Primrose Hill is Suddenly Single

By Andrea Hicks

I know, I know. Got to get over it, right? There’s nothing wrong with being an independent woman of the world. We girls don’t have to rely on guys for our happiness. Happiness comes from inside us. That’s what the sisterhood says on Facebook, anyway. And they’re never wrong. And I’ve made a point of remembering it, even though Marcus dumped me by text just before he was due to pick me up for “a special date”. A special date where he’d probably decided to give me the elbow, face to face, but then, with some help from his mates, no doubt, was encouraged to find an easier way to do it. So. Not. Good. The rat. And...I’d done the pink fluffy handcuffs thing he insisted on. Personally, I found it mortifying. Not my idea of a romantic night in, particularly when he left me handcuffed to the bed while he went to get some wine, then met an old friend and went to the pub for a drink, forgetting all about me. I was so cold, and I needed to pee. Badly. Any longer and we’d have both been embarrassed. Me more than him, of course. He thought it was hilarious. Needless to say, the pink fluffy handcuffs were binned.
‘You’re so ditzy,’ he’d said, like it was meant to be a compliment. ‘It’s why I’m so attracted to you.’
‘Oh, really,’ I wanted to say. ‘Not because you think we could be a real item, or in a long-term relationship because you’re falling in love with me, but because I’m ditzy, and because I allow you to keep me prisoner; banged up like a criminal in the Middle Ages while you go to the pub, where it’s warm, and where there’s a loo within walking distance. Charming. And actually, I’m in no way ‘ditzy’. I’ve got a degree. In history. I think that makes me the least ditzy-est person you know.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Hicks
• Release date: Feb 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463337851

Andrea Hicks

Writing romantic fiction and psychological suspense is my passion...along with soft furnishings and Jaffa cakes! I write the books I want to read; the stories that occupy my thoughts, seemingly at every moment. My hope is you will love my characters, and the stories I write about and want to read more. I'm always interested in hearing about your favourite characters and what you like to read. Visit me at www.andreahicks-writer.com or contact me at [e-mail] Thank you for spending so much time with me Love Andrea xxx

Book preview

Primrose Hill is Suddenly Single

Ándrèa Hicks

Nightingale Lane Books

To join the NIGHTINGALE LANE community and receive free books, competitions and details of new releases, join us here,

https://www.andreahicks-writer.com

to be automatically entered for a prize draw held bi-monthly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be stored

in a retrieval system or transmitted, or

reproduced in any form except for the inclusion of

brief quotations in review, without permission

in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.andreahicks-writer.com

@AndreatheWriter

Facebook: Ándrèa Hicks

Ándrèa Hicks

All rights reserved

Yes, it’s true…

A rose by any other name…

Jog on…

Work hard to spend harder…

Doing the right thing…

Sometimes you just have to vent…

Love, look at the two of us…

Madam Fate pokes her pretty nose in again…

You should always have a Plan B…

If music be the food of love, I’d rather have chocolate…

Yes…it’s true…

I know, I know. Got to get over it, right? There’s nothing wrong with being an independent woman of the world. We girls don’t have to rely on guys for our happiness. Happiness comes from inside us. That’s what the sisterhood says on Facebook, anyway. And they’re never wrong. And I’ve made a point of remembering it, even though Marcus dumped me by text just before he was due to pick me up for a special date. A special date where he’d probably decided to give me the elbow, face to face, but then, with some help from his mates, no doubt, was encouraged to find an easier way to do it. So. Not. Good. The rat. And…I’d done the pink fluffy handcuffs thing he insisted on. Personally, I found it mortifying. Not my idea of a romantic night in, particularly when he left me handcuffed to the bed while he went to get some wine, then met an old friend and went to the pub for a drink, forgetting all about me. I was so cold, and I needed to pee. Badly. Any longer and we’d have both been embarrassed. Me more than him, of course. He thought it was hilarious. Needless to say, the pink fluffy handcuffs were binned.

‘You’re so ditzy,’ he’d said, like it was meant to be a compliment. ‘It’s why I’m so attracted to you.’

‘Oh, really,’ I wanted to say. ‘Not because you think we could be a real item, or in a long-term relationship because you’re falling in love with me, but because I’m ditzy, and because I allow you to keep me prisoner; banged up like a criminal in the Middle Ages while you go to the pub, where it’s warm, and where there’s a loo within walking distance. Charming. And actually, I’m in no way ‘ditzy’. I’ve got a degree. In history. I think that makes me the least ditzy-est person you know.’

The moron…

A rose by any other name…

The clock in the corner of my laptop says it’s one a.m. I shut it down, sighing. I’m on a mission. At least, I’d been on a mission. I think the mission had ended in a big fat failure. Being single is okay, but, I can’t get away from the fact that we live in a world of doubles. Think about it. Ant and Dec, Wills and Kate, fish and chips. Even Sooty had Sweep, and they were together for years. And wherever I look, people are in twos, at the pub, in restaurants, even at work. I knew of at least two couples who had hooked up over the photocopier. There’s the ‘two’ word again. It’s been three months since I’ve had even a whiff of a date. Cara, my closest friend said that I’m only twenty-six and I should stop angsting about it, and that if I want to meet someone new I’ll probably have to change my life. Completely. Which is easy to say when you’re just about to marry your childhood sweetheart who looks like Ryan Gosling, and probably earns nearly as much.

I look around my flat. From my bed I can see pretty much all of it. It’s what’s described as open plan, and as the estate agent politely described it when I saw it for the first time, compact. It seems that open plan in the case of my flat, means no plan whatsoever. My whole apartment has only four rooms, but I make the most of them, even though I say it myself. The living room has my own special decorative touch, and is just big enough for a two-seater sofa, a chair, a coffee table, and a couple of occasional tables. It’s all second-hand stuff from a junk shop on the Portobello Road, but I painted the tables in cream chalk paint so they all match, and found some lovely fake fur throws which cover the sofa and chair. The kitchen I painted pale blue, and the cupboards white, which makes it look clean and fresh. I’ve barely used the oven, but the microwave gets a lot of action. From the kitchen you go into the living room and from the living room to the bedroom. Leading from my bedroom is a small bathroom. It isn’t much but it’s completely me. It cost a small fortune. This is London after all, but I love it, and probably would have paid a bit more. It just felt so right, and I have a wonderful view across to the St. Katherine Dock if I stand on the balcony and crane my neck to the right, lifting my left leg as high as I can, and hold onto the trellis that runs down the wall by the French doors. You see. Perfect.

I’ve spent a lot of time recently, sitting up in bed surfing the newest dating sites. I know Marcus didn’t work out, but I can’t let it put me off forever. Obviously, we weren’t compatible. Just one of those things, I suppose. There was a time when I thought he might be the one, but fate had other plans. At least I could help my romantic destiny along by unleashing the power of technology.

I listed on the sites as looking for a serious relationship, and uploaded my favorite picture of me, wearing my new Stella dress mum and dad bought me for my birthday. They knew I was down in the dumps and I think they were trying to cheer me up, bless them. But a Stella dress is a dress to impress. The problem, of course, is that I no longer have anyone to impress. The photo is an image of me laughing my head off with my friends, large drink in hand. Okay, inside I was hurting, but that’s the thing about us girls, we know how to put on a brave face, partly because we don’t want to be that girl who’s always being dumped and bore the pants of everyone else, but mostly because too much sympathy hurts even more. All I need to do is post a headline to pique the interest of the right person; the one who’s looking for his soul mate, although I don’t want to be too obvious, obviously. I spend a long time thinking about it, and I come up with ‘This Primrose Needs a Flowerbed’. Perfecto. I glance at the clock again. Two-thirty. OMG. Day-dreaming is the thief of time. I need to sleep.

Jog on…

I can hear banging. My eyes flick open. Did I hear banging? No…no, don’t be silly, Primrose. It’s your imagination. Or maybe I dreamt it. I wait…and listen. Oh, God, there it is again, loud enough to wake the dead. I glance at my phone, the glowing numbers piercing the darkness. 4:59 a.m. Who in their right mind would bang on my door at four-fifty-nine am, unless they were up to something? I swallow hard and sit up. It must be a serial killer. It’s always a serial killer!

Patting around on my bed I find my laptop, still slightly warm, and tucked under a pillow. Not what I’m looking for. I reach further over to the other side of the bed until my hand brushes against the cricket bat I’ve kept beside the bed ever since I got my own flat. I listen for a bit longer hoping whoever it is will go away, but there it is again. The noise sounds thunderous in the silence of my bedroom. It’s unnerving.

I throw off the bedcovers and grab my phone from the night table, using