When Life Goes Pop!

By Nina Whyle

"Now this is a rom-com written with style. It is clear from the very start that the author is both intelligent and has a wicked personality and this all comes across perfectly in the very likeable protagonist, Poppy. A fun chick lit novel about naughty sex, true friendship, and finding love in unexpected places."
BestChickLit.com

Warning: This book contains flashing images of a sizzling sexual nature, one night stands, beautiful dresses, various lush locations, unbelievably handsome men, love, and true friendship.

Twenty-five-year-old Poppy Phillpot is faced with an unplanned pregnancy but for the love of a patchy memory she doesn't know who the father is.

Rewind three months earlier - or thereabouts - Poppy dumps the long-term boyfriend, King of Tedium and parties long into the night - where she has a spontaneous one-night stand. There are definitely benefits to her new-found freedom! 

Her next act of spontaneity is to leave the daily grind of coffee beans and join her best friend Paige into the glamourous, glitzy world of the Festival de Cannes.. There she blags a new job and encounters Bernt Jakobsen, the sexy, director. He is about to be the most mind-blowing experience of her life.

But like all good things it must come to an end, the baby bump has seen to that!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nina Whyle
• Release date: Nov 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781393295006

Nina Whyle

Nina Whyle is a writing duo made up of two best friends. They write fun, romantic reads about the Film & TV industry, with strong female friendship at its core - for people who like happy escapism interjected into their busy lives. If they could merge themselves into one, Nina would like to have Whyle's dotty humour and eccentricity while Whyle would like to have Nina's sense of braveheart zeitgeist, organisation skills - oh and wardrobe!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Present Day

WHAT THE ...

NO FUCKING WAY!

FUCK!

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

I’m not normally prone to outbursts of swearing but FU-UUUUCK!

I stare at the thin blue line and I have a sudden urge to laugh. A strange snort erupts from my nose and out comes a drivelling choke from the very depths of my oesophagus.

Is it normal to be amused at the worst moment of your life?

My laughter (if you can call it that) gives way to a sob.

A BABY! I CAN’T FUCKING HAVE A BABY!

I’m only twenty-five, for fuck’s sake. I’m far too young. It’s ridiculous. Preposterous. Irresponsible. And such a commonplace British statistic.

My whole body starts to shake. I grasp the edge of the washbasin just as my knees give way. It all feels very dramatic. Like I’m in a movie. A bad movie at that! The ones I always criticise for being such sexist clichés. You know the films: the typically useless-female scenario; girl runs into woods, music becomes spooky, tension mounts, the chase is afoot from an unseen predator (human or dark force), girl quickens her pace, breaks into a run, run is short-lived as she tumbles over the lone bramble bush on level, unobstructed ground. Because of course she’s decided to take a midnight stroll after hearing unearthly sounds from the dark forest of hell. And those stupid storylines of the silly girls who fall pregnant when there are so many devices in birth control etc. Any minute now the director is going to shout ‘CUT!’

My mind attempts to calm the icy panic fermenting in my chest. No one shouts ‘cut!’ and I am forced to look down at my enemy – the magic wand of pee. This wasn’t on the curriculum at Hogwarts.

I can’t have a baby. I can’t.

I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’ve only just got my career into gear. I can’t stop now and have a baby, and what about the father?

The father? Good question.

Fuck if I know!

Oh, God, that sounds really bad.

It’s not what you think. I don’t put it about.

Well, obviously I did put something about, a bit ... sort of ... but not in a regular ... I mean I’m not in the habit ... I didn’t mean ...

Oh, fuck.

Damn that word and all the trouble it causes; that’s precisely why I am in this mess. Fucking about with fucking.

Oh, how my mother is going to love this. Of course, I won’t tell her. The last thing I need is her opinion on what I should do.

I don’t need to tell anyone.

I look up at my reflection and heave a heavy sigh. My skin is pale and washed out, I have huge dark circles under my eyes, and my hair is limp and lifeless. I thought expectant mothers were supposed to glow and have shiny hair. Maybe I’m not pregnant?

The tiny voice in my head says, Yeah, and pigs might fly on their own budget airline. But really, how accurate are these tests anyway?

Maybe I got a dodgy batch?

The line could have been there to begin with? I didn’t actually pee that much on the stick, it probably reacted to ... um, stagnant fertile air?

Uh-oh! I clamp a hand over my mouth. I’m going to be sick.

I charge towards the cubicle, throw open the door, fall onto my knees, and clutch the toilet seat as if it were a dear long-lost friend.

Up comes six quids worth of salmon panini right there.

Ewww.

I hold my hair back into a makeshift ponytail as the sight and smell makes me gag again.

Up comes the latte to wash it down.

Disgusting seeing your paid lunch in reverse.

Ugh, not again. I gag the last sick up and spit it out.

A period would be a blessing right now. A mere matter of mixing the dates up, it happens so easily. I never thought menstrual pains would seem so appealing, but how I wish for them in all their annoying-pulling-achy-ovary wonderment.

When I’m finally finished I sit back on my heels and push my hair off my face. My hands are shaking and tears steamroll down my cheeks. Of all the stupid things I’ve done, this really takes the biscuit.

Don’t ask me why but I start humming a slightly unhinged version of Julie Andrews: ‘When the dog bites, when the bee stings ...’

Wait. Was that the door? Did someone just walk in?

‘I name that tune in five.’

I scramble to my feet and nearly faint from the sudden rush of oxygen to my head. I quickly flush the loo and karate-kick the door shut.

It’s Alexander, the location assistant. We have an ongoing game of Name That Tune. One of many little cheesy penchants he has for musicals. It keeps us amused when we’re stuck on a night shoot in the middle of a field waiting for ‘That’s a wrap’ to be called. Forfeits are as follows: loser does the coffee runs for the whole night. Depending on point differences – oh yeah, we have rules, and plenty of them – each gain of five points above your competitor’s score earns you a cookie, cupcake, chocolate or any other C word connected with the sweet and sticky world of cake treats. He has a rulebook hanging from his laptop.

‘Jesus, can’t anyone have a peaceful pee around here?’ I joke.

Alexander responds with a chuckle.

‘We need to head over to the factory,’ he says, oblivious to the horror-worthy scene that has just taken place in the loo.

With my leg still holding the door shut I use my arms to grab the cubicle walls. My heart is thumping and I think I might fall over at any moment but force gaiety back into my voice.

‘Why?’

‘Apparently the bulldozers have arrived.’

‘What?’

Colour drains from my face and I almost fall over with the second shock of the day.

‘But they’re not due for another week.’

‘They’re ahead of schedule.’

No, no, no, this cannot be happening.

‘We need to head over there now,’ says Alexander again.

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, grimacing. ‘Um ... give me a second.’

The second the door closes I lower my foot. I am shaking. My stomach is churning all over again and I think I might be re-sick.

They can’t tear the factory down. They promised.

I yank open the cubicle and stride purposefully to the mirror.

I’ll tie myself to the building if I have to.

I’ll put on a kilt and paint my face blue and shout out a Braveheart battle cry – ‘You may take my life but you will never take, err, my building.’ Something along those lines. I stare at my dismantled reflection and give a low groan. I look like something the cat dragged in but only as a last resort when all the mice and small bird life retired to Florida.

Oh fuck!

The pregnancy test’s applicator is jutting out from my make-up bag like a heat-seeking missile.

I hope Alexander didn’t see it.

I stuff it deep into the bag’s depths and reach for my war paint – concealer, blusher and mascara – all in a desperate attempt to salvage the surface of my shell-shocked face.

CHAPTER ONE

Three months earlier (or thereabouts)

Piers’s political dinners have a tendency to bore me rigid or rile me into a frenzy of frothy indignation.

Tonight, I am both.

I pour myself a large glass of wine, drink it quickly then pour another. It’s going to be a long night.

Piers’s colleagues like to play at the world of politics, pretending to have wide and just causes for being disgruntled at the country’s state of affairs when two years ago most of them would have said, ‘The mass of plebs.’

Oh yes, hypocrisy reigns here.

I am not in the cheeriest of moods. Can you tell? I am trying to enjoy myself but I have nothing in common with these people. It’s a Saturday night and I should be sipping cocktails in the Hoxton Pony in Shoreditch with my friends, Paige and Victoria. But instead I am here. I have to be here. Piers accused me of not supporting him and we had a blazing row about it. We’ve had quite a lot of those recently.

So, I’ve really made an effort tonight. I’m wearing a black James Perse dress (borrowed from Paige) and my black stiletto ankle boots. I’ve even got my hair down just the way Piers likes – or used to like. He’s made no comment about my appearance.

As for this party – duller than dull dullards at the dullest drab do ever.

We are in a large house in Pimlico and there are twelve of us sitting around an oak table.

I don’t know anyone.

I did try to jazz hands myself around when we were first shown our seats but no one seemed particularly interested, although there was one guy with a pencil-thin moustache – a modern-day Errol Flynn, if you like – who took pity and offered to top up my glass.

I don’t need to talk to anyone anyway, I can just sit here and get drunk.

Maggie whose party this is, or Maggot Face as I am now calling her, keeps referring to me as Polly even though I told her a million times that my name is Poppy. She’s Piers’s boss so I’m trying to be polite, but if she doesn’t start showing me some respect I’ll ... I’ll ... well I probably won’t do anything because Piers would be mighty pissed off.

But oh God the woman likes the sound of her own voice.

She’s pretty much dominated the conversation since we sat down and Piers is lapping it up. If I didn’t know better I’d say he fancied her.

I suppose she is attractive, for an older woman, but her dress sense is appalling. If I knew Piers liked the 1900s librarians look I would have raided my great-great-great-great-gran’s wardrobe and kept the pure scent of mothballs instead of using my expensive French perfume.

‘A university graduate is just as likely to be unemployed as a sixteen-year-old who leaves school with few or no qualifications, a reported fact. It’s time our government did something about it. We need to help our jobless young people find employment.’ Begrudgingly, I concede she has a point.

A lot of my university friends are unemployed. We spend most of our evenings emailing each other links for jobs. I have applied for a few jobs but I’m not even getting to the interview stage. Lucky for me I have my job at Café Brik; it’s not the perfect job but it is a job. I’ve been working there for ... I do a swift calculation on my fingers, two ... three ... wowza ... FOUR years!

‘Let’s focus our attention on our graduates. No point wasting our resources on the sixteen-year-old school-leaver who cares more about drinking, smoking and finding the next great high than getting a job.’

‘You can’t just focus your attention on the graduate,’ says the guy with the pencil moustache. ‘Granted, a degree is a good way to try and achieve a good job and a rewarding career but most degrees have no practical use for employers. We need to invest more in serious apprenticeships and work skills training. Academic study is not, and should not be, the be-all and end-all.’

Hmm, he has a point too.

‘Britain’s skill base is practically non-existent on traditional trades,’ he continues with a swashbuckling flurry. ‘Everything is outsourced, contracted and imported. We need to build up skills all round to be competitive in the world market, once again the driving force for industry and style.’

I feel like high-fiving the guy. I go with a ‘hear, hear.’

Oops, did I say that out loud?

Piers shoots me a look – it’s not a friendly one either.

The guy with the pencil-thin moustache, whose name I’ve discovered is Guy(!), decants more wine into my glass and winks at me.

‘A huge percentage of our sixteen-year-old leavers are claiming jobseeker’s allowance. Why do you think that is?’ asks Maggot, rather condescendingly.

‘Because they can’t get a job, an apprenticeship, or any other junior positions,’ Guy says, wielding his sword.

‘Too lazy to work, more like it.’

‘And the remaining sixteen-year-old leavers will pop out another baby and claim income support, choking the housing scheme’s true purpose,’ chimes Piers with a snarky sneer. ‘Producing a human life isn’t a career path.’

Piers can be such a dick sometimes.

‘We need a diverse economy with diverse skills,’ Guy continues, ignoring Piers. ‘We don’t have that and we won’t have that if the government keeps obsessing with everyone getting a degree.’

‘Who would you employ; the sixteen-year-old who left school with one GCSE or the graduate holding the degree?’ asks Maggot haughtily.

‘Depends on the degree,’ he responds suavely. ‘A degree is not an entitlement to a job, Maggie. It has value but it is just the beginning of a life of work. It is about how you apply this degree that makes the difference in the long run. But you can’t ignore the sixteen-year-old school-leaver who wants the opportunity to work. We’re not catering for real measurable skills, skills that build countries, not hedge funds. And work doesn’t rely solely on academic merits, far from it. It’s the innovation of the young we have to engage, build their self-starter confidence. Show me a theorist and I’ll show you a person who can’t put two and two together in real life.’

This guy Guy is seriously making me change my mind about politics.

‘Innovative in collecting all the benefits they can, you mean,’ Piers says pompously. ‘Most of them are just lazy.’

‘Not all sixteen-year-olds are lazy, just as graduates with degrees aren’t all hard-working. Lack of opportunity is the major factor here.’

‘And lack of ambition,’ Piers adds. ‘I suppose there are a lot of graduates who seem to have no idea what they want to do.’

I look up sharply and Piers is looking directly at me.

I wondered when I would be dragged into the conversation.

Cheap shot, and I do have ambition. It’s just hard when every job you apply for you don’t even get to the interview stage. I’ve applied for jobs in advertising, for charity, and the other day I tried to get a job as an art gallery curator’s assistant. That one I really hoped I’d get an interview for as it had an amazing photographic department. Taking pictures is a bit of a hobby of mine – I took it as an extra course on top of my degree.

So, until I get an interview I continue to work front and back of house at this chic London bistro cum café. At least I am working. Like I’ve said, a lot of my uni friends are unemployed, or working pro bono for lack of paid opportunities. Employers are taking advantage of that these days.

‘Poppy lacks direction,’ Piers suddenly announces to the table.

My mouth flops open.

‘She got a first in English Literature but chooses to work in a café. How long have you been there now, darling?’

(Just between you and me, Piers got a 2:2 in Political Science. His polo tournaments really bit into his study time.)

‘Four years,’ I mumble, colour stinging my cheeks.

He’s been washing our dirty laundry in public a little bit too frequently of late.

‘Oh dear,’ says Maggot shaking her head. ‘Why on earth haven’t you left?’

I want to shrink into my chair but all eyes are on me.

‘I like it,’ I say, slightly defiant. ‘We can’t all have family connections to open doors.’

‘Even if I gave you a bunch of charitable keys embossed from golden picked cherries you’d still find excuses why the job isn’t for you,’ Piers snickers.

That’s unfair and so untrue.

Maggot laughs along, superiority engulfing her stuck-up face.

I hate her and I’m loathing him at the moment.

The conversation around the table goes deathly quiet and I stare at Piers. How can he say those things, and in front of these people? How can he do that? He doesn’t even look sorry.

‘There’s nothing wrong with working in a café,’ says Guy as he pours more wine.

‘Upmarket bistro,’ I interject with a wink. ‘Of course, this is before I embark on a demanding executive career. Oh yes. High-flying business executive in the making here, currently in suspended animation until the right job pops up.’

I chink my glass with Guy and it sloshes and splashes on the table. Oops. ‘I am working on a prototype for hospitals.’

I wait for an appropriate amount of time until the unkempt heads of hair and fashion-faux-pas morons turn their attention to me, the slightly squiffy aimless girlfriend of their demigod. I wish they wouldn’t make me feel like I have to apologise for my life, for being normal and just plodding along at my own pace. I see pairs of hawk-eyes focusing; cutlery placed gently down at the side of the Royal Copenhagen plates. I cough into my drink, which I still have firmly in my hand, then place it gently down as though peer pressure has won through and try to redeem a sense of seriousness.

I clear my throat in order for my brain to catch up and invent some worthy tale I can take for a spin. Piers’s look is one of horror and dread. He furtively gazes at the half-drunk decanter of wine that is firmly fixed before my place mat.

‘Yes, well, as you know the NHS’s superbug problems have been reduced significantly since liquid hand sterilisers were introduced.’

I try and gauge my audience’s reaction but the hawks are waiting with bated interest, by the look of things. Crikey. I calmly sip my drink; again, Piers’s eyebrows are quivering in angst.

‘So, as I said, significantly reduced but not eradicated. My idea is to automate the dispensing action of the steriliser to enable the ward doors to open. A very simple idea, I know, but a small electronic chip that could lead to far better hygiene and prevent the breeding ground of the superbug. People have to sterilise to get in the door.’

I quietly expel the nervous air in my chest, disguising it as a ‘there you go’ triumphant conclusion. Silence engulfs the table of the usually avid candidates of speakers’ corner. No one says anything, not a twitter. Pin drop (understatement). You could hear snakes slithering in the Sahara. I daren’t even look at Piers. Sweat beads begin erupting across my brow and I gulp under the watchful scrutiny of the foreboding table guests. I shut my eyes and wish someone would push me out to sea with the remaining decanters.

Guy chuckles.

‘We should probably head home now, or to Dragons’ Den, whichever is closer.’ Piers blurts a laugh out but I can tell by the tight grip of his hand on my arm he’s not happy.

An hour later we crash through the front door, me staggering as I take my heels off. Piers is furious. I can tell by the way his face is puffing up and going a deeper shade of crimson. He looks like a steam engine without its funnel to release the pressure.

He throws his keys onto the table and stomps upstairs. ‘Why can’t you just keep your fucking mouth shut?’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ I hiss. ‘Of course, it’s all my fault. Nothing to do with the toffee-nosed people you call "friends",’ I yell, stomping up the stairs behind him. ‘Predators, more like. Picking faults in everything that isn’t from their world. I’d feel more relaxed in a bear pit.’

Piers turns his head slowly, looking down at me.

You know that moment when you’ve just been caught out by teacher and expect an earful of patronising remarks? Well, it’s that kind of look. I hate it when he thinks he’s addressing an unruly crowd, so impersonal, detached. Party politics shouldn’t invade your relationship, especially on home turf.

‘Just because you feel it necessary to explain your insecurities at length, plus you quite clearly border on this fantasy life, the slightest question gets you defensive.’

‘Question? It was a full-blown attack and you started it.’

‘I merely stated facts, Poppy, something that you’re unfamiliar with in your little life.’

‘Don’t fucking take that tone with me.’

‘I do believe you’re the one setting this tone, darling. Language.’

‘You absolute toffee-nosed wanker! You brought it up, you can’t help yourself picking holes in me, now it’s part of your public banter, winning points off me ... you’re such a big man, aren’t you? Make you feel superior, more powerful?’ I yell, following him into the bedroom.

A glint kindles and becomes fiery in his eyes as he rounds on me. I can tell he’s all hot and bothered by the fact I’m all hot and bothered. Not to mention both drunk as skunks. I’m about to say something else when he cups my face and kisses me. I almost forget why I’m angry and kiss him back, then, remembering that he really pissed me off tonight, I try to pull away. His lips chuckle and he kisses me again and I bury my fingers in his hair, pulling his lips closer. I can feel the smirk on his lips. He’s such a fucking know-it-all.

The next twenty minutes is steamy and hot ... and it’s not from our ears. Our mouths have given up shouting to be put to better use. We yank at each other’s clothes, eager to get on with it. First his trousers, then my dress, I tear the shirt off his back, dragging my nails across his skin. He groans, unclipping my bra and taking hold of my breasts, pinching each nipple a bit too hard.

Ow! Easy does it.

‘I’m going to make you come,’ he says while nipping at my ear.

Promises, promises.

We scramble onto the bed. I fling my thong to the floor and flop onto my back. Piers clumsily pulls off his pants and climbs on top of me. I spread my legs and without further ado he thrusts deep and hard.

In and out he moves. I cup hold of his bottom, driving him harder, faster. The rhythm is good. I bite his lip, still angry.

He moans.

I feel myself finally getting into the rhythm, letting the tension out and then—

Piers lets out a loud groan and his body shudders with satisfaction, then he collapses onto his back and promptly falls asleep, leaving me hanging in the throes of passion.

I bolt upright and stare in disbelief. You’ve got to be kidding me. The selfish bastard.

I stomp out of the bedroom into the ensuite, take his aftershave and douse his socks in it. He doesn’t even stir.

Serves him right. In the morning, the stench will be thick, sickening. I never liked that scent.

Politics is a dirty game.

I run myself a bath, feeling used. By the time I get back into bed I am stone-cold sober, unsatisfied, and grumpy.

For half an hour, I try and sleep but his alcohol-laden breathing plus the intensifying snoring starts to annoy me. I scuttle off downstairs and make a hot chocolate, then build myself a fluffy bed with every cushion, pillow and throw I can find. I want to sleep to stop my mind from being angry but it’s a losing battle. In the end, I decide to put on an old film instead: The Comedians. I watch Elizabeth Taylor be the object of man’s desire and wish I could learn how to do that. I would love to have a man lap at my feet instead of criticising my footwear. The film occupies my mind and before long I’m dribbling chocolate liquid, my cup falling sideways in my hand, spilling everywhere. But I just turn over, I’m so tired.

CHAPTER TWO

The King of Tedium

Morning cracks through the window pane abruptly. I forgot to shut the blinds.

My eyes crinkle in the sunbeams then focus on what I made as a bed.

Jeez, I never knew you could get so many soft furnishings on a sofa.

On closer inspection, I can see some washing is required – there’s chocolate everywhere.

I quickly gather up the stained items and hope Piers doesn’t surface until I have removed all evidence of my little late-night chocolate incident. He’d only think I was an ‘absolute’ imbecile instead of the ‘day-to-day plain’ imbecile. I throw everything in the washing machine in a hurry, but when I go to close the door my subconscious asks me exactly why am I a total chicken shit? So, what if you spilt some liquid. So, what if you were tipsy. Who the hell is he to make me feel this way?

Whilst contemplating my weird, frightened behaviour I make myself a coffee and sit out on the ledge outside our kitchen window.

It’s not exactly a rooftop terrace but a little suntrap with just enough room to sit and take in some fresh air. Some previous tenant stuck a load of lead, wood, and strengtheners on the roof. I’m the only one who goes out there, probably against Piers’s political beliefs, as it doesn’t have planning permission.

I sip slowly, wondering how we ended up like this. My thoughts towards Piers are resentful and our respect for one another is tainted. We don’t speak about it, we just go along from day to day growing more and more apart, tolerating each other’s failings less and less. I’m not even sure I like him very much anymore. So why are you with him then, I hear you ask.

I don’t know. I don’t know. We’ve been together ... forever; it just seems a terrible shame to end it now.

But last night was awful. It’s as if I’m grasping at a gate that is too tall for me to reach and the handles having rusted together. I hated that Piers lapped up every shit comment Maggot made last night. They seem to share some little secret solidarity front that I’m not allowed to infiltrate. Personally, I think she is a bad influence on him; he’s becoming as smug as she is. Self-belief polluting his true core of principles, dribbling over her every word and jumping every time she speaks. I really dislike the smug cow but perhaps she’s got that seriousness Piers desires even more than desire itself. His sex drive at best is a mere ramble on a Sunday, a placid country ride, and what do I get out of it? What do I ever get out of it?

I suppose it could be the booze amplifying my suspicions of them together?

Oh, I don’t know ... maybe he was that all along, a charlatan all this time and I’m only now beginning to see him in his natural habitat.

An awful retching cough from upstairs pulls me out of my reverie. I crouch down even further from the window sill. Ah yes, the aftershave. I suppose my actions are no better or logical than a girl shielding herself from the monsters under the bed. And the monster has surfaced. I remain still, listening intently for the heavy footsteps to bundle down the stairs.

We live (or cohabit would be a more accurate description of the true situation) in a duplex. It’s not that glam but hey, this is London, and we have two very small floors and not just the ‘very typical’ squalid studio room. Piers’s father is generous that way. Probably why I fell for Piers in the first place: digs that didn’t need fumigating every month, no damp in your treasured wardrobe. A lot less has appealed and swayed women on a budget at university.

I hear the screech of the window getting shoved open against its stubborn (badly painted) sill.

It must smell rank in there by now.

Then I hear some movement on the creaky floorboards in the bathroom. He’s definitely on the move.

Maybe I should sit at the kitchen table drinking my coffee; he might want to apologise for his behaviour last night. Yeah, like that will ever happen.

On second thoughts, I slink further down the wall, hiding from the noises coming from above. A few minutes pass, then the