Chapter One
Naomi
The shrill ring of a mobile phone snapped me from my reverie.
“Hello?… Shit!” I sat up too fast and dropped the phone as I answered. Retrieving it from the floor, I quickly checked that the screen hadn’t cracked. “Hey. Sorry Mum, what were you saying?”
“I said I’ll be there within the hour and we can do lunch, yes?” She paused and I nodded, forgetting to verbalise my reply. “Naomi? You still there love? Are you still in bed?” An air of disapproval punctuated the question.
“What? No! I’m up, I got distracted…work.” I said, as if that last word explained all.
“Well I don’t have to come if you’re busy? It must be important if you’re working a Sunday?”
I felt a pang of guilt. I hadn’t exactly lied, I had been working…sort of. But I was still in bed and I’d been reading about him. About Joe. Laney Marsh was the author of a new series of books set in Italy, where Joseph Ferrantino, A.K.A. Joe, was the main character. A month ago the final part of the manuscript for book one had landed in my mailbox for me to ‘work my magic’ as Laney had put it. Except once again it was Joe that had worked his magic on me. For over a year he’d dominated my every waking thought and featured in many of my fevered fantasies. Ever since I’d proofed the first half of the book, nearly a year ago, I had not been able to get Joe out of my mind. The word ‘Fangirl’ was far too tame for my behaviour. I’d been desperate for Laney to finish it; now I finally had the whole manuscript and I could not put it down. Like a starving street dog gorging on his first meal in forever, I devoured every word. I’d reread the first half so much over the past twelve months that the printed A4 sheets were now tattered and grubby. It reminded me of a well-loved teddy bear that had been played with too much. I’d just been reading a rather steamy part in the story when Mum had called and now I felt bad that I wasn’t as focused as I should be during the call. It’d been weeks since I’d seen Mum or even spoken to her on the phone. Christ, what a crappy daughter I am!
“No, it’s fine Mum. I could use a break to be honest and I’d love to see you anyway. Am I cooking or are we going out?” Really hoping she chose the latter option because my flat was an absolute bomb site and no way did I fancy spending the next thirty minutes frantically stuffing clothes and dirty dishes into random cupboards! I hopped out of bed and walked hurriedly across the lounge area towards the small kitchen, opened the food cupboard and cringed. Jesus, no food? I really am slipping. The empty pizza box on the side counter caught my eye. Takeaways were mostly how I survived during a reading binge.
“How about Carluccio’s? My treat.” said Mum. I silently fist pumped the air
“Great! I’ll ring now and book. 12.30?”
“OK love. Looking forward to it, see you in a bit.” Mum said goodbye and I flung my mobile on the counter top. Damn! Sorry, Joe you’ll have to wait. I didn’t have time for anything but a quick wash in the sink and shove the tangled brown mess that was my hair up in a ponytail. I looked in the mirror and grimaced. The bags under my, normally sparkly, green eyes were so big they almost warranted an excess baggage fee!
“Oh dear god! Woman put on some make up at least.” My tired looking reflection instructed me. A bit of blush, lip gloss and a sweep of mascara would have to do. I rooted around for something decent and clean to wear that didn’t need ironing; a little frustrated with myself, resentful even, that my domestic goddess status was seriously lacking lately. Was I being stupid? Joe was an obsession, I knew that. It seemed that all I did these days was lay in bed, drink coffee, eat fast food and binge on everything Joe. Was my life really that dull that my only pleasure was gleaned from a character in a book? No, it wasn’t that. I was really into my work right now that’s all.
I hadn’t really socialised much since Iain, my ex-husband, had left. The divorce had left me empty. Iain’s betrayal had pushed me into a slump so deep, no one thought I’d ever come out of it. I had thrown myself into my work, buried my head in the sand and barricaded myself away from the world. You couldn’t say I wasn’t dedicated and since I’d gained Laney as a client and been introduced to Joe, I was reasonably happy in my little flat. Mum thought I needed more friends but I had little time for socialising and anyway I had a few friends online I could chat to. The thing about divorce is that when all your real friends are couples and mostly friends of the ‘groom’, you inevitably lose them, albeit gradually but one by one they lost touch with me. I mean it’s not like they could invite me to a barbecue knowing Iain would be there- talk about awkward.
So here I was, in my new single life of two years, reading for a living and making enough to get by. I was lonely sometimes, I mean I was only twenty-nine and I still wanted love and romance, despite what Iain had done. He just hadn’t been my ‘one’. The funny thing was that upon reflection, I think I’d always known it. My one was still out there, waiting for me somewhere, I knew it. Well, I hoped anyway. Otherwise I’d be stuck being infatuated with a fictitious character forever and that was just sad…but safe. Not for the first time in twelve months did I wish that Joe was real. I mean he was perfect. Perfect for me. Almost as if he’d been written just for me to enjoy but isn’t that why every woman loves a book boyfriend? Joe was always there for me and he never let me down and never hurt me. All I had to do to be with him was open a page. Fictional or not, he was my perfect fit and that would have to do.
When I got to Carluccio’s, Mum was already seated, she waved me over to the table, two tall glasses of iced mineral water were already poured. She rose to meet me with outstretched arms.
“You look nice honey.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, hugged her and sat down. “How are you? Wow, it’s busy in here. Isn’t Dad joining us?”
“Oh, you know me. I just carry on, don’t I,” she sighed and I smiled inwardly, forever the martyr my mother, “your father doesn’t do foreign food dear, you know that.”
“Has he decided when he’s retiring yet?”
Mum let out a huff and gave me a wry look. “You know your father, he hates to be sitting idle.”
I nodded. “I know. I thought you were going to go see Immy though? You said you were saving for flights, right?” I picked up the menu and skimmed the lunch list. “Have you looked yet?”
“For flights or for food?” She asked.
“Both.” I passed her the menu. “I’m just going to order their goat cheese salad.”
“Thanks love. Oh, we’re looking at flights. I got that thing on the computer, Skytracker is it?”
I giggled. “Skyscanner you mean.”
“Yes, that one. They’re a little expensive right now so Dad put a watch on a couple and he’s going to work another few months to give us a bit of extra cash.”
“Extra? I thought you already had it covered?” I asked.
“Well…” she began, “Dad wondered if you’d maybe like to come with us?” She smiled, a little too sympathetically for my liking. Ohh, here we go. Lecture time! I’d been here five minutes that must be some kind of record. I braced myself and plastered a neutral expression on my face.
“Well of course I would, obviously. I’d love to see Immy, Mum but I have deadlines. I’m in the middle of proofing for a big client.” Mum looked a little disappointed or affronted, I couldn’t quite tell. She opened her mouth as if to say something, no doubt she had prepared a reply in anticipation of my reaction to her offer but then the waiter arrived and I was granted a momentary reprieve, perfect timing!
“Good afternoon ladies,” he nodded towards us, his notepad and pen at the ready, “are you ready to order?”
“Yes please.” I said.
“Not just yet.” Mum said at the same time.
The waiter nodded. “Not a problem ladies, I’ll return in a few minutes.”
“Could I get some breadsticks please?” I asked him. I was starving. When did I last eat?
“Certainly Madame. I’ll bring them right over.” He left and Mum looked at me, placing both her hands palm down on the table.
“Love, Dad and I worry about you. You spend far too much time on your own in that flat of yours. We thought you could use a trip and I know Imogen wants to see you.”
“Mum, why are you worrying? I’m absolutely fine! I’m just…”
“Busy. Yes. I know.” She pursed her lips slightly and gave a little shake of her head.
“What? I am busy you know. I have deadlines, I can’t just abandon my clients and bugger off to New Zealand for a family reunion. Of course, I would love to see my sister but it’s just…I just can’t go yet. OK?” Mum still looked undefeated. The woman was like a dog with a bone- she wasn’t going to give it up easily.
The waiter returned with my breadsticks.
“We are ready to order now, thank you.” Mum said. The waiter nodded. “I’ll have the seafood risotto please and the side salad.”
“And for you Madame?”
“Um, just the goats cheese salad thanks.”
“No problem ladies. May I take your menus?” He held out his hand and I passed them over. He was about to walk away when I touched his arm, If I was going to make it through this lunch I had some extras I wanted to order,
“Can I get a glass of Chardonnay too please? Large? Thank you.”
***
One very long hour and a half later and a few too many chardonnays, I was home. I slung my keys on the kitchen top as I walked past, flopped down on my sofa and, hugging a cushion to my face, muffled a frustrated scream.
“Arghhh! Every bloody time!” I shouted to the empty room. Launching the cushion across the room, I watched it disappear behind the chair. If only I could launch myself away, out of reach of everyone. “You’d think I was a flipping basket case for God’s sake!” What was it about my life choices that made my parents think I wasn’t happy? OK, maybe happy was pushing it a bit but I mean I managed, I paid my bills and I was still involved in the book industry, even if it wasn’t quite how I’d expected.
I stared at the window. It was an unusually hot British summer. I could see brilliant blue sky and zero clouds. The white chemtrail of a jet engine streaked across the blue and I wondered where its lucky passengers were escaping to. How many of them actually had a job they liked and how many were just happy to get by and pay their bills? How many were in loving relationships and how many hearts were broken…like mine? Maybe Mum was right, during lunch she’d implied I was settling for second best being a proofer. Growing up, all I had ever talked about was how I’d write my own books when I was older. I lived for books. I lived for the escape. Right now I had too many questions in my head, talking with my Mum always seemed to end up this way. As much as I wanted to see my sister, the thought of spending a few weeks with my parents, with no hope of escape, wasn’t exactly appealing.
I needed a shower. The heat of the day stuck to my skin like cling film, it irked me and I needed to slough it off. Shower first and then maybe, just maybe, later tonight I’d sit and have a think about my life.
My heavy sigh was lost amongst the cascade of water. The warmth of the shower enveloped me. I drew comfort from it and tried to relax but my thoughts strayed to the conversation I’d had over lunch with my mother. She encouraged me in everything I did, albeit a little overbearingly sometimes, I knew she meant well. In her opinion, I wasn’t satisfied with my job, she thought me capable of more. I suppose it was nice that somebody did. We talked about the possibility of me writing and she- inevitably- stated her concern about my finances; given that my previous attempts at becoming an author had failed miserably. But she encouraged me to do whatever made me the happiest. I just wished she did it with a little less derision and more tact and understanding.
I wondered if Laney Marsh had ever suffered from self-doubt. No story had ever grabbed and held my attention the way that hers had. I secretly worried that my own writing would pale in comparison if I ever plucked up the courage to try again. I’d tried writing a few times before, years ago, but I’d get so far into a story and then just give up. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had no faith in my creative abilities or no faith in the actual plot. Probably a bit of both. Combine the wracking self-doubt with depression and low self-esteem and I began to feel like an imposter. I couldn’t be an author. I was no one. People like me did not write.
I convinced myself that I wouldn’t even have time to write considering how busy I was with my client list. Laney wasn’t the only client I had on my job list right now and I was falling behind schedule. I’d been so engrossed with her book I hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else. It was the same old story, whenever my mind wandered towards writing, I always found an excuse not to.
This obsession with Joe had snuck up on me with furtive vigour and had become an almost permanent state of mind for me. Let’s face it, Laney Marsh had effectively ruined any chance I ever had of falling in love with a real man, her characterisation of Joe was so compelling, he was real to me. I highly doubted that I did have the creativity and skill to create such a dynamic character of my own. The sad truth was, I’d never know unless I bit the bullet and tried but right now, I didn’t feel ready to cope with the inevitable emotional turmoil. I was such an idiot- this constant self-torture had to stop, I even doubted my doubts!
The water pounded on the back of my neck, I rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms back trying to loosen up. I could feel the tension in them begin to ease and with it my body started to let go. The Jasmine body wash I favoured lathered up spectacularly, I loved the soft, foamy feel of it on my skin and its sweet, exotic aroma always calmed me. The scented rivulets trickled over my body and down my back, gathering in little soapy puddles at my feet. I pushed the plug of the bath down with my foot and let the water from the overhead shower start to fill it. Playfully splashing and popping the bubbles with my toes I started thinking about what would happen if I were the girl in Joe’s story. If it was me that he seduced and if he was in the shower with me right now? Closing my eyes I imagined his sultry, heavy Italian accent, visualised his whispering words of seduction, his lips perhaps brushing my bare shoulder. My skin tingled. What would he do to me? How would I react? I let my imagination and my fingers take me there…
‘Mmm, Naomi’ Joe would murmur against my neck. ‘You’re so beautiful amore mio… I want to touch you, feel you against me. Let me explore you.’
My body began to respond. This wasn’t the first time I had indulged my erotic thoughts about him and it wouldn’t be the last. My nipples sensitised as I gently trailed soapy hands up and down my body. The Jasmine scent adding its own blend of pleasure to the mix. In my mind, these were Joe’s hands that cupped my breasts and played with the aching buds at their tip. It was his steely body I Imagined pressed hard against me. I allowed myself to drift deeper into the fantasy and raised my arms above my head, interlocking them at the wrists as if Joe was pinning me against the tiled wall. Joe, kissing me, his tongue exploring, licking, tasting. I visualised one of his hands slipping down over my belly and resting on the mound of heated flesh it found. His fingers would begin an agonising tease of the sensitive area between my legs causing my breasts to heave and my stomach to tighten.
My desire for him consumed me. I willed it with every ounce of my being for it to be Joe’s touch and not my own that pleasured me. My mind pleaded with the universe for Joe’s softly spoken words to fuel the ache that filled me. The fine line between fantasy and reality blurred. My slow caresses became more intimate as I slipped a finger past my opening and began to explore vigorously.
‘Mia bella donna, you drive me crazy. Can you feel how much I want you lover?’
“Yes, Joe. Yes.” I could feel him now, his taut body next to mine and the hardness of him. I had completely let go of reality. I wanted him so much! My touch became his touch. My body became possessed by the idea of him here, naked, with me.
‘Spread your legs for me tesoro, I need to be in you…all the way inside.’ I placed my foot on the side of the porcelain bath, allowing full access. Exhaling in sharp, ragged breaths I uttered a desperate solitary whisper as I brought myself to climax, “Joe…”
***
A girlish giggle escaped my lips as I lay on my bed- damp hair wrapped in a towel my thoughts still on my little erotic encounter. At some point during my self-indulgent role playing, I had allowed my mind to drift so deeply into the fantasy, I’d felt like I’d not been alone. Obviously I knew I had been but it was just a strange feeling- like an energy in the room. My fantasies were becoming more and more intense each time. For all the immense pleasure and enjoyment it gave me, I was starting to worry that I might be letting things get a little out of hand. I was taking fangirling to a whole new level! I hadn’t had a boyfriend, as such, since Iain had left. Only a couple of one-night stands and a brief two-week fling, none of which were satisfactory. I missed sex. I wanted great sex with someone but not the relationship baggage that men my age and older came with. Unfortunately, the two seemed to go together and I wasn’t sure I was ready to trust anyone enough to commit just yet. Besides, who was there? I never really got chance to meet anyone these days because I hardly ever left my flat. Nah, I’d stick with the fantasy for now. Who out there could ever hold a candle to Signore Ferrantino anyway?
***
The setting of the sun brought little relief from the sticky summer evening. Bravery, fuelled by- yet another- large glass of Pinot Grigio, prompted me into action. I was going to do this. I was going to try and write. Fuck it! What have I got to lose? I picked up a pen and notepad and stared at it. Now what? I tapped out an impatient rhythm with the nib on the paper, chewed the pen top and continued to stare. Little doodles of five- petaled flowers and tiny houses flowed from my pen but no words came.
I’m kind of old school I suppose, or maybe it’s just a habit I picked up from university, but I always draft on paper first and type it up later. The physical process of forming the letters by hand just feels more personal, I just don’t get that from a computer screen. Something about pen strokes on fresh paper and the smell of the ink feeds my creativity and allows me to connect with the words. Except it didn’t seem to be working in the slightest now. All I could think about that was remotely interesting was Joe. Lost in tantalising thoughts of my Italian stallion, I looked again at my notepad and noticed an idly drawn a heart with an arrow through it with the initials J and N. Rolling my eyes I scribbled it out. Leaving the pen and paper on the table I got up and made for the kitchen, nothing fuels creativity more than wine! That was my excuse and I was sticking to it.
I lingered in the kitchen chewing my lip. Taking a moment to think, I found myself questioning any ideas that popped into my head, all of them seemed completely devoid of any value. Self-doubt was a sly old fox, he was outwitting me yet again without hardly even trying! As I brought the glass and the rest of the bottle with me to the armchair I wondered if I’d ever win one of our many battles? I didn’t even look at the notepad I had abandoned on the table, needing no reminder of yet another failure on my part. Who the hell was I kidding? I would never make it as a writer. It was time for this ostrich to stick her head in the sand once again.
Rifling through my tired old DVD collection, I chose a film and stuck it in the player.
“It’s just you and me again Bridget Jones.” Curling my legs under me, I pressed the play button and settled down for another lonely night with only myself for company.
***
It was late- or early- when I woke up at 2am. The bottle of pinot was empty and the DVD player had switched itself off but the TV was still on- white noise crackled in the background. I couldn’t even remember watching the end of the film. God my head hurt, had I really polished off the whole bottle? My liver wouldn’t thank me later.
Hauling myself out of the chair was an effort and a half, my legs were still asleep even if I wasn’t. I thirstily guzzled down some water in the kitchen and headed back to clear away the evidence of yet another drinking binge. When I picked up the notepad to put it back in the drawer- I saw it. The word ‘JOE’ was scrawled all over the page in various sized letters, vertically, diagonally, horizontally, even encircling the initialled heart I had drawn previously. Some were delicately written, some big and bold and several had been written over repeatedly so that the paper had worn through in places. My brow wrinkled in confusion. I didn’t remember writing any of it- the handwriting didn’t even look like mine.
“What the Hell?” My first reaction was to scan the room, looking around for anything that seemed out of place. I turned the page over, there was nothing. Snorting dismissively, I threw the pad back down, shaking my head and laughing nervously en-route to my bedroom. This obsession with Joe was getting borderline scary, so now I was doing things I couldn’t even remember?
“That’ll teach you to get drunk on a school night!” I then finished off with an “Idiot!” Just for good measure.
I crawled into bed, not bothering to get undressed, there was a lot of proofing to do tomorrow and now I had a stinking headache. It didn’t take long for me to drift off back to sleep and, comfortable in my own bed, I met Joe in my dreams.
***
The loud banging jolted me out of my blissfully heavy slumber. What bloody time was it? Squinting at the bedside clock, its red digits blinked 10:00 AM. I had overslept. Again. Wow, my body clock was so out of sync these days. I still had a headache too- brilliant. Stuffing my head back under the pillow, I uttered a long, low groan. The banging resumed.
“Arghhh! You have to be joking!” I shouted into my mattress, fists clenching the edges of the pillowcase. Someone was at the door but how the hell did they get past the front entrance downstairs without the key code? Unless…oh Christ, Mum! That meant another lengthy lecture about still being in bed at this hour. Throwing back the covers I shouted “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec!” I threw on my baggy old cardigan, noticing with dread how messy the apartment was- bloody fantastic! I huffed out a sigh, opening the door just a few inches, ready to face Mum's disapproving look and got the shock of my life. Instead, there stood Iain, my ex-husband. I felt a blush rapidly rising at the realisation that here he stood, at my door, for the first time in two years and I looked like utter crap!
“Hey sleepyhead” he teased as I poked my head around the door, trying to hide the rest of myself behind it. The corner of his mouth twitched and he raised a quizzical eyebrow at the hot mess that was me. Great! My hand flew to my hair as I replied in what I hoped was a confident, I-don’t-give-a-damn kind of way.
“Oh, hey Iain. What can I do for you?” My mind raced. Please don’t come in, please don’t come in.
“Um, can I come in? We need to talk.” And with that he stepped forward over the threshold. I reluctantly opened the door wider to let him in. His eyes swept over my messy kitchen and I groaned. His timing was bloody awful! He coughed and then said “Look, I’ll get straight to the point. I know it’s been a while.”
“Two years” I said and he smiled awkwardly.
“Yeah. Well anyway, like I was saying, I’ll get to the point. I didn’t want you hearing it on the grapevine, you know?” He paused and looked at me, eyes narrowing as if he was waiting for me to provide an answer.
“Hear what?” I asked.
“Nay…” he began. Oh God he used my nickname! The nickname he gave me. This wasn’t going to be good news. “Nay, I’m getting married.” He looked at me again. I stared back in silence. Iain looked unsure what to do so he stepped towards me, raising his arms as if expecting a congratulatory hug. I stepped backwards and gave him a look of unguarded indignation. He stopped in his tracks and immediately dropped his arms to his side. We stood in a silent face off and then he slid both hands in his jeans pockets. A few more excruciating moments of silence followed as we looked awkwardly at each other. All the pain of our separation, his affair and our divorce came rushing back to me in one dirty great big punch in the gut. I had no prepared defence for the onslaught except fight or flight- fight won.
“Get out Iain.” Surprised at how calmly the words came out, considering the broiling anger and hurt that filled me. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog, as if he’d not heard me correctly.
“What?”
“I said get out. Now. Right now. Just go. Just fucking GO!” I shouted the last word, feeling the familiar prickling of tears beginning to form which, made me even angrier. How many more tears would I have to shed over this man? This complete, utter arsehole who had promised me his heart forever and then betrayed me after only five years! I hated him. I hated that I still cared enough to hate him. I hated that he’d made me cry again. Iain looked momentarily stunned and opened his mouth as if to say something. Thinking better of it he turned on his heel and marched towards the door. He didn’t even look back when he said,
“Jesus Naomi, I was trying to do the right thing!” He walked out, slamming the door behind him without even a second glance. Wanker!
I stood in stunned silence. Did that seriously just happen? Did he really just turn up after two whole years of nothing and tell me he was getting married? Married! Why the hell would he do that? Bastard!
“Do the right thing?” I asked the door. “The right thing, Iain, would’ve been to keep your dick in your ‘effin pants in the ‘effin first place!” I was shouting now, my voice louder with each angry word. I launched myself at the closed door and a kind of strangulated, battle cry erupted from my throat as my fists pounded on the wood.
“BASTARD! ARSEHOLE! WANKER!” I screamed, punctuating each curse with a fist pound.
I was crying, not because I was sad but because I was angry. Furious with him but also with myself for allowing him to get under my skin. Why couldn’t I have just acted like I didn’t care? Or at least shown some modicum of self-control when he gave me his ‘good news’? More to the point, why on earth was I chastising myself for his behaviour? How dare he do that to me, how dare he just turn up like that, out of the blue, no warning and make me feel like shit.
“Fuck you Iain.” I flipped my middle finger at the door and then raised my other hand and gave it a double flip! It’s the very least he deserved. I realised two things as I strode angrily back to my bed, wiping tears from my burning cheeks- one, that despite the past heartbreak, I missed being loved and two, I needed to change the key code to my front door!