Conditional Love Read online

  Conditional Love

  CATHY BRAMLEY

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Thank you!

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  About the author

  Conditional Love © Cathy Bramley 2013

  Cathy Bramley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Publisher: Cathy Bramley

  Cover design by Design For Writers

  Thank you!

  My family has been endlessly patient while I’ve been writing this book and for that I am truly grateful. Thank you to Phoebe for her suggestions on the blurb, to Isabel for her views on the front cover and to Tony for laughing in all the right places.

  Writing a book can be a bit lonely at times and I couldn’t have done it without the support, help and advice from my writing buddy, Tracy Tyrrell, writing coach, Debi Alper, best-selling author, Joanne Phillips and Queen of the semi-colon, Jude White. My heart-felt thanks to all of you.

  Finally, a massive thank you to my readers, Jane Diver, Lisa Thompson, Jenny Turner, Melany Hunter-Paterson and Julie Mernick, who made fantastic suggestions, gave me positive feedback and such gentle criticism. Conditional Love is a better novel because of your help.

  one

  I woke up on the floor wedged between the bed and bedside drawers. My hip bone was bruised, my skin mottled with cold and I had pins and needles in my arm. Painted across my face was the smug smile of a woman who didn’t get much sleep last night. I had to get up; I was freezing and the indignity of him seeing me like this would be too much to bear.

  It took a full thirty seconds of grunting, shuffling, inelegant flailing of limbs and a carpet burn to my right buttock to wriggle free. Not a pretty sight.

  Note to self: get bigger bed or smaller boyfriend.

  I sighed with pleasure at the slumbering, golden-haired Adonis taking up the entire width of the mattress.

  New bed, definitely.

  Silently, I opened the drawer, took out his card and slid it under the pillow. Then I slipped back under the duvet and perched on the edge, savouring the heat from his perfectly-honed body. I propped myself up on my elbow and gazed at him.

  Valentine’s Day and I had a boyfriend.

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  Last year – and the year before that come to think of it – I had been single and I’d had to hibernate for a full twenty-four hours until the dreaded day was history and I could stop feeling marginalised by society.

  Marc and I had been together for nine months and last night was the first time that he had stayed over. I’d invited him to – loads of times – but he had a stall on Sneinton market and had to get up for work really early and said he didn’t want to wake me. He was thoughtful like that.

  But last night he said he didn’t have to be there until nine, so he might as well stay. How romantic – to choose Valentine’s Day as the first time to wake up next to me! I couldn’t believe it!

  Right, let’s get the party started.

  I covered my tummy with my hand and breathed in. He was very understanding about my less than perfect figure, but no need to draw attention to it.

  I coughed lightly but there was no response, not a flicker of his golden eyelashes.

  I coughed more sharply and this time Marc stirred.

  I pulled my stomach in tighter. He stretched, threatening my precarious position on the edge of the bed, and I grabbed hold of his arm.

  Oh, those biceps!

  My tummy gave a rumble. Knickers! Now I was going to have to conceal my hunger as well as my jelly belly. There was no way I could admit to being hungry while he was still in the flat. He would try and force one of his body-building shakes on me. My stomach lurched at the thought of his protein-powder-mashed-banana-almond-milk concoctions. And if he felt like being ultra healthy he would add raw eggs.

  Urgh, urgh, erase, erase!

  I felt nauseous even thinking about it.

  Far safer if I feigned no appetite and gobbled down a quick slice of chocolate spread on toast after he’d gone.

  ‘Morning, Princess.’ He yawned and gave me an almighty slap on the bottom.

  I knew this was his idea of being affectionate but it was hardly the most romantic wake-up call. I replied with my own delicate yawn, and smiled in what I hoped was a ‘Sleeping Beauty awakened by a True Love’s Kiss’ type manner.

  He picked up his watch, swore under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  And breathe. I flopped onto my back and pulled the duvet up, enjoying the sensation of letting it all hang out. Also enjoying the view of muscles rippling across chest as he pulled his jeans up over firm thighs. What a man!

  Oh no, I was a bit slow on the uptake there, he was getting dressed! That wasn’t first on my agenda of love.

  Marc looked down at me, his face suddenly serious. Oh my giddy aunt! He was working up to something.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Sophie. We need to talk.’

  He sat back down on the bed and reached for my hand. Darting eyes, heavy breathing, serious face… He was going to pop the question. I knew it.

  ‘Wait!’ I yelled, making Marc flinch.

  I must admit, I was a little bit taken aback. I’d only recently begun dropping hints about moving in together. A halfway house if you like, just to be on the safe side, and to be honest I thought he had been swiftly changing the subject every time. But I could see from his furrowed expression that there was going to be nothing half-hearted about his next sentence.

  I pushed myself up to a semi-sitting position and rested my arms on top of the duvet.

  Oops! Never flatten your arms against your body. It adds at least thirty per cent to the surface area of each limb. I read it in Heat Magazine in a feature on how to look good in photos.

  I raised my arms off the duvet and away from my chest. That had certainly reduced the ‘bingo wing’ effect, although now there was a danger he would think I had a sweat problem. I tucked them back under the covers, aware that it now resembled a hospitalised invalid with visitor scenario.

  My eyes had stretched unnaturally wide an
d I was virtually panting. I was sure I’d be flaring my nostrils, I always did that when I was nervous; I resisted the urge to press my nose and tried to relax.

  Marc frowned. My fault; all that fidgeting was getting on his nerves, I had to pull myself together. Somehow I knew that lying prostrate and staring at him with tree frog eyes and horsey nostrils wasn’t doing me any favours in the bid to become Mrs Felton, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was more or less pinned to the bed, and anyway, standing up naked and letting him see my carefully disguised spare tyres would be marriage proposal suicide.

  He looked like he was about to explode.

  Shame really, in this day and age all the stress shouldn’t be loaded onto the man. Still, the woman usually ended up organising the wedding, so it sort of evened itself out in the long run.

  ‘Sorry! You were saying?’ I smiled at him encouragingly.

  Marc exhaled. I was gratified to see that his nostrils flared a bit under pressure too; we were obviously a perfect match.

  Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Emma Piper, I thought triumphantly. My glass-half-empty flatmate was unremittingly vocal about her opinions on the love of my life.

  He was gazing at me with his baby-blue eyes. He was in love, it was obvious.

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Princess, but…’

  What the fudge?

  I gasped, but the nerves-induced accumulation of saliva in my throat created a strangled sort of gurgle. My spit went down the wrong hole and I started to choke. Not attractive, nor in the least bit timely.

  Marc, determined to finish now he was on a roll, carried on slashing my newly-minted dreams of married bliss into ribbons, while simultaneously slapping me on the back. Hard.

  By the time I had found the wherewithal to hold my hands up, beseeching him to stop, he had all but finished his ‘Dear Sophie’ monologue.

  The message had been clear, but what had he actually said? Straining to hear over my own ear-splitting wheezing, I had only caught one or two words. I must have misheard, I thought he used words like ‘different things, boring, freedom’ and ‘nice’.

  He backed away from my single bed, from me and from our relationship towards the bedroom door, holding onto my fingers until the last possible second. It was quite a poignant moment: if I hadn’t been puce and completely hoarse, I might have said something profound. But other than to wail ‘Why? Why?’ at him, words completely failed me. So I stayed silent, doomed to forever hold my peace.

  He winked and was gone.

  Happy chuffin’ Valentine’s Day.

  two

  ‘Zombie-like’ was the best way to describe my behaviour over the following ten hours. At my desk in the advertising department for The Herald, Nottingham’s daily newspaper, I registered neither my colleagues nor my in-tray. My hands simulated typing on my keyboard, but in reality I was simply going through the motions. I knew I would pay for it the next day, but I could scarcely remember how to walk and talk, let alone contribute anything useful to my department.

  The bus ride home, normally quite an ordeal, was comparatively therapeutic. At least I didn’t have to talk to anyone.

  The day was shaping up to be the worst Valentine’s Day of my entire life. What was I saying – ‘shaping up’? How could it possibly get any worse? By the time Jess and Emma had rallied round me this morning, Jess making soothing noises and placing a mug of sweet tea in front of me and Emma threatening to cut his balls off and feed them to the squirrels, I had already pronounced the day as an unprecedented disaster.

  I was determined not to cry again. No mean feat seeing as the evening commuter bus I was on appeared to be packed almost entirely with smooching couples, cruelly serving to ram home my new single status.

  Facebook! I was going to have to update my relationship status to ‘single’. But not today; I couldn’t face the humiliation of declaring myself single on the international day of love.

  I shook my head, still struggling to comprehend what had happened this morning. I’d been convinced that today was the day that Marc would reveal his true feelings for me. How ironic! Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes.

  The bus lurched round a corner and my head thumped against the glass. Perhaps that would knock some sense into it. How could I have got our relationship so wrong? All day long, I had gone over and over his words in my head, dissecting every one and constructing full sentences out of them.

  Nice! He had actually said nice! The man I worshipped had described our relationship as if it was a trip to the library. And boring! I might have been a bit on the steady side, but boring? That was a bit harsh.

  All my Valentine’s Day dreams were in tatters. Not that I had ever envisaged any huge romantic gestures, well, not until the moment I thought he was going to propose. After nine months with Marc, I had known not to expect miracles. Maybe a card and a bunch of flowers if I was lucky. Perhaps even a drink in the pub on his way back from the gym. No need to be sucked into the commercialism of Valentine’s Day, but a small token of his affection would have made my day – year, even.

  As a matter of fact, I hadn’t spent any money on Marc’s card. But downloading the pictures off my phone (disappointingly mostly of him, rather than of us both), printing them out and making a collage of memories out of our nine-month relationship had taken me hours. All it took was a bit of effort to show someone you loved them.

  Memories. My lip wobbled precariously: that was all I had left of him now.

  I hitched up closer to the window and averted my mascara-stained, panda eyes as a man in a creaky wax coat dropped into the empty seat beside me.

  Wiping the condensation from the window, I tried to ignore the pair of young lovers opposite who were communicating in tongues, all slobbery and repulsive.

  ‘Get a room!’ I shrieked. I didn’t really, but I was very sorely tempted.

  The woman in the seat behind was holding the biggest, most attention-seeking, cellophane-wrapped bouquet of lilies I had ever seen, or rather felt. I ran my hands over my dark curls and came into contact with a flower, sending a shower of bright yellow pollen all over my hair.

  ‘Ooh, sorry,’ trilled the woman, ‘it’s just so big, I can hardly hold it!’

  I flashed my eyes at her, gave a tight smile and fought the urge to shove the bouquet into her smug, happy face.

  Marc had been quite considerate really, I thought, grasping at straws. Better to have the bad news in the morning. Otherwise I would have had a neck like a meerkat all day. At least every time the lift opened bearing another floral message of love to the females who managed to keep their men until February fifteenth, I had known to keep my head down and feign disinterest.

  I felt another deep-throated sob forming.

  Get a grip, and look on the bright side. There must be some advantages to being single.

  I racked my brains to think of one.

  More room in the bed for starters. I thought back to my chilly awakening, before Marc’s announcement had caused the temperature to plummet even further. I had chosen the smallest bedroom specifically for its low rent and it was too small for a double. Before going out with Marc, having a single bed hadn’t mattered one iota. I would miss his solid presence though, his warm body, firm muscles… Think of something else quick.

  Less food to buy. I had discovered early on that feeding a man-mountain was a pricey business, particularly one on a high-protein diet.

  He’d stopped asking me to cook for him after my first few attempts at a seven-egg white omelette, but I still liked to keep all his favourites in the fridge. I stifled a moan. No more popping in for a late night snack of grilled chicken and spinach after a night out with the lads.

  It would save me a fortune, but save for what? I’d been building up a nest egg for years, waiting for the right time, the right person to settle down with. Not that Marc and I had ever discussed a joint future, but we were both in our early thirties, I’d assumed it would just happen one day; it was
only a matter of time.

  With a sigh, I shifted the dream of having my own home to the back burner, along with my other abandoned dreams; the property market was no place for single, first-time buyers at the moment.

  The gym! I would cancel my membership with immediate effect. I had only gone along in the first place to keep Jess company. Once there, she had abandoned me to concentrate fully on her flirting and I was left trying to work out how to operate the rowing machine. Predictably, I set the resistance level too high, the bar flew out of my hand and I shot backwards off the end, landing at Marc’s feet. He lifted me up as if I was the weight of a Wotsit and I all but swooned back down to the floor. He turned on the charm, waxing lyrical about the benefits of regular exercise, telling me how much he loved a fit woman. Before I knew it, I had signed up for a whole year and promised to come back three times a week.

  What else? No more having to dress up on the off-chance he would turn up unannounced. I could slob about in the flat in my trackie bottoms after work. Take tonight for instance, I could simply relax at home, watch something slushy on the TV and bawl my eyes out while stroking my handmade card.

  My face was hot and my jaw was rigid with the effort of holding back the tears. Thankfully, my stomach distracted me by giving a roaring rumble. Mr Wax Jacket raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘I missed lunch,’ I said with a wan smile and then looked away to deter further conversation.

  My boss had called an impromptu meeting of the advertising team late morning to make sure everyone was ‘on message’ for the restaurant supplement. I, of course, had sat there nodding and pretending to take notes, while all the time surreptitiously checking my phone, fingers crossed that Marc would come to his senses, realise what a mistake he had made and beg my forgiveness. So far zilch from that quarter. The meeting had run over, leaving only enough time for a bag of chocolate buttons before my next appointment.

  Of course! Another good thing about being single. I would lose interest in food and drop to a size eight. My stomach growled again. No, apparently this wasn’t going to be the case, I was absolutely starving.