As Weekends Go (Choc Lit) Read Free Page A

and Nick had first met. Being told you facially resemble Eric the fishmonger from someone’s local boozer in Mitcham when you’re expecting to hear Clive Owen is a kick in the balls by anyone’s standards. Especially by a man eleven years your junior.
    Even so, Rebecca enjoyed their rare evenings out together as a foursome.
    ‘
Well?
’ said Abi, hands cupped together under her chin in prayer.
    Rebecca gazed longingly back down at the brochure.
    ‘Oh, come on, Bex. I bet your eyes sparkled like fairy dust when you saw my email this morning. Put yourself first for a change. Lord Stafford’ll be away until Sunday. We’ll be back on Monday. Let him run his own bloody bath for one night.’
    ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said Rebecca, laughing. ‘It’s all right for you. Nick doesn’t fly back from Spain until Tuesday.’
    ‘Yes, and he can take his dirty washing home to his own flat,’ said Abi, pinching her freckled nose. ‘I don’t want five days’ worth of lager-stained football shirts on my new parquet floor, thanks very much. That’s if he even makes the flight out tomorrow. He’s staying over at Deano’s tonight, so they’re bound to sink a few pints together. Good job they’re only ten minutes from Stansted. Anyway, lady, I digress. How often has Greg left you to fend for yourself? If Nick even thinks about going AWOL the day we ever move in together,
especially
for work reasons, I’ll—’
    ‘Use his bollocks as doorstops?’ Rebecca had heard it a dozen times.
    ‘Just testing,’ said Abi, grinning. ‘Not that we’d be able to afford anything as posh as this for a fair while.’ She swept open her arms, indicating Rebecca’s house in general.
    Ironically, it had been Greg who’d instigated their move. Issues like graffiti and thumping car stereos hadn’t bothered him before he’d gained executive status. Then, all of a sudden, Croydon was a shithole. Rough in parts, granted, but they were hardly dodging bullets every night. He’d clearly decided this new image of his needed upholding though; cue their switch to a cul-de-sac in Purley – a leafier and, in his eyes, more upmarket south London town.
    Rebecca appreciated the bigger kitchen, conservatory and horseshoe drive she’d acquired, she just wished he hadn’t been so snotty about it all.
    No wonder Abi got frustrated with him.
    They heard the front door slam.
    ‘Let me ask him,’ Abi hissed.
    ‘Ask me what?’ said Greg, flinging his sports bag down as he entered the kitchen. He was wearing jeans, a white polo shirt and the usual frown that befell his face whenever he saw Abi anywhere over his threshold.
    ‘Hello, you,’ said Rebecca, rising to flick on the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’
    ‘Coffee, please.’ Greg tossed his car keys on the side, barely looking at her. ‘Ask me what,’ he repeated, slumping down next to Abi at the breakfast bar.
    ‘Patience, Mr Stafford.’ Abi tilted her cheek for a kiss. ‘Good game of squash?’
    ‘No. Shocking. Tim played like a donkey.’
    ‘Don’t be cruel. He’s not long recovered from knee surgery,’ said Rebecca, spooning two sugars into Greg’s Crystal Palace football mug.
    Yet another of his newly acquired habits she found hurtful. The way he slagged off his younger brother at every chance. Tim might not be as ambitious or as sporty as Greg, but he’d always been there for him.
    ‘How did your meeting go this afternoon?’ she asked, turning round to hand him his drink.
    He didn’t answer. He was too busy leafing through the Hawksley Manor brochure.
    ‘This yours?’ he asked Abi, waving it under her nose.
    ‘My boss’s.’ Abi laid her head on his shoulder. ‘In a better mood now, are we?’
    ‘Depends what you want?’ said Greg, eyes savouring a shot of the manor’s glorious architecture.
    Heart pounding, Rebecca set down his coffee along with the biscuit barrel as Abi peddled the tactful version of why she’d invited her to York; including her boss’s involvement