Hook, Line and Single , livre ebook

HOOK, LINE AND SINGLE


PHOEBE MACLEOD
To Richard
CONTENTS



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


More from Phoebe MacLeod

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Phoebe MacLeod

Boldwood Ever After

About Boldwood Books
1

The sound of the front door closing with a bang surprises me, and I glance automatically at the clock on the wall. Seven thirty. Given that it’s a Friday night, that’s way too early for my flatmate Sam to be coming home. In fact, I wasn’t expecting her home at all tonight.
‘Everything OK?’ I call.
‘No, of course it fucking isn’t,’ her voice replies in a snarl from the hallway. A moment or two later, she bursts through the sitting room door with a crash, startling Samson awake. I wince as he drives his claws into my thighs before leaping to the floor ready to make a quick escape.
As soon as I see her, it’s obvious that something is very wrong. Her eyes are bloodshot and there are tear stains on her cheeks, delicately framed by the last vestiges of the mascara she applied so painstakingly before she went out. She’s clutching a bottle of wine and has a manic expression on her face.
‘Jason?’ I ask.
‘Yup.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘You know, Ruby, I never thought I’d say this, because I don’t want to turn into an embittered old woman, but it’s true. All men are bastards.’
‘What happened?’
‘Usual bastard stuff. I need a glass of wine the size of a fish tank and then we can play bastard bingo if you like. Want one?’
‘Yeah, why not.’
I follow her into the kitchen. Samson, having realised that he’s not in immediate danger, also saunters through, evidently hoping for some kind of treat. When we don’t immediately pander to him, he begins winding himself round Sam’s ankles and purring loudly.
‘It won’t work,’ she tells him sadly as she reaches down to stroke him, increasing the volume of his purring to road drill levels. ‘You may be the handsomest cat in Margate and named after me, but you’re still a boy and therefore firmly in the bastard camp today. Sorry, Samson.’
He seems totally unfussed by her pronouncement and continues rubbing his cheek against her ankle as she fights to remove the foil from the bottle.
‘Here, let me,’ I offer. ‘If you carry on like that, you’ll slice off a finger, and that won’t improve your mood at all.’ I gently prise the bottle out of her grip, remove the foil carefully and open the drawer to find the corkscrew.
‘This is a bit posher than our normal screwtop stuff,’ I observe as I ease the cork out with a soft pop.
‘You need expensive wine for break-ups,’ she remarks simply. ‘The cheap stuff is fine if you’re in a good mood, but tastes like vinegar when you’re upset.’
‘Have you eaten?’ I ask after I’ve handed her the open bottle and a glass, watching her fill it to the brim before taking a large mouthful.
‘No. Fucker didn’t even have the decency to buy me dinner before shitting all over me. Bastard.’
I sense this is going to be a long evening, so I pour myself an equally generous glass, taking a sip rather than the glug that Sam took.
‘I’ve got a cottage pie in the oven. I expect we can stretch it between us if I add enough vegetables.’
She sighs. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘I know, but you need to eat something to soak up the wine, otherwise you’ll feel like shit in the morning.’
‘I’m going to feel like shit anyway. Might as well do it in style.’ She takes another large mouthful, half emptying the glass.
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ I ask gently.
‘No. Bastard bingo will be more fun. You give me as many cliché break-up phrases as you can think of, and I’ll give you a point for each one he used.’
At least she hasn’t lost her sense of humour. I smile. ‘How many points do I need for bingo?’
She considers for a moment. ‘Four. No, five that I can remember. What’s your first guess?’
Now it’s my turn to think. ‘“It’s all moving too fast,”’ I say after a couple of seconds.
‘Strong start. One point to you. Next?’
‘Umm, he could go one of two ways here. “I’m confused” or “I think we need a bit of space.”’
‘Which one are you going for?’
‘Can I have both?’
‘Of course. He used both, so you’re up to three points.’
‘Oh, God,’ I exclaim, getting into the game now. ‘He didn’t try “it’s not you, it’s me”, did he?’
‘He absolutely did. Four points. One to get.’
I wrack my brains, but I’m coming up short. Sam is watching me over the rim of her glass.
‘Come on,’ she prompts. ‘You’ve got the hard ones. This is a total no-brainer. Stop overthinking it. This is Jason we’re talking about, remember?’
I stare at her, willing inspiration to come, but my mind is blank. After a while, she sighs expressively. ‘Are you seriously telling me you can’t think what it might be?’
I’ve played bastard bingo with her several times before; unfortunately, Sam has a bit of a track record where choosing useless boyfriends is concerned. I try to cast my mind back to the previous game, after Kyle dumped her, and inspiration finally strikes.
‘“I hope we can still be friends!”’ I exclaim triumphantly.
‘Bingo! Give the woman a prize.’
I step forward and wrap my arms around her. Hers come up automatically in return, and I can feel her ragged breathing as her mood plummets again and she begins to sob against my shoulder.
‘Why is it always me?’ she moans indistinctly into my T-shirt after some time has passed.
‘I don’t know.’ I do have a suspicion, but she’s in no fit state to hear it. One of the many things that I love about Sam is that she throws herself wholeheartedly into everything she does. She’s enthusiastic almost to a fault, and that applies to her relationships as well. I secretly wonder whether this ‘all-in’ approach to life actually intimidates the men she meets, causing them to back away, usually after a couple of months. Jason’s typical of the breed; I try not to track it, but I reckon they would have been going out for eight weeks on Sunday if he hadn’t dumped her.
I hold her until she gently starts to release me.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask carefully.
‘No, but you know me. I’ll live. Maybe I’ll finally take a leaf out of your book and swear off relationships forever. How do you do it? Don’t you want to fall in love?’
‘What for? I’ve got Samson for cuddles, and who needs all the hassle and faff of disappointing sex with a man when vibrators exist? Simple, efficient and get the job done reliably, unlike a bloke.’
‘Jason said he didn’t think I was as “in” to sex as he was,’ Sam remarks sadly. ‘I did at least have a decent comeback for that.’
‘Which was?’
‘If he had the faintest idea how to please a woman, and didn’t come before I even had a chance to get going, I might have been more in to it.’
‘Nice. Hit him where it hurts. I read somewhere that men take it very badly if you criticise the way they make love or drive. There was a third one as well, but I can’t remember it.’
‘Shame. I’d have thrown that in too if I’d known. He’s a terrible driver.’ She giggles. ‘He thinks he’s so cool with his pimped-up Fiesta, but I hate that car. It’s noisy, uncomfortable and you can’t hear yourself think over the thudding of the stereo. I won’t miss that. Maybe I’ll creep round there in the middle of the night and scratch a motivational message into the custom paint job that he paid so much for.’
‘What would you write?’
She ponders for a minute. ‘“If I look like an arsehole and I sound like an arsehole, chances are I’m an arsehole.”’
‘I like it.’
‘On the other side, I’d write “I fuck like I drive. Badly.”’ She takes another swig from her glass, draining it completely before reaching for the bottle to refill it.
‘Why don’t you go and have a hot bath?’ I suggest. ‘I’ll call you when dinner’s ready, and then we can watch a weepy on Netflix if you like. That always cheers you up.’
‘I love you, you know that, right?’ she says.
‘Of course I do. I love you too. Now go.’
I watch as she potters off in the direction of her bedroom, carrying the glass of wine. Sensing that she’s not going to meet his demands, Samson switches his attention to me. I pick him up and put him over my shoulder, causing a fresh outbreak of purring so intense it feels like my brain is vibrating.
‘All right,’ I tell him as I reach into the cupboard. ‘One treat. That’s all though, remember what the vet said about your weight.’
Samson nuzzles my neck with his cheek. If he could talk, I reckon he’d be saying, ‘Screw the vet, what does he know about anything?’
Having dealt with the cat, I turn my attention back to dinner and start rummaging through the vegetable drawer in the fridge to see what I can use to bulk out my cottage pie for one. Samson watches me hopefully for a minute or two, clearly wondering if he can con another treat out of me, before giving it up as a bad job and stalking off in the direction of the sitting room with his fluffy ginger tail held high. I know I joke about him meeting my emotional needs, but he’s just affectionate enough without being needy, which is perfect for me. Sam and I got him as a kitten from a rescue centre when we first moved into our ground-floor flat in Margate. We ran through hundreds of possible names for him before settling on Samson – the joke being that he’s Sam’s son. Despite him being named after her, we both absolutely dote on him and he takes full advantage whenever he can. We did have a conversation a year or so ago about who would keep him if one of us moved out but, thankfully, it wasn’t prickly. Sam had been typically generous.
‘The only thing that would make me move out, Ruby, would be if I was madly in love with someone and