Somebody to Love [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

Sheryl Browne grew up in Birmingham, UK, where she studied Art & Design. She wears many hats: a partner in her own business, a mother, and a foster parent to disabled dogs. Creative in spirit, Sheryl has always had a passion for writing. She has previously been published in the US and writes Rom Com because, as she puts it, "life is just too short to be miserable."

‘She’s fine now. Good as new.’ Trying not to mind the icy plop of rain trickling down the back of her parka, Donna O’Connor reassured a concerned pensioner that her wobbly, three-legged dog wasn’t about to keel over. ‘She’s a miracle.’ The little old lady blinked watery eyes, opaque with old age. ‘And so pleased with herself. Her little tail’s wagging, see?’ ‘Yes, she is.’ Donna beamed, quite proud of her courageous dog, too, who’d adapted amazingly well after major surgery. ‘Here,’ the old lady said, ferreting in her Tesco bag, from which she produced a sock, from which she produced a pound coin. ‘I normally have lots of balls,’ she went on, confusingly, since she didn’t seem to have a dog, ‘but take this, instead. Buy her a new one.’ ‘No, I couldn’t possibly.’ Touched, Donna declined the old lady’s generosity, whilst quietly hoping she didn’t look like a charity case in her moth-eaten dog-walking gear. ‘I insist.’ Resolute, the old lady reached for Donna’s hand. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said, pressing the pound coin into it. ‘The world would be a better place for more people like you.’ So saying, she turned to totter off. In slippers in the rain, Donna noted, her hitherto flat mood buoyed up a bit. ‘Come on, hon. Let’s go and buy you a new ball.’ She gestured Sadie on. It was the little things, she decided, glad her special dog brought some joy to the old lady’s probably otherwise lonely existence. Smiling, she turned towards the car park, and her buoyancy deflated like a pricked balloon. Oh, wonderful. Donna groaned inwardly and debated whether to dive behind the nearest bush or about-face pronto. With her actual face devoid of make-up and wearing her bang-on-trend — not — unflattering leggings, he was absolutely the last person in the world she wanted to bump into. Still, at least her face had features to enhance, Donna supposed, steeling herself as her ex-husband strolled towards her, arm-in-arm with his latest featureless girlfriend, aka the Twiglet, who was leading an equally anorexic Pekinese by the lead. Deep breath in, Donna told herself, counting slowly to seven. And out. Exhaling to a count of nine, she tried to ward off a threatening panic attack. The sight of Jeremy wasn’t enough to induce one, normally. It was his glib attitude on the phone this morning, glossing over her concerns for their son as her ‘usual neurosis,’ again that had her almost hyperventilating on site of him. ‘Well, well, Donna. Fancy meeting you here,’ Jeremy exclaimed, looking surprised. The surprise was all Donna’s, Jeremy having phoned barely an hour since, citing some emergency or another as reason for letting their son down again. Matthew was used to his father’s excuses, of course. He didn’t bat an eyelid anymore. He had better things to do with his time, chatting with his current cyber-crush or lusting after Buffy the Vampire with pet-friend and best-friend, Findus the rabbit perched on his chest, being infinitely more interesting than discourse with Jeremy, who seemed only to work at breaking the father–son bond. Donna, though, was fuming — and feeling inclined to verbalise her feelings. But knowing Matthew might be caught up in the middle of more animosity, she gritted her teeth and bit hard on her tongue. And the emergency that had taken priority over taking his son shopping for the new ice-cool trainers he’d promised him for his birthday? The Pekinese wasn’t well and needed to go the vet, Jeremy had said, leaving Donna thinking the poor dog must be close to death. Yet, here they were, the happy trio. Jeremy smiling away — apparently not a care in the world, the Peke looking not at all peaky, and the Twiglet looking… well, blank, her botoxed face having all the expression of a boiled egg… and wearing hair. Lots of hair. Glossy, truffle coloured, extremely long hair. Hmm? New extensions, Donna wondered. She squinted a bit. Yes, definitely extensions arranged artistically around breasts that would still be up and out there when the rest of her had given in to gravity. Implants. Donna would bet her life on it. At least Donna’s were all her own. She promptly breathed in, trying to look thin, whilst thrusting her own less abundant frontage up and out there. The Twiglet was dressed in designer, presumably. Not that Donna had a clue about labels, beyond which High Street stores labelled generously. She looked the woman’s attire surreptitiously over: a horse print tee — Stella MC possibly, black tailored jacket over, and figure-enhancing jeans under, she looked every inch what she claimed to be: An ex-model, with her own stables and rich daddy, who would make sure she and her horses were well-shod for life. Realising she was on a mission impossible, Donna breathed out, before she expired. She couldn’t hope to measure up. Nor would she aspire to, had Jeremy not constantly measured her up, even to past women in his life, all of whom seemed to have been younger, thinner, bubblier and cleverer than she. That wasn’t the Twiglet’s fault though. Reluctantly, Donna retracted her claws. The woman couldn’t help it if, like the others before her, she’d been taken in by Jeremy’s broody good looks and smooth repartee. She’d learn in time that the ‘broody’ was more moody and the repartee was designed to impress. So, what was he doing here? Jeremy didn’t do dog-walking, any more than he did monogamy. ‘Just back from the vet’s,’ Jeremy enlightened her. ‘Thought we’d give the poor little chap a quick walk before taking him home, didn’t we, Leticia?’ Leticia batted tarantula lashes and manoeuvred her mouth into a smile. ‘I see.’ Donna waited for Jeremy to mention the other not-so-little chap in his life, his son. Jeremy didn’t. Fine. Donna wasn’t about to remind him he’d got one. ‘He doesn’t look too poorly, though, does he?’ She glanced down at the Pekinese, who looked perfectly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. ‘Gippy tummy.’ Jeremy patted his own, and petted the Peke, which was up on its little hind legs begging attention. He didn’t pet Sadie, even though she was wagging her tail, having known him all her life. ‘Right. Well…’ Donna swallowed a little lump in her throat. ‘I’d better get off,’ she said breezily, clapping her gloved hands in front of her. ‘Things to do, errands to run.’ ‘Boyfriend not in tow, then?’ Jeremy enquired interestedly, glancing past Donna, who braced herself for one of his unfunny little witticisms. He knew very well she hadn’t got an actual boyfriend. He was referring to her work colleague, Simon, presumably, whom Jeremy had spotted her out walking with in Worcester last Saturday. ‘No.’ She smiled tightly. ‘Simon’s not with me today. It’s a work day, Jeremy. I’m on a day off.’ Of which Donna had few, and Jeremy, who ran his own accountancy business, seemed to have many. ‘I meant heterosexual men, Donna.’ He dripped sarcasm, smiling that smarmy smile Donna had actually once thought attractive. Damn. She should have known better than to rise to the bait. She’d been trying to deflect the open insinuation that no man would be in tow, because no man could possibly be interested. Simon, a dear friend as well as a work colleague, didn’t qualify as a man in Jeremy’s xenophobic opinion, though Simon was twice the man Jeremy could ever be. ‘If you’re asking whether I’m dating, Jeremy, then the answer is yes.’ Tired of his condescension, Donna lied through her teeth. ‘For your information, since you’re obviously so interested in my personal life, he’s good looking, tends not to like being towed or pushed around — anymore than he would dream of towing or pushing women around.’ She paused in hopes of making the point. ‘He’s definitely a sex-addict like you, Jeremy, but unlike you he’s well-endowed and rather good at it. He’s also a gentleman.’ Noting the flash of humiliation in Jeremy’s eyes, Donna turned with satisfaction to the Twiglet. ‘Attentive in bed,’ she explained, with a smug little smile. ‘Yes, well, let’s hope his...