Lovestruck Read Free Page A

many weirdos were jumping on there. He had been to the pub with Ricky Gervais after filming a comedy quiz show and had Jonathan Ross’s email.
    He was just about to start rehearsing for a West End version of
Twelfth Night
– not the glitziest choice, and certainly not the best paid, though the fact that Ellie Lewis, star for years of the insanely popular, brainy and glamorous American drama
O’Rourke’s
, was going to be Viola, had given the enterprise a load more sex appeal. Not to mention, Christy Papadopolous, Rosie’s best and oldest friend – and as it happened, her husband’s agent, but that was another story – had assured Jake the play was the best step to take if he wanted to be regarded not just as a sitcom star but as a serious actor. And Christy knew what she was talking about.
    Anyway, Rosie thought, as she moved from the
reception room to the ‘snug’, which, despite its name, could contain their old flat, the end result was suddenly money had been pouring into Jake’s bank account. She wouldn’t call herself rich, because she didn’t feel like a rich person. Rich people spoke like the queen and spent their nights out at Boujis or Annabel’s, rather than in front of a Love Film DVD. She didn’t look rich – her shoulder-length hair was always pulled back in a practical ponytail and she hadn’t had time to have her highlights done for six months and she wore no make-up. Again, when would you find the time to apply it when the boys were displaying their kung-fu kicks? Her jeans were from Gap (bought with a thirty-percent-off voucher). Her trainers were FitFlops (
not
cool but
so
comfy). Her top was River Island. Then there was her turquoise necklace purchased on that holiday with Christy in Rimini, when they’d danced until dawn every night.
    ‘Happy?’ said Jake behind her. He slipped his arms over her shoulders and rubbed himself against her bottom. Jake would have to be in a coma not to want to have sex. Rosie slapped his hand gently as it moved towards the zip of her jeans.
    ‘Stop it, you sick pervert. We have a vomit-encrusted child to bathe.’
    ‘Later?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘To christen the bedroom?’
    ‘Of course later,’ Rosie grinned.
    ‘Mummy!’ shouted Toby. ‘The moving van is here.’
    She ran back into the hallway and peered through one of the windowpanes that flanked the front door. Sure enough, the van was drawing up.
    ‘Better put the kettle on.’
    ‘Can I help them?’ Toby cried.
    ‘Well … You can perhaps help unpack something.’ She’d originally said they’d do the unpacking themselves, but Jake had overridden her and said they’d pay the premium and have the removal guys do it. Why not? They could afford it. He was always saying that these days.
    There was just one thing she needed to do before making cups of tea. She pulled out her old Samsung – as soon as she had a moment she’d get round to finally upgrading to an iPhone – and jabbed out a quick text. Two recipients: Christy and Sandrine.
We’re finally here! So excited. Can’t wait for you to come and see it. xxx
    She opened the door and as she stepped outside into the spring sunshine, her phone tringed. Sandrine.
So excited for you, honey-bunny. xx
    Rosie smiled. Truly, there was no one lovelier than Sandrine. She imagined her pootling around her kitchen in Hebden Bridge in her huge shabby slippers and one of her baggy sweatshirts, cat rubbing against her ankles, while her partner June pottered in their little herb garden. Rosie hoped she’d visit soon. She’d die of laughter
when she saw the gold taps, but it would be kind, supportive laughter.
    The inbox showed another text. Christy. Rosie’s best friend since she was seven years old.
Can’t wait to see the results of all my hard work! Xx PS Bottle of Moët on the way. Let me know if it doesn’t turn up.
    ‘Oh, Christy,’ Rosie grinned. She showed the text to Jake.
    He smiled wryly. ‘That woman and Moët. She’s getting