A Bumpy Year Read online

  Also by Olivia Spooner

  A Way Back to Happy

  A BUMPY YEAR

  Olivia Spooner

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

  Copyright © Olivia Spooner, 2022

  The moral right of Olivia Spooner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PB): 9781800249516

  ISBN (E): 9781800249493

  Cover design: Beth Yirtaw

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome 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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  To Mike

  1

  My heels dig into the earth as I step across the neatly clipped grass towards my friend. “Boss suspects something,” I rasp, arriving at the park bench. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath all day and need to get air flowing into my lungs again.

  Emma frowns. She looks so comfortable sitting there in her leggings and T-shirt. Hair down. Face make-up free.

  “I thought you were going to tell her last week?” she says.

  Tugging the waistband of my work trousers higher, I sit next to my friend, kick off my shoes and immediately compare our stomachs. Em must be twice the size and she’s only a month further along. Not that I’m jealous or anything. The longer I can pretend I’m not up the duff, the better.

  “She’s in a bad mood about this big project we’re working on,” I mutter. “Our client in Tokyo is threatening to pull out and I have to fly over there next week to ‘stroke his ego’, as Tash puts it.” I pause for breath. “Bloody Tokyo.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Japan,” Emma murmurs. She stares at her son, Freddie, who clambers up the slide in the playground, sits down on the platform, places his feet on the top rail of the ladder and leaps off, landing on the ground with a thump. It strikes me as a large and fairly terrifying jump for a recently turned five-year-old.

  “Isn’t he supposed to do that the other way around?” I ask.

  Em shakes her head. “Apparently it’s too boring going down the slide. You should see him on the seesaw.”

  As if he’s heard, Freddie runs to the seesaw, squeezes his two feet onto the narrow seat at one end, grips the handle, and bounces up and down with such force I’m sure he’s going to fly into the air and land on his head like some animated cartoon character.

  “How can you watch?” I ask, picturing Freddie’s skull cracking open.

  Emma sighs. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to stand by and watch helplessly as their child tries to find new and improved ways to injure themselves.”

  “Great.”

  She pats my knee, smiling. “It’s not all bad, Trish.”

  I try to block the fact I’m nearly five months pregnant from my mind. Again. Denial has worked well so far and I’m determined to cling to it as long as I can.

  “So, why is your boss suspicious?” Emma asks.

  Damn. Now I have to face facts.

  “She saw me undo the button of my trousers when we were in a meeting. I was trying to be discreet about it, but they were digging into me and I couldn’t get comfortable.”

  “You could have just gained a few pounds.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “As if she’d believe that.”

  “True.”

  I go to the gym five days a week and check calories on food labels the way others check Instagram. Emma would be horrified to learn I’ve already weighed myself three times today and each time I stepped off the scales, I had a ridiculous urge to burst into tears.

  “It’s a good thing, Trish.” Emma eyes me with concern. “You’re supposed to gain weight when you’re pregnant. I was worried when you were throwing up all the time.”

  “Thank God that’s over.” I quickly put a hand on the seat beside me. “Touch wood.” All this pregnancy talk is not what I need right now. “Have you heard from Mags since she got back?”

  “Nope. She’s coming tonight, though. We can grill her then.”

  “Excellent. I thought she might be too jet-lagged.”

  Emma grins. “Mags says she’s too high on life to be jet-lagged.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Reading between the lines, would you say that means she’s been getting some action?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Wow.” I consider what this means for a moment. “Just between you and me, it’s going to feel a little weird talking about… well… her sex life.”

  Emma laughs and I’m reminded of the years I spent at university with my three closest friends: Emma, Mags and Lily. Not only were we inseparable, but we were also powerful. Nothing fazed us. Obviously we grew up and realized the power was a smokescreen over our naivety; a smokescreen eventually destroyed by the harsh realities of adulthood, but I sometimes miss the Emma who refused to take life seriously and was game to try everything. I admired her for it. Was jealous even, since I’ve never been one to leap into any situation without considering all the facts first. Except for five months ago, when I leapt and will have to live with the consequences for the rest of my life.

  Stop it, I tell myself.

  “Freddie,” Emma calls out. “Time to go home and get ready. Daddy will be here soon.”

  Ah, daddy – such an innocuous little word with so much hell wrapped up in it.

  “How’s it going with the new arrangement?” I ask softly.

  Emma frowns. “OK, I guess.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to accept this new Paul, but it’s challenging. He’s taking Freddie to church on Sunday, for God’s sake.”

  Emma has only recently finalized a custody arrangement whereby her ex-husband has Freddie from 5 p.m. Friday to 3 p.m. Sunday on alternate weekends. At least this gives Emma a little time to herself, or some alone time with her new and improved boyfriend, Finn. Emma leads a hectic life. If she’s not trying to be the world’s best mum, she’s busting a gut running her own café. To think in a few months, she’ll be throwing another child into the mix…

  “How do you feel about the whole worshiping God thing?” I ask.

  “I don’t mind Freddie learning about Christianity – I just don’t want him going all religious on me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  An image flashes into my head of my family groomed and impeccably dressed, sitting to attention in the front row of St Joseph’s Church. My father, dressed in full military uniform, is at the end of the pew next to the aisle. He’s watching us without turning his eyes in our direction – a skill he excelled at. Once I had to scratch an itch behind my knee. The way my father went on about it when we got home, you’d think I’d picked my nose and flicked the snot at the minister’s face. There was no chance Mum was coming to my defence – she’d already returned to bed. And, of course, my two older brothers had disappeared to their room the second Dad raised his voice.

  Resting a hand on my belly, I take another deep breath, but it’s harder this time. My chest is too tight and I can’t get the air down past my ribs.

  We stand as Freddie runs over.

  “You don’t have to come to the scan with me next week, Em,” I murmur.

  “But I want to be there.”

  Emma gives my hand a quick squeeze and I force a smile. No one – not even my closest friends – knows how much effort smiling can sometimes take. How many years I’ve practised, determined to hide the hollow void I carry around inside my chest. Truth is, I’ve been making myself smile for most of my life.

  2

  “She has the most beautiful skin. It’s soft and velvety and when she
rubs against me in the shower, I feel like she’s made of silk.”

  Mags can’t even sit like the rest of us. She’s pacing about Emma’s living room with a crazed look in her eye. I love seeing her so passionate. It makes a change from her usual even-keeled self. Mags is tall, solid, dependable. The one who checks you’ve got your keys and puts reminders in her phone of everyone’s birthdays. She’s close to saint-like, especially when it comes to looking out for others. As for her cats – I’ve lost count of how many – if Mags ever ends up having children of her own, they’re going to be thoroughly indulged judging by the way she pampers her feline friends. I wonder how the new girlfriend feels about Mags’ precious furballs.

  “Did you actually leave your little love nest at any point?” Lily asks, pouring herself another glass of wine.

  Emma and I exchange a sympathetic look. It’s not easy giving up on the booze, especially when the four of us are together.

  Lily’s wearing one of her standard-issue work outfits: black trousers, black sleeveless turtleneck and black sandals. They tone in well with her cropped black hair and eyes heavily accentuated with black eyeliner and thick mascara. She’s not quite at the goth level she used to be at university, but she’s not far off. I avoid wearing black at all costs. It makes me look like a ghost.

  “Of course we did,” gushes Mags. “We walked to the local village, and we hired bikes and rode to this amazing waterfall, and we visited an ancient temple, and…” Mags throws her hands in the air. “And lots of other stuff.”

  “How exactly do you have sex?” Lily demands, blunt as always.

  Em chokes on her ginger beer. “Lily!”

  “What? I mean we’re all thinking it, aren’t we?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I’m not sure that I want to know.”

  Mags laughs. “Trish, you can take the girl out of the army but you can’t take the army out of the girl.”

  I force myself to keep a relaxed smile on my face, even as my legs start to shake. Any reference to my family makes me raise an invisible shield around me. Impossible to penetrate. My friends had better not take this army reference any further.

  “So?” prompts Lily. “The sex?”

  Mags flops onto the couch next to me and I sag with relief as the conversation moves on to safer ground.

  “It’s better than anything you boring heterosexuals will ever experience. Even you, Lily.”

  Mags has only been openly gay for three months. For the thirty-three years prior she’s been a boring heterosexual like the rest of us. Outwardly at least. It’s good to know I’m not the only one in our group who’s been hiding who they really are.

  “I might just have to take your word on that,” says Lily.

  “Speaking of sex, Lils, how’s it going shacked up with lover boy?” Mags asks, taking a huge gulp of her wine.

  I’ve never seen Mags so radiant. She deserves to be happy, but I worry this woman Mags is currently hung up on will break her heart. I’ve always found my friend’s utter faith and trust in people alarming.

  Lily makes a face. “Terrible.”

  “Why?” Em asks.

  “He irons his bloody underwear,” she murmurs, slouching lower in her chair.

  “He what?” Mags yells, with a huge grin “That’s appalling!”

  “Disgraceful,” Em says.

  “Unforgivable,” I add, smiling despite myself.

  My friends can always make me feel better. Their friendship is more precious than they’ll ever know.

  “Yesterday, I got home late from work and he’d not only cooked a proper meal, but he’d also left mine in the oven to keep warm,” says Lily.

  “Outrageous.” Em’s face is one of mock horror. “What did he cook?”

  Lily scowls. “You’d have loved it. There was salmon with some kind of fancy stuff on the skin, and that dish with thin layers of potato”

  “Dauphinoise,” says Emma.

  “No, that stuff you get in fancy pubs… You know, with the creamy sauce.”

  “Gratin.”

  Lily points her finger at Mags. “That’s it. A bloody potato gratin.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Emma. “Or, as the French would say, dauphinoise.”

  “All right, you two with your fancy food terms. I bet you can’t tell me what the vegetable was?”

  “Charred broccoli and leeks,” I state.

  Lily stares at me. “How did you”

  “The recipe was in the pull-out food guide in the paper last weekend.”

  Lily drops her head in her hands. “Well that just makes it even worse,” she mutters.

  We all laugh and I enjoy the sensation. I’ve been working on finding more joy. It’s the topic of a book I’ve been reading called Find Your Bliss. I hate the title, but the author makes some interesting suggestions. Every night before I go to sleep, I write down three things during that day I was grateful for. It’s supposed to make me focus on the wonderful gifts already present in my life and shift my thoughts away from the negative. It can be the smallest of things: the way light filters through the trees, the earthy smell after rain, a smile from a stranger. Mentally, I’ve added this moment to my list.

  “How about you, Trish? Seen pie-boy lately?” Mags asks. “Or Pete,” she adds warily.

  I exhale and feel the fleeting moment of happiness disappear with my breath. The mere mention of Pete has me gulping for air.

  “I’ve been avoiding both of them as much as possible,” I say. “Elliot phoned me on Wednesday night and asked if he could come over.”

  “And did he?” says Lily.

  “No way. That’s done and dusted. Even if I did want him to come round, nothing would have happened. My boobs are way too sensitive. Even in the shower, I can’t face the nozzle. If the water hits them full on, it’s like a thousand tiny needles poking me. Just the thought of someone trying to touch these guys makes me shudder.”

  I glance down at my large breasts. Boulders more like. The girls have all said to me at various times over the years how they wish they had big boobs like me. They have no idea. If there was one part of my body I could change – and believe me, there are a number of less-than-ideal areas to choose from – I’d shrink these two giant lugs to a quarter their size. Especially now. I remember Emma boasting about her bigger breasts when she was pregnant with Freddie, but I thought it wouldn’t happen to me, for some reason. I mean, she had room to grow. I was already at maximum capacity.

  “Probably for the best, Trish.” Mags gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. “At least until you find out who the father is.”

  And there it is.

  Sensible, ambitious Trish is not only pregnant, but she also has no idea who the bloody dad is. Well, she can narrow it down to two and she oscillates daily on who she’d prefer the father to be, but this wasn’t part of her plan. Wasn’t even on the radar.

  If Pete hadn’t turned up again after two long years to try to break my heart all over again, and if I hadn’t had a moment of stupid weakness and fallen into the eager arms of pie-guy, I wouldn’t be stuck in this hellish situation to begin with.

  I put a hand on my stomach and silently apologize to the foetus lumped with me for a mother. It’s not that I won’t love you or take care of you – I’m just not sure I’m ready for this.

  I wonder how my mother felt when she discovered she was pregnant with me. Was she happy to be having another baby? Excited? Terrified? As a child I’d often catch Mum looking at me with eyes so full of despair that I thought she was silently wishing I’d never been born.

  Lily claps her hands together and springs to her feet.

  “Now, let’s stop talking about sex, guys and babies, and turn our attention to something far more important.” She strides into the kitchen. “What delicious morsel have you got waiting for us in here, Em?” she calls. “You realize we only come here for the food.”

  Mags starts laughing and Emma joins in. I attempt to laugh, too, but I’m distracted by this strange sensation in my lower stomach. It’s like there’s a silent mobile phone ringing inside me. It’s vibrating and leaping about, trying to get my attention. I slide one hand over my stomach and there are little flutters beneath my hand.

  My heart begins to beat fast and hard and I feel light-headed. It’s real. This baby thing is really happening. Patricia Kirkpatrick, only daughter of Colonel Reynold Kirkpatrick, is having a child out of wedlock to a father who is yet to be identified. It’s laughable really, considering my upbringing. There’s no way in hell I’m telling Mum and Dad, or my older brothers. Not that it’ll be hard. I haven’t spoken to any of them in years.