It's Got To Be Perfect Read online

  It’s got to be Perfect

  Claire

  Allan

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

  Published 2011

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: [email protected]

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Claire Allan 2010

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  1

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84223-457-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  Note on the Author

  Claire Allan describes herself as a journalist, author, mammy, wine-drinker and occasional nutcase – not necessarily in that order. She lives in Derry with her husband Neil and their two children Joseph and Cara. She continues to work as reporter and columnist for the Derry Journal. When she is not working, she fights a continuing battle to lose weight, break her handbag addiction and win the affection of her two-year-old nephew Ethan, who looks at her strangely a lot of the time. She cannot sing – not even a note – but does enjoy trying.

  You can find her at www.claireallan.com, or on Facebook or Twitter.

  Also by Claire Allan

  Jumping in Puddles

  Feels Like Maybe

  Rainy Days & Tuesdays

  Published by Poolbeg

  Acknowledgements

  First of all, this book was written with you in mind. Especially if you are thirty or over and still feel uncomfortable in your own skin, or haven’t met The One or have never looked good in a pair of skinny jeans. If you were ever five and dreamed about your wedding day/being a mammy/running your own company and perhaps life hasn’t panned out that way, then this is for you. And this is especially for you if you think your friends/family have it all sorted and just haven’t let you in on the secret for perfectly painted nails and nice interiors yet . . .

  Writing this book was easy. It was easy because it was fun. Seriously, I loved it. Almost every minute. For the minutes when I just kind of liked it, I had my in-built fan club urging me on. For this book, in particular, three people kept me going. My very best friend Vicki, my writing hero Fionnuala Kearney and my inspirationally gorgeous Auntie Raine. Thank you.

  For those moments when I needed reminding that I have an actual life and don’t just make lives up for other people – thank you to my family. My husband (of the long-suffering variety) Neil and my two children, Joseph and Cara. Words cannot express how much I love you all.

  Mammy, Daddy, Peter and Emma, thank you for being the best family ever.

  Lisa, thank you for everything – from riding shotgun for me when I drove to Dublin and back in a day for TV3, and riding shotgun when I got us lost on the longest drive in the world ever to Trim, to riding shotgun while we drove very many places where you would listen to the same old talk time and time again and always look interested. This one is for you.

  My extended family, as always, must get a mention and it would be remiss of me not to mention my niece here. When I was writing this book and creating the character of Darcy, my sister found out she was pregnant. Fast forward and Darcy Bo (inspired by me, I like to think) was born and she is my squishy girl. Along with her brother, Ethan, and her sister Abby, I am a very lucky auntie indeed.

  Of course the staff of the Derry Journal and Johnston Press NI must get a mention – especially the girls in the office – and most especially Erin. We may have had one or two of those Annie and Fionn scrapes in real life before we settled down and became mammies within a week of each other.

  Writing a PR storyline was amazing fun – not least because I could let my imagination run wild (and I did – the nipple-tassels, I must stress, are entirely my own invention) but one very glam and lovely PR lady by the name of Gráinne McGarvey may have shared a story or two. Merci beaucoup for the Singles Night inspiration.

  I don’t use acknowledgements usually to get all mushy and personal but while I was writing this book I was going through the pregnancy from hell with my amazing daughter. There are people who kept me sane and this is one way I can think to say thank you to Dr Claire Sweeney of Cityview Medical Practice.

  While we are on a mushy vibe, this book has helped raise money for a very special charity: “Camille’s Appeal”. Camille, who makes a special appearance in this book, is the daughter of a friend of mine and is perhaps the bravest little girl I know. I auctioned a mention in this book for her charity and an amazing woman called Tor Pickles donated £250 and nominated Camille and her mother Hayley for a mention. I am proud to know all these people and to fight beside them whatever way I can. Please, if you can, have a look at www.camillesappeal.co.uk.

  On a cheerier note, ah, my Northern Girls – Emma Heatherington and Fiona Cassidy – what great craic we have shared and I am happy to be on the Poolbeg bus with you. Indeed, darn it (mushy again) I just love my fellow Poolbeg authors – big up to Sharon Owens, Anne Dunlop, Anna McPartlin (who genuinely does make me shoot wine out of my nose on a regular basis) and Emma Hannigan who is just amazing.

  Which brings me to the Poolbeg team – who have fought our corner relentlessly in the toughest market this country has known. You are amazing, all of you. But especially Paula Campbell (and not just because I am duty-bound to kiss her ass). When you can sit, drunkenly, across the table from your publisher and have a great craic, you know that you have landed on your feet. Also big thanks to my editor Gaye Shortland who never misses a beat.

  I also have to thank my agent, Ger Nichol, who continues to buoy me up and keep me going. Thank you doesn’t seem enough.

  To the booksellers and journalists – all at Culture NI and Books Biz NI or anywhere – proving that us Northerners have a valid voice, thank you. To Lynsey Dolan, for being inspirational, funny and introducing me to Lady Antebellum, thank you.

  And finally to you – who have parted with your hard-earned cash when hard-earned cash isn’t exactly free and easy at the moment – for buying this book, thank you. To all who email, Facebook, tweet and stop me in the school playground, God bless you all.

  For

  Lisa,

  A friend, a sister and an inspiration

  1

  I wouldn’t say I was jealous of Fionn. Just because she was getting her happy ending while I was plodding along waiting for my life to start. She deserved her happy ending – I believed that entirely. But still, as I watched her walk out of the changing room in her stunning shot-silk gown, her eyes misty with emotion, I couldn’t help feeling a little green around the gills with envy (and the remnants of last night’s vodka).

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” the over-enthusiastic shop assistant almost squealed, and I nodded.

  “Do you really like it?” Fionn asked, her face begging me to say yes.

  “I do,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. It was a st
unning dress which accentuated my friend’s natural beauty but when I choked back a tear it was because I couldn’t ever see myself in her position – no matter how carefully I had planned every aspect of my life. You see, I had this wonderfully crappy habit of messing things up. If there was a degree in being a fuck-up, I would have passed with first-class honours.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” Fionn said, waving her hands in front of her face to try and stem her tears, “because I really think this is the one. This is my wedding dress, Annie. My wedding dress.” She emphasised the words while twirling around like some sort of demented overgrown fairy princess and the shop assistant actually did squeal with delight at this stage.

  I just sobbed into my hanky. In a most undignified manner.

  “Like a princess,” I said, sipping my wine. The buzz of the bar had lifted my spirits and Fionn and I were three-quarters way down a very fine bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  “I was, wasn’t I? Like a Disney Princess.”

  “Hmmm,” I answered. “Cinderella.”

  “Or Ariel. I like her wedding dress best of all. The way it sparkles in the sun when she kisses Eric in the last scene.” Fionn sighed dreamily, before sipping from her glass again.

  I raised my eyebrow – or at least I think I raised my eyebrow. The wine was combining with the previous night’s vodka and it was possible that any facial gesture I tried to make at that moment looked more like I had developed some weird facial tick.

  “Okay, okay,” Fionn blushed. “I know I sound like an eejit, but Emma is going through a particularly fierce and ferocious Disney Princess phase at the moment and it’s about all I can think about. Every moment of every fecking day some cheerful tune is dancing through my head.”

  I smiled. Fionn was not taking to motherhood all that well. That’s not to say she was doing too badly at it, but since she had moved in with Alex in the run-up to the Big Day she was finding it challenging to come to terms with the demands – and viewing habits – of his five-year-old daughter, Emma.

  “But I can’t just tell her I don’t want to watch them, can I? Because if I do, I’ll be the Wicked Stepmother and, believe me,” she said with emphasis, “I’ve seen enough of those movies to know that doesn’t bode well.”

  “Emma loves you,” I soothed. “And it’s just a novelty having a woman about the house to indulge her princess fantasies with.”

  Fionn nodded. “I know, but promise me this. The next time I come into work with fairy-dust on my cheeks, can you point it out to me before the ops meeting? I don’t think it does well to have me looking like an overgrown schoolgirl.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I laughed. “I think Bob liked it. You brought a little colour to the office that day.”

  Ah, Bob. (Or “Bawb” as Fionn and I usually called him, in a faux-American accent.) He was our boss and obsessed with client portfolios and, it seemed, little else. I didn’t think he actually had a life outside of the office, which was why he liked to exert as much control over his minions (as he had been known to call us) as possible.

  Fionn shuddered. “I don’t want to talk, or even think, about Bawb just now. It takes away from the whole wedding-dress, fairy-tale experience. And I don’t want anything to take away from that.”

  Which was precisely the reason I didn’t explain to her how the last twenty-four or so hours of my life had been the most spectacularly painful of my existence. If she didn’t want Bob to ruin her dream wedding-dress day then she sure as feck didn’t want to hear about Chewbacca.

  Have you ever made a mistake? You know, a big, huge mistake which makes your heart sink to the pit of your stomach and the contents of your stomach try and escape through your mouth every time you think about it?

  It was one of those things which seemed like a good idea at the time. I was wanted. I was fancied. I was irresistible. But that was then.

  Lying there, in the stale air of my bedroom, with the exceptionally hairy arm of my mistake draped over my stomach – clammy with sweat – I felt my mind whir and my head thump. Too much vodka on an empty stomach – it was never going to end well.

  I glanced at the clock on the chest of drawers and my heart thumped harder. It was 10.29 a.m. On a workday. So not only was I trapped under the weight of a man who was a walking before advertisement for a good back, sack and crack wax, I was also approximately eighty-nine minutes late for work.

  I glanced at Chewbacca lying beside me. He was out for the count. I moved my head closer to his, wondering if he was actually dead, but the stench of booze-breath wafting out with every exhalation was enough to reassure me that he was very much alive – if comatose.

  I lifted his arm, weighed down by the sheer volume of hair on it, and inched my way out of the bed – doing my best to leave him sleeping. I wanted him awake, and out of my apartment – but preferably not while I was still naked. The last thing I wanted was him to wake and get a notion that there was a chance in hell of a repeat of the previous night’s performance. Even though my hazy memory told me it had been quite pleasurable.

  It was 10.33. I wanted (needed) a shower, but that would only make me even later for work and even further into the bad books of Bob who by now was probably halfway to a stroke. I lifted my phone to call him, but then it dawned on me: I could just get ready and get to work as soon as possible. When he asked where I had been I could say I’d been out meeting a client. It wasn’t unheard of, and it might just work. If only I could get Chewbacca out of my flat any time soon.

  After a speed-wash with a sponge, I slipped into my suit and dabbed on some foundation – although I doubted even the finest Clarins had to offer was going to make me look anywhere near human. Pulling a comb through my hair and tying it up into a topknot, I slipped my feet into a pair of court shoes and glanced back at the clock: 10.43. And he was still sleeping.

  I tried slamming a door. I even set off the alarm clock and had a very loud conversation with myself. Not so much as a flinch. I pulled the duvet off the bed – hoping the cool would shock him awake – but then I wasn’t reckoning on his carpet of self-insulation.

  It was therefore supremely ironic when it was my phone ringing with a call from my boyfriend that actually woke him.

  “Hello,” Pearse said, his voice showing his confusion. “Where are you? I tried phoning you at work. They said you weren’t in yet. I tried calling last night too – you didn’t answer.”

  Pearse Campbell liked to know where I was and who I was with at every hour of the day and night. Having gone off radar for the last twelve hours would not have gone down well with him. Not at all.

  “I’m with a client,” I lied, my face blazing. I was sure he would know I was fibbing. He could read me like a book – even over the phone.

  And it was at precisely that moment Chewbacca chose to shout, loudly, “Babe, do you know where my boxers are?”

  It was 11.23. The underwear had been located and returned to its rightful owner shortly after Pearse had given orders that we would talk later, muttered something about how could I do this to him and hung up. I had got rid of my mystery man-beast and was now fighting against the traffic to make it into the office at all before lunchtime. Bob would not be happy, client or not. This day was not going well and that sinking feeling in my stomach was back – which did not sit easily with the hung-over feeling which seemed to have taken over my entire body.

  I drove on demented, pushing all thoughts of Pearse and the battle that would ensue later to the back of my head. I just didn’t have time to think about it now. Okay, this day was a balls-up – but if I didn’t get my ass into work pretty damn soon, it would be the most spectacular balls-up day of all time.

  I was somewhere between weeping with relief and crying with fear when I pulled into the communal car park and secured the last parking space left. Jumping out of the car, snagging my tights as I went, I dived through the rain to the office, stopping only momentarily to plaster a look of nonchalance on my face before entering.

&
nbsp; “Oh Annie, how nice of you to join us!“ Bob crowed from across the open-plan room. My colleagues, well aware of the seriousness of my offence, didn’t even look up. Apart from Fionn, that is, whose Bambi eyes gazed at me, begging me silently to keep my cool and not ruin her dream day which would, of course, end in the Great Wedding-dress Trying-on Extravaganza.

  “Nice of you to notice,” I bluffed back, with more confidence than I felt. Perhaps if I pretended that everything was just tickety-boo, Bob would be lulled into a weird sense of security and forget just why he had cause to be angry.

  I walked to my desk and sat down, lifting the phone from the cradle and rattling in an imaginary number while my computer booted up. Bob just stood, for a few seconds, open-mouthed, before storming into his office.

  An audible sigh of relief rose from everyone outside.

  “Where were you?” An email from Fionn pinged into my inbox.

  “Long story. Nothing exciting,” I lied. I had already made the conscious decision not to tell her about Chewbacca or Pearse – not when we were going on a wedding-dress hunt. What a downer that would be.

  “Where were you?” An email from Bob pinged into my inbox.

  “With a client,” I lied. I had already made a conscious decision that I would not crack under pressure, ever.

  “Which client?” he asked.