Let's Not Be Friends

Phoebe MacLeod

Description

The course of true love never did run smooth, but with Phoebe MacLeod it always gets a second chance. Perfect for fans of Jo Watson, Mhairi McFarlane and Catherine Walsh.

What's a girl to do when Prince Charming turns into a frog?

City girl Sophie has married the prince (or landed gentry - close enough), moved to his pile (which is more accurate a description than she’d anticipated) and is set to live happily ever after with the love of her life . . . until she finds the other half of her perfect life in the stables with the stable girl, and they’re definitely not grooming the horses.

Shocked and appalled, Sophie’s no happier to learn that she’s supposed to 'just get on with it'. After all, according to her mother-in-law, she got the title . . . they even overlooked her family’s ‘new money’ status.

But Sophie is no one's doormat and there's no way she's going to turn a blind eye to her husband's infidelity. There may be some bumps on the road, but Sophie is going to find the life she deserves

Reader Reviews for Let's Not Be Friends: 'Loved it so much - I've already re-read it twice. The conversations with the mother-in-law are priceless. Also loved the overlap in characters with her other books' ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Reader Review

'I so enjoy a story where the female isn’t a whimpering damsel in distress. Loved everything about this book and read it in the same day. Brilliant, fun & a strong female lead' ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Reader Review

'An enjoyable five-star read, and one I’d highly recommend!' ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Reader Review

Praise for Phoebe MacLeod:

'A perfect love story'

'Humorous, light and romantic!'

'I absolutely loved it. Heart-warming, just perfect!'

'I loved every minute reading this book, light hearted and fun, finished in a day!'

'I smiled so much'

'What a wonderful book'

'Fantastic'

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Holidays
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Adventure (Guyana)
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Romantic Comedy
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Holiday
• Adventure
• Contemporary
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 23 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804262740
• Langue: English

Extrait

LET’S NOT BE FRIENDS


PHOEBE MACLEOD
To Chris, without whose encouragement this would have been a very short adventure
CONTENTS



Prologue

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


Acknowledgments

More from Phoebe MacLeod

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE

‘I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife!’
I can hear the vicar’s words, but he seems far away, as if he’s in another room. All I can see are James’ piercing blue eyes gazing into mine and, as he leans in for our first kiss as a married couple, my heart feels like it’s going to explode with love. I can barely hear our guests clapping and whooping over the blood rushing through my ears. It’s taken us just over three years to get to this point from the day we met. I’d been dragged along to a rugby match by one of my school friends, who was mad keen on one of James’ team mates but didn’t want to go on her own. I was a bit pissed off when she abandoned me in the bar afterwards in order to give Harry her full attention, but James noticed me sitting on my own and came over. We got chatting and that was that. We dated for two years before he proposed over dinner at Wiltons in Jermyn Street, and pretty much every spare moment in the last twelve months has been taken up with planning our wedding.
I wouldn’t call myself a Bridezilla, but I have put a lot of work into making sure that everything is perfect today. Organising weddings and events is my day job, so it wouldn’t have looked very good if my own wedding wasn’t up to scratch, especially as many brides could only dream of the budget I had. We kneel down and I can hear the vicar saying some words of blessing, but my mind is now working through the schedule for the rest of the day, going over it to make sure there isn’t anything I’ve forgotten. It’s pointless, I know; there’s nothing I’d be able to do to fix any problems now, but I just find it reassuring to run through the checklist and not find any gaps or pinch points.
James leads me over to our seats and the vicar starts his sermon. It’s not bad, actually. He’s repeating some of the stories that we told him about how we met and what we enjoy. I’m relieved, as I was worried it would be a long religious rant like we used to get in school. I’m not religious at all, and most of our guests aren’t, so that would have been wasted on us. In fact, I would have been quite happy getting married at a castle or some other picturesque venue, but James’ parents insisted that a church wedding was the only way to get married ‘properly’. To be fair, it does look very pretty in here with all the flowers, and the ancient church building will make a lovely backdrop for the photos after the service. I relax and glance down at the wedding ring glinting on my left hand. I can’t believe I’m actually married!
After the sermon, we traipse into the room at the side to sign the registers, and I beam with delight as the photographer takes his shots. I was lucky enough to be able to book Toby Roberts, who does the photos for quite a few of the celebrity weddings you see in magazines like Hello! He was much more expensive than any of the other photographers I looked at, but he’s the best, so it was a no-brainer. Once Toby has all the shots he wants, we form up into the procession for leaving the church. James’ hand clasps mine firmly as the vicar asks the congregation to put their hands together for Mr and Mrs Huntingdon-Barfoot, and we step out into a barrage of flashes as everyone tries to get a picture of us. I feel that I could literally explode with happiness.
As Toby takes more pictures after the service, I find myself thinking about what’s to come. The reception should be amazing; we’ve got a Michelin-starred chef in charge of the food, and Dad’s wine merchant has worked hard with us to get the right pairings for each course. And then, tomorrow, we’re off to the Seychelles on honeymoon. Two weeks of sun, sand, and delicious sex before we move down to Devon, where James’ family owns a substantial amount of land. I’ve already seen the house we’re going to live in, a perfect little cottage on the farm. It’s a bit run down at the moment, but I’ve got big plans to renovate it.
I can’t wait to start my new life.
1
FOUR YEARS LATER

It’s official: I hate the bloody Aga.
I know most people who have them swear by them, but I seem to spend most of my time swearing at mine. I wasn’t exactly an experienced cook when I moved here, but the Aga has had it in for me from day one. After my first attempts resulted in food that was either burned to a crisp or still raw, I bought various Aga books and tried to get my head around the mysteries of this completely uncontrollable cooker. It steadfastly refused to be tamed, despite my efforts, and has become ever more temperamental to the point we’re at now, where it’s impossible to predict whether it will be hotter than the sun and burn everything, or so cold that you can’t even boil water on the hotplate. To be fair to it, I suspect it needs a good service, but James tells me there’s no money for luxuries like that, so one of the farm hands comes and pokes and prods it for a bit every time it goes wrong, and it limps on.
Except for today. Today, when I have to bake and deliver two Victoria sponges to the Women’s Institute for the village fête tomorrow, it’s decided to go out completely and it’s stone cold. Bastard thing. There’s no way that I’m prepared to incur our WI president’s wrath by letting the side down, so I reluctantly lift the phone handset and dial my mother-in-law.
‘Hello Sophie, this is a surprise! Is everything okay?’ she trills.
On the surface, I get on fine with her, but there’s an uncomfortable undercurrent; I’m convinced she doesn’t really like me, but every time I’ve brought it up, James says that I’m imagining things and that she adores me. Nevertheless, I’m always wary around her.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you, Rosalind, but the Aga’s gone out and I really need to get these cakes baked so I can deliver them to Pauline. Is there any possibility I could borrow your oven for an hour or so?’
‘Of course, darling! I’ve just taken my cakes out, so it’s all yours. What a bore for you, though. Have you told James? I’m sure he can get Tony to look at it for you.’
Tony is the mechanical maestro of the farm and, to be fair to him, he does seem to understand how the Aga works. Unfortunately, he’s also a grade-A letch who thinks addressing every sentence to my chest or crotch is perfectly acceptable. I change into my baggiest jumper whenever I know he’s coming round, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference to his blatant ogling. He’s also a little too hands-on for my liking. James says he’s just friendly, but I think he’s a creep.
‘James is next on my list, if I can track him down,’ I tell her. ‘If you don’t mind me dropping the cakes round in a few minutes, I’ll go and look for him while they bake. It’ll take hours for the Aga to get back up to temperature once it’s going again, so it’ll be a microwave dinner.’
‘Poor you. I’d invite you both over, but I haven’t got a thing in!’
She’s a terrible liar. I saw the Ocado van lumber past with her latest delivery only yesterday afternoon. I’m not quite sure how she can afford to keep the big house going, employ a cleaner, and shop at Ocado when James tells me the farm is on the brink of bankruptcy and we have to save every penny we can, but I try very hard not to think about it.
‘That’s so kind of you,’ I lie in return, ‘but it’ll just be James on his own tonight.’
‘Of course it will,’ she purrs. ‘I’d completely forgotten that you’re spending the weekend with your friend.’ She emphasises the last word, as if I’m up to something unsavoury. I’d lay good money, if I had any, on the odds that a supper invitation will be forthcoming to her beloved son as soon as I’m on the train.
I’m looking forward to spending the weekend with my friend Di. I like the sense of space that living in the country brings, but I miss the buzz and hubbub of London sometimes, so a weekend in the capital is going to be a real treat, and well worth the seven-hour return train journey from Down St. Mary. When we first moved down here, James suggested I should have regular weekends in London so that I didn’t feel completely cut off from my old life and, although I don’t go as often as I used to, it’s a tradition that’s persisted. Dave, the only taxi driver in the village, is collecting me at four o’clock to take me to the station. I glance at my watch; it’s two o’clock already, so I’d better get a move on.
‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ I tell Rosalind, and hang up the phone. The cake mixture is already in the tins, so I bundle them into a box and set off up the track to the main house. The Huntingdon-Barfoots, as well as being minor nobility, used to be one of the wealthiest land-owning families in Devon, and the main house reflects their previous status. It’s huge, with twelve bedrooms, enormous formal reception rooms, and servants’ quarters in the attic. It must have been quite a spectacle back in the day but, like everything on the farm, it’s suffered as the money has dried up. As I understand it, James’ ancestors used to get most of their wealth from tenant farmers. The world wars and increasing mechanisation of farming drove the tenants away to other work, and James’ grandfather found himself having to farm the thousand or so acres on his own. To begin with, he did well and the money continued to flow in, but increasing bureaucrac