Relight my Fire Read online

  Relight my Fire

  Joanna Bolouri

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Joanna Bolouri

  About the Author

  Also by Joanna Bolouri

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  June

  July

  August

  September

  October

  November

  December

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2018 Joanna Bolouri

  The moral right of Joanna Bolouri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78648 857 2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Praise for Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Scotland’s answer to Bridget Jones’s Diary’

  Daily Record

  ‘Sexy, smart and scandalous, I’d recommend to anyone with a taste for adventure’

  Victoria Fox, author of Temptation Island, on The List

  ‘If you hear someone snorting beside the pool this summer, they'll be reading this’

  Grazia on I Followed the Rules

  ‘Very, very naughty and lots of fun – it’s a cracker of a debut’

  Sun on The List

  ‘Bloody hilarious’

  Isabelle Broom, Heat, on The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

  ‘A fantastic feel-good read’

  No. 1 Magazine on The List

  ‘Raunchy and hilarious . . . you’ll be laughing all the way to the beach!’

  Scottish Sun on The List

  ‘A fearless approach to sex and romance’

  List Magazine on The List

  ‘A very naughty but nice read that will have you gasping one minute and laughing out loud the next’

  Abby Clements, author of Vivien’s Heavenly Ice Cream Shop on The List

  Joanna Bolouri worked in sales before she began writing professionally at the age of thirty. Winning a BBC comedy script competition allowed her to work and write with stand-up comedians, comedy scriptwriters and actors from across the UK. She’s had articles and reviews published in the Scotsman, The Skinny, the Scottish Sun and the Huffington Post.

  Also by Joanna Bolouri

  The List

  I Followed the Rules

  The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

  January

  Sunday January 1st

  New Year’s Day began with the sound of a ranting Irishman. Actually, this is how most of my days have begun recently.

  ‘Phoebe, did you purposefully buy the ugliest potatoes you could find or were these all the shop had yesterday?’

  I heard the blinds being sharply pulled open as I drowsily checked the clock radio on my bedside table.

  09.17 – Jesus, even the winter sun has only just surfaced. Why did I have to?

  ‘Potatoes?’ I enquired, watching little specks of dust caught in the daylight float past the clock display. ‘Oliver, what are you talking about?’ I rubbed my right eye which refused to open fully and tried to sit up, but he was waving a huge bag of spuds in front of me, unintentionally blocking my attempt.

  ‘These, Phoebe!’ he said, holding them aloft. ‘Po-ta-toes. I specifically said I wanted baby potatoes for the meal today. These are clearly fucking elderly.’

  ‘It was all they had!’ I exclaimed. ‘It was five minutes before closing on New Year’s Eve, Oliver. It was them, a box of Smash or frozen chips. I’m pretty sure your family won’t give a shit what form their potatoes take. Because they’re potatoes.’

  Tutting, he examined the bag again, before sitting on the edge of the bed, defeated. I’ve had many, many absurd conversations with Oliver but this was just silly. I started to giggle.

  ‘What’s so funny?! Just because I—’

  ‘Oliver, you’re Irish and you’re ranting about potatoes! Come on! Even you must—’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘What, you’re in a huff now? Really?’

  He stood up and stomped towards the bedroom door, leaving me half laughing, half wondering what the hell just happened. As he pulled open the door, grumbling about having to make ‘bastard mash’, a second voice bellowed from the direction of the bathroom.

  ‘I NEED TOILET ROLL!’

  Oliver carried on walking towards the kitchen. ‘Ask your mum, Molly. I’m carrying really heavy, really ugly potatoes.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘If you say potatoes one more time I’m—’

  ‘MUM . . . MUUUMMMMMMMYY!’

  I threw back the covers and grabbed for my dressing gown. Gone were the days when New Year’s morning was spent nursing a gruesome hangover in a hotel room with my best mates Lucy and Hazel before traveling home to lie in bed for the rest of the day, hoping for some hangover sex when the nausea subsided. It appeared that this particular New Year’s morning would be spent arguing about potatoes, pacifying my noticeably stressed boyfriend and assisting my pooing daughter.

  Wearing the green, fluffy M&S dressing gown I got for Christmas, I grabbed a toilet roll from the hall cupboard and threw it to Molly who caught it triumphantly from her porcelain throne.

  ‘Is Auntie Megan coming today?’ she asked, placing the new roll on top of the holder. ‘What about Granny and Grandpa?’

  Louise and Brendan (Oliver’s quiet, moderately religious parents), moved to Glasgow in 1993 for Brendan’s job but returned to Ireland in 2006 to retire. And they retired hard. Pottering around the house soon turned into never leaving the house, separate beds and an in-depth knowledge of every person seen coming and going from their neighbours’ houses. They had flown into Glasgow yesterday and it was only the second time they’ve stepped back on Scottish soil since Molly was born. We’ve always had to go to Dublin. Oliver calls them the recluses and although he’s not particularly close to them, I can tell that their unwillingness to make more of an effort with Molly, or anyone else, troubles him. On the other hand, Megan, his older sister, is besotted with Molly – perhaps partly because she’s Oliver’s double, down to the curly brown hair and wrinkled-brow scowl. ‘She has a much better nature, though. Oliver was a little smart arse. He still is to be fair.’ Megan shares the curly hair gene and looks like she was made in the same factory as The Corrs. I’m very fond of her and her stupid beautiful face.

  ‘Yes, Granny and Grandpa are coming; they’ll all be here at two,’ I replied, admiring her cute pyjamas. ‘You should wear the puppy t-shirt Auntie Megan bought you! She’ll be thrilled to see you in it.’

  She frowned. ‘I hate puppies.’

  ‘Just for today, Cruella,’ I responded, laughing. Molly hates a different thing each week. Last week she announced her loathing of books, yet she appeared to have two on her lap at that very moment. ‘Um, are you finished? Do you need any help?’

  ‘No. I’m almost
five, Mum. I’m not a baby.’

  ‘You’re not five until July . . . and you’re my baby.’

  ‘Ugh, you always say that.’

  ‘Sure do,’ I replied. ‘And please swap over the old toilet roll because it will drive me mad otherwise.’ Closing the bathroom door, I stopped for a moment and listened as she fiddled with the toilet roll holder, muttering ‘kittens are much better’ under her breath. Even on the toilet she’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Smiling to myself, I strolled into the kitchen to put the kettle on, only to discover that Oliver had obviously been up and at ’em for quite a while.

  ‘Oliver, it’s a family lunch, not a state dinner for two hundred people!’ I exclaimed, gazing at the flour-covered worktops almost completely hidden by umpteen bowls and kitchen utensils. I moved a bag of carrots to get access to the kettle and he gave a little yelp.

  ‘Don’t touch anything! I have a system going here.’

  ‘A system? But I need coffee . . . what the hell . . . is that a power drill?!’

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me 180 degrees, pushing me back towards the hall. ‘I’ll bring you a coffee, go and shower or something. I’m busy. I’m creating.’

  ‘Damn, you’re bossy today,’ I replied, promptly turning myself back around. He looked flustered. He looked fucking sexy; his dark curly hair dishevelled, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and stomach. Even after all these years, he still does it for me. Big time. ‘Are you stressed? I mean, I could help with that . . .’

  I opened my dressing gown and pushed my body against his, slowly moving a hand down towards his crotch. A hand that Oliver quickly stopped in its tracks. He shook his head. ‘I don’t have time, Phoebe. We don’t have time. Please just get dressed. Anyway, Molly will be through in a minute.’

  ‘Fuckssake Oliver, I wasn’t going to wank you off in the kitchen, I was just being affectionate.’

  I took myself off to the bedroom before he could say anything else, but there was no response anyway. He continued chopping and peeling vegetables while I made our bed. Christ, I know we’re not love’s young dream anymore but I thought I might at least get felt up.

  By half past twelve the kitchen was in better shape and lunch was cooking, filling the house with steak pie aroma. Molly had helped set the table, before announcing how boring it was and leaving us to get on with it. I was still peeved with Oliver but I understood his anxiety. When my parents came over from Canada in August, I took them out for dinner every night so they wouldn’t question why none of our cutlery or plates matched. However parents might claim not to judge us, they absolutely do. Luckily, my best mate Lucy had bought us new cutlery for Christmas, albeit reluctantly (‘Boo, you fucking bores. Take it quickly before I dismember you with it’) so at least that’s been rectified.

  ‘I need to go and pick everyone up from the hotel soon!’ Oliver called from the kitchen. ‘Can you keep an eye on the veg? It’ll only need another ten minutes.’

  ‘Yup,’ I replied, sticking my head around the kitchen door. I watched Oliver dry his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Cheers,’ he replied, grabbing his car keys off the hook. ‘You look pretty, by the way.’

  ‘Pretty enough to ravage me later?’

  ‘God, what’s gotten into you?’

  ‘Well not you, for, oh, four weeks now! Maybe longer . . .’

  He frowned. ‘It hasn’t been that long. Has it?’

  I nodded while he racked his brains, trying to remember the last time we’d had sex before snapping himself out of it. ‘Look, we’ll talk later, I need to get going. Tell Molly not to demolish the chocolates on the coffee table before I get back.’ And with that he was off, leaving me wondering how we went from shagging ourselves senseless to only vaguely remembering what the other looks like naked. I think he might have gone off me.

  Monday January 2nd

  Yesterday’s lunch went well, I think, given that no one ended up in tears or being punched repeatedly in the face, which is the benchmark by which I measure most things.

  I had just drained the carrots when Oliver arrived back with his family in tow. Megan was brushing down her backside, having just slipped and fallen on the ice.

  ‘Phoebe!’ she cried, stomping her boots on the doormat, ‘Happy New Year! I’ve just done myself an injury. Where is my beautiful niece then?’ She followed the sound of Molly’s voice into the living room while Louise and Brendan made their way up the stairs and into the flat.

  ‘I thought you’d have moved into a proper house by now,’ I heard Louise mumble to Oliver. ‘That wee girl should have a garden.’ Brendan silently followed behind like an undertaker.

  Oliver sighed. ‘We live close to a huge park, Mam. It’s Glasgow, not the Sahara. She’s not grass-deprived.’

  I smiled to myself, feeling somewhat vindicated. I had wanted to buy somewhere new with a garden when Molly was born, but Oliver convinced me that it’d be easier and cheaper if we all just lived in his flat. Although spacious, it still doesn’t exactly feel like a family home and having to ask his landlord for permission every time we want to paint a room is getting on my nerves.

  I kissed Oliver’s parents hello, taking their jackets and inviting them to go on through to the living room. Throwing me a ‘Here we go’ look, Oliver shuffled behind them, like a seven-year-old who’d been bribed to attend his own party.

  ‘Haven’t you grown!’ I heard Brendan say to Molly, while Oliver proudly boasted that she was only four years old and already four feet five inches tall, ‘well above the national average’, like he had personally been cultivating her in his greenhouse. I returned to the kitchen and pretended to be busy, staring through the oven door at Oliver’s steak pie. Our shitty oven is capable of burning food that’s not even inside it and if the pie went wrong I feared Oliver would never recover. He appeared moments later with the same concerns.

  ‘Did the timer go off yet?’ he asked, bending down beside me.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, it went off ages ago. I’m just interested to see how long it’ll take to catch fire and kill us all.’

  He scowled. ‘I hope you go up in flames first. Go and visit with my family. It’s my turn to hide.’

  Brendan and Louise sat side by side on the couch, while Megan played with Molly on the living room floor, already surrounded by chocolate wrappers. ‘Lunch won’t be long, everyone,’ I announced cheerily. ‘Molly, can you stop eating junk for five minutes?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Megan said, laughing. ‘That was me. I skipped the hotel breakfast. I don’t trust buffets – some fecker could have sneezed all over it. Or worse . . .’

  ‘Megan!’ Louise exclaimed. ‘Watch what you say in front of the child.’

  Megan rolled her eyes and carried on playing with Molly, who was now asking, ‘What’s worse than sneezing on food?’ It’s amazing to watch how Oliver and his sister, both grown-ass, greying adults, still get treated like kids by their parents and don’t call them out on it. Family dynamics are so weird.

  *

  Two hours and three wrong-potato-themed comments from Louise later, lunch was over. Oliver and his throbbing forehead vein were stacking the dishwasher while I sat chatting with everyone else in the living room.

  ‘Two food shopping deliveries a week!’ Louise exclaimed, almost spilling her cup of tea. ‘She lives alone with her dog! I said to Brendan, how on earth can one tiny woman eat so much? She’d be better spending off her money on fixing up her front garden. What a pigsty it is.’

  ‘Mam, you really need to get a hobby or something.’ Megan sighed. ‘I’m sure Mrs Finnegan can do without you spying on her.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Louise replied indignantly, fluffing up her short grey hair. ‘Since her husband died, she needs someone to look out for her. I’m doing her a kindness.’

  Brendan sat quietly, neither confirming nor denying that his wife was a nosy bastard, while Molly scribbled away in the new farmyard colouring book Megan had picked
up for her at the airport.

  ‘Are you back to work next week, Phoebe?’ Megan asked, changing the subject. ‘I’ve taken the first two weeks off to move house. I can’t be coping with work and all that shi— nonsense at the same time.’

  ‘I am,’ I replied. ‘Molly will be back at nursery too. What’s the new place like?’

  Megan took a sip from her tea. ‘It’s deadly. Not too far from where I am now. Bigger flat though. Older. I’m sick of all the new builds with their low ceilings and open plan bathrooms. And it’s closer to work. I can run there and back every day. Suits me better.’

  She runs to work. There’s nothing remotely average about this woman.

  While I gaped at her in awe, Oliver appeared, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. ‘Anybody need anything? I think we have some leftover Christmas cake.’

  ‘It’s leftover because it’s vile,’ I said. ‘Don’t we have any cheese and crackers?’

  Brendan made a noise that sounded like a disapproving horse, stating that he couldn’t manage another bite. ‘Sit down, Oliver,’ he insisted. ‘Take a load off. We’re all grand here.’

  ‘I will,’ Oliver replied. ‘But first I just need to borrow you for two minutes, Phoebe, so you can show me where you’ve hidden the lemon and ginger tea bags.’

  ‘They’re where they always are. Beside the regular ones.’

  ‘If they were, I wouldn’t be asking,’ he responded. ‘Just come and help, will you?’

  I tutted quietly and unfolded myself from my comfortable post-lunch position, then marched through to the kitchen with Oliver following behind, closing the kitchen door behind him.

  ‘They’re right here—’ I began, opening the pantry door, but before I got the chance to wave some teabags in his face, he had pushed me into the pantry, pressed himself against my arse and slid his hand inside my bra.

  ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘I was distracted.’

  ‘And now?’ I enquired, my hand reaching around behind me.

  He breathed heavily. ‘Now it’s all I can think about.’