The Great Escape: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from the summer bestseller

‘That sounds nice …’

And you sound distant, Sadie thinks, as if your mind’s on something else – which it is, of course, because you and Daisy are browsing in some chi-chi little shops in … actually, Sadie can’t think what part of London has chi-chi shops anymore, and she only left six months ago.

‘I’ll ring you some other time,’ she murmurs.

‘Yeah, okay. Sorry, Sadie, it’s just … tricky right now …’

‘Are you okay? You sound a bit hassled …’

‘No, look, I’ll have to go now, sorry, sorry …’ And she’s gone.

Sadie tries Lou, but both her landline and mobile go to voicemail. She’s probably at work. Sadie hasn’t got her head around Lou’s shift pattern yet, but she seems to virtually live at that soft play centre these days.

Of course, both of her friends are busy right now, as most people are on Saturdays. They’re working, shopping, living their lives, and although she can’t quite identify what it is she’s missing, Sadie suspects that freezing bananas to make pretend ice-lollies probably won’t fill the gap. She’s been kidding herself that she can pull this off – fit in with these women who bake brownies all day, and be a proper mother to Milo and Dylan. Even Barney is slipping away from her, and who can really blame him when her sense of humour and sex drive seem to have completely disappeared? A lump forms in Sadie’s throat as she marches home, knowing she can never tell anyone about the horrible, claustrophobic mess she’s found herself in.

THIRTEEN

The day isn’t turning out quite the way Hannah had imagined. All the way into the West End, Daisy was stonily quiet, as if mentally preparing herself for extensive dental drilling work. And now, as they hoof along a packed Oxford Street, surrounded by eye-popping stores crammed with everything a ten-year-old girl could possibly desire, she still hasn’t perked up. ‘See anything you like?’ Hannah asks, instantly overwhelmed by a sea of pastel lace and excitable teenagers in New Look.

Daisy shakes her head. ‘Nah.’ Hannah casts a glance around the vast floor. Perhaps there’s just an overabundance of … stuff. If she’s finding it all too much, maybe Daisy is too. It can’t be easy picking, say, a top, when there’s something like eight thousand to choose from.

Daisy wanders away from Hannah to flick through a rail of sludge-coloured trousers. Like Hannah, Daisy isn’t really a dress sort of girl; she prefers a complicated layering system that involves long tops, short tops, leggings, shorts and opaque tights, often with a drapey cardi flung nonchalantly over the top. With her tall, willowy frame, it usually works pretty well. Whenever her mother takes her shopping, Daisy always returns with bagfuls of uninspiring-looking items that look fantastic when she puts them on. Maybe, Hannah wonders, it’s her that’s putting Daisy off. As Ryan reminded her the other night, Hannah doesn’t enjoy shopping. She practically exists in jeans and vest tops; practical clothes for cycling or painting, although she hasn’t painted much lately. Anyway, she thinks now, picking up trousers Daisy’s knocked off the rail, isn’t shopping a classic mother-daughter activity? Daisy is probably missing her mum, especially since Hannah doesn’t seem to know what to do. While mums and daughters all around her are bonding over sequined tops and asymmetrical dresses, Hannah is loitering awkwardly like an alien whose first, baffling experience of earth involves being dropped into the chaos of New Look on a Saturday afternoon.

‘How about this?’ she asks, holding up a stripey top with an ostentatious bow on the front.

Daisy cringes. ‘No thanks.’

‘Or this?’ Hannah indicates a denim mini-skirt. Daisy shakes her head and moves swiftly on, as if Hannah’s offered her a peach twinset.

In hot pursuit, but trying to appear calm, Hannah begins to feel redundant and foolish. She thinks about Sadie, in the country, nipping off to lunch parties with her babies in tow. She’d know how to handle Daisy. She’d have chosen her something – Sadie knows instinctively what goes with what – and by now they’d be giggling away in a café, a cluster of carrier bags at their feet. Someone biffs Hannah in the ribs with a rucksack, sending her staggering sideways into a rack of handbags adorned with gleaming buckles and chains and, in one case, a plastic lizard. She loses sight of Daisy, her heart racing until she pops into view again. Daisy’s sour expression suggests that she’s being dragged down the poultry aisle of a supermarket, not being given the run of a fashion emporium.

They make for Zara, where Daisy grudgingly tries on a couple of outfits that don’t fit, then they head to the kids’ section at Primark, which is even more crowded than New Look. ‘I’m gonna try these on,’ she announces, having amassed an armful of clothes.

‘Great. I’ll wait by the changing room, okay? In case you want to come out and show me anything.’

Daisy frowns at her. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Yes, I know you’ll be fine, I just meant if you wanted, um, a second opinion …’ But Daisy has whipped into the changing room, and all Hannah can do is plonk herself on a small plastic stool and resist the temptation to text Ryan: HAVING TOTALLY CRAP TIME. COMING HOME NOW. She desperately wants to phone Sadie back, but what would she say? Admitting how bleak things really are would mean facing up to the fact that she doesn’t have the faintest idea about how she intends to carry off this stepmother lark.

Hannah waits patiently on the stool for what feels like a week. She can actually feel herself ageing, her skin shrivelling and her bones beginning to creak. Nearby, a leggy woman in tight jeans is having an altercation with her teenage daughter. ‘You’ve got trousers just like those at home,’ the woman snaps. She’s gripping the handles of a buggy containing a screaming toddler.

‘Wanna go,’ he keeps yelling. ‘Wanna go home NOW.’ It’s a sentiment Hannah can sympathise with entirely.

‘They’re different, Mum,’ the girl declares. ‘These are a much brighter blue.’

‘Yes,’ her mum replies, ‘because the ones at home have been washed.’

‘So they’re all faded and that’s why I need new ones …’

‘Go on then, try them on …’

‘Want Daddy!’ the toddler wails. With a sigh, the woman parks the buggy beside Hannah and sinks down onto the stool next to her.

‘How come we mums end up spending so much of our lives sitting outside changing rooms?’ she says with a wry smile.

‘I know,’ Hannah says. ‘I think she must be trying on everything at least twice.’ Daisy reappears briefly, grabs a few more items from a nearby rail and struts back into the changing room.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ the woman observes. ‘Lovely sense of style she’s got.’

‘Yes, she has.’ Hannah manages a smile.

‘Takes after you,’ the woman says kindly.

‘Thanks.’ Hannah falls silent, feeling deeply uncomfortable about taking credit for Daisy’s fashion sense. ‘Actually,’ she adds, ‘I’m not her mum.’

‘Oh?’

‘No, I’m her …’ Hannah tails off, wondering how to put it. Stepmum still doesn’t feel accurate; she fears she’ll never be remotely qualified to assume such a terrifyingly grown-up job title. ‘I’m sort of … seeing her dad,’ Hannah adds, realising that’s completely wrong too. They’re getting married, for God’s sake. They’ve chosen rings, booked the registry office and bar-cum-restaurant for a small party afterwards, and she’s bought that fat nurse abomination. They’re even planning a honeymoon somewhere down the line, although they have yet to book anything as Petra hasn’t come back to Ryan about when it might be ‘convenient’ to look after her own children. The cello comes first, naturally, taking Petra all over the world to give performances. Hannah imagines it strapped in the aeroplane seat beside her, being asked by a flight attendant whether it wants chicken or fish.

‘Oh, hell,’ the woman cries as her toddler breaks free from his buggy restraints and her daughter glides out of the changing room. ‘Right – we’re getting out of here.’

‘Can’t I have these trousers?’ the girl bleats.

‘I said you’ve got some at home. What d’you think I am, made of money?’ Manhandling her toddler back into his buggy, and starting to march away, the woman flings a quick glance back towards Hannah. ‘Enjoy your day with your, er …’

‘Thanks. You too.’ Hannah checks her watch as Daisy finally ambles towards her. ‘Wasn’t there anything you liked?’ she asks, now feeling horribly hot in the stuffy store.

Daisy shakes her head. ‘Nah. But there is something …’

‘Oh, what’s that?’

Daisy pushes back her hair and meets Hannah’s gaze. ‘You know for the wedding, right?’

‘Yes?’ Hannah says eagerly.

‘Well,’ Daisy fixes her with a defiant stare, ‘I’d like my ears pierced.’

‘Really? Well, I guess you’ll have to talk that over with your mum and dad.’

‘Oh,’ Daisy mutters as they make their way down the escalator.

‘Anyway, are you hungry yet? I’m starving …’

‘Yeah. A bit.’ They step off the escalator and squeeze their way through the buffeting crowds towards the exit.

‘The thing is,’ Daisy says, ‘I really need to get it done today.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Hannah replies, ‘I can’t let you do that without your mum or dad saying it’s okay.’

‘But it’s my ears,’ Daisy shoots back, ‘and the thing is, if I get it done today, it’ll be all healed for the wedding and I’ll be able to take out the boring plain earrings and put in ones I like. ’Cause you’ve got to leave them in for six weeks. How long is it till the wedding?’

‘Er, six weeks.’ Hannah pushes the main door open, steps out of Primark and takes a big gulp of cool air.

‘See! I’ll have to get it done today.’

‘I … I’m just not sure, Daisy. It’s quite a big, significant thing. You might feel sick and queasy and one of your parents should …’

‘No, I won’t. I’m never sick. I have never actually been sick.’

‘Really?’

Daisy shakes her head. They’ve stopped on the pavement next to a man who’s shouting that he can save everyone from all the greed and nastiness in the world. Hannah is tempted to ask if he can help out with the earring issue.

‘And it’s not a big thing,’ Daisy adds firmly. ‘It’s just two teeny holes and they use a gun.’

‘A gun?’ Hannah is trying to maintain a pleasant expression, which is becoming trickier as she recalls her own ears being pierced at sixteen, courtesy of a darning needle and a lump of cold potato held at the back of her lobe.

‘Yeah,’ Daisy says. ‘It’s really easy. Why don’t you phone Dad and ask him?’

‘I, er …’ Hannah pulls out her mobile. It doesn’t feel right, calling Ryan to confirm what she already knows; that he won’t allow it and, worse, it’ll imply that she’s incapable of handling the situation herself. She feels ridiculous now, having pictured the two of them trotting happily along Oxford Street, stopping off for cakes and Daisy realising that Hannah’s sole purpose isn’t to steal her father and ruin her young life after all.

‘Well, are you gonna phone Dad?’ she demands.

‘Okay. I’ll do that.’ Bristling with irritation now, Hannah calls Ryan’s mobile, which goes to voicemail. He’s not at home either, and she doesn’t bother leaving a message, because how pathetic would her voice sound, drifting out of the answerphone, wittering about earrings?

‘Claire’s Accessories,’ Daisy announces. ‘That’s where everybody has it done.’ Hannah smiles tensely. Then a brainwave hits her. Of course: Sadie will know what to do. Capable Sadie, who’s managing to live in that teeny village in the middle of nowhere without going mad, while raising not one but two babies and going to lunch parties. Hannah feels guilty now, being so distracted when her friend had called earlier. And if Sadie can’t offer a snippet of sage advice, then who can?

Damn, she’s not picking up either. Probably at another lunch party by now. ‘Phone Mum,’ Daisy barks. ‘Mum’ll say it’s okay.’

‘Fine, but I have to get something to eat first, okay?’ Boldly, without any debate, she takes Daisy by the hand and whisks her into Prêt à Manger.

Here, none of the sandwiches is deemed acceptable. A plain bread roll is chosen, even though it’s really offered to accompany soup (Daisy wrinkles her nose at Hannah’s suggestion of soup, as if she’s trying to trick her into consuming vomit).

‘Dad said I could have my ears done for the wedding,’ Daisy mumbles, picking a crumb off her lip.

Hannah has an overwhelming urge to tip a large glass of chardonnay down her throat. ‘Well, we’ll see,’ she murmurs.

‘You’ve got your ears done,’ Daisy ventures as they leave.

‘Yes, Daisy, but I’m thirty-five! And I was sixteen when I had it done and you’re only ten. There’s a big difference.’

‘If you don’t let me have it done,’ Daisy growls as they head outside, ‘I’m not coming to your wedding.’

Hannah stares at her. ‘You really mean that? You wouldn’t come to your own dad’s wedding because of ears?’

Daisy shrugs. ‘No.’

‘But he’d be so upset! Can you imagine how he’d feel if you weren’t there?’

Daisy juts out her chin. ‘I want to wear earrings at the wedding.’

‘What about clip-ons?’ Hannah suggests desperately. ‘There were loads of nice clip-ons in New Look. Come on, we’ll go back and choose you a pair …’ The thought of braving that store twice in one day is beyond horrific. But Hannah is prepared to spend the whole damn night in New Look if it’ll settle the earring issue.

‘I don’t want clip-ons.’

Don’t wear bloody clip-ons then! Hannah wants to yell. ‘Okay,’ she snaps, yanking her phone from her pocket, ‘I’ll call your mum and you can talk it over with her.’ A vein pulses urgently in her neck as she scrolls through her contacts.

‘Hello? Hannah?’ Petra’s voice is needle-sharp.

‘Hi, Petra, are you busy right now?’

‘Yes, just a bit, haha,’ Petra says, meaning, when am I not rushed off my feet? Hannah wonders if she’s interrupted a performance, whether Petra’s gripping her bow in one hand, mobile in the other, bony knees thrust apart with her cello between them. This image makes her feel a tiny bit better.

‘It’s just—’

‘Is this urgent, Hannah, or can we talk later?’

Hannah glances down at Daisy who’s picking out a bit of bread from between her teeth. ‘It is urgent actually. I’m out shopping with Daisy and she’s decided she wants to get her ears pierced.’

Silence. No, not quite silence. Hannah can detect the faint whirring of Petra’s incredibly overworked brain. ‘Petra? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Hannah. I’m just … digesting it.’ Hannah pictures a conductor drumming his fingers impatiently on a little podium thing.

‘Oh.’ Hannah bites her lip. She assumed Petra would deliver a brisk yes or no, not that she’d need time to mull it over. The silence seems to stretch for an eternity. Daisy squashes a smouldering cigarette butt with the toe of her patent boot. ‘Shall I call you back later?’ Hannah suggests.

‘No, there’s no need for that. We can talk now, even though I’m trying to do fifty things at once …’

‘Petra, look, if it’s not a good time …’

‘That’s not the issue,’ Petra barks. ‘It’s us, having this conversation about my daughter who you seem to think is perfectly old enough to have her body disfigured, her lobes punctured by some teenager wielding a needle …’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it disfig—’

‘She’s ten!’ Petra exclaims. ‘Do you think it’s okay for a ten-year-old girl to have something irreversible done to her body, with needles?’

‘Er, they use a gun these days,’ Hannah says dully.

‘A gun? Good God!’ Petra really is bloody unhinged, Hannah decides. She knows Ryan was devastated when she left – he made no secret of that. If she’d been him, though, she’d have been popping champagne corks and dancing wildly on the scuffed bit of floor in the attic where her cello used to stand. Petra is now babbling on about infections and pus. Daisy has extinguished the cigarette and is kicking it towards a smear of pigeon droppings. ‘It’s fine, Petra,’ Hannah cuts in firmly. ‘Actually, I thought you wouldn’t be keen. I just called because Daisy asked me to, and as you’re not happy, we definitely won’t do it.’

‘Well, I hope not.’ Her voice softens slightly.

‘Of course we won’t. I’d never do anything like that without asking you or Ryan first. Anyway, as you’re obviously in the middle of something …’

‘Bye then,’ Petra says curtly.

What a monstrous mother, Hannah thinks, not even asking how Daisy is, or saying a quick hello to her. Despite the disastrous nature of their day, Hannah has a sudden urge to envelop her in a hug.

‘What did Mum say?’ Daisy asks quietly.

‘Um, she’s not keen, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean never. Maybe, when you’re a little bit older, you could ask her again.’

Daisy’s mouth sets in a scowl as, agreeing that they’ve run out of shopping steam, they march purposefully towards Oxford Circus tube station. Jesus, Hannah reflects, anyone would think the poor kid had asked for a facial tattoo.

Hannah can’t sleep. It’s unusually hot and stuffy for late April, and she tosses and turns, replaying her day in town. Unable to convey its true awfulness, she made light of it to Ryan and even threw in a few jokes about being trampled underfoot by herds of antelopes in New Look.

Ryan is sleeping soundly, but Hannah just can’t get comfortable. She’s replaying Daisy announcing, ‘Hannah bought me a plain bread roll for lunch!’ as they all sat around the dinner table, and Ryan throwing her a quizzical look, as if he imagined for a second that Hannah hadn’t given Daisy any choice. Slipping out of bed, she considers going downstairs to make a cup of tea, but is wary of being discovered by one of the kids as she sits bleakly in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She might look as if she’s losing it, which would cheer them up no end.

Instead, she heads up to the converted loft – formerly Petra’s music room – and now Hannah’s very own studio. Sitting down at her desk, she flicks on the wonky Anglepoise lamp she’s had since art college, then turns on her ageing computer and waits for it to whir into life. All around the room, canvases are stacked against the plain white walls. Cityscapes, mostly, exploding with colour. Although Hannah studied illustration at college, she still loves to paint. She runs her gaze along the row of canvases leaning against the wall. These were painted before she moved in with Ryan; he seemed entranced as she unpacked them and helped to peel off their protective bubble wrap layers. But there’s no evidence of recent painting activity. No tubes out of their wooden boxes, no brushes in jars or hardened worms of paint stuck to her palette. In fact, she’s only started one painting – a portrait of Daisy which she had to abandon because it felt wrong, the two of them up here with Daisy reminding her, in that prim little voice, ‘This used to be Mummy’s music room, you know. She kept her cello over there. That’s what made the scratches on the floor.’

Focusing on the screen now, Hannah begins to type:

Girls, hope all’s well. Been missing you loads lately and I’ve had an idea. I’m planning a hen weekend, just the three of us. How d’you fancy going to Glasgow for old time’s sake? Her attention is momentarily diverted by a painting of the Clyde, silvery-green beneath a searing blue sky. Sadie, she continues, I know the babies are still little, but d’you think Barney would be okay with you coming away? And Lou – I know York’s hardly on the doorstep but d’you think you could make it, get some time off work? We could go to all our old haunts, try to track down some of the old crowd, maybe even find Johnny, although God knows where he disappeared to. Or maybe it’d be better just the three of us.

So what d’you think? Shall we talk about dates? I know you’ll be at the wedding in just a few weeks, but I honestly think I’ll burst if I don’t see you before that. No pressure though!!

Lots of love, Han xxx

As she clicks ‘send’ and turns off her computer, Hannah feels her spirits rise as she pictures the three of them – the Garnet Street Girls – back together again. Please come, she murmurs as she pads back down to her and Ryan’s bedroom. Please, please say yes

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