Thinking of You (35 page)

Summer was over, autumn had arrived, and red-gold leaves bowled along the station platform, threatening to get on the line and cause untold havoc with the train schedule. Ginny's mind flew back to this time last year, when she would have given anything for that to happen. Then she blinked hard, because although mentally she might be more able to accept it this time around, hormonally, any excuse for a well-up and she was off.

Luckily, distraction was at hand.

“Stop it,” said Jem.

“Stop what?” Gavin looked innocent, which was never a good sign.

“Ogling that girl over there.”

“I wasn't.”

“Dad, you were. And the one who works in the ticket office.” Jem looked at Ginny. “You were chatting her up. We both saw you.”

“It's called being friendly,” Gavin protested. “Can't you lot
ever
give me the benefit of the doubt?”

After twenty years? Frankly, no. Ginny rolled her eyes and felt sorry for Bev. Their relationship had lasted four months, which was longer than anyone in their right mind would have predicted. But now, like a
Big
Brother
contestant clinging on by her fingernails, narrowly managing to avoid being evicted each week, Bev's time was pretty much up. She knew it, but just hadn't the courage to make the break and walk away.

Gavin was never going to change.

“The train's due in five minutes.” Jem was gabbling into her phone, excited to be on her way back to Bristol. “I've got three bottles of wine in my case, and two of Laurel's cakes. Are we having pasta tonight?”

Ginny watched her, suffused with love and pride. Still deeply tanned after the three-week holiday in Miami, Jem was every inch the confident, vivacious nineteen-year-old looking forward to her second year of university. And she had plenty to look forward to, not least sharing a three-bed flat in Kingsdown with her two best friends. Poor Rhona. It hadn't been easy, but she'd finally accepted that the time had come for Davy to leave home and—

“Ginny, is that you?”

Swinging round, Ginny came face to face with a large, florid woman in a too-tight tweed coat who clearly knew her from somewhere.

“My goodness it is!” The woman let out a cry of delight. “How amazing! How
are
you?”

Always a nightmare. Ginny hated it when this happened. Pretend you recognize them and attempt to bluff it out, or admit defeat and hurt their feelings?

“I'm
fine
! Gosh, fancy bumping into you here!” Since it was already too late to come clean, Ginny submitted to being enveloped in scratchy tweed and kissed on both cheeks.

“I'm just catching the train home! I've been visiting my aunt in Tintagel. It's so good to see you again… you haven't changed a bit!”

You have, thought Ginny, frantically attempting to peel back the years and picture the woman as she might have looked. To make matters worse, Jem had now finished her phone call and was making her way over.

“My daughter's catching the train too.”

“Your daughter? Well I never!” Beaming at Jem, the woman said, “And what's your name?”

“I'm Jem.” Jem turned expectantly to Ginny. “Mum? Who's this?”

Bugger,
bugger
. Ginny said, “Darling, this is… ooh, excuse me…” Pressing her hand to her mouth she failed to stifle a tickly cough, then another one, then another…

“Lovely to meet you, Jem. And I'm Theresa Trott. Your mum and I were at school together, ooh,
many
moons ago!”

Jem said brightly, “Oh! Friends Reunited.”

“Well.” Theresa looked bemused. “I suppose we are.”

Ginny cringed, wishing her daughter didn't have the memory of an elephant when it came to names.

“No, I mean the website. You're the one who contacted Mum last year.” Jem was delighted to have made the connection. “She drove up to Bath to meet you.”

“That was someone else,” Ginny said hurriedly.

“No it wasn't! It was Theresa Trott!”

By this time thoroughly bewildered, Theresa said, “But I don't live in Bath; I live in Ealing.”

“What's going on?” Gavin joined in.

“Dad, do something with Mum. She's lost her marbles.”

“OK, I'm sorry.” Ginny held up her hands. “I lied.”

Startled but determined to carry on as if nothing had happened, Theresa shook Gavin's hand and said, “So you're Ginny's husband, how nice to meet—oh, I say!” Her eyes widened as Ginny's voluminous white jacket parted to reveal the unmistakable bump beneath.

“Bloody hell!” Gavin stared at it too. Indignantly, he said, “Where did that come from? It sure as hell isn't mine.”

He thought he was so funny. At that moment something snuffly brushed against Ginny's left ankle. Relieved, she turned and scooped the little dog up into her arms and said, “Rescue me.”

Finn rose to the occasion like a pro. Back from taking Rocky for a discreet pee on a patch of grass outside the station, he fixed Theresa Trott with a winning smile. “Shall I explain? Gavin is Ginny's ex-husband. I'm her future husband and the baby's mine. The dog is ours as well. His name is Rocky. The baby's due in January, and Ginny's marrying me soon after that.”

“He's going to be my stepfather.” Jem grinned, sliding her arm through Finn's.

“How lovely.” Dumbfounded but clearly entranced by Finn, Theresa said brightly, “Well, congratulations. And there's me, never been married at all!”

Ginny shot Gavin a warning look, daring him to announce that this could be because she was fat, frizzy-haired, and wearing a coat that made her look seventy.

“Ah,” said Finn, “but you never know when the right one's going to come along. It could happen at any time.”

See? Ginny glowed with love and pride; that was the difference between Gavin and Finn. She'd definitely made the right choice this time.

Theresa, her chins quivering with gratitude, beamed up at Finn. “That's what Mummy and Daddy keep telling me.” She blinked eagerly. “So how did you and Ginny meet?”

As the baby kicked inside her, Ginny heard the train approaching in the distance.

“Actually, I caught her shoplifting,” said Finn.

 

With over 5 million copies sold,
New
York
Times
and
USA
Today
bestselling author Jill Mansell is also one of the hottest selling authors of women's fiction in the UK. She lives with her partner and children in Bristol and writes full time. Actually, that's not true; she watches TV, eats gum drops, admires the rugby players training in the sports field behind her house, and spends hours on the Internet marveling at how many other writers have blogs. Only when she's
completely
run out of ways to procrastinate does she write.