But I Said Forever

By Jennifer Gilby Roberts

A British chick lit romantic comedy novel.

*** This book is part of a series, but can be read as a standalone (no cliffhanger). ***

Expect little, forgive much?

After a whirlwind courtship, Brittany Beresford married her Prince Charming and looked forward to living happily ever after. Five years later, she’s been reduced to a not-quite-desperate housewife, with a husband who spends more time flossing his teeth than holding meaningful conversations with her.

She braves his disapproval and turns working mother and, other than feeling far more drawn to a handsome baker she works with than him, things seem to be looking up. But then she discovers that his “hobbies” include something even worse than golf - and he expects her to put up and shut up.

Fairy tale illusions shattered, but still believing marriage is for life and wanting the best for her son, Brittany has a choice to make: should she follow her heart, or her conscience?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Gilby Roberts
• Release date: Feb 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311354006

Jennifer Gilby Roberts

Jennifer Gilby Roberts has a degree in physics and a postgraduate certificate in computing, so a career writing fiction was inevitable really. She was born and grew up in Surrey/Greater London, but now lives in Richmond, North Yorkshire with her husband, small daughter, two middle-aged cats and a lot of dust bunnies.Taking care of her daughter is now her main job, but previously she worked many thrilling jobs in administration. In these she learned the real truth of business: that every successful executive would be lost without their PA.She can also be found getting red-faced at zumba class, reading historical porn (as her husband calls it - Regency romance to the rest of us) and humming nursery rhymes while going round Tesco. Her current obsessions include toffee crisp bars, Costa fruit coolers and the TV show 'Torchwood'.

Book preview

But I Said Forever

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Gilby Roberts

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

For my parents

From the Back Cover

After a whirlwind courtship, Brittany Beresford married her Prince Charming and looked forward to living happily ever after. Five years later, she’s been reduced to a not-quite-desperate housewife, with a husband who spends more time flossing his teeth than holding meaningful conversations with her.

She braves his disapproval and turns working mother and, other than feeling far more drawn to a handsome baker she works with than him, things seem to be looking up. But then Brittany discovers that her husband’s hobbies include something even worse than golf - and he expects her to put up and shut up.

Fairy tale illusions shattered, but still believing marriage is for life and wanting the best for her son, Brittany has a choice to make: should she follow her heart, or her conscience?

Chapter 1

... and you won’t even earn enough to cover the cost of the nanny, so what’s the sense in you working at all?

It’s not about money, Phillip, I say, stroking the Egyptian cotton sheet covering me. It’s about trying something new. Learning who I am.

… and having adults to talk to and not being permanently sticky.

You’re my wife and James’s mother and we need you here. I’m not happy with this pink-haired girl - I thought you were going to ask the agency to send someone else?

He obviously assumed a nanny would be middle-aged, stout and well buttoned-up, rather than a 21-year-old with fluorescent hair and a nose stud (to be fair, so did I).

I turn onto my back and stare at the bedroom ceiling. She’s qualified, experienced, has brilliant references and she and James adore each other. And she’s far better at all the educational stuff than I am, so he’ll develop much faster with her around.

There’s nothing better for a boy than his mother.

His father, apparently, has no role at all in the pre-school years.

This is a pointless discussion anyway, Phillip says, dismissing my dreams with a wave of his hand. There are precious few jobs around for professionals, let alone housewives with no experience and hardly any qualifications. The odds are you won’t find anything.

I do have A-levels, I say, fingernails digging into the sheet. Not stellar ones, I admit, but it’s not as though I’m illiterate. There must be something I can do. I’ll just have to widen my search.

There must be jobs somewhere for people whose primary skill is cleaning up bodily fluids without vomiting.

Phillip sighs and rubs his forehead. Can’t you be happy at home?

No, Phillip, I say, though I know by now it’s useless. I love James very much, but I just wasn’t designed to be a stay-at-home mother. I feel lonely, bored and trapped, and I need another role. Even if you don’t understand that, can you please accept it and support me?

Phillip shrugs his dressing gown on. I’m going to my study. Don’t wait up for me.

I think that’s a no.

The next afternoon, I wander down the high street of my new home town (an old market town in Cornwall) – minus little James for once – looking in shop windows. I lift my long, thick brown hair off my neck and wish I’d put it up. It’s July - and acting like it for once - and the sea breezes aren’t reaching me.

Given that the only job I’ve had was in a shop, I should have a chance at being hired to work in one, but I’ve already asked in four and they all wanted recent experience (even Poundland).

I wander down one of the side streets and find myself outside a small bakery called For Goodness Cake. The sweet treats in the window make my mouth water and I nip inside.

It’s small but bright, with a vintage seaside theme featuring a lot of painted driftwood in sorbet colours. There’s a glass counter to the left and then a few small tables and chairs at the back - in front of a door which I assume leads to the kitchen. The place smells of freshly-baked pastries and is crammed full of people eating, drinking and chatting. I squeeze into the space at the back of the tightly-packed queue.

Mum, I feel sick, says a child ahead of me.

Serves you right for scoffing all that ice cream. Have some water.

I don’t like it.

Then suffer. No skin off my nose.

I shiver as I get a clear vision of my parenting future.

Morning, Kristine. You’re looking lovely today.

The woman serving, who is 40-something - with the most amazing head of what must be natural curls - flashes a smile to her customer. Usual?

If you would. Busy today.

You know it. I haven’t had a second to myself. And poor Zack’s been run off his feet in the kitchen.

Where’s the eye candy gone?

Defected to somewhere bigger. Never mention her again.

Are you not getting a new girl in?

Got her Monday and lost her already. Brownie today?

Please. How did you do that?

"I didn’t. She went into the kitchen and Zack threatened to beat her with a fish slice."

Sounds a bit extreme. Things going badly?

Kristine rolls her eyes. Another setback. I wish he’d never met that woman. It’s a toss-up who I’d rather stab - him or her. £4.53.

Here you go.

Cheers.

The queue moves up. I try to decide between a slice of deliciously moist-looking carrot cake, groaning under the weight of icing, and a mini victoria sponge that looks yummy enough for the queen herself.

Mum, I feel sick.

Well, don’t keep going on about it. Either do it or shut up.

That instruction immediately proves to have been a mistake.

Oh, brother, says the mother.

My shoes! says the woman next in the queue.

Heaven preserve us, says Kristine. She presses the button on what looks like an intercom. Zack, I need you to come out here and mop the floor.

Sod off.

Cut it out. There’s vomit and you know how I feel about that.

I’m a baker, not a janitor. Get the new girl to do it.

"The new girl walked out because you called her a brain-dead cretin. She also threatened to sue for slander."

Not slander if it’s true. Hire someone else.

In the next minute?

Yes.

Clean it up or I’ll fire you.

If you fire me, there’ll be no one to cook.

Kristine growls and flashes two fingers up at the intercom. Then she spins around and addresses the queue. If anyone’s looking for a job, I’ll give you a month’s trial if you’ll clean up that vomit.

Before I’ve engaged my brain, I’ve stuck up my hand and called, I will.

Kristine’s head swivels in my direction and she looks me up and down. Well, I’d prefer George Clooney, but you’ll do. Come back here and get a mop.

Once I’ve removed the vomit, Kristine finds me a string of other cleaning jobs. It’s odd how even menial work can take on a novelty value when it’s in a new place. And I’m getting paid to do it. I think.

Before I know it, Kristine is flipping the Open/Closed sign on the door and the afternoon is over.

Phew, she says, running a hand through her blonde curls. Another day survived. I never thought I’d say this, but thank heaven Abby’s back tomorrow. She rolls her eyes. You’d better come and meet Zack. Ignore everything he says - he’s been in a foul mood all week. He’s getting divorced and he’s given up smoking, and the strain has finally caught up with him. Stay here.

She disappears into the kitchen. I stand outside, adopting the same mask of calm confidence that I use at the various functions I accompany my husband to. It’s only skin deep, though; I’m apprehensive about meeting this ogre in the kitchen.

Kristine pokes her head out. Forgot to ask: what’s your name?

Brittany. Brittany Beresford.

Right.

She ducks back in. I push the door open a crack so I can hear what’s going on inside.

"Britney? Are you serious? If ever a name should sound a great big warning siren, it’s that one. Is she fully dressed? Can she walk in a straight line?"

She’s dressed decently, she walks perfectly well and, judging by the rather posh accent, she wasn’t named after who you think.

Humph.

Worst case, it’s a month’s trial. Now come and make nice.

I’ll say hello if I must, but she’s not allowed in the kitchen. And if I hear hit me baby, I bloody well will.

I step back from the door and, a moment later, it opens. Britney, this is Zack Sutton, the baker here.

I’m suddenly deeply grateful for all the social training my husband paid for. Otherwise, I’m sure I’d be gaping. Zack is unquestionably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. He’s Hollywood material: tall, dark, well-built and gorgeous, with a hint of arrogance.

Pleased to meet you, Zack, I say, inwardly debating whether to hold out my hand and deciding against it. I’m Brittany – as in the region of France. I was born early and interfered with a family holiday.

There’s a moment of silence while he looks me up and down. Fortunately, I’ve endured similar scrutiny from my husband’s circle and am not intimidated.

Do you sing? he asks.

About as well as Great Aunt Marion’s cats. No.

Well, at least you’re nice to look at. He gives a sharp nod. Keep your mouth shut - and stay out of my kitchen - and you can stay.

He disappears back inside, leaving the door swinging.

Interesting, Kristine says. You’re the first woman he’s acknowledged as attractive since he left his wife.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll take what he said as a compliment, then, no matter how rude the delivery. He may be going through a bad time, but surely he could be civil? I have to be polite to people at my husband’s events all the time, even if I feel rotten and they’re unbearable.

Anyway, a month’s trial. Five days, including the weekend. We’ll hash your hours out tomorrow when Abby is in. Minimum wage for the moment, but last the month and we’ll talk. There’s no uniform, but modest dress, no slogans or big logos. Something like that sundress is fine, but wear flat shoes or you’ll regret it. And bring a spare outfit or two to keep upstairs, because something always gets spilled. Tie your hair back, no long necklaces, no rings except for your wedding ring. Your nails could use trimming, but polish is fine, so long as it’s subtle. You’ll have to wear gloves, anyway. Not allergic to latex?

Er… no, I don’t think so.

Good. Anything I’ve forgotten you’ll soon work out for yourself. See you 8.15 tomorrow.

Perfect.

A few minutes later, I’m walking down the street feeling rather dazed.

So, I have a job.

Help.

So, how did it go? Carly - my live-in nanny - asks.

I cross the lounge to pick up James, who’s lying with her on the swirly rug next to the glass wall separating us from the gardens. Our new house is large, modern, detached and expensive. It might even qualify as property porn if you like floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting solutions featuring huge numbers of tiny bulbs and hard, shiny surfaces. Sadly, I don’t. I feel very exposed (especially in the lounge), even though we’re not overlooked. I’m also quite certain the designer had never even met a child, let alone dreamed that one would ever live here.

My favourite of the houses we looked at was a cosy, farmhouse-style place covered in ivy, with its own little turret. But then Phillip started muttering about energy-efficiency and ceiling height and I knew it wasn’t to be.

I’m being horribly ungrateful. I live in a fabulous house, in a wonderful location (sea view and everything, if only from the balcony off the master suite) that most women would kill for. I’m lucky, I really am.

James gives me a gummy smile, which I can only return. He has Phillip’s hair colour, but other than that he looks like my dad. He even makes some of the same expressions, which is bizarre to see.

I finally got a job, I say.

Fabulous! Where?

A small bakery off the high street. I’m so sorry I didn’t call to say I’d be late. Kristine – my new boss – came up with one job after another and before I knew it the afternoon had gone.

Don’t worry about it. She gets up from the floor and brushes down her hot pink skater dress. That’s brilliant news.

Looking forward to getting me out of the way? I ask, nudging her arm.

Carly laughs. It’s been great! I know so much more about James and his routines than I would have if you hadn’t been home this last month.

I hesitate. The thing is, if I do this we’ll have to change your hours.

No problem, she says, waving away my worries. As long as I have time to spend with Mum, it doesn’t make much difference when I work. She’s why I took this job, after all. Actually, I was going to ask if I could take James to visit her sometimes? I’m sure he’d cheer her up.

Absolutely. We left both sets of grandparents behind in London, so he could use a substitute.

Thanks.

Anyway, you’re now officially off duty, I say. James starts chewing on my fingers.

Night, then. Night, night, Jam Jam, she says, giving him a big kiss. Carly Warly is off for a lovely bubble bath and Mummy’s going to give you one of your own.

I have to start at 8.15 tomorrow.

No problem.

Carly heads off to the granny flat, which is a little self-contained unit over the double garage. That was this house’s major selling point for me - it gives her privacy and me space, but she’s still on site in an emergency. There’s even an intercom system in case I need to call her for help.

I have to suppress the desire to ask her to stay. After a month of her boundless patience and endless creativity, I honestly don’t know how I managed to take care of James for five months without her. Sometimes,