Free The Year of Taking Chances by Lucy Diamond Page B

his help, there was a momentary hesitation when she was
convinced, for a split-second, that he was about to ask her out for a drink, or even sweep her up in his arms. Instead he just leaned in, gave her a peck on the cheek and said he’d see her
around. She’d drifted back inside, her fingers rising to touch her skin where it had been grazed by his lips, wishing she’d had the nerve to grab hold of him and put her mouth to his
for a proper kiss.
    Perhaps she’d been plain wrong about any chemistry, deluding herself that she had felt the vibes. For all she knew, Harry was like that with everyone; one of those charming, easy-going
types who slipped through the world with ease, a Pied Piper of women, attracting jostling, flattered hordes in his wake. All those proposals and almost-marriages, remember – a woman in every
port, by the sound of it.
    She’d probably had a lucky escape, all things considered. He might even already be back with the woman who’d trampled his Stetson all the way to hat-heaven. Anyway, she reminded
herself, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, it wasn’t as if she was in remotely the right place to start a new relationship. Hello? Rebound klaxon!
    Whatever. It was all academic, seeing as she hadn’t heard a thing from him since that day, let alone glimpsed him around the village. The only evidence that they’d been to Cambridge
at all was the pile of boxes she’d dumped upstairs, yet to be unpacked, and the bill Flynn had sent her to cover the cost of cleaning his precious canvas, along with a furious note, ranting
about her immature act of vandalism:
    You stupid bitch, you are MENTAL. Seriously, you have major problems. Do you think anyone else is going to want you? You’re not even attractive. You’re a fucking JOKE.
    She wished she hadn’t read it now, but the words were burned into her subconscious. If he thought for a minute he was getting any money off her, though, he was lost in Dreamland. Let’s hope he stayed there.
    She put her head under the duvet and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. Getting a bit whiffy, Cait. Personal hygiene had fallen by the wayside since she’d been back in Larkmead. There was a
definite monobrow taking shape between her eyebrows, not to mention the shadowy line above her top lip. A crop of small red spots had appeared around her mouth, she had a coldsore blistering on her
lower lip and there was a greasy sheen on her forehead. Her hair had completely grown out of its bob and was bushy and kicking out around the ends, while her fringe was wonky where she’d
tried to cut it with some nail scissors two weeks ago. As for her legs, they positively bristled with new growth. Spring has come to the forest! Well, to her hairy calves anyway.
    Her hand wandered down to her belly and squidged it. Caitlin had always been tall enough that she could eat whatever she liked and didn’t have to worry about putting on weight, but that
was before she spent days lying on the sofa watching endless daytime TV and stopped leaving the house. There was a definite creeping roundness to her tummy and hips, and a new tightness to her
jeans. Much more of this lifestyle and she’d become a hairy, wobbling beast, half-ape, half-blob. Attractive – said nobody, ever. If she didn’t pull herself together, make an
effort and re-enter the human race soon, she’d end up being carted off to a freak show.
    Her eyes drifted around the room, as if seeing the place for the first time. It wasn’t only her that needed a spruce up and polish; the cottage did, too. There was dust on the mirror; an
open suitcase containing a jumble of clothes; cold, mouldy cups of tea and coffee along the chest of drawers and a row of tights drying on the radiator, toes dangling, like the ghosts of a cancan
girl troupe.
    Downstairs was even worse. She knew without stirring that there was an embarrassing number of congealing, sticky Chinese takeaway boxes silting up on the draining board (‘Ah,