Dedicated with much love to

Tracy Bradbery

A woman who thoroughly understands an

unsuitable crush

Prologue

Scott

‘Do I smell, Mark?’

‘No.’

‘You’d tell me if I did, right?’

‘I would.’

‘Is my hairline receding?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure I’m not going bald?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think I’ll lose my teeth?’

‘Only if someone punches you.’

‘My nan got gum disease.’

‘We’ve got great dentists. Scott, you are coming down and this is just another one of your irrational worry sessions. We can waste a lot of time doing this, mate.’

‘Mark, do you think I’ll end up broke? You know, blow it all.’

‘No, we’ve sorted out your finances. You’re never going to suffer from poverty – other than poverty of spirit. No matter how many TVs you throw out of hotel windows.’

1. Fern

I have taken a bullet. I live an ordinary life. I’ve almost accepted it. Almost.

I ought to clarify I don’t always go around thinking big, profound thoughts like that. Quite a lot of the time I amuse my brain cells by thinking about which movie star is shagging which other movie star (and do they have better sex than us mere mortals), or whether I can get away with not washing my hair if I’m inventive enough with my up-do (thus securing an extra thirty minutes in bed in the morning). My idea of deep is wondering whether organic food is worth the huge price tag or whether it’s all just a ghastly marketing con. But today I am twenty-nine years, eleven months and three weeks old. I can no longer keep the big thoughts at bay.