The Single Girl’s Calendar Read online

  THE SINGLE GIRL’S CALENDAR

  Erin Green

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Single Girl’s Calendar

  A task a day to cure a broken heart.

  Esmé Peel is approaching thirty with some trepidation, but hope in her heart. If she can just get her long-term boyfriend Andrew to propose, she will have ticked everything off her ‘things to do by the time you’re 30' list. She didn’t reckon on finding another woman’s earring in her bed however, and soon she finds herself single, homeless and in need of a new plan. Her best friend Carys gives her the perfect present – The Single Girl’s Calendar – which has a different cure for heartbreak every day:

  Day 1: Look and feel fabulous with a new hair style.

  Day 2: Step out of your comfort zone and try something new.

  Day 3: Reconnect with friends and enjoy!

  Despite thinking it’s a bit of a gimmick, Esmé hasn’t got any better ideas, so she puts the plan into action. By the end of week one she has four new male housemates, and despite a broken heart she is determined to show Andrew she can do more than survive, she can thrive.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Single Girl’s Calendar

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Erin Green

  A Letter from the Author

  Also by Erin Green

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Dedicated: to all the single ladies

  Chapter One

  Thursday evening had started well.

  ‘The air smells so different at the end of a working week,’ said Esmé, stepping from Stylo Stationery onto a busy Birmingham street alongside her two work colleagues.

  ‘That’s your Friday night saying – surely it doesn’t apply to Thursday night, too?’ laughed Marianne, for whom a Friday night meant a take away and wine, snuggled on the couch alongside her Jimmy.

  ‘Technically, this is her Friday night,’ said Penny, whose Friday night goal was three loads on an economy washing cycle before watching the comedy hour.

  ‘But it’s true, smell how beautiful…’ Esmé inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the possibilities of a long weekend. When invoices for premium paper, double-sided sticky tape and multipacks of cheap biros would be forgotten until Monday morning.

  A smattering of street litter flurried along the pavement as they stood contemplating Esmé’s plans.

  ‘I can’t believe Old Steely Stylo granted you the day off,’ added Marianne, checking her wrist watch.

  ‘She’s deducted it from my holiday entitlement, so no fear of favouritism,’ corrected Esmé, determined to stick to the facts. She wasn’t taking liberties. At Stylo Stationery the aged owner, Mrs Stylo, treated every employee in an equally harsh and abrasive manner.

  ‘Even so, she must be softening in her old age!’ said Penny, adjusting her scarf. ‘Maybe we should all ask for long weekends come our anniversaries?’

  ‘Like she cares about me and Andrew!’ said Esmé, attempting to control her lengthy auburn locks in the spring breeze.

  ‘She cares for no one,’ said Penny.

  ‘Seven years tomorrow, who’d have thought it?’ laughed Esmé.

  ‘Not me!’ Marianne laughed as her dark fringe blew about.

  ‘Exactly, so I need to make the most of it.’ Esmé blushed in anticipation.

  ‘You never know, he might not need your assistance, he might have pulled his finger out and organised a big surprise all by himself,’ said Penny, having glanced at Marianne.

  ‘I doubt it. He’d forget his own birthday if I didn’t do a countdown. But tonight, could be the night…’

  ‘Look at you, jumping the gun – you’ll only be disappointed if he doesn’t ask,’ warned Marianne, buttoning her coat against the March chill. ‘Most men need an arm up their back or an unexpected pregnancy to force them into marriage. Take my Jimmy… twelve years of dating and still nothing.’

  All three women shook their heads, knowing the tale of woe which would follow, each was word perfect in their practised lines for the retelling of Marianne’s one and only proposal story.

  ‘You ruined your chances by pushing your luck,’ began Penny.

  ‘Really?’ said Esmé in a bewildered tone, feigning interest, much like a first-time listener.

  ‘I made an appointment with the vicar, tea and sponge cake arranged…’ explained Marianne.

  ‘All proper and above board, then?’ asked Penny, knowing her lines.

  ‘I drove us to the local church and then bam… delivered the ultimatum – marry me or else!’ announced Marianne, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  ‘Such a beautiful declaration of love,’ said Esmé, her eye lashes fluttered at Marianne.

  ‘Who’d have thought such a proposal could be perceived as a tad too pushy,’ said Penny.

  ‘Exactly,’ giggled Esmé. ‘Wasn’t it your fairy-tale dream?’

  Marianne nodded in a comedic fashion, her maturity enabled her to laugh at herself, unlike five years ago.

  ‘I’ve lost count of the nights I’d dreamt of him springing such a gallant gesture, driving me to church and booking a wedding date.’

  ‘Locking himself inside your car and performing a one man sit-in for eight hours, while you pleaded with the vicar, was a definite cry for help,’ said Penny.

  ‘A definite answer, though,’ said Esmé, who hugged her friend.

  ‘The vicar was none too chuffed given his wasted sponge cake and tea platter,’ said Marianne, adding. ‘Seriously, Esmé – joking aside, what have you planned?’

  Esmé gave a cheeky grin, before she stared at each colleague in a bashful manner.

  ‘Oh Lord, if that’s not the face of a woman on a mission!’ cried Penny, her wide eyes sparkling.

  ‘I’ve got it all planned… candlelight, champagne on ice, bubble bath for two, a slinky silk number ordered from Agent Provocateur and a fresh set of Egyptian cotton sheets,’ reeled off Esmé, trying to supress the shiver of anticipation that ran along her spine
.

  ‘A dirty night on clean sheets, hey?’ said Marianne with a knowing smile. ‘That should do it.’

  ‘And not too much champagne… be giggly but not drunk,’ warned Penny, her blonde curls bobbing from side to side. ‘And above all… let him think it was his idea!’

  ‘If that fails, hail a cab, drive to your local church, present him with the ultimatum and see if he does a sit-in,’ laughed Marianne.

  ‘Andrew wouldn’t do a sit-in… not with a taxi meter running,’ said Esmé, tying the belt of her new coat. Esmé doesn’t like to criticise his habits, not even to her friends, but Andrew could accommodate both ends of the generosity spectrum. Self-indulgent with his own perceived needs such as designer suits, high-tech gadgets or boys’ nights out whilst a smidgen stingy where others are concerned. Esmé could laugh it off, everyone had their faults. Being ‘financially savvy’ as Andrew called it wasn’t Esmé’s style, she liked to be generous with those she loved.

  ‘Yet he’ll waste good money on a snazzy rental apartment,’ muttered Marianne. ‘The man needs sorting out, and quick.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ said Esmé, trying to keep her tone light hearted.

  ‘Enjoy,’ Marianne gave Esmé a quick squeeze and an air kiss, ‘but don’t hold your breath, lovey.’

  ‘Enjoy your weekend… whatever happens, OK?’ added Penny, hugging Esmé tightly before she and Marianne hastily departed for the bus station.

  Since starting at Stylo Stationery some nine years ago, the trio had shared so many of life’s moments during office hours and coffee time: Esmé’s first date dress dilemma, post-date dissections – of which there had been far too many for Esmé’s liking, and numerous post-coital mishaps during her pre-Andrew existence, obviously. Since meeting Andrew, Esmé’s daily chatter had been the detail of their seven year love story: the occasions, the memories and the day to day routines. Events slowly evolved, reaching today’s pivotal moment – the evening of her happy-ever-after.

  Come Monday, if tonight goes well, the three colleagues would be sharing celebratory drinks after work in a local bar. How exciting? But first, tonight.

  St Martin’s church clock shows six o’clock.

  Esmé watched the pair disappear amidst the bustling crowd. Her heart pounding faster, with anticipation, that the very next time she’d see either of them, she could be, might be, correction, would be starting a new chapter of her life.

  Chapter Two

  Esmé did her usual quickstep routine through the city’s pedestrian area towards the far side of the city and home. Or as Marianne called it ‘the snazzy’ rental apartment. A sophisticated rental for up and coming professionals in the trendy renovated canal side area for which Birmingham was now notorious.

  ‘The area has more waterways than Venice’ was Andrew’s favourite quote, boasted a little too often to friends during nights out.

  If only Birmingham could guarantee Esmé a love inducing moonlight cruise, which would secure her happy-ever-after, which Venice surely could.

  The apartment hadn’t been her ideal choice but Andrew had set his heart on the area, making it their only choice. She hadn’t been too fussed about the location, just desperate to move their relationship onto a more permanent footing. Within weeks, Esmé had converted the bare magnolia two bedroom apartment into a fully fledged love nest thanks to an intuitive flare for interior design. A talent that had surprised even her. That, and her savings spent on investment pieces to add focus and colour contrast.

  Esmé had memorised the estate agent’s blurb too, and could recite it when family failed to understand Andrew’s steadfast attitude.

  ‘You’re throwing good money down the drain by renting,’ her mother frequently muttered.

  ‘How can an open window and a wall mounted wrought iron railing constitute a balcony?’ queried her father, having viewed the neighbourhood on more than one occasion. Esmé would smile, yet cringe, at the criticism, hoping Andrew couldn’t hear.

  They had her best interests at heart but everyone had to start somewhere. Andrew had decided that Symphony Court would be their somewhere. It wasn’t Esmé’s fault that her parents had started married life on the twelfth floor of a tower block in Chelmsley Wood. Attitudes and house prices had moved on since their time.

  Wasn’t she three years old before they had a garden with a lawn and a creosoted fence? But hey, if it made Andrew happy and meant they could start living their life together – what did she care?

  Esmé walked towards home.

  Could she put a price on coming home to Andrew? When you wake up each morning beside the one you love, money counted for nothing. Compromise. Wasn’t that the foundation of a solid relationship?

  Esmé could do a little give and take in order to please others. Anyhow, she’d waited five years for them to move in together, now, after another two years, she was more than ready for the next step.

  Her mind was crowded much like the busy Birmingham streets. Esmé swiftly dodged the sauntering shoppers, nimbly jumped aside as rattling pushchair wheels nipped at her heels and gallantly ignored the early weekend revellers, who like her, were pretending tonight was Friday night.

  Within thirty minutes, Esmé had walked the length of Birmingham city centre, from the bronze Bull statue, through Victoria Square and onwards past The Symphony Hall. Her feet had begun to ache but her plan was mentally choreographed, minute by minute, task by task and she was eager to begin. Finally, turning off Broad Street, she saw the welcome sight of the interconnecting bridges arched over the canal network. Home.

  *

  Taking the flight of stairs as fast as her stilettoed boots would allow, Esmé quickly entered apartment nine.

  ‘Andrew?’ she shouted, purely to be on the safe side.

  No answer.

  Esmé’s plan required a ninety minute window of home alone time until his shift finished at the local airport.

  Heaving her boots off in the narrow hallway, she peeled off her coat and threw it across the arm of their plush sofa. Esmé headed straight for their bedroom.

  The room was immaculate. Esmé had made a conscious effort before leaving for work this morning to tidy her dressing table. A large room of minimalist décor, dominated by their king size bed, no clutter, no scattered clothes, no fuss – a show home standard of neatness, just as Andrew liked. All Esmé had to do was change the sheets before diving into a steaming shower to spend as long as she wished pampering herself knowing that fresh sheets were awaiting them.

  There’s only so much I can do to encourage him.

  Relationship-wise, they’d been in a happy place for months. No bickering, nor arguments, no upset or issues. The last six months had been harmonious, so why wait any longer? She’d be alluring, irresistible and subtle – as Marianne had said ‘let him think it was all his idea!’

  Nerves trembled within her stomach, the magnitude of her precision planning and the possible outcome both excited and scared her. The constant replay, revisit, rearrange of the routine had consumed every waking hour for weeks and was about to become a reality. This. Was. It. If she could orchestrate tonight’s plan, she would have achieved the one single thing she’d wanted for so long and before her thirtieth birthday. Bonus.

  If there was one domestic job Esmé hated more than most it was wrestling with an oversized duvet cover trying to locate and align corners and seams. It usually took three rounds of pummelling, a frayed temper and a break-out of sweat before their bed was transformed into a billowing heaven of duck down and expensive cotton, complete with numerous scatter cushions. She’d arrange scented candles upon each bedside cabinet as a final touch.

  Grabbing a bundle of freshly ironed Egyptian cotton sheets from her neatly piled airing cupboard, Esmé returned to the bedroom, unfurled the clean cotton sheet, ensured that the matching pillowcases were present and draped them over the wicker chair while she removed the spent bedding.

  She’d even planned, paid and arranged for a gourmet meal to be delivere
d between their champagne bubble bath and the boudoir finale. If she played her cards right, this time tomorrow she would be wearing a brilliant-cut solitaire diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  It still baffled her why he hadn’t proposed that night in Paris. The Temple Romantique was the dream setting, the sunset was picture perfect – it would have been the ultimate end to a perfect weekend. But no, not a hint of a proposal. Just a delayed flight back to Birmingham, a crummy cab ride in the rain and a disappointing discussion during coffee break come Monday morning.

  And now, she was forced to mastermind and precision plan the situation which steered their relationship in the right direction towards them becoming Mr and Mrs Nixon.

  ‘Mrs Esmé Nixon,’ she said aloud to the room, slightly embarrassed and yet thrilled by the prospect.

  Esmé drew the heavy curtains against the twilight, after momentarily pausing to stare at the neighbouring skyline of the Jewellery Quarter. Tomorrow they would spend all day in Vyse Street consumed by the four Cs of diamond standards. Esmé recited them like a well trained jewellery assistant: cut, colour, clarity and carat.

  A swoosh of the curtain rail accompanied images of sparkling diamond solitaires nestled upon velvet cushioned trays in her thoughts. Delights previously ignored, with steely determination, whilst she browsed for gold cufflinks and tie pins each Christmas.

  Esmé hastily moved around the bedroom illuminating and dimming bed-side lights. She knew what her future looked like – tonight was simply a means of ending one chapter and starting the next. She wasn’t the first, and feared she wouldn’t be the last, woman to take matters into their own hands.

  Esmé began tugging the spent duvet from the bed.

  ‘Bloody hell, Andrew,’ she muttered, repeatedly pulling to wrench the tucked in section of duvet from beneath the heavy mattress. One of Andrew’s pet hates was his feet being uncovered during the night. It was one of hers that the bottom edge of the duvet was always firmly wedged under the mattress.

  Finally, the mattress released. Esmé wrenched the billowing duck down duvet to the floor revealing a slightly bobbled white cotton base that had seen better days. Esmé’s fingers nimbly located and worked at the buttoned edge.