Learning to Love Read online

  Praise for Learning to Love

  “Women’s fiction has a rising star in Sheryl Browne. Her novels cut straight to the heart and if you’re looking for a totally engrossing read that will make you cry as well as laugh your socks off then look no further …”

  Matt Bates, Fiction Buyer WH Smith Travel

  “Learning to Love is fast paced and engaging. Not only does the romance sizzle but we see family life in all its shades of grey sprinkled with humour and sadness, and there is an element of suspense and fear. What a combination!”

  Jera’s Jamboree

  “Deals with loss & betrayal in manner that lifts it far above an average ‘chick lit’. This book goes on my top ten reads of all time!”

  Nikki’s Books4U

  “Sheryl Browne’s great style of writing brings us real characters in believable, moving yet amusing scenarios. Learning to Love is no exception to this and is another brilliant book from such a talented author. Learning to Love mixes just the right amount of humour in with a more serious outlook on life. It’s about family, as beautifully chaotic as they can be, and it’s about overcoming the obstacles life throws your way and finding love in the right place. It’s an addictive, gorgeous read.”

  Sophie Hedley – Reviewed The Book

  Copyright © 2016 Sheryl Browne

  First published by the author as Learning to Love

  Published 2016 by Choc Lit Limited (updated edition)

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Sheryl Browne to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  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 the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN

  EPUB: ISBN 978-1-78189-276-3

  Contents

  Endorsements

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Thank you

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Preview of After She’s Gone by Sheryl Browne

  Acknowledgements

  Those who know me will know that this book was written whilst I was caring for a loved one. THANK YOU readers. I could not have done it without you. Thank you, too, to all the lovely people at Choc Lit and Matt Bates, Fiction Buyer at WH Smith, who loved the book so much he took a quote from it.

  A special thanks goes to the Tasting Panel readers who passed the novel and made this all possible: Sandra F., Alexa H., Vanessa O., Siobhan K., Linda Sp., Isabelle, Claire W. and Rosie F.

  Chapter One

  Catapulted from sleep by what he slowly remembered was the ancient boiler firing up, David Adams checked his alarm and then, ‘Dammit,’ threw back the duvet and shot along the landing. Poised to press down the handle on his son’s bedroom door, he debated, and then knocked and waited. ‘Jake, clock’s ticking,’ he called. ‘Time to get up.’

  Shivering in only his boxers, David curbed his impatience and wondered again what had possessed him to rent an Edwardian townhouse in a tiny village, which retained many of its charming period features, including an antiquated plumbing system he’d come to hate over the two days he’d been here. There was the ‘spectacular’ view, of course, which the estate agent had assured him people would die for. Blowing out an icy breath, David glanced through the high sashed landing window to where the distant peaks of the majestic Malvern Hills were eclipsed by a charcoal grey mist, and concluded that if they’d viewed it from where he was standing, they very probably would die – of hypothermia.

  Jake was right. The place was a dump. And David was deluded, thinking he might do a better job of parenting here than he had in Oxford. So, why were they here? For his son’s sake, David reminded himself, that’s why he’d made the decision to take the position at Hibberton Health Centre. So he could start afresh. Work locally, while Jake attended the nearby school; and try to rebuild his relationship with his son.

  ‘Jake,’ he called again, not really expecting an answer. The most Jake had offered by way of communication since he’d picked him up from his aunt’s yesterday was the odd monosyllabic grunt, much as he’d done every time David had visited him there. He couldn’t blame him. If he were Jake, he wouldn’t have much to say to someone who hadn’t been much of a father either.

  Swallowing back the bitter taste of regret, David tried again. ‘Jake, come on. Get showered and dressed, please, or we’ll be late.’

  No response.

  Despairing, David squeaked the door open. ‘Jake?’

  Apparently determined to ignore him, Jake remained mute, moodily stuffing his feet into his trainers, his hair tousled from a fitful night’s sleep.

  Awake most of the night himself, thanks to rattling pipes and creaking floorboards, David had heard Jake tossing and turning. ‘Come on, small fry, move it. Don’t want to get a black mark on your first day, do you?’ he said, trying to cajole him.

  That worked. Eye contact nil, the boy bent to scoop his T-shirt from the floor and then attempted to push past David to the landing. ‘Jake!’

  Standing his ground, David tried to inject some authority into his voice, but his ten-year-old son’s reply was an impudent, ‘What?’

  Noting Jake’s now openly mutinous scowl, David sighed and stood aside.

  ‘Go and get washed,’ he said, an argument on the boy’s first day at a new school being the last thing he wanted. Thanks to a mix up with the keys to the house, Jake was already starting partway through the week, also midterm, which wasn’t ideal. With his aunt about to embark on a new career, though, David really didn’t have any choice. She’d already put her life on hold for the best part of a year to look after Jake until he’d sorted himself out, and leaving him home alone while he orientated himself with the surgery before starting next week just wasn’t an option. ‘You’ll need a clean shirt,’ he suggested as Jake shuffled grudgingly onwards.

  ‘Don’t have none,’ Jake retorted, without a backward glance.

  ‘Any, Jake. And there are plenty of clean shirts in the dresser. I put them there last night. I’d like you to put one on, please.’

  ‘And I like this one,’ Jake imparted, before disappearing into the bathroom to slam the door shut behind him.

  Great.
David raked a hand through his hair. Jake was testing him, he knew. Wearing his insolence like a suit of armour, all his emotions stuffed safely inside.

  ‘You have to wear a white button front shirt, Jake. You know you do. And shoes, not trainers!’ David called after him, and then sighed, frustrated. He wished he knew what to say that didn’t incite the very argument he was trying to avoid, wished he knew how to reach him. Being there for him might be a start, he decided, steeling his resolve to make that his first, and only, priority: one-on-one quality time with his son. If only he could get to the place where Jake actually wanted to spend time with him, doing whatever ten-year-old kids … David’s thoughts screeched to a halt as a reality check hit him head on.

  He didn’t know what Jake did.

  Due to his own inexcusable behaviour, he and his wife had been separated before Michelle’s accident and after her death he’d agreed it would be better for her sister, Becky, to move into his home and look after Jake until he’d got her estate in order and sorted out his own affairs. Becky was between jobs and, although grieving the loss of her sister, she was happy to take care of Jake. What with selling the family home, then with house and job hunting high on the agenda, his visits to his son had become sporadic over the last few months, and now, almost a year later … he had absolutely no idea what Jake was currently into, he realised. Yes, he knew what films he liked, the cinema being the safest bet when he had seen him. But what music or computer games were cool, David had no clue. And, other than Big Macs or popcorn, he didn’t even know what food his son enjoyed. He needed to bridge the gap somehow.

  Maybe he should get him a dog? Jake had wanted one, been desperate for one, before … before his world had been blown apart. What must be going through his mind? David wondered. If his own nights were filled with waking nightmares, what demons must be haunting Jake’s dreams?

  Curbing his thoughts before they ventured too far down that dark road, David sucked in a breath and attempted to focus on the here and now. He couldn’t realistically fit in walking a dog, though, could he? Training it. With Jake to look after and with a new job to start, he was going to be pushed for time as it was.

  Feeling defeated before he’d even got started, David headed back to his own room, wondering what he should make Jake for breakfast. He’d barely touched the pasta he’d offered him last night.

  Burger and chips, maybe?

  Still pondering, David reached for the curtains hanging precariously in the huge bay window. The agent had laughingly referred to these depressing brown and tangerine floral things as retro. He needed to get new ones. The place needed cheering up. The natural wood flooring could hopefully stay, but the ’60s nylon carpet had to go.

  ‘Grrreat!’ David closed his eyes and silently counted to five as the ‘retro’ curtains pooled at his feet, complete with rail.

  Oops. Andrea pulled her gaze away from the semi-naked male torso in the bedroom window opposite. Quite a tasty torso, too. Pity the window ledge interrupted the view. Hiding a smile, she stepped quickly away from her own window in order to spare her new neighbour’s blushes, who was now gathering up armfuls of curtains. Oh, dear. Well, it was comforting to know hers wasn’t the only household where pandemonium reigned in the mornings.

  ‘Problem?’ she asked as she turned, noting her partner’s obvious exasperation with her lack of skill in the sock sorting department.

  ‘No, not really.’ Blowing out an elongated sigh, Jonathan tugged on his mismatching socks. ‘It’s just … I don’t understand your desire to take off in another direction. I mean, selling second-hand clothes is hardly an entrepreneurial business idea, Andrea, is it?’

  ‘I am not selling second-hand clothes.’ Miffed, Andrea ignored his dishevelled Colin Firth-ish appearance and headed for the en suite. The damp tendrils of hair tickling his forehead looked the part, but the open shirt didn’t really work with striped boxers – and odd socks. ‘They’re second-chance designer, for your information.’

  ‘Well, that’ll make all the difference, won’t it? Move over, Victoria Beckham. Make way for Hibberton’s very own high-flying supplier of designer.’

  ‘Hah, hah. Sarcasm, Jonathan, is the lowest form of wit.’

  ‘Look, Andy,’ Jonathan paused, and groaned, probably realising his normally precision pressed trousers weren’t, due to a slight malfunction in the trouser press caused by a misplaced doll’s head, which was beautifully pressed. ‘I’m not being sarcastic. I’m being realistic. You’re not superwoman. You can’t single-handedly set up a shop selling used clothing, designer or not, and expect it to take off.’

  Damn. Andrea went cross-eyed in the bathroom mirror. And there was me about to slip into my sparkly skirt and cape. ‘Not single-handedly, Jonathan.’ One eye on the clock, Andrea dragged a face-wipe down her face, careless of wrinkles. ‘Eva Bunting owns the property I’m looking to rent, and—’

  ‘I know,’ Jonathan cut in, now sounding irritated. ‘I am her investment adviser, Andrea. She’s absolutely loaded.’

  Andrea poked her head around the bathroom door. ‘What, serious money, you mean?’

  ‘A fair whack. Her great-grandfather made a fortune setting up one of Malvern’s first water cure clinics. He was raking it in. Eva benefitted from the lot, lucky old bat.’

  ‘Ah, well, that would explain why she’s letting me have it at a low rent, initially anyway. Oh, that reminds me, she said you forgot to ring her. She needs to release the funds from her investment with you to get the renovation work underway, apparently. Could you do it today, do you think?’ Andrea skidded from the bathroom to the wardrobe.

  ‘Hell,’ Jonathan cursed and sighed. ‘Sorry. Slipped my mind. I’ll do it later.’

  ‘She’s going to be renting the top floors out as living accommodation,’ Andrea went on, not quite able to contain her excitement now her dream seemed to be coming to fruition, ‘but she’s offered me the shopfront for peanuts. It’s ideally placed, opposite the Cup Cake Café. You know, next to Tiny Tots, the bespoke babywear shop? And I’m not just thinking designer, by the way. I’m thinking vintage: wedding dresses, evening wear; anything retro, which is currently cool.’

  Flipping quickly through coat hangers in hope of inspiration, Andrea turned from the wardrobe, dubiously eyeing her camel coloured harem pants, which were definitely retro, but possibly not cool. Ah, well, teamed with her new wedge ankle boots and with her camel cape coat over, they’d just have to do.

  ‘Sally has some to-die-for sixties and seventies stuff for me,’ she continued, grabbing the opportunity to share her plans while she had Jonathan’s attention, ‘plus a vintage Harvey Nichols ball gown, which is totally divine. Ooh, and an absolutely fabulous Mary Quant dress. And Nita has a real treasure trove of Victorian hair accessories. You should see the burlesque feather adornments she has. They’re amazing.’

  ‘Yes, well, I still don’t understand,’ Jonathan muttered moodily. ‘Why on earth would you want to get involved in what is basically going to be a cottage industry when you’ve already got so much on your plate?’

  ‘It is not going to be a cottage industry.’ Andrea twanged a shirt-style blouse from its hanger. ‘It’s an attempt at doing something different, more fulfilling. And I know it’s going to take up a little more of my time initially, but …’

  Oh, what was the point? Jonathan seemed determined to be dead set against it. But she so needed a change of direction. Personal satisfaction aside, work-life balance dictated she needed to make changes. With three children, two of whom were throwing themselves heartily into the truculent teenager phase and one into everything toddler, and a mother who would try the patience of a saint lately, there was no balance. Her ‘plates’ were skew-whiff and her balls were dropping all over the place. Andrea knew she might never replace her income from her teaching job. But then, didn’t she pay a good portion of her salary out on childcare for Chloe anyway?

  ‘Typical,’ Jonathan muttered, glancing despairingly down at his shirt. ‘
Missing button.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time to …’ he trailed off as Andrea cast him a withering look.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, her brow knitted pseudo-sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you whip the shirt off and I’ll sew one on while I’m feeding Chloe and loading the dishwasher?’

  ‘Uh-oh, move over, Dougal.’ Jonathan glanced up sheepishly. ‘Make room for me in the doghouse.’

  There followed a timely, frenzied yap yapping, which ritually accompanied siblings at war in the mornings.

  ‘You might be in luck. I think Dougal may be about to vacate it in favour of the rescue centre.’ Andrea’s mouth twitched into a smile. Why were they arguing, she wondered. Now of all times, when, after living together for four years, and producing a child, they’d finally decided to seal their relationship? She didn’t want to fight with him, despite his presumption she’d popped out of the womb wielding a needle. It was just so … pointless.

  ‘I don’t blame him. We’ll just have to stick a sign outside saying “Beware of the Kids” instead. That should make intruders think twice,’ Jonathan replied with a smile back and Andrea remembered that was what she’d first loved about him, his easy smile. The twinkle in his eye when he’d laughed. The way those liquid brown eyes had darkened with desire the first time they’d kissed.

  He’d made their first intimate touch easy, unhurried and unselfish. But that was Jonathan, so amicable and laid-back she’d almost fallen over him on the way to the bedroom. Where had that Jonathan gone, Andrea wondered. Their lovemaking seemed perfunctory lately, almost as if the honeymoon was already over.

  He was tired, she supposed, working as hard as he did. They both were, but Andrea couldn’t help thinking there might be more to Jonathan’s moodiness than he was letting on. Could it be that he was running scared of change? The transition from footloose and fancy-free to full-time father of three must be daunting.

  ‘Mum!’ Sophie bawled along the landing, right on cue. ‘He’s done it again!’

  ‘What?’ was her brother’s innocent reply. ‘I only brushed the dog’s fur.’