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SECOND CHANCE by Jane Green
On Sale: June 19th
Hardcover
384 pages
ISBN-10: 0670038571
ISBN-13: 9780670038572

A group of old friends sits around a half-cleared dinner table. Now in their late thirties, most haven’t seen one another for years.

• Paul, a handsome freelance journalist, is now happily married to a gorgeous fashion entrepreneur.

Jane Green lives in Connecticut with her four children. She is the author of SWAPPING LIVES, THE OTHER WOMAN, STRAIGHT TALKING, JEMIMA J, MR. MAYBE, BOOKENDS, BABYVILLE, AND HAVE AND TO HOLD.

In the roster of chick-lit authors, Jane Green has traditionally been something of a lightweight. Her novels are engaging and well-written, to be sure, but their subjects are usually breezy and fun rather than challenging or realistic. Unlike Marian Keyes and Anna Maxted, for example, Green has shied away from tough topics such as death, alcoholism and violence, preferring to focus on glamour, humor and finding true love.

That is, until now. In a novel that may remind some readers of the film The Big Chill, four school friends reunite in the wake of their friend Tom's death in a terrorist attack. There's Paul, a freelance journalist whose charmed life has hit an unlucky patch thanks to a struggle with infertility. There's Saffron, a movie star who is secretly dating a married celebrity. There's Olivia, an unmarried animal shelter manager who is insecure when compared to her successful classmates. And there's Holly, a mother of two who has secretly harbored a love for Tom for more than 20 years and who is on the verge of leaving her insufferable husband and their loveless marriage.

When the four friends, now approaching 40, reunite before Tom's funeral, they reflect that Tom's friendship was the glue that had always held them together, despite the fact that they were now scattered all over the globe. As events of the novel progress, it's clear that even in death, Tom's influence over his friends is far from over. Olivia follows up on a date with one of Tom's colleagues, with unexpected results. Holly turns to Tom's younger brother for friendship and support in her grief and confusion --- but just ends up getting more confused. Paul and Saffron, too, undergo major life changes in the wake of Tom's death, one of which will test these old friends' connections as never before.

In SECOND CHANCE, Jane Green explores topics --- from infertility to infidelity, from terrorism to alcoholism --- that would have been off-limits in most of her earlier books. Here, too, the focus of the novel is more on personal development and less on finding love and romance. In particular, Holly, who occupies the novel's emotional center, needs to rediscover her real self --- the woman Tom knew --- before she can discover love.

But don't worry, Jane Green fans. These serious topics only enrich the veteran author's cachet. There's still plenty of glamour and intrigue to be found (Saffron's Hollywood lifestyle and Paul's fashionista wife make sure of that). Fabulous lifestyles, breezy dialogue and happy (if somewhat unexpected) endings still ensure that SECOND CHANCE deserves a spot on plenty of beach blankets this summer.

      --- Reviewed by Norah Piehl

Chapter One

Tom wakes up first. Lies in the blackness and sighs as he reaches over to turn off the alarm clock. Five-thirty. Blinking red, beeping madly, waiting for him to bang it off. He turns his head to see if Sarah has awakened, but no. She is still soundly asleep, rolled on her side, breathing heavily into her pillow.

He packed the night before, so accustomed now to these business trips, to getting up in the middle of the night, looking out the window to check that the town car is waiting in the driveway, the driver killing time by reading the New York Post, a large cardboard cup of steaming coffee in hand.

The payoff, as he and Sarah both know, is that these business trips won’t be forever, that this acquiring phase of the business won’t be forever, and soon the company will have finished buying the smaller start-ups and will be able to concentrate on growing what they already have. His life as the chief executive officer for a large software company won’t be forever. He’s thirty-nine now. Another two or three years and hopefully his annual bonuses will allow him to think about another life. The kids will be set for life—some money already having been put aside for their college accounts, and he’ll be able to retire, maybe buy his own business, do something that doesn’t involve travel or a commute, time away from the family.

In the bathroom, he trips over Tickle Me Elmo and shakes his head in exasperation before smiling at the memory of Dustin, two years old, giggling uncontrollably alongside Elmo until his older sister, Violet, grabs it away, leaving Dustin in floods of tears.

A hot shower, the last of the packing, and he’s ready to go. Back into the bedroom to kiss Sarah on the cheek. “Love you Bunks,” he whispers, using their pet name for each other, a name they’ve been using for so long they don’t even remember how it came to be. Sarah stirs and opens her eyes. “Love you,” she murmurs. “What time is it?”

“Just after six. The town car’s here. Are you going to get up?”

“Yup. In a second. Have to get the kids ready for the first day of school.”

“Promise me you’ll take pictures of Dustin, okay?”

“Okay, Sweetie. Promise. Have a safe train journey.”

“I will. I’ll call before I get on the train.”

“ ’kay,” and Sarah smiles and sinks back into the pillows and falls fast asleep again before Tom has even made it to the front door.

Across the Atlantic Ocean, just as Tom’s town car pulls out of the driveway, Holly Macintosh also wakes up. 1 a.m. Yesterday she took the afternoon off, exhausted from the past few sleepless nights where the routine is always the same: she stumbles through her bedroom, hits the light switch just outside the doorway of her tiny bathroom, and sinks her head in her hands as she sits on the loo. This has started happening every night. At more or less exactly the same time, Holly wakes up needing to pee, and by the time she climbs back into bed her mind is up and racing, and these last few nights she has still been awake when the sun comes up.

Yesterday she had just managed to fall back into a deep sleep when Daisy came in, clad in mismatched socks, her brother’s oversized Spiderman pajamas, and Holly’s favorite cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. Daisy demanded Weetabix, and Holly stumbled out of bed, shooting daggers at Marcus, who, she was convinced, was merely pretending to be fast asleep.

Again, tonight, it feels as if she were up all night. She lies in bed, her eyes closed, trying to ignore the occasional snore or grunt from her husband, too deep in sleep to notice her. When his snoring becomes too irritating to bear, even though she is wide awake and not even pretending to be trying to get back to sleep, she will shove him over from his position lying on his back. “Snoring,” she will hiss, trying to suppress the urge not to push him hard enough to push him right out of the bed.

Eventually Holly turns on the light, waiting as her husband stirs, then rolls over again, still sleeping. She gathers up a magazine from the pile on the floor next to her bed, resigning herself to yet another of those long, long nights, those nights that render her almost senseless in the mornings.

Yesterday morning, a zombie in oversized men’s pajamas and moccasin slippers, Holly just about managed to get the children up and dressed. “Don’t start,” she said warningly to Oliver, who is never at his best in the mornings, and particularly not when his four-year-old sister has discovered exactly which of his buttons to push to start the tears falling, and with huge enjoyment has incorporated it into her daily morning routine.

Frauke the au pair stumbled down at the end of breakfast, and Holly smiled gratefully as Frauke bent down to get the children buttoned up, slapping some ham and cheese on pumpernickel bread for herself and holding it in her teeth as she took Daisy and Oliver by the hand.

“I’m not working today,” Holly said. “But I’m exhausted. Another bad night. Would you mind organizing a playdate or something this afternoon? I’m just desperate to sleep. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Frauke nodded, with her stern, morning face—the benefits of having gone out last night with six other au pairs, and staying up until much too late drinking Starbucks. “I will phone Luciana, although the last time I tried to see her she was thirty-six minutes late, which was not good. But I will try again. Don’t worry, Holly. I will keep the children out of the house today. Perhaps a museum.”

Holly smiled gratefully at Frauke, who she finds herself describing to friends as “my grown-up daughter from my first marriage.” Her other friends complain about their au pairs, but Holly feels constantly and consistently thankful that Frauke has come into her life. She is organized, strict, loving, and happy. When Marcus goes to work and it is just Holly and Frauke alone with the kids, the house always feels lighter, happier, the energy changing entirely.

So tonight, awake again at 1 a.m., Holly gets up and makes herself a cup of tea, loving how quiet the house is in the middle of the night. This was the house she and Marcus had lived in together well before the children had been born. It was the house she had bought expecting to fill it with children and animals, neighbors and friends popping in at all hours of the day and night. A house we can grow into, she thought. A house that will truly be a home.

Holly’s mother was an interior decorator, and every house Holly had lived in as a child had been a project. As soon as the project was finished, the Macintosh family was on the move again. Holly had had bedrooms in every color of the rainbow. She had had blue fairies, yellow Laura Ashley, hot fuschia, and gold leaf. She had attempted to stop attaching herself to these houses, but couldn’t help the secret hope that with every new move that perhaps this house would be the one her mother would fall in love with, perhaps this time she would finally have a home.

When she and Marcus found this house in Brondesbury, Holly knew that she would never leave. Five bedrooms for all the children she was convinced they would have, a large garden for barbeques and swing sets, a huge, dilapidated kitchen that Holly started mentally reorganizing as soon as they first saw it.

There was no doubt at all that it was home. Holly had bought every piece of furniture herself, had trawled through dusty, fusty antique shops, had spent months going to car-boot sales looking for that one special find, even buying several pieces on eBay, and only getting burned twice. (One was a sofa that was supposed to be in great condition but turned out that the picture on eBay was of a different sofa, and the other was an antique cherry sideboard that turned out to be riddled with woodworm).

In so many ways, Holly has exactly the life she has always wanted. She still gets pleasure every time she comes home, and still, at least four times a week, she finds herself wandering around her house, leaning in doorways and looking at rooms, smiling at the home she has created.

She has her gorgeous, adorable children, Daisy, who is like a mini-me of Holly, and Oliver, who is more serious, pensive, more like her husband.

She has a career she loves—she is a freelance illustrator—and a husband who would appear to be the perfect husband. He is successful—a lawyer in one of the top family law firms, he has become the divorce lawyer of choice for several celebrities of late; he is tall and distinguished looking in his bespoke suits and natty silk ties, the salt and pepper of his hair giving him a gravitas he only aspired to when he and Holly met. He has changed enormously, but Holly tries not to think about it or at least tries not to dwell upon it. His old friends have even tried to gently rib him about his changing his name from Mark to Marcus, but it has gone down like a lead balloon, and the few friends remaining have learned not to tease Marcus about his past.

Did he have humor? Holly supposes so, remembers a time when he used to make her laugh, when they used to go out with friends and she would wipe the tears of laughter away from her cheeks. She doesn’t seem to have laughed with him for a long time, Marcus working longer and longer hours as his career has continued to shoot upward.

They haven’t seen friends either, for that matter, not for a while. Holly, who loves cooking, would regularly host dinner parties in the old days. She didn’t actually want to have dinner parties, would have preferred casual kitchen suppers, friends standing around the island with giant glasses of wine as she threw together a salad, but Marcus insists on doing things properly.

Marcus insists on the best crystal being out, the silver cutlery. He insists on eating in the dining room at the mahogany pedestal table with the Chippendale chairs but they had been a gift from a great-aunt of Holly’s whom she had always hated. They are beautiful, naturally, but they seem so formal, so out of place with the life she had envisioned for herself.

One night they had gone to the neighbors for dinner, and the dining room was a light, bright room, French doors leading onto a terrace, every wall a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, lined with books, the wooden floors painted a white gloss, an old round table with retro Formica chairs. It was hip and warm and fun, and Holly had loved it.

“Wouldn’t our dining room be wonderful like that?” she had said to Marcus as they climbed into the car at nine o’clock. (Holly wanted to stay later, was dying to stay later having not had that much fun in ages, but Marcus insisted on leaving as he was in

the middle of a big case and still had work to do when he got home.)

Marcus had shuddered. “I thought it was ghastly,” he said. “Dining rooms are for dining in, not for reading in.”

Oh fuck off, Holly had thought, rolling her eyes as she turned her head and looked out the window. Since when was he the expert on dining rooms?

Marcus has an awful lot of theories, particularly about what is right and what is wrong; how one is supposed to act; how children are supposed to behave; what is common and what is not.

Most people are fooled by Marcus, believe he is as he appears, but there are many who are not. Holly, though, does not realize this. Not yet. Holly thinks that people take Marcus at face value. She thinks that he has perfected his image as someone who comes from a good family, from old money, from aristocratic intelligentsia and has managed to pull it off. Why he would want to do this in the first place is something Holly does not even try to understand.

Some of the time Marcus does pull this act off. Admittedly, the few remaining friends from university who remember his parents, his childhood home, know that it is all an act, but they are still in his life because they have learned the art of discretion.

So he has acquired manners and tact and graciousness and charm from Holly, but because he is mimicking her, mimicking those around him whom he is trying so hard to emulate, and because none of it comes naturally to him, the charm has a habit of falling off, the manners have a tendency to disappear, particularly when Marcus is feeling superior.

He tries desperately to keep his mother up in Bristol, terrified that she will give his past away; and poor Joanie, Joanie who longs to spend time with her grandchildren but doesn’t know how to be around a son she no longer recognizes; Joanie who sits on her own in her little house, surrounded by photographs, utterly bewildered.

Bewildered at how she produced a son like this, a son who she has come to realize is more than a little embarrassed by her. A son who keeps buying her Hermès scarves and Burberry raincoats, not because she needs them or because she asks for them but because, she well knows, he is trying to turn her into something she is not.

Her plastic rain scarf is fine, thank you very much, and her mac from M&S all those years ago still does a great job. When the gifts arrive, she bundles them up and takes them down to Oxfam unless, of course, she’s having a bridge night beforehand when her friends get to choose.

She doesn’t know what to make of this son who speaks with more marbles in his mouth than the queen. She’s desperately proud of what he’s achieved—the only mother in the town who has a son who’s a lawyer and working his way toward becoming a partner. A partner! Who would have thought! But on a personal level, she has to admit she doesn’t like him very much.

She feels awful saying that about her son. How could she possibly feel that about her own flesh and blood? But Joanie Carter is nothing if not matter-of-fact, and while he will always be her son and she will always love him, she is quite clear that she doesn’t like him.

Who does he think he is? she finds herself thinking when another scarf arrives. But she already knows the answer. He’s Marcus Carter. And he thinks he’s better than all of us.

She thinks Holly is wonderful. Has none of the daughter-in-law issues so many of her friends have, struggling with being replaced by a woman who refuses to understand that mothers are the most important women in their sons’ lives, women who marginalize the mothers-in-law because they are threatened, do their best to cut them out of their lives.

Until of course they have children, at which point babysitting becomes their right, and more discord follows if the grandparents have the temerity to turn down an opportunity to be with their beloved grandchildren because they might have had other plans.

Joanie thinks Holly is wonderful because she is so down

to earth. Joanie can see her son growing more and more self-

important, more and more puffed up with pride, and she hopes, has always hoped, Holly would knock it out of him, thought that if anyone could put up with Marcus, Holly could.

Marcus, Joanie sniffs every time she thinks of the name. He’s not Marcus to her. Will only ever be Mark, no matter how many times he phones her and says, Mummy, it’s Marcus. And Mummy? Since when was she called Mummy? She’d always been Mum until Mark went off to university, and then suddenly he lost his local accent, started talking like Prince Philip, and called himself Marcus and her Mummy. Ridiculous. Even now Mark insists the kids call her Grandma instead of Granny. She’d much rather be Granny. Or Nan.

Mark finds those unspeakably common.

Oh well. It could be worse, she supposes. He could insist they call her Grandmama.

So Joanie loves Holly and doesn’t know how she puts up with him. She loves those children and is thrilled when she talks to Holly and realizes she doesn’t listen to Marcus when he’s not around, which seems to be most of the time these days. But she can’t help but wonder what they’re doing together, can’t help but think that this may be the most peculiar match she’s ever seen.

She thought it was an odd pairing from the beginning although she was delighted. Marcus took her and Holly out to tea at the Ritz, and Holly was so effervescent she thought she might just fizz up through the ceiling. Thank God, she thought with relief. Maybe my son has a chance after all. Maybe this lovely, real girl will knock the stuffing, the stuffiness, out of him.

And then the engagement and a diamond ring that was bigger than anything Joanie had ever seen and plans that took on a momentum of their own. Holly had phoned and said it would be small, maybe in a little hotel or a service in their local church and a lunch for their friends.

It had ended up being at the Savoy. Two hundred people. Holly glorious in her Jenny Packham sheath dress, but strangely subdued Joanie had thought, serene and stunning, but there was a hint of sadness that she pushed to the very back of her mind, refusing to acknowledge what it might have meant.

Even Holly refused to acknowledge what it might mean. Marcus had proposed, exactly as she had known he would, on bended knee next to the river Thames beside the London Eye. He had the ring, exactly as she had known he would, and she couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

After all, he was everything she thought she ought to have been looking for, and soon she was swept up in the momentum of planning the wedding—so very much more lavish than she had wanted, but this was Marcus’s day too—and she didn’t stop to question her doubts, didn’t stop to allow them space to breathe and grow.

Looking back, an observer might say that Holly seemed heavy on her wedding day. Not heavy in weight—Holly was positively tiny on the day itself, the stress of keeping Marcus happy already having taken its toll—but there was a weight on her shoulders, a flatness of spirit, a heavy energy.

She kissed Marcus, she danced, she greeted her guests and lit up when talking to people she loved, but it wasn’t perhaps what you would expect from the bride on a day that is supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

Joanie had not been able to put her finger on it, but if you asked her, if you gave her the words, she would nod in wonder for that is exactly what she felt. And all these years on, she worries that Holly isn’t happy. Worries that, despite outward appearances and despite the children, worries that Marcus has become too difficult, too imperious for Holly to stay.

Holly could judge Marcus, could find the faults his mother finds unbearable but, on the whole, she doesn’t. She knows that there is a different Marcus, wouldn’t be with him still, surely, if there wasn’t a different Marcus hiding behind the pomposity and grandness.

Holly knows that deep down, there is a frightened little boy who doesn’t feel good enough; and in order to feel good enough, he has to surround himself with people he deems worthy, that fraternizing with anyone less than himself would diminish him in other people’s eyes, so he doesn’t bother with them.

It was one of the reasons he fell in love with Holly. She was everything he wanted to be, came from the background he wished he had, was the ultimate trophy wife. Except once he had her, he had to subtly put her down, make sure she never thought she was better than he was, make sure that he was still able to feel superior.

Despite all this, Marcus has good points. Of course he does, why else would Holly have married him? For starters, he loves her or, at least, Holly believes he loves her. He performs random acts of kindness, thoughtfulness. When he passes the newsagent on the way home from work, if he sees the latest Hello! or Heat!, he will always pick it up for her. He frequently sends her beautiful flowers, and occasionally comes home with a Crunchie or a Kit Kat, Holly’s favorite forbidden indulgence.

He is, when home, great with the children. Not for very long, and only when the children are behaving as he thinks appropriate; i.e., no screaming, whining, crying or hitting—all the behaviors, incidentally, that Holly has to put up with all the time—however, the children are too terrified to behave in ways anything other than exemplary, and, on those occasions, Holly’s friends will watch him approvingly and murmur what a wonderful father he is.

And he is a wonderful husband, too, Holly tells herself during those moments in the middle of the night when she wakes up, gripped by panic, panic that her marriage won’t be forever, that she has never been more lonely than she is now, that she never sees him, that she has nothing in common with him, that they are growing further and further apart.

Marcus wouldn’t see this. Why would he when Holly, like most women, is a consummate chameleon? During the day when Marcus isn’t around, she can be herself, can have girlfriends and their children round for lunch, throwing together salad, pita bread and dips around the kitchen counter as the kids make a mess of fish fingers and ketchup around the kitchen table.

She can break open bottles of wine and put Shakira on the stereo, she and Frauke shaking their hips as Daisy attempts to imitate them, shocked at how a four-year-old can appear to be so mature, so womanly, so—good Lord, she can’t believe she thinks this—sexy. But she can have fun, can throw on ratty old cargos and trainers, hoodies and no makeup, and not worry about impressing anyone.

And when Marcus comes home, she can slip into what he likes. If they’re staying in, she’ll swiftly change into crisp, dark jeans and a cashmere sweater, small diamond studs in her ears, or, if going out to supper, smart woolen trousers, high-heeled boots, a velvet jacket.

The music goes off, the cushions are plumped to perfection. Holly finds herself running through the house every night before Marcus comes home, checking that all is exactly the way he likes it. The children are not allowed to build forts out of the sofa cushions in the living room, and Frauke is in charge of making sure Marcus doesn’t know that almost every afternoon every cushion in the house is piled up in the center of the room.

The children are also not allowed to run “naked like savages” through the garden, and, on the rare summer afternoons when Marcus announces he’s coming home early, she and Frauke beg, cajole, and plead with the kids to put their swimsuits back on before Daddy comes home.

Her own father had stopped showing interest in Holly soon after the divorce. She remembers very clearly being fourteen years old, her father taking her to the soda fountain at Fort-

num & Mason for tea, and over a huge chocolate sundae, he told her that he loved her, would always be there for her, and that no matter what happened, he was going to see her every week and every other weekend.

He didn’t say that the reason for the divorce was his persistent infidelity. Holly only found that out later.

For a while, he kept his word about seeing Holly. For six months. And then he met Celia Benson, and suddenly he was jetting off to Paris, or Florence, or St. Tropez with Celia Benson, and soon he had a new family, and Holly was largely ignored.

Her father, she realized as an adult, was weak. Celia Benson didn’t want the child from his first marriage around, and he acquiesced, allowed himself to give her up. To this day Holly blames Celia.

Is Holly happy? Happiness is not something Holly thinks about very often. She certainly has everything a woman could want in order to be happy, so how could she be anything but? The fact that they sleep in a giant, king-sized bed, both on the far edges, a huge expanse of space in the middle, Holly furious if a leg or an arm should wander over to her side doesn’t mean she’s unhappy, surely? The fact that they rarely have sex anymore, and when they do it’s perfunctory, doesn’t mean she’s unhappy, surely? The fact that Holly finds herself withdrawing more and more from life, having already given up several friends Marcus deemed “unsuitable,” doesn’t mean she’s unhappy.

Surely?

Distractions do a wonderful job of keeping her mind off the fact that her life is not quite what she expected it to be. There are her children, for starters. Her house. And, of course, work. A freelance illustrator for a greeting card company, Holly can lock herself away in her studio at the top of the house and lose herself in a delicate watercolor of a little girl and a puppy for hours, only coming out of her reverie when she hears Frauke and the kids returning from the park. A couple of days a week she goes to the studio at the company, but mostly to keep her hand in

and to remove herself from the isolation of working alone at home, to feel part of the company.

She hasn’t been in that much recently, not least because of her exhaustion. Sleep is becoming a growing problem, and Holly’s defenses are nowhere in sight when she wakes up in the middle of the night, her heart pounding with fears she refuses to acknowledge; and she is finding herself sleeping more and more in the middle of the day, yet however much sleep she gets, she never feels truly energized.

Now, sitting at the kitchen counter after another daytime nap, Holly finds herself thinking about when she had last been truly happy. School? Well, no. She hadn’t been happy at school, but outside of school when she, Olivia, Saffron, Paul, and Tom had been together, then she’d been happy.

And at university. She and Tom, best friends, in love with one another since the day they met at fifteen, but somehow never managing to make it happen . . . Those had been happy times.

Holly smiles as she remembers those times. She hasn’t spoken to Tom for weeks. They kept in touch for ages with phone calls, then dwindling e-mails; but once Tom had met Sarah while she had been working in their London office, then moved to her hometown in America to marry her, their friendship never seemed quite the same, although Holly always thought it was just a phase.

Olivia, Holly has discovered, works for an animal charity. Every now and then she will spend an afternoon Googling friends from a previous life, hence her discovery of a picture of a smiling Olivia holding a kitten at a benefit to raise money for her charity. She had looked the same, other than her beautiful, waist-length hair now in a short bob, and Holly had sent her an e-mail, years ago, to which Olivia had responded warmly, but somehow they had never managed to follow through.

Saffron, as befits someone named Saffron, is now a semi-

famous actress trying to become a movie star in Los Angeles. She has been in several low-budget British films, has had tiny parts in major films, and is often recognized in the streets. She is regularly profiled in British magazines and newspapers as the next big thing; however, at thirty-nine—even though Saffron would never admit it—Holly knows that Saffron is unlikely to be the next big anything in Hollywood movies.

Holly hasn’t seen Paul for years. He and Tom have kept in touch. Tom, in fact, seemed to keep in touch with everyone, albeit sporadically, but now and then he’d send Holly an e-mail, making her laugh with stories of what Paul, the eternal womanizer, was up to.

Tom would say that once he married Sarah that he was able to live his life vicariously through Paul, but Holly remembers that Paul had got married a couple of years ago, to a beautiful girl, someone successful, if Holly remembers correctly, and Paul had sworn to Tom that she had changed him completely.

Holly remembers sitting at the hairdresser’s, flicking through Vogue, and stopping short when she turned the page and suddenly came across Paul, lounging across an oatmeal-colored Eames sofa, dressed head to toe in Prada, looking suspiciously like a male model, with a gorgeous blonde draped between his legs, a Chloe dress on her spectacular figure, her head thrown back, hair like a silken wave over his arm.

Her mouth had dropped open as she started reading about this new power couple: Paul Eddison, journalist, and man-about-town, and his marriage to Anna Johanssen, founder and CEO of Fashionista.uk.net.

Of course Tom had told her that Paul was getting married, but she had no idea it was such a big deal. She had pored over the pictures, stunned at how trendy Paul had become, but when she’d phoned Tom to squeal about it, Tom had just laughed.
“It’s not what he looks like,” Tom said.

“But I saw it with my own eyes,” Holly insisted. “He looks like a bleeding model. What happened to the permanent stubble because he couldn’t be bothered to shave? Paul’s hair was always a complete mess, and frankly the Paul I used to know wouldn’t have known Prada from a pencil.”

“Trust me,” Tom had cracked up. “Paul’s still exactly the same. I was his best man, and I had to stand over him with the razor and supply the hair gel to make him look half decent. He’s still happiest in his scruffy old jeans and T-shirts with holes in them.”

“I don’t know,” Holly had said dubiously. “It sure as hell looks as if he’s changed. What’s she like, anyway? She looks terrifying.”

Tom had shaken his head in sorrow. “Don’t be so bloody jealous, Holly. She’s lovely. You think she must be a bitch because she’s beautiful but she’s not. She’s incredibly sweet, and she adores him.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I was making assumptions because she is completely stunning. Lucky Paul. Lucky couple,” she sighed. “Looks like they have a completely glamorous, perfect life.”

“Not so much,” Tom said, serious now. “Vogue made it look like that, but trust me, their life isn’t nearly as glamorous as it looks, and nobody’s life is perfect.”

“Mine is,” Holly said wryly, and Tom had snorted.

With these memories Holly gets up from the kitchen counter and switches on her computer. Why not e-mail Tom now? It’s been, what, seven months? Eight months? Ages, anyway, since their last contact, and she misses him. He and Marcus had never seemed to gel, and Sarah wasn’t exactly Holly’s cup of tea, hence their drifting apart.

Not that Sarah wasn’t nice, she had always been perfectly pleasant when they’d attempted to get together on the rare occasions Tom had brought Sarah back to England to see his family, but Holly had found Sarah cold, unyielding. Polite without giving any more than she had to.

Holly first met Sarah after she got back from Australia, the trip on which she met Marcus, marrying him a year later.

She hadn’t spoken to Tom the entire six months she’d been away, and soon after she got back and got back in touch, Tom started talking about this cute American girl who was working in their London office.

“How’s the Yank?” Holly would tease, secure once again in their friendship now she had Marcus, unable to believe that she had ever had feelings for Tom, ever thought of him as anything other than her best friend, even after that night . . .

“She’s pretty amazing actually,” Tom would say hesitantly,

going on to tell Holly how much she would love this Sarah, how he couldn’t wait for them to meet, that they should all get together as a foursome.

And so they did. The four of them going to a pizza place in Notting Hill one night, Holly excited about meeting this girl that Tom had been talking about for so long, who had now become his girlfriend, who he was talking about having move in with him.

Holly wanted to love her. Was convinced she would love her, but she approached Sarah with a warm smile and an open heart and found Sarah to be prim, proper, and cold.

“God, she’s awful,” she’d hissed to Marcus when they were safely in their car on the way home. “What does he see in her?”

“She’s quite sexy in a standoffish kind of way,” Marcus said, instantly regretting it as he watched Holly’s eyes narrow.

“Sexy? What’s sexy about her? What? Because she’s clearly addicted to the gym? Is that why she’s sexy? She’s had a complete sense of humor bypass as far as I’m concerned plus she’s intense beyond anything I’ve ever known. Christ, do you think she’d even crack a smile? Gender politics all evening. Please. Does this woman even know the meaning of the word relax?”

“You liked her then?” Marcus had said with raised eyebrow and a grin.

“Did you like her?” Tom had phoned first thing from the office.

“I thought she was great,” Holly lied smoothly.

“Isn’t she? I knew you’d think so.”

“She’s quite serious though,” Holly had ventured.

“Is she? I think it’s probably because she doesn’t know you that well, but you’ll get to know her much better now she’s moving in.”

“What about us?” Holly’s curiosity got the better of her. “Did she like us?”

“Oh yes,” Tom lied smoothly. “Very much. She thought you were both great.”

And that was the start of the wedge that lodged itself into the heart of Tom and Holly’s relationship. At first just a splinter, but the more the four of them endured one another, attempting to find a way of turning Holly and Tom’s friendship into an equal friendship among the four of them, the larger the splinter grew until Holly and Tom were forced to sneak in the odd lunch or phone calls from work, a friendship that suffered from lack of contact but became more precious precisely because of it.

Years ago, Holly would call Tom in Massachussetts, praying that Sarah wouldn’t answer the phone, praying she wouldn’t be forced to go through the obligatory small talk. Eventually she had stopped phoning.

She always thought of Sarah as Scary Sarah. It had slipped out once, by accident, when she and Tom were having lunch, and Tom had almost spat out his drink, he was laughing so hard. It was still a shared private joke between them, something that indicated the intimacy they had had before.

“Hey stranger!” Holly taps into the computer, her cup of tea finished and sleep continuing to elude her.

As usual I just woke up in the middle of the night . . . So there I was, cup of tea in hand, and instead of worrying about my future I’ve been thinking about my past and realize it’s been AGES since we spoke. How are you? How’s Sarah? And those little munchkins? My own munchkins as delicious as ever. Have you been in touch with anyone? Read something about Saffron the other day—she’s got a small part in some new film with Jim Carrey—whaddya think—could this be the big time we’ve all been waiting for? (Unbloodylikely I’d say. Ouch.) How’s Paul? Any little ones yet? Would love to hear from you. Actually, would love to see you—can’t you do a business trip over here? Just think, we could have long liquid lunches like in the old days. Anyway, thinking of you and sending you much love. Send my love to Scary Sarah. Big kiss, Holly xxxxx.

Much later, Holly found out where Sarah was at the precise moment Holly hit the send button on her computer.

Sarah was, at that moment, shouting up the stairs to Violet to hurry up or they would be late for school. Violet is four, in her last year of preschool before starting kindergarten, and as slow as molasses, particularly when her mother is in a hurry.

“Come on, honey!” Sarah had shouted. “It’s your first day, we don’t want to be late. Oh Violet!” she had said, as Violet appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, naked, clutching her threadbare pet elephant. “I asked you to get dressed!” Sarah had snapped as Violet started to cry.

“Oh God,” Sarah had muttered. “Please give me patience this morning.” Last year she had complained to Tom that it had been like this every day, always running late, having climbed out of bed too late and spending too long over breakfast, forgetting to get the kids’ clothes ready the night before, not able to find the car keys.

Every day last year she had woken up and vowed that today would be different, today she would be fun, nice, loving mommy; and by the time they had all piled into the SUV in the driveway, she was back to being stressed, shouting mommy, hating herself for doing it, but somehow being unable to stop.

Sarah took a deep breath. I will not shout at the kids this morning, she told herself. So what if we’re a bit late. It’s only preschool for God’s sake. It doesn’t matter, and feeling more calm, she grabbed her camera from the dresser in the bedroom and took the kids down to the car.

An hour later—so many mothers to catch up with in the car park—Sarah had been about to get in the car when Judy, another mother, raced up, her face stricken.

“Have you heard?” she said, her eyes wide with excitement and horror.

“What, what?” the mothers clamored around her, some turning as cell phones started to ring simultaneously.

“Another terrorist attack! Right here! They bombed the Acela!”

Sarah’s focus shifted as everything became fuzzy. The Acela Express. The high-speed Amtrak train that covers the Northeast. That can’t be right. Tom was on the Acela.

“No!” came the clamor of voices. “What happened? Is it bad?” and then groans of “Oh God, not again.”

“I don’t know,” Judy said as one of the other mothers shouted over. “Bodies everywhere,” she said. “Happened just outside New York. Oh God, we’re bound to know someone.” And all eyes suddenly turned to Sarah, who found herself sitting on the floor of the car park, her legs having given way.

“Sarah?” A voice, gentle, on level with her ear. “Sarah, are you okay?”

But Sarah couldn’t speak. These things are not supposed to happen to people like her and Tom, but now it seems they have.