Five French Hens

Judy Leigh

Description

The best days of your life might be still to come…

When 73 year old Jen announces that she is going to marry Eddie, a man she met just a few months previously on a beach on Boxing Day, her four best friends from aqua aerobics are flabbergasted.

The wedding is booked and, when the groom decides to have a stag trip to Las Vegas, the ladies arrange a hen party to beat all others -a week in the city of love, Paris.

From misadventures at the Louvre, outrageous Parisian cabarets, to drinking champagne with a dashing millionaire at the casino, Paris lives up to all their hopes and dreams. But a week can change everything, and the women that come home have very different dreams from the ones who got on the plane just days ago.

Funny, fearless and with a joie de vivre that reminds you to live every day like it’s your last. Judy Leigh has once again written the perfect feel-good novel for all fans of Cathy Hopkins, Dawn French and Fiona Gibson

Praise for Judy Leigh’s books:

‘Brilliantly funny, emotional and uplifting’ Miranda Dickinson

'Lovely . . . a book that assures that life is far from over at seventy' Cathy Hopkins bestselling author of The Kicking the Bucket List

'Brimming with warmth, humour and a love of life… a wonderful escapade’ Fiona Gibson, bestselling author of The Woman Who Upped and Left

What readers are saying about Five French Hens

'It was laugh out loud funny at times and I would definitely recommend giving it a go.'

'highly amusing and gives her characters depth and feeling.'

'very enjoyable novel which I have no hesitation in recommending.'

'The story was great fun, covered each of the ladies in depth, and was very well-written. I loved it and would highly recommend it.'

'their transformation was absolutely awe-inspiring.'

'I enjoyed every bit of the story!'

'This book has a little bit of everything, romance, humor, and suspense'

'this book is a delightful, poignant read - one that reminds readers that life doesn't end when you reach a certain age - in fact, it just gets better.'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Romance contemporaine
• Europe
• France
• Humour
• Fiction
• Romance
• Family Life
• Topic
• Holiday
• General
• City Life
• The Women
• Woman
• General officer
• Sibling
• Romantic Comedy
• Friendship
• Men
• Coming of Age
• Women
• Humorous
• Siblings
• Holidays

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 05 décembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838894535
• Langue: English

Extrait

FIVE FRENCH HENS


JUDY LEIGH
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
This paperback edition first published in 2020.



1
Copyright © Judy Leigh, 2019
Cover Design by Lexie Sims
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of Judy Leigh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition. 
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-83889-835-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-83889-453-5
Kindle ISBN: 978-1-83889-454-2
Audio CD ISBN: 978-1-83889-460-3


Digital audio download ISBN: 978-1-83889-452-8

Boldwood Books Ltd.
23 Bowerdean Street, London, SW6 3TN
www.boldwoodbooks.com
For my mum, Irene, who opened the door.
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


Acknowledgments

More from Judy Leigh

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1

Jen held the umbrella over her head and listened to the rain drumming on the canvas. It would be cosy inside the pub. The wind blew hard through the material of her jacket. She’d thought she’d be warm enough, but there was ice in the February gusts that sifted around the corner and lifted her hair, rearranging it across her face. She’d spent the afternoon in the hairdresser’s and had been pleased with the glossy style, silver strands streaked through the chestnut locks. In the grey suit and neat heels, she’d thought she’d look smart, but the cold weather and the sharp breeze had taken the edge off her preparations and she was sure her nose would glow red beneath the light dusting of powder. But Eddie wouldn’t mind – the first thing he always said was how nice it was to see her and how lovely she looked.
There were posters in the windows of the Olive Grove, huge red hearts and cute Cupids with arrows, proclaiming the evening’s special Valentine dinner. Jen could hear the hushing of the waves breaking against the sea walls in the distance and, from down the road, the crisp sound of approaching footfall. It was Eddie, in his pale mackintosh, the collar up, looking debonair, just like Inspector Morse. It was seven thirty, sharp.



* * *
Half seven, thought Rose. The torture must end soon. Little Amelia’s nimble fingers pressed the pristine ivory keys on the piano: the discordant jangle made a pulse in Rose’s head throb.
‘Try again from the beginning, dear,’ she murmured, watching the second hand twitch on the wall clock. It would soon be over and Amelia would leave her in peace. Rose sighed and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Shall we call it a night, dear? I think Mummy’s here – someone just rang the doorbell, I’m sure.’
Amelia slammed the piano lid down without turning round and stood up, still in her school uniform, tidy in the crisp white blouse and tartan skirt, her blonde plaits neatly secured with bows. Rose held up the child’s coat and led her to the door where a tall, slim woman with dark hair in a no-nonsense cut and a smart coat was standing in the porch, the rain teeming behind her. Amelia went straight to her and took her hand, a dutiful six year old. But Rose was sure that the child wrinkled her nose and stuck out the edge of a pink tongue at her. Amelia’s mother smiled, although her eyes remained cold.
‘How was Amelia’s lesson, Mrs Grant? She’s been practising all week. Is it time for her to be put forward for a grading?’ She held out two notes, a ten and a five.
Rose noticed Amelia scowling. She was unsure what to say, her hand fluttering in front of her face. ‘She’s making progress, Mrs Bassett. Soon, I hope.’
Amelia’s mother frowned. ‘My friend, Sally, tells me that Joni Yates puts all her pupils in for grading early. They all seem to pass with distinctions too.’
Rose sighed. She wished she could tell the woman to take her child to Joni Yates, then, and see how she coped with Amelia, who clearly didn’t practise anything from one week to another. But her pupils were becoming scarcer: she had no idea why she didn’t just retire. After all, it wasn’t as if she needed the money. Bernard had left her comfortably off and piano teaching was a routine that left her feeling unfulfilled, flat, without energy. ‘Keep practising Für Elise , Amelia, and maybe we’ll discuss grade entry next week.’
Amelia gazed up at her mother, her tiny brows meeting in a knot. ‘Furry Liza is boring, Mummy. Can I learn the violin instead? Elsa in my class goes to violin. She says the teacher is really cool.’
Amelia’s mother met Rose’s eyes, as if her daughter had just made up her mind for her, and turned on her heel, tugging the child towards the pouring rain and a dark car parked by the kerb. Rose closed the door, locked it securely with the bolt and chain and muttered, ‘Minx.’ As an afterthought, she mumbled, ‘What a blessing that Beethoven was deaf. If he’d heard Amelia slaughtering his Für Elise for the last forty-five minutes, it would raise him from the grave.’
She stood in the hallway, thinking. Half past seven. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and then just a slice of toast. She wasn’t really hungry, but she ought to look after herself better. Her skirt was hanging off her, the waist baggy, and her legs felt weak. She would find something in the freezer, something with calories. There was a box of macaroni cheese for one. She could heat it up in the microwave. Rose sighed again. She didn’t like February. Spring was too far away and the house was too cold. Besides, Bernard had died in February two years ago and each year she felt the cold, haunting loneliness grasp her by the shoulders and whisper in her ear that she was by herself and companionless and that was how it would always be now.
Of course, she had her new friends, the four women she’d met at aqua aerobics last October when the club first started. They were nice women, but they only met for coffee once a week and then she came home alone and it was back to the silence again. She shuffled into the lounge and picked up a yellow duster, rubbing it over the piano. It had been hers and Bernard’s. He had been a wonderful musician, a church organist too. She replaced their wedding photo lovingly on top, over the circle left by a wine glass years ago. Not hers, of course – it might have been made by their son, Paul, one Christmas when he’d visited with the children. His visits were a rare thing nowadays – he was a busy man, of course, he had an important job.
Rose stared at the photo, black and white in the silver frame. It all looked so dated now. Bernard was in his suit, a flower in the lapel, his hair wavy, a broad grin on his face, and she was much shorter than him, gazing up in the lacy dress, her eyes full of love. That had been in 1967 – it was so long ago and yet, strangely, she could remember exactly how she’d felt, her heart fluttering, the thrill of becoming Mrs Grant and not Miss Rosemary Tucker. They’d had almost fifty good years, well, mostly good. She’d done her best as a wife. She couldn’t really complain.
Rose shuffled forward to the kitchen and opened the freezer. The macaroni cheese meal for one was next to the loaf of bread and the half-empty bag of frozen peas. She’d need to do some shopping. She plucked out the cardboard meal and headed towards the microwave.



* * *
Della heard the knocking at the door. ‘Sylvester? You forgotten your key?’ She rushed to the front door, wiping her hands on a tea towel, patting the dark curls smattered with grey sprinklings. ‘That man,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘He’s out too late again. His dinner is ruining in the oven.’
She pulled the door open and he was standing there, his pork-pie hat on his head, water dripping from the brim onto his misted glasses, his lips pursed for a kiss. He held out a bunch of roses. ‘Come to me, my valentine,’ he purred.
‘Get in out of the rain and stop the foolishness.’ She laughed, tugging at his sleeve and helping him out of his damp coat. ‘I wish you’d give up this crazy snack-van job. You’re late again and drenched through…’ The flowers were thrust in her arms and he had her round the waist, waltzing.
‘Come here, my valentine girl. I bring you flowers and what do you do but all this nagging me again?’ Sylvester giggled, kissing her full on the mouth. He pulled away, whipping off his hat. His head was smooth and shiny, but there were tufts of grey whiskers on his chin. Della hugged him to her.
‘I prepared your favourite. Salt fish.’
‘Ah.’ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘My mommy’s salt fish and ackee, I remember it so well, when I was a boy. Life in Jamaica was good before we came to this godforsaken cold country.’ They walked into the kitchen and he sniffed exaggeratedly. ‘No wonder I married you, Della Donavan – you cook just like my mommy used to.’
Della turne