The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Alison Sherlock

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Chapter Eighty-six

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Chapter Eighty-eight

  Chapter Eighty-nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-one

  Copyright

  About the Book

  From riches to rags… Charley needs a survival plan fast.

  Charley Summers doesn’t have a care in the world. She lives in the lap of luxury, supported by her rich husband and surrounded by a loyal group of friends.

  Until the business goes bust and her world collapses. Before long the bailiffs have taken everything, and as if things weren’t bad enough, she catches her husband with another woman. Suddenly, Charley needs a job, any job, so she can start repaying some of the money her husband squandered.

  But with nowhere to live and no recognisable skills, how on earth is she to do that?

  About the Author

  Alison Sherlock enjoyed reading and writing stories from an early age. However, she assumed that being an author didn’t count as a proper job so when Alison grew up, she worked as a secretary, training administrator and answered an IT Hotline. Once older and a bit wiser, she realised that she really had to write her novel. So she gave up office life to sit at home and panic at what she had done. To fund her dream, Alison became a cleaner, the experience of which she has used for this novel. A chance meeting with a literary agent at Winchester Writers’ Conference set her on the road to publication with her first book, The Desperate Bride’s Diet Club. Alison lives in Surrey with her husband Dave and Harry, their daft golden retriever.

  You can follow her on Facebook and on Twitter: @alisonsherlock

  Also by Alison Sherlock

  The Desperate Bride’s Diet Club

  The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan

  Alison Sherlock

  For Dave – husband, best friend and

  chief ice-cream tester.

  With love always.

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to my editor Rosie de Courcy who gave so much time and so many excellent ideas to the dreaded second book! Her advice and passion about the story have made all the difference and I am forever in her debt.

  Thank you to the whole team at Preface, Arrow and Random House for their hard work and enthusiasm on my behalf.

  Special thanks to my lovely agent Judith Murdoch whose continued support and sympathetic ear are much appreciated.

  This story is about friends supporting each other through the ups and downs of life. I’ve been very lucky with mine over the years, including Jackie Hamilton, Anita Timmings, Elaine Nutley and Sharon Warry. As well as all the new friends I have made through the Romantic Novelists Association.

  Special thanks also to Jo Botelle – for the Garfield books, grill story and everything else since.

  This story is also about how important a family can be to each other in the worst of times. So a huge thank you to all of mine, especially my dad, Ray Sherlock, sister Gill, Simon and Louise Collins for their continued love and support.

  Special thanks also to Ross, Lee and Cara Maidens for bringing so much love and laughter into my life. And to all the other Maidens, young and old, both in England and Australia.

  Chapter One

  WHEN CHARLEY SUMMERS was eight years old, a girl called Wanda at school made fun of her wild, curly hair. ‘You have clown’s hair,’ Wanda told her.

  That afternoon, whilst her mother was making tea, Charley took out the iron from under the stairs and tried to flatten her hair straight. The resulting smoke brought her mother running in to throw a bowl of water over her daughter’s head. The next day Charley’s hair snapped off, leaving a two inch crew cut in its place.

  Thankfully, there are easier ways to fight nature these days if one has the funding.

  Charley glanced at her reflection in the salon window. The curly tangle of dark hair that she had been blessed with now hung in a smooth sheet around her face.

  With a satisfied sigh, she turned her attention back to the receptionist who was processing the payment. Her husband often moaned about the twice-weekly £30 cost but Charley brooked no arguments on the subject. Professional blow drys were an absolute necessity.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said the receptionist. ‘There appears to be a problem with your credit card.’

  She placed the gold plastic card on to the counter between them. Charley stared down at it, nonplussed. Had she picked up someone else’s by mistake in the clothes shop earlier? No, the name was correct. It was definitely hers.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a problem with the network,’ she said, trying to remain cool and serene.

  ‘It rejected the card on two att
empts.’ The receptionist switched on a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I see.’ Charley snatched the card from the counter and shoved it deep into her handbag. Aware that another customer nearby was eavesdropping, she felt her cheeks begin to grow pink with embarrassment. She found her purse and finally handed over the cash.

  ‘Sorry about the card,’ said Charley, trying to recover her composure.

  ‘Not at all, madam,’ cooed the receptionist.

  ‘Well, thank you. And sorry again.’

  Charley left a massive tip on the counter and scurried out of the hair salon. Once she was a few yards away, she stopped and drew a deep breath to calm her racing pulse. How utterly mortifying, she thought. Something had obviously gone wrong at the bank.

  She whipped out her iPhone and rang Steve. But, as usual, it went straight to voicemail. The new shop was taking up all of her husband’s time, so she knew he wouldn’t have a chance to call her back. But she would definitely ask him to get the problem sorted out. They had obviously missed their monthly payment.

  Deciding she wouldn’t let the small matter of the credit-card refusal ruin her afternoon, she flicked a smooth lock of hair behind her shoulder and began to walk down the high street. The February sun shone down from a deep blue sky. It was one of those wonderful late winter days where the air was crisp and sharp, holding the promise of a cold, starry night to follow.

  Charley strolled down the street which ran through the centre of Grove Village. She walked past the numerous coffee shops, the florist, greengrocer and chemist. All the basics required for country living, plus a few trinket shops where you could pick up a funky cushion or witty tea-towel.

  She stopped in front of the designer lingerie and swimwear shop at the end of the parade. The Valentine’s Day display of red silk underwear had been replaced with a beautiful purple bikini. Instead of ties, it had large silver buckles on each thigh. The price tag read £85.

  Charley knew she should really purchase any beachwear from one of Steve’s clothes shops. However, although the fashions there were up-to-the-minute, the overall look was cheap. Not quite in keeping with the St Kitts crowd they would be mixing with on holiday in a few weeks’ time.

  She was tempted to try on the bikini but a quick glance at her reflection stopped her from entering the shop. She knew she wasn’t fat but she had gone up a whole dress size in the past year. She really would have to do something about it.

  There was a new weight-loss club in the village, run by a lady called Violet. Charley had seen the advertisement in the local newspaper and had heard good things about it from acquaintances.

  However, she didn’t have time to lose weight slowly and sensibly. Drastic action was required. Perhaps she would hire a personal trainer instead. Maybe a few meetings with a nutritionist would be helpful as well.

  As she walked on, she spotted a few schoolchildren at the other end of the high street. Glancing at her watch, Charley realised time was getting on. Her best friends were coming over that evening for dinner and she wanted everything to be perfect before their arrival.

  She turned the corner up the small alleyway to Gino’s delicatessen. It was her favourite shop in the whole universe and that included Selfridges. Where else could she buy truffle salt for her steaks? Authentic balsamic jelly to be served with her cheese board? Pistachio cream to be swirled into her ice-cream?

  The aroma which filled the shop was Charley’s drug of choice. It was a heady concoction of oils, spices and herbs, mixed with fresh coffee.

  She chose her purchases carefully, deciding on handmade grissini to start and picking up some black olive pâté to use as a dip. She had already bought a beautiful piece of salmon from the fishmonger’s, but it needed the green pesto alla Genovese to give it extra flavour. She added two bottles of Chablis to her basket before heading to the till.

  She opened her purse and remembered, just in time, not to use the gold credit card. Instead, she handed over her bank card with a smile.

  The wizened old Italian woman behind the counter placed the items into a carrier bag before glancing at the card machine. She muttered to herself in Italian, then fixed Charley with a hard stare. She shook her head and held out the bank card. Charley’s stomach dropped. The bank card didn’t work either?

  This time she didn’t question the failure. Instead she fiddled about in her purse, desperately trying to find the correct amount. When the money came up short, she had to choose what to leave behind. In the end, she handed back the bottles of wine, grateful that they already had plenty at home.

  Charley was squirming with embarrassment as she left the shop. It was possible that they had reached the overdraft limit on their bank account. Perhaps that was why the credit card hadn’t been paid. Steve had been making ominous rumblings over the last couple of weeks about tightening their belts. Charley knew he was stressed about the opening of their fourth clothes shop, but she hadn’t taken it seriously.

  She drove the short distance to Upper Grove. The high street divided the village into Upper and Lower Grove. Charley lived in Upper Grove which was mainly inhabited by the rich and privileged. In direct contrast Lower Grove was an unfriendly estate, to be avoided at all costs. She never went there, never dared to. The high street was Grove’s Berlin Wall and most of the villagers were grateful it was still standing.

  Upper Grove had large houses, wide avenues and neighbours who ignored each other. The only person Charley had ever spoken to there was Julie who lived next door.

  Julie was one of the group of four friends who met up once a fortnight for dinner. Each of them in turn would cook a meal to enjoy whilst they caught up on the latest gossip. More often than not, the girls demanded that Charley make ice-cream for pudding and it had become a sort of ritual amongst the group.

  She swung her car into the driveway and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction at the sight of her home. It was still the prettiest house she had ever seen. She had fallen in love at first sight with it, over four years previously. The black timber beams set against the white masonry had stolen her heart. The addition of custom made oak windows and a new front door, after they moved in, had completed the look.

  Inside, the fireplaces, original oak flooring and exposed beams were crying out for a makeover. Charley had enjoyed turning the house into their dream home.

  The kitchen was her favourite part of the house. It had been poky and dark when they moved in. But the addition of a brand new extension had opened up the room, and light now flooded in from the skylights and the wall of folding windows which led on to the patio. Pale, shiny tile flooring and dark walnut cabinets brought the look up to date. The cream marble work surfaces held tiny flecks of silver which provided just enough bling without being tacky.

  Having unpacked her purchases, Charley switched on her Gaggia Gelatiera ice-cream maker. For years she had made her ice-cream by hand but as soon as the money had begun to pour in from Steve’s business, she had placed an order for the sleek, silver appliance. Loved by chefs everywhere, the paddles churned the ice-cream so well that it always turned out velvety-smooth.

  Charley began to break up a bar of Venezuelan black chocolate into chunks so that it would melt more easily before being poured into the ice-cream maker. She had already made a beautiful rhubarb sorbet but there would be hell to pay later from the girls if there wasn’t any chocolate on the menu.

  Chapter Two

  SAMANTHA HARRIS WAS bored. She glanced around the office but no one was taking any notice of her. They were all too busy staring at their computer screens.

  She wondered if she could get away with reading her new magazine but decided against it. That cow Miranda would definitely notice and probably rat her out to their manager.

  Samantha glanced across the low divide between their desks at the dark-haired woman opposite talking on the phone. She hated her posh voice and perfect hair. She hated her constant references to her double-barrelled friends, all of whom appeared to own country estates. Most
of all, she hated the fact that Miranda was her line-manager. She was only a secretary, for God’s sake. And Samantha was her assistant.

  Not that there appeared to be enough work for Samantha to do. She had all the filing and photocopying dumped on her, but that barely took up any time at all. So she was reduced to glancing surreptitiously at the internet when nobody was looking and texting her friends, mainly Charley, who had the spare time to reply.

  She liked Charley. They had both once worked for a small insurance agency, where they had bonded through boredom and a mutual dislike for the Personnel Manager. They had also shared a love of designer clothes and expensive shoes.

  Then Charley’s husband had begun to make all that money and she had left the insurance agency. It was all right for some, thought Samantha. No sign of a rich husband for her. Yet, she told herself.

  But the pickings weren’t rich in Grove Village and especially not in her office. Most of the directors were pensionable. All the other men were either fresh out of university, or dull. Craving some male attention, Samantha had had a few flings with university graduates, knowing that they relished a sexy, older woman like herself. Well, not that old. The big 3–0 was hurtling up towards her next year, but she kept herself trim by keeping a careful eye on her diet and constantly exercising.

  ‘Hi. I wonder if you could help me?’

  Samantha spun round in her chair at the sound of the deep male voice and found herself pleasantly surprised. Late thirties, dark hair, blue eyes. Cute . . . very cute.

  She crossed her legs, knowing that her black skirt would ride up a little as she did so. His eyes lowered to check out her legs. It was a brief glance but she noted it.

  She fixed on her sexiest grin. ‘Of course,’ she said, lowering her voice into a soft, husky tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Richard, is it?’ Miranda’s abrasive voice broke into their exchange.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘I’ve got a ten o’clock with Matthew Jones.’

  ‘I’ll take you in,’ said Miranda.

  He must be the new Sales Director, thought Samantha.

  Just then, Richard glanced around, catching her eye for a second before he disappeared into the next room.