Chasing the Sun: The laugh-out-loud summer romance you need on your holiday!

‘It’s over, Georgia. I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Who do I think I am, chasing some dream that’s so far out of my reach? I need to realise that this is my job now.’ She nodded at her baby girl, who had somehow managed to get the lurid orange paste Marie was feeding her all over her face and in her soft, downy hair. ‘You’ve seen what it’s like looking after them; it’s hard work but I do love it, and I love them. I mean, just look at how far we’ve both come! You with your super-fantastic business, me with these two little rascals. Why can’t I be happy with what I’ve got? Why do I have to chase some pipe dream?’

‘You can’t just give up though!’ I turned around, not buying what she was saying. ‘You’re an excellent actress!’

‘I can and I am, at least until they are a little older.’ She nodded determinedly. ‘But, thanks for watching them anyway. Waiting in the audition room with girls a lot slimmer, younger and hungrier than I am for the role, helped me to see that I’m tired of the auditions and the disappointments. I should be focused on my real job here.’

‘I promise I’ll be here to watch them for the next audition,’ I said firmly, ignoring her change of heart. She was too good to give up. ‘Just with less baking and less Nutella.’

‘We’ll see; anyway, try not to be too down-hearted about your deal. You’ll find something bigger and better than that. I’m sure of it.’ She gently patted my arm before Lily noisily filled her nappy. ‘She doesn’t seem to be having any trouble digesting those biscuits you gave her!’ Marie laughed and scooped her daughter up.

*

By the time I arrived home I felt wrung out. My hands were sticky, my head was banging, and melted chocolate buttons were smeared over my new top, which I’d worn thinking my day would be spent celebrating our win, not playing referee between two under-fours.

‘Hey, babe, how was your day?’ Ben called from the bedroom. I wandered in to see him sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes and the contents of his chest of drawers. Clothes were strewn everywhere.

‘Hey,’ I said, brushing off icing sugar from my jacket and picking at a dubious crusty stain on my black trousers.

‘Jeezus, what’s happened to you?’ He flicked his head up and pulled a face at the smell of sweat and defeat clouding around me.

‘Toddlers and babies is what happened.’ I tried to make my way over to him without breaking my ankle on the stacks of books or the leaning tower of video-game boxes that blocked my path.

‘You what?’

‘Marie had a babysitting crisis so I said I’d watch Cole and Lily for her.’ I saw Ben raise an eyebrow from the corner of my eye.

‘So, you weren’t at the office for the debrief call?’

I purposely ignored him. ‘Seriously, it was like a war zone.’ I shivered as flashbacks of nappy bags and tepid tea came rushing back. ‘I honestly don’t know how she does it. Although Cole was pretty cute just as I was leaving; he’d drawn this picture of us on an aeroplane. Future artist in the making, that one.’ I let out a yawn and grumbled at the state of our room. Flopping on the bed would have to wait. ‘I’ll make a start on dinner.’

I padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then pulled out a chilled bottle of white wine.

‘You want one?’ I asked Ben, as he wandered in behind me.

‘I’ll pass, thanks. Seeing how traumatised you’re acting, neither do you!’

‘What?’ I looked up, confused. ‘I meant wine; do you want a glass of wine?’

‘Oh, erm yeah,’ he mumbled sheepishly. ‘Go on then.’

I poured large slugs of Sauvignon Blanc into two glasses, trying not to spill a drop, and took a long sip, feeling it relaxing me as soon as the tang of grapes hit my throat.

‘So, apart from watching those two, how was your day?’

I turned and opened up a cupboard, pretending to be searching for something to cook for dinner. ‘Oh, fine.’

‘I’ve been waiting for your call. The final decision on the investment was today, wasn’t it?’ I could sense the excitement in his voice. ‘You nailed it, didn’t you? I knew you would!’

I swallowed down the acidic bubble of bile that had leapt up my throat. I’d been so full of confidence that we had it in the bag when I’d left the meeting. Why did I have to jump the gun like that?

‘Georgia?’ He pushed, waiting for my answer, his face growing more concerned as he took in my expression.

I shook my head slowly, hoping the words would form. They didn’t.

‘What? We didn’t get it?’

‘No,’ I squeaked, as a bag of pasta shells tumbled from the shelf and burst over the floor. ‘Crap.’

He slapped his palm against the kitchen counter, making me jump. ‘Sorry. It’s just … it’s just you sounded so sure, that it was a done deal. Our presentation was watertight. I don’t understand what went wrong? Did they give you any explanation when they called?’

Looks like it wasn’t just me who’d been spending the investment cash in our head before we’d got our hands on it. I bent down and started scooping up dried pasta from the floor.

‘They just chose to go with someone else.’ I didn’t want to say that I’d had a toddler clambering on my leg at the time of the important business call, or that my head wasn’t in the game in the pitch thanks to Shelley’s confusing and panicked text. I didn’t want him to blame Shelley or Marie for the distractions. I needed to take the blame; I should have had my phone on silent; I should have let their call go to voicemail; I should have said no to Marie. Who did I think I was, expecting to be a professional businesswoman whilst playing mum to two small children? I should have done all of this, but I didn’t. I got to my feet and dejectedly tipped the broken pasta into the bin.

‘Don’t worry, there’ll be something else. Something bigger that we can get on board with,’ I said, hoping I sounded confident, ignoring the fact that this meant a huge loss both personally and to the business. We’d stupidly been counting on that money.

Ben closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, letting out a deep sigh. ‘I hope you’re right, Georgia.’

CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_96fc455e-dfb7-54d8-ba91-302b441a0718)

Odious (adj.) – Extremely unpleasant; repulsive

I let the familiar thrum of the busy airport wash over me as I padded through the check-in hall, narrowly sidestepping floor polishers and rows of trolleys. I felt a funny pang in my chest as I walked past amorous couples kissing goodbye. Forget the arrivals hall scene from Love Actually, saying farewell to your loved ones was just as emosh. Ben was late for a breakfast meeting, so our own goodbye was more of a peck on the cheek as he rushed out the door than a heartfelt profession of love. I’d tried not to feel too disappointed he couldn’t see me off at the airport, I knew that I’d see him soon, but a small part of me felt like he was still sulking over us losing the investment, probably thinking that he could have done a better job if he’d been there. I shook away these negative emotions and made my way through security, deciding to treat myself to a new perfume in duty free to cheer myself up and get into holiday mode.

I wasn’t nervous about the long flight that loomed ahead of me; the fact that I was going to be travelling for the next twenty-four hours on my own actually filled me with excitement at having some well-deserved me-time. My out-of-office was on, I’d filled my e-reader up with beach reads, loaded up my iPod, and found this mini travel facial kit that the beauty pages of a magazine Kelli had been reading raved about.

I plodded patiently down the aisles of the plane, waiting for others to faff around with squeezing their bags in the overhead lockers ahead of me. A queue had blocked the path to my seat as the couple in front decided that this would be the perfect moment to have a detailed debate with their travel partners over who should take the window seat before taking off layers and bundling up jackets into the lockers.

I eventually got to my row, where a middle-aged woman wearing a hijab was ensconced in the window seat, rabbiting on a mobile phone in a language that I didn’t understand or recognise. The middle seat was empty and, in my seat – the aisle seat – sat an overweight man who looked about late thirties. The type who would linger around the buffet table at a party and who shopped at Big and Mighty; his fleshy rolls hung over the armrests like uncooked pastry on a pie tin.

‘Oh, excuse me. I think you’re in my seat,’ I said to him politely, noticing flakes of eczema around his scrunched-up, piggy eyes.

He creased up his round, bowling-ball-shaped face into a look of disgust that I’d deigned to pull his attention from the inflight entertainment channels.

‘What? This is 24C.’ He said this as a statement rather than a question. ‘My seat is 24C.’

He had one of those nasally voices that grated on you with every heavily articulated syllable. I hastily looked at my boarding card, even though I’d memorised it enough times in the wait to board. ‘Yep, that’s 24C but 24C is actually my seat.’ I flashed him my card to prove that I wasn’t lying.

‘Well, that’s just great. Great,’ he said through gritted teeth, glaring at me as if I’d been in charge of the flight seating plan and messed up on purpose just to piss him off and ruin his day.

I flashed him an apologetic shrug as I waited for him to swap seats. He huffed loudly but still didn’t make any effort to move and let me sit down, leaving me standing like a lemon. Passengers began tutting behind me now that I was the one blocking the aisle. I felt my cheeks heat up as I appeared to be in a stare-off with this flaky lump of lard.

‘Everything okay here?’ A pretty blonde-haired flight attendant with a crispy high quiff fluttered over, flashing us both megawatt smiles on her expertly contoured face.

‘Oh, erm, well, I think this gentleman is in my seat.’ I hurriedly passed her my ticket.

She flicked her camel-length eyelashes at my boarding card and looked at the seat blocker. ‘Sir, this lady is correct. Do you have your boarding card so I can check where your seat is?’ she asked, filling my nose with a heavy rose-scented perfume which made my stomach flip with nausea.

He huffed once more then pinged open his seat belt to get up, acting as if it took all the effort in the world. He half stood, half bent over to rummage in his sagging jeans pocket, flashing us all a glimpse of his hairy arse crack. I glanced at the passengers waiting behind me and threw them my best apologetic face. They all glared back.