem with the Queens Park farmers’ market crowd is they usually come with a groovy mum attached!’

The art department rang with laughter. ‘You don’t live anywhere near Queens Park,’ Jo said. ‘What were you doing there anyway?’

‘Hunting. I had a tip-off,’ Caitlin said, lowering her tone and pushing subtly highlighted hair out of her blue eyes. ‘Anyway, I have a plan.’

Jo waited.

‘Even groovy mums and dads split up,’ Caitlin said. ‘So somewhere in there has to be a groovy separated every-other-weekend dad. That means changing my MO. From next weekend, I’m going to take my sister’s kids as bait and disguise myself as a groovy estranged mum. That gives me five days to train my nieces to answer to Phoebe and Scarlett. If you see me hanging by the organic cheese stall with two adorable little girls, do me a favour—don’t blow my cover.’

Jo grinned. Looking up from her screen, she spotted Eve. ‘Got one?’

‘Yup,’ said Eve. ‘And she’s perfect. She’s sample size and can be there by two.’ She gave a bow to accept the applause that wasn’t forthcoming.

‘What d’you think of Caitlin’s idea?’ Jo asked. ‘I mean, you’re the expert. Does it sound like a plan?’

‘Sorry, groovy dads, not my specialist subject.’

Jo and Caitlin snorted in unison. ‘Hello!’ said Caitlin. ‘Earth to Eve Owen. Ian Newsome is the patron saint of them all. Added to which, he’s famous. Famous and a widower, which makes him the Holy Grail too. All the sympathy, none of the nightmare ex-wife. Come off it. All you need now is the rock and you’re home dry.’

Caitlin paused, waiting for Eve to reply.

When Eve didn’t, Caitlin tilted her head to one side, a look of expectation lighting her face. ‘You haven’t split up, have you?’ Far from sounding sympathetic, her voice revealed thinly veiled excitement. Eve realized her colleague was a split-second away from asking if she was ready to on-gift Ian’s phone number.

‘In your dreams,’ Eve said.

Was Ian a groovy dad? It had honestly never occurred to her.

Maybe he was.

In fact, Ian and Caroline Newsome had been the full groovy mum and dad package.

‘Come on Eve,’ Caitlin’s words echoed up the office in Eve’s wake. ‘Tell us how you pulled it off.’

Eve shrugged and kept walking.

She shrugged because, in all honesty, she didn’t know how someone like her—just pretty-enough, just brightenough and just successful-enough—had bagged a catch like Ian Newsome. And having met his children, she didn’t know how on earth she was going to keep him, either.

‘I’m sorry it’s been so long.’ Ian rolled over and planted a lingering kiss on her forehead. ‘I couldn’t get any decent overnight cover. Also, to be honest, their suspicions have been on high alert since they met you. Especially Hannah’s. They’re not stupid, after all.’