Praise for Gillian Harvey ‘Charming and relatable’ Sophie Cousens ‘Totally uplifting, totally a must-read’ Tracy Bloom ‘Brilliantly funny and engaging’ Nicola Gill ‘The perfect escapist read’ Emma Murray ‘Hilarious, uplifting and relatable’ Jessica Ryn ‘Fabulously funny … a perfect escapist read’ Anna Bell ‘Heartwarming, funny and completely relatable, I couldn’t put it down!’ Lucy Vine ‘Funny and honest’ Elizabeth Buchan ‘Just the escapism we need right now’ Evening Standard ‘Hilarious and relatable’ Woman ‘A perfect weekend read’ Grazia ‘Funny and uplifting’ Bella ‘Hilarious, heartwarming and relatable’ New! Magazine Dedication To my gorgeous children Lily, Joe, Tim, Evie and Robbie Perfect on Paper GILLIAN HARVEY Contents Cover Praise for Gillian Harvey Dedication Title Page Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Acknowledgements Author Biography Credits Copyright Chapter One ‘And congratulations to Will for yet another win in court!’ Nigel concluded, the harsh light of the meeting room bouncing off the sheen on his bald head, giving him the appearance of a haloed monk. ‘Well done.’ The four of them clapped obediently as Will stood and gave such a smug little bow that it was all Clare could do to stop herself from leaping over the table and smacking him in the chops. His epic court battle over Mrs Jones’s sprained ankle had netted the firm about two hundred pounds in costs – the sort of money her department made before breakfast. Yet for some reason, news of his win had bumped her presentation to the bottom of the meeting’s agenda. ‘So, I think that’s it!’ Nigel concluded. His leather chair let out a flatulent creak as he stood up, and he stared at it pointedly for a second to make sure everyone knew exactly where the sound had come from. Then, looking at his watch, he announced ‘time, two p.m.’ in such a formal way that she had to look around the table to make sure he wasn’t pronouncing someone dead. ‘Um,’ Clare raised her voice slightly. ‘Um, Nigel, I thought I was going to go through the last quarter’s figures from conveyancing.’ After all, my department does make about seventy-five per cent of our turnover. Nigel glanced at her as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Er, oh … yes, of course. So, all good?’ ‘Yes, we’re, actually we’ve—’ ‘Great, great,’ Nigel waved her away as if he was swatting a small fly, rather than dealing with one of his longest-serving members of staff. ‘Do you want to jot it all down in a memo and I’ll give it a proper look through?’ ‘Of course,’ she replied, her knuckles whitening against the folder she was clutching. Because the fact they’d smashed their target for the third time running was absolutely not as important as the fact that Will had won Mrs Jones’s claim against the builder who’d left a plank of wood lying in the street for her to (lucratively) tumble over. ‘It’ll get better,’ Ann said, once Clare was back in her office, adopting an American accent that made her sound like a character from a US law drama, ‘when you start taking homeowners to court and suing their asses rather than helping them move from A to B.’ ‘Yep,’ Clare grinned, ‘I guess actually coming into the office and slogging away just isn’t as sexy as strutting around the courtroom in a sharp suit.’ She tugged at the edge of her washed-out blouse, rather self-consciously. ‘Look, don’t worry about it. They’ll realise soon enough when they come to balance the books,’ her friend said, rubbing Clare’s shoulder briefly. Would they though? Clare wondered. She’d been ten years in the job, four years as associate, and still Nigel seemed to take her presence, her Saturday morning paperwork sessions, her endless evening phone calls, for granted. Will had joined the firm six months ago, newly qualified and over styled – a man-boy who clearly imagined life as a lawyer would be just like TV drama Legal Minds. Tailored suits, high-profile courtroom drama, glamorous women offering themselves up over tequilas in shady bars after work. Maybe in Hollywood, or even Chicago, Clare thought; but things are a little different in the Home Counties. Nigel, her boss, and a lover of litigation, had recently taken Will under his wing, evidently having earmarked him for greatness, or at least a future partnership in their small firm. ‘He told me he sees me as the son he never had,’ Will had remarked to her recently. ‘That’s lovely,’ she’d replied, not really knowing what was required of her in the conversation. Or whether she should mention that Nigel actually did have a son, who was a successful accountant. ‘It’s not as if Nigel’s even going to read my memo anyway,’ she griped later to her husband Toby, as they shared an after-work glass of red in their kitchen. ‘He’s too caught up in the whole courtroom thing – he goes to watch Will perform, you know. His rising star.’ ‘Yeah.’ Her husband stared at his reflection in the glass-fronted oven and smoothed a stray strand of hair back into place. ‘Tricky.’ ‘Toby?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Can you maybe look at me when we’re talking?’ ‘Sorry.’ He turned towards her, his blue eyes looking slightly panic-stricken. ‘It’s just … well, I’m having such trouble with my fringe. It’s hard to focus on anything else – you know?’ She’d started to wonder whether her husband’s recent promotion was all it was cracked up to be. After a few comfortable years presenting a section of the breakfast show on regional TV, he’d recently been offered the chance to be a third wheel on the national programme. This meant two or three days a week he’d disappear to London in the early hours – sometimes picked up by a sleek black car, other times driving in himself to ‘beat the traffic’. He’d become obsessed with what he referred to as his ‘brand’ and begun to ask himself ‘what would Toby do?’ out
