Always and Forever

Sian O'Gorman

Description

How can you find yourself, when you can't face what you've lost?

Jo Woulfe and son Harry are left devastated when husband John walks out on them.

Once a high-flying Dublin PR Director, Jo is desperate to get her life back on track with the support of close family and friends.

In a bid to get out of the house, Jo joins a colourful local amateur dramatics group and gradually begins to create a new kind of life for herself, helped by sexy cyclist and artisan ice cream maker Ronan Forest.

Is she really ready to move on from her old life – and from her years of marriage to John?

And what happened three years ago that sent the couple into free-fall?

A warm, witty, compelling and emotional novel about love, family and coming to terms with your past.

Perfect for fans of Patricia Scanlon and Lucy Dillion.

What readers are saying about Always and Forever:

'I experienced everything from a beaming smile, to wiping away a tear and the cast of characters gave a wonderful mix of personalities.'

'A gorgeous, quick read, perfect for Summer – highly recommend.'

'Do not miss an opportunity to read this lovely, heartwarming story!'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Women
• Romantic Comedy
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 31 août 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800485594
• Langue: English

Extrait

ALWAYS AND FOREVER

SIȂN O’GORMAN

For Zoë

Way dack in the mists of time… Chapter 1 Soul-sappers Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Life-lifters Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Soul-sappers Chapter 9 Life-lifters Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Life-lifters Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Life-lifters Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Soul-sappers Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Life-lifters Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Soul-sappers Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Soul-sappers Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Life-lifters Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34

CONTENTS

Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Life-lifters Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Life-lifters Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Life-lifters Epilogue More from Siân O’Gorman Adout the Author Adout BolDwooD Books

WAY BACK IN THE MISTS OF TIME…

It was dusk, the strings of fairy lights hung aroun d the cricket pavilion, the band playing ‘Besame Mucho’, the singing, the slightly drunken d ancing, the long black dress I wore trailing behind me, my friends and I drinking rosé on the grass. We had reached the dying-days of college, exams dispensed with; all we wanted was to suspend time. And it was such a beautiful night, the perfect summer’s evening. For a moment, it seemed, the world did stop, and it was as though this feeli ng of balancing between two worlds would last forever. And it was at this moment, I st ood up, gathered my bag, found my shoes and was about to slip away. ‘You’re not leaving, are you Joanna?’ John Beckett was standing in front of me and I was surprised he even knew my name. He was wearing jeans, sandals and a loose shirt, unbuttoned, half-untucked. There was somethi ng so gloriously young about him; he had an energy, an excitement, a brilliance that burned brighter than in anyone I had ever met. ‘I’m not… well, I might… I don’t know what to do ex actly.’ Iwasto leave, hoping something to do with not wanting the evening to end in disarray, as it always did once the mojitos and gin and tonics took their effect. ‘ I was—’ ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘Leave.’ The name John Beckett was known to me way before I actually met him. Both of us were at Trinity College, me doing English, him, his tory. In our third year, he was president of the students’ union and always about, megaphone in hand or ripping sellotape with his teeth to put up another poster o n another lamppost. He was an organiser of things, protests, events, concerts, an d the life and soul of the college. He had to be, I surmised in my arrogant, youthful way, full of himself. I always had half an eye on John but had dismissed him, rashly, as not my type. We’d nod to each other but he always had some blond e posh-type hanging off him and I was too busy lusting after inappropriate men with long hair and skinny jeans. John hung out with the poshos of Trinity, so I sort of assumed he was one, too. You know the type, from one of the rugby-playing school s of South Dublin. Little did I realise that he couldn’t have been more different. John wen t to a normal school and lived with his Dad, Jack, in a tiny house in Sallynoggin. ‘Don’t leave?’ I said. ‘Why?’ ‘Because I’ve never talked to you and I don’t want to miss my final chance to get to know the most intriguing girl on campus.’

‘Intriguing?’ He grinned. ‘Yes. You just are.’ I’d never thought of myself as intriguing before. I t was something to savour, something to think about. Intriguing. I liked it. I smiled back at him. ‘And beautiful,’ he added. That was it. Our perfect beginning. The night we fo und each other and held on tight. John and I were married five years later, in the Tr inity Church, the reception in the cricket pavilion, the same Cuban band playing. Hone ymoon in a campervan driving around the south of France. And then, of course, reality slowly seeped its way into our so-called perfect life. Maybe it’s not good to begin with perfection, becau se then, surely, the only way is down. Was the turning point when I decided I wanted a child? Was it all my fault? John found a job at theIrish Times, working evening shifts and weekends. Anything to get started. Meanwhile, I was employed at Declan Connolly PR, a small but exclusive company which gave me great experience bu t also required huge personal commitment and enthusiasm. Both of which ran out wh en I decided I wanted a baby. Suddenly, I was fixed with a desire stronger than a nything I had ever felt for anything or anyone. My job, which I had once loved, was now far less important than my as-yet unfertilised, unrealised, child. The Blackberry and briefcase were never going to compete with my baby. But getting pregnant didn’t happen the first year, or the second. By the third I had become rather desperate and, by the fourth, more th an slightly crazed. And so our IVF years began. John, being John, was as kind and supp ortive as he possibly could be. I had gone ahead with it without really consulting hi m and each time he dutifully turned up at the clinic, before racing back to file his co py. But evenIslightly scared of the person I was rapidly me tamorphosing into, was someone single-mindedly determined, ruthless even, all softness replaced by steel. But a baby wasn’t just going to magically appear.Someoneto make it happen. And had that someone was me. At work, I managed to hide my IVF struggle from Dec co – my manager – and everyone else, fooling them all into thinking that all I cared about was work. I remember one particular meeting with some potential clients, a start-up for a new cycling-taxi service (slower than walking as it turned out, whic h was not, I realised, the point). They had a large budget and I was to pitch for the ad ca mpaign, the whole branding of the service. Fuelled by fertility drugs and gingernuts, crammed into my mouth moments before entering the room, I was ready for them. The presen tation was like an out-of-body experience. I felt invincible, suddenly imbued with an energy and a conviction that I knew it all, I was the answer to their prayers. Eve n Decco noticed. ‘Joanna,’ he said, ‘you were amazing in there.’ He grinned at me. ‘Wha t are you on? Because whatever it is, I want some.’ ‘Clomid,’ I said, but he didn’t really know what th at was and just laughed and slapped me on the back. ‘You’re on fire,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you l unch.’ And I went, because a) I like Decco and b) I couldn’t think of an excuse, when re ally I was feeling so incredibly nauseous that I thought I would throw up. Watching Decco tuck into his rare steak and

posh chips, I strained every fibre of my being to e nsure I didn’t vomit into his miniature jug of Béarnaise. And we won the contract; another gust for my Clomid-blown sails. Nicole, my best friend, was the only person who kne w I had ovulation and pregnancy tests in my handbag. The only one who kne w the whole truth about my increasing hysteria. Three failed attempts over five years. And then, Go d, Allah, Daniel O’Donnell (delete as applicable) be praised, because on my fourth rou nd, just when I was emotionally scraping myself off the ground and trying to imagin e a child-free life, I took one more test. Nicole had called round to see me after work. ‘I th ink,’ she said, peering at the stick, ‘I think…’ She stopped and spread out the leaflet f rom the box, examining the diagrams. ‘I think,’ she said, laughing now, ‘I think you mig ht be pregnant!’ We danced around and around the room, both of us crying. ‘Is this really happening, Nic?’ I said, not daring to believe it. ‘I think so,’ said Nicole, grinning at me. ‘You bet ter start taking it easy. Crack open the Dairy Milk and take root on the sofa.’ ‘It’s too much to take in.’ Nicole shrugged. ‘You’ll be fine. You always cope. You’ll be amazing.’ She always had so much faith in me. I wish I’d been able to live up to it, but now the stuffing had been well and truly knocked out of me. Where is that woman, that other Jo? Nowhere, that’s where. No wonder John eventually had enough of me.

1

Our marriage had screeched to a halt a long time ag o but it was John who finally called time. I’d stopped bothering with him, focussing ent irely on our three year old, Harry, but still sometimes – ever so rarely, but sometimes – I ’d get a glimpse of the old John. He might say something funny and I’d feel my mouth wan t to twitch into a smile, or I might spot him through the window as he cycled into the d rive, trousers tucked into his socks, wearing the slight frown he had when he was thinkin g. We used to be happy but not anymore. ‘I’m going to move in with my Dad for a wh ile. Get some space.’ John’s mouth was dry and I could see him trying to swallow . ‘Just for a bit.’ This particular bombshell was dropped on a Friday e vening, the time of year when spring has not yet sprung and the cold and dark has become an unrelenting slog. Irish winters tend to take their toll, in all sorts of wa ys. Anyway, I’d just put Harry to bed, clutching his grey rabbit, when I heard the rattle of John’s key at the door. We’d been together for fift een years by then, both of us older and more careworn than when we had met as students. He was now standing there, just inside the door, looking frozen through, his c lothes all bunched underneath his luminous cycling jacket. ‘What do you mean you’re moving in with your Dad?’ My voice was this new one I had developed, which sounded strange and unreal to me. Before everything that happened I always sounded so confident, but these d ays I wasn’t myself at all. Or rather thiswas the new me and I just had to get used to feeling l ike this, permanently petrified that life would deal a new blow. John had tears in his eyes and I thought, why isHecrying? John never cried, never in all the years since I met him and now tears were rolling down his face. He stepped forward and tried to take my hand with his damp, co ld one but I flung it away. Please, I thought, not now. Staring at him, I searched his fa ce for clues, trying to work out what he was trying to say. Was he leaving for ever? Was this the end of me and John? ‘It’s just…’ he said. He pushed his hands through h is hair. ‘I can’t…’ He still held his helmet. Put it down, I thought. Put it down and sta y. But he didn’t. ‘I have to,’ he continued. ‘For my own sanity. I’ve tried. I’ve tri ed everything. I know it makes me sound like a coward and perhaps I am, but I wish yo u would understand.’ As he spoke his jacket rustled along, accompanying his words. ‘ I’m just not coping well,’ rustle- rustle. ‘I’ve got to get my head together, some spa ce… oh, I don’t know… I just can’t breathe sometimes.’ Rustle-rustle. ‘I’m in a shop, or on the train to work and I feel that if I don’t get some fresh air I’m going to stop breath ing in front of everyone and… and…’ Rustle-rustle. ‘I need a rest.’

‘Me too. I’d like a rest!’ I found myself shouting. I quietened down, thinking of Harry upstairs and thanking God that my mother, Marietta, was at the golf club’s Friday night drinks. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just need to get away. Sort my head out, that’s all. I think…’ There were more tears in his eyes now. ‘I think I’m going to go mad if I don’t. We were both exhausted. The past few years had take n their toll. Who knew life and happiness could plummet so rapidly? Now, the though t of putting on a suit and heels and spending my days trying to please clients makes my blood run cold. Before Harry and everything else, my career in PR had been my li fe and if someone had asked me then if I ever saw myself as a stay-at-home mother, I would have laughed in their faces before taking a sip of my double-shot cappuccino. I was happy to allow John to go out to work, as long as I got to stay at home, where I felt safe and where I could keep Harry safe. Marietta had only just convinced me to let Ha rry sleep in his own room, something I resisted, until I tried it and he loved it. We al l slept better now but I still carried the baby monitor around the house and checked on him se veral times in the evening. ‘John…’ ‘It’s like there’s this cliff,’ he went on, determi ned to speak, to try to make himself understood, ‘and I’m walking along the edge and ear th keeps falling away and it’s dark and my foot is going to slip any moment. It’s terri fying.’ I knew how he felt, all too clearly. But being terr ified was just something I had learned to live with. While I retreated into mother hood and dealing with my own grief, John went another way. Far away from me. But he cou ld have come home with a tattoo of Ozzy Osbourne, or announced he was transitioning and I wouldn’t have noticed. Or cared. I was just surviving. And Harry. Harry had t o come first. John and I had separated a long time ago, only now he was moving o ut. I looked away but really all I wanted to do was to put my arms around him, to hear him whisper into my ear how much he loved me, like he used to do. To remember that feeling of invincibility between us. But we weren’t invincible. We were broken; only he had realised it before me. At the front door, he hesitated. ‘So, I’m going.’ I refused to meet his eye. ‘Goodbye Jo.’ He swung his bag across his shoulders and I wa tched him wobble off on his bike and out of our marriage.