Your Place or Mine?

Portia Macintosh

Description

The BRAND NEW laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from bestseller Portia MacIntosh!

'A fun, fabulous 5 star rom com!' Sandy Barker

'The queen of rom com!' Rebecca Raisin

'Loved the book, it's everything you expect from the force that is Portia! A must read' Rachel Dove

Two reluctant housemates. One question: Is this your place or mine...?

When Serena is kicked out of her flat, an offer from her friend, Taylor, to house sit for her while she and her husband go travelling could not be better timing. But unfortunately for Serena she’s not the only one to have received this offer…

Enter Ziggy: arrogant, messy (and annoyingly handsome) musician, and friend of Taylor’s husband. Living with him is far from ideal, especially when he claims the best room, has loud parties - and the least said about his kitchen manner the better...

There's just one solution for Serena – drive him out of the house by being twice as difficult to live with than he is! But Ziggy knows Serena's game and as war ensues between them, being forced together under one roof may result in some unexpected consequences...

Don't miss bestseller Portia MacIntosh's brand new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy, guaranteed to put a smile on your face.

Sujets

• Mashups
• New Adult
• Feminist
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Suspenso
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Romantic Comedy
• General officer
• Woman
• Feminism
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Contemporary
• Family Life
• Romance
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 17 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804266489
• Langue: English

Extrait

YOUR PLACE OR MINE?


PORTIA MACINTOSH
For Joe – who is very easy to live with
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

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40


Acknowledgments

More from Portia MacIntosh

Also by Portia MacIntosh

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1

Your wedding day is the most special day to ever occur… just like everyone else’s.
Ellen certainly believes hers is. She’s sitting opposite me, talking relentlessly about her upcoming wedding, as well as trashing supposedly terrible weddings she has attended previously, and all the while, she’s making me taste cake after cake after cake. I never thought I could get sick of cake, but here we are.
If people knew before they agreed to be a chief bridesmaid for the first time exactly what it was going to entail, it’s hard to imagine anyone would say yes. And I seriously struggle to believe anyone would do this twice. I suppose there’s a mutual element, between best friends, where you are one another’s chief bridesmaids on your big days, but god help the person who marries first, because, after months on end of all of this, the second person to tie the knot won’t just want all the usual bridesmaid duties carrying out, they’ll want revenge too.
‘It’s supposed to be fruit cake, isn’t it?’ Ellen asks as she uses her fork to rifle through a vanilla sponge, as though she’s going to find the answers she is looking for inside it.
‘It’s a tradition, but one that more and more couples are turning their back on,’ I reply. ‘Fruit cake is supposed to be a sign of fertility. The idea is that you would serve it in the hope that it would bring you lots of kids in the future. In fact, they say that the reason you have a cake with three tiers is so that you can serve the bottom tier on the day, hand out the middle tier to guests to take home, and save the top tier in your freezer – to eat at your first child’s christening.’
‘You save it?’ she replies in disbelief.
‘Yeah, you preserve it in the freezer,’ I say, in no way keen to do so, just relaying the facts.
‘But what if you don’t have kids?’ she asks. ‘Or if you wait a really long time to have them, when you’re old, like when you’re in your thirties or something?’
I decide not to unpack her remark about people in their thirties being old. I can’t have that on my plate right now, not when it’s already piled high with cakes I don’t want to eat.
‘Some people eat it on their first anniversary,’ I say. ‘But obviously you don’t have to save it at all.’
Ellen puffs air from her cheeks.
‘I don’t know, cake that gets you pregnant and can survive for a year – it makes you wonder what on earth they’re putting in them.’
She says this with a real look of horror. Then she narrows her eyes at me almost accusingly.
‘I’ll stick to sponge,’ she says eventually. ‘Vanilla, lemon or chocolate – what would you do?’
‘I would probably do a tier of each,’ I admit. ‘So that there’s something to please everyone.’
‘Ah, but see, it would be your wedding day,’ she reminds me. ‘Forget what the guests want. You’re supposed to please yourself and no one else.’
‘And the groom, of course,’ I point out.
‘I guess, a bit,’ she says begrudgingly. ‘But everyone knows it’s all about the bride, right?’
Ellen gives me a wink. It’s probably best I don’t say anything in reply to that.
‘We’ve not tried that one, with the pink frosting,’ Ellen says. ‘Come on, let’s compare it to the vanilla.’
A single hiccup escapes my lips. I only had lunch – including dessert – less than an hour ago, I’m so full, I can’t possibly fit another bite of cake into my mouth. I hesitate and Ellen notices.
‘Please,’ she pleads with me. ‘It’s hard enough being a bride, I can’t do this on my own. This is why brides have a chief bridesmaid, to help make decisions like these.’
I use a fork to cut the tiniest piece of cake from the edge of a slice. As it hits my tongue, the sugar in the strawberry frosting attacks my mouth, provoking my saliva glands into overdrive to try to dilute the sweetness.
‘I like the strawberry frosting the most,’ I reply.
‘You ought to let your face know,’ she ticks me off. ‘You don’t look like you’re enjoying it.’
I can’t help but massage my left temple with my free hand. I grip the fork tightly in my right. Be polite, Serena.
‘Sorry, I’m just so full, I had a big lunch,’ I reply.
‘But you knew we were doing this today,’ she snaps back. ‘We’ve had the appointment for months.’
I don’t feel like I owe her an explanation. Still, I give her one.
‘The guy I’m dating took me out for lunch, to celebrate his promotion at work,’ I reply. ‘I ate way too much – and then I had a huge dessert. They’re all gorgeous cakes, I just can’t physically fit any more food in my body.’
‘All right, it’s not all about you,’ she reminds me through an unamused frown.
However I’m feeling right now, I feel even more sorry for Ellen’s poor fiancé, because she’s really starting to seem like the bride from hell.
‘If we can just try the chocolate one…’ she starts up again, ignoring every word I just said.
Ellen doesn’t get to finish before we’re interrupted by Arnold, the longest-serving host at Diana’s Tearoom. He’s just made his way through the busy tea room, weaving in and out of gorgeously laid-out tables, crowded with ladies who lunch, sitting under chandeliers while a pianist plays ambient music. He has a frazzled-looking, petite brunette with him. She plonks herself down at the table with us.
‘I know, I know, I’m late,’ she babbles as she kicks her bags under the table. Then she turns to me. ‘Who the hell are you?’
She’s talking to me. Arnold gives me a sympathetic smile before returning to his post.
‘I’m Serena,’ I reply.
She briefly widens her eyes, as if to command more information from me.
‘She’s the baker,’ Ellen replies. ‘Well, you stood me up, and I needed someone to taste cakes with me.’
My life isn’t interesting enough – and I don’t have nearly enough friends – for me to be someone’s chief bridesmaid. I was just a placeholder cake tester, until Ellen’s real friend got here.
Ellen turns to me.
‘You can go now,’ she says casually. Pah, and after everything we just went through together.
By the time Ellen finishes her sentence, something appears to switch off in her brain. I am officially out of her orbit. Her friend shoos me away with a jerk of her neck.
‘I wondered what you were doing hanging out with one of the maids from Downton Abbey ,’ Ellen’s friend teases her with a snort.
I run my tongue across my front teeth as I stand up, keeping it busy so I don’t accidentally speak my mind. Speaking your mind only ever gets you in trouble, doesn’t it? Fair enough, my black knee-length dress with the lacy white apron isn’t the coolest, and with my long blonde hair pulled tightly into a low bun (garnished with a dorky frilly white headpiece), it doesn’t do my round face any favours, but come on, cut me some slack, I’m at work.
To Ellen, I might be nothing more than a placeholder friend and ‘the baker’ but my role here at Diana’s is more varied than that. I’m somewhat of an up-and-comer in the kitchen, learning to make all the fancy cakes and delicious sandwiches in the iconic ‘Diana’s style’ that people travel for miles to try. It’s a step up from when I started working here as a waitress, but alongside working in the kitchen, I’m also overseeing some aspects of the wedding catering we offer.
Diana Atwood, the brains behind the tea room, said she was giving me extra responsibilities so that I could work out where exactly in the business I thought I might be the happiest. Waitressing was never the plan, but Diana gave me a job when I needed one, so I really appreciate her letting me stretch my wings like this, to try to find something I enjoy. I have to say, after meeting a few too many brides like Ellen, I’m starting to lean more towards working in a role that isn’t customer-facing.
‘Another happy customer?’ Maël asks, seeing the look on my face.
Maël is our resident French patisserie chef. Well, he’s French on his mum’s side. His last name is Smith and he was born in Halifax and raised in Horsforth, but he thinks his heritage lends him an authenticity you can’t put a price on – I just think he’s great at his job.
‘Another bridezilla,’ I correct him. ‘Honestly, I thought they were only creatures that existed in fiction. I’m peddling a theory that something early in the wedding-planning process possesses women.’
‘Perhaps it’s the pressure of throwing a party spectacular enough that you can make peace with the idea of being with one man for the rest of your life,’ he wonders out loud.
I scoff.
‘You’ve been with Martyn since Year 11,’ I point out.
‘Don’t remind me,’ he replies, although I know he doesn’t mean it. ‘His latest big idea is moving to Edinburgh to live closer to his sister and her brood.’
‘You don’t fancy it?’ I ask curiously.
‘Not really,’ he replies. ‘Mostly because I love this job so much – put the kettle on.’
I do as I’m told. We probably drink just as much tea behind the scenes here as we serve in the tea room.
‘If he keeps pushing me, we might need Serena the scam artist to rear her head again,’ he says with a laugh.
‘Scam artist?’ Clare asks after barging through the double doors, bum first, dragging a trolley loaded up with dirty dishes.
Clare is one of the servers here. She’s got decades of experience on me. I feel like I’ve learned so much from her in the year I’ve been w