Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)
Read Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
Love… Among The Stars
Sometimes, the hardest part of becoming a success is keeping a straight face...
Jamie & Laura Newman have recently become quite the successful - and mildly wealthy - couple, thanks to the fact they've managed to write a series of popular romantic comedies together. This has come as a
complete
surprise to the hapless pair, and is - needless to say - a turn of events neither is in the slightest bit equipped to deal with.
They get invited to posh events where they feel endlessly out of place, have long lost relatives turn up out of the blue, raise an aspiring diva for a daughter, and go on holiday to exotic places they really have no place being. It's enough to make anyone crawl under the nearest rock.
If you're Jamie, you also get to turn 40 - and there's not a damn thing he can do to stop it. As for Laura, well let's say that just because you
can
afford to purchase expensive beauty products, it doesn't necessarily mean that you
should
.
‘Money can't buy you happiness’
as the old saying goes. Nor can it stop the Newmans being
the Newmans,
with all their quirks, eccentricities - and the uncanny ability to embarrass
themselves
in public at the drop of a hat.
LOVE... AMONG THE STARS is the fourth book by Nick Spalding about Jamie & Laura, and is full of the warts-and-all, laugh out loud comedy you've come to know and love.
By Nick Spalding:
Fat Chance
Love... From Both Sides
Love... And Sleepless Nights
Love... Under Different Skies
Love... Among The Stars
Life
… With No Breaks
Life
… On A High
Blue Christmas Balls
Buzzing Easter Bunnies
The Cornerstone
Wordsmith: The Cornerstone Book 2
Spalding's Scary Shorts
Click link to buy Nick's books at Amazon UK
Click link to buy Nick's books at Amazon USA
Click link to buy Nick's books at Amazon AUS
Copyright ©
Nick Spalding 2015
First published in 2015
This Kindle edition published 2015 by
Notting
Hill Press
The rights of Nick Spalding to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Chapters
Laura’s Diary – Tuesday, February 16th
Jamie’s Blog – Tuesday 16 February
Laura’s Diary – Wednesday, February 17th
Jamie's Blog - Friday 26 March
Laura's Diary - Monday, March 29th
Laura's Diary - Wednesday, May 19th
Laura's Diary - Wednesday, July 21st
Jamie's Blog - Friday 13 August
Laura's Diary - Tuesday, September 28th
Jamie's Blog - Sunday 10 October
Tuesday, February 16th
Dear Mum,
Here's what went through my head as I stared into the mirror this morning:
'Oh good fucking grief, I look like a banana'.
Last night I went to bed a successful and largely happy woman in her late thirties, and today I woke up as a tropical fruit - popular with children for its taste, and with adult males for its highly amusing phallic shape.
Now, obviously I haven't
really
turned into a banana overnight. If that were the case, you wouldn't be reading this, as bananas have no opposable thumbs with which to hold a pen. I make the comparison because my face has turned the same colour as the average bunch of
Fyffes
.
As I stare at myself in the mirror with mounting horror, I realise that vast areas of my skin have gone a disturbing shade of yellow.
I tell you what, if you don't like the banana comparison, let's chuck a few more in for good measure: I'm as yellow as a sun ripened lemon, as yellow as a
squeezy
rubber ducky, as yellow as a sunflower in full bloom...
And the reason for this new, disturbing hue?
A £150 tub of fake tan Jamie bought me for Christmas.
Yes, you heard that right. A
one hundred and fifty pound
tub of fake tan (or 'refined bronzing solution’ as the manufacturers choose to call it). I'd read all about it on the internet back in November. Invented by a small but excruciatingly expensive Swiss perfumery, this stuff was supposed to not only banish your wrinkles to the pits of the nearest hell, it was also meant to give you the kind of healthy tan that can only otherwise be achieved with several months in the equatorial midday sun. For the princely sum of £150 I could buy myself a tub of
'Riche Femme Bronz
é
e
No.1'
and kiss both wrinkles and pale skin goodbye!
...or rather, Jamie could buy it for me for Christmas - which is exactly what he did, bless him. If there's one advantage to having a bit of money in the bank these days, it's that your husband can occasionally splash out on hideously overpriced beauty products without wincing too much.
I was delighted to open the small golden box that the tub came in on Christmas Day, and promised myself I would use it as soon as possible. Which, in other words, meant it got put in the bathroom cabinet and completely forgotten about until last night when I discovered it again during a clear out. Needless to say I was delighted. With a book launch coming up the next day in London, a nice bit of wrinkle
disappearage
and instant tan would go a long way to making me look dazzling while I pretended to fit in with a load of book industry types.
So, confident that any product which costs that much
must
work perfectly every time, I slathered the greasy concoction all over my face and body, and went to bed safe in the knowledge that I would wake up the next day miraculously younger and browner.
This morning I still have crow's feet, and my body is resolutely
not brown
.
It is however, yellow.
Very yellow.
'I'm dead,' I whisper to myself as my eyes widen to take in the full glory of my newly
bananarised
flesh.
'I am fucked beyond measure.'
'Mum! You're swearing again! That's naughty!'
My head whips round to see a small accusatory finger pointing at me. This is connected to my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed daughter Poppy. At least I think her eyes are bright. I can't quite tell, given that they are currently narrowed in disgust at her mother's use of such bad language.
I'm about to apologise to my irate child, but she doesn't give me the chance, as she's just realised that her mother is now
bananarised
. Her mouth goes
wide,
she gives a sharp intake of breath, and points her finger at me again, this time in shock. 'Mum! Why are you so yellow?!'
'Is it that bad?' I respond forlornly. I had hoped that the yellow tone to my skin was only obvious close up, but Pops is standing a good ten feet away and can still see that I have apparently picked up a nasty case of beauty product related jaundice.
'What happened, Mum?!' she squeals in horrified fascination.
'Your Dad bought me some make-up,' I tell her, unconsciously blaming Jamie for this mess, despite the fact that the blame clearly lies at the feet of whatever Swiss twat concocted this horrible goop. 'It was supposed to give me a tan, but it's turned me into a banana.'
Poppy gasps and lets out a high-pitched giggle. 'You do look like a banana, Mum!'
I sigh and put my hands on my hips. 'Not a lemon then?' I reply. 'Just a banana?'
'A lemon as well!' Poppy screeches, and giggles anew. Then, a sudden realisation hits her and a hand flies to her mouth. 'You're at a party tonight!'
Another sharp intake of breath.
'What's Dad going to say?!'
I cross my arms. 'What your father has to say about this is the least of my worries, young lady.'
Poppy walks over to me, grabs my yellow hand, and starts to rub at my skin. 'It won't come off,' she points out helpfully.
'Not like that it won't,' I agree. 'This is going to take several hours, and more cleanser than you can shake a stick at.'
Poppy pouts. 'But you're still taking me to the park today, before I go to Grandma's aren't you?'
'If I can get this stuff off I will.' I bend down and kiss her on the forehead. 'You don't want to be pushed on the swings by a giant lemon do you?'
This sends her into another fit of hysterical laughter, as she no doubt pictures herself being propelled forward on a swing by an enormous lemon, with a blonde Laura Newman wig perched on top of its head.
'Go make yourself some breakfast, Pops,' I say to her, reaching for my strongest cleanser. 'I'll be down once I've had a go at de-
lemonising
myself.'
Poppy's hands go to her hips. 'But I want porridge today, Mum,' she says, the pout returning to her otherwise gorgeous features. The amount of times this pout has appeared on my daughter's face has increased in recent months. I'm starting to worry that Jamie and I are creating an entitled monster. But what else are you supposed to do when you become successful than lavish presents on your offspring? Especially when they are, by your choice, an only child?
'You can have cold cereals this morning sweetheart,' I say in a conciliatory tone.
'I want porridge Mum!'
'I said, you can have cereals
Poppy
,' I say in a sharper tone - one that can turn into an
angry
tone, should that pout not disappear with its owner within the next few seconds.
Poppy goes to open her mouth, sees her mother's expression, and her natural gift for self-preservation kicks in. Without another word, she leaves the bathroom. I do hear her feet stamp loudly as she moves down the landing, but I let her off as my attention is now thoroughly back on the job at hand.
With hope in my heart, and a look of determination on my face, I pull out the cotton wool pads and go to work.
An hour later I'm exhausted.
And still yellow.
Okay, the bright vibrant shade I was when I woke up has calmed down a bit, so I'm now more of a
sickly
yellow, but I am still nonetheless a woman of supreme
yellowosity
.
'Bugger,' I moan at the mirror, and bang the bottle of cleanser down in disgust.
If I can't rub the horrible stuff off, I'm going to have to cover it with something.
Luckily I'm approaching 40, so have more foundation in my make-up cabinet than
seven
40-year-old women would ever need.
Twenty minutes later, I am back to what roughly equates to my natural skin tone - on my face, neck and visible extremities anyway. I had planned on wearing my little black cocktail dress to the party tonight, but as that would expose a healthy amount of leg - which would need make-up all over it to hide the yellowness - I mentally change my plans and opt for the dark blue strappy gown, and black bolero that's been gently gathering dust on the far left hand side of my wardrobe for the past year.
I kind of wish that wearing a bag over your head to high profile social occasions had become a recent fashion statement, but it sadly hasn't, so I will have to make sure the cover-up is the most convincing it can be before I step out of the door.
Step out of the
hotel
door, that is. I remember that I still have a two hour drive up to the city to endure later, after I've dropped Poppy off at Jamie's mum's for a couple of days.
Oh, but that's not really what you'll be doing, is it, you pretentious bitch?
the
ugly little voice in my head pipes up.
You won't actually be doing
any
of the driving yourself, will you?
This voice has been echoing through my head ever since the first book in the Love... series sold quarter of a million copies. It's only got louder over the past eighteen months, as more books have come out - to similar or greater success.
I won't be driving to London later this afternoon, because Watermill Publishing has laid on a car for me. It won't be a Rolls Royce or anything, but even the prospect of a Mercedes thrills and disgusts me in equal measure.
You
should be
disgusted,
the voice intones.
A couple of years ago you would have scoffed at the idea of being driven around like a right
lah
-de-
dah
. Now look at you.
Oh sod off
, I tell the voice, before stamping out of the bathroom and going downstairs to see what kind of mess Poppy has gotten herself into with the Kellogg's variety pack.
I can't help the fact that Jamie and I have stumbled into a successful writing career, can I?
Writing was never my dream, it was always Jamie's, but when he suggested I take joint credit for Love From Both Sides, I was more than happy to do so - after all, half the stories in it were mine. And besides, it's good for a couple to have a hobby they can do together, isn't it?
How was I to know it would sell so many sodding copies? And that in only a few years I'd be a pretentious
lah
-de-
dah
bitch on her chauffeured way to a Valentine's Day book launch in London?
I have been consumed by a combination of wide-eyed amazement, guilt, and smug satisfaction for quite a while now - and it's frankly starting to get on my nerves. At turns, I either love myself or loathe myself, and the sudden change that occurs between the two is giving me mental whiplash.
As I enter the kitchen, I try to shake myself out of this unhelpful train of thought, and concentrate on things more mundane and down to earth - like clearing up the small lake of milky cornflakes that Pops has left on the breakfast bar.
You sure you're happy cleaning that up?
the
voice says, just when I thought I'd got it under control,
or should we just call out a cleaning service to do it for you, you over-privileged witch?
I draw in a long, deep breath, and let it out as slowly and calmly as possible.