Knowing Me Knowing You Read online

  Table of Contents

  One 4

  Two 18

  Three 24

  Four 28

  Five 35

  Six 46

  Seven 56

  Eight 66

  Nine 70

  Ten 77

  Eleven 86

  Twelve 91

  Thirteen 98

  Fourteen 103

  Fifteen 114

  Sixteen 126

  Seventeen 139

  Eighteen 153

  Nineteen 165

  Twenty 175

  Twenty One 186

  Twenty Two 196

  Twenty Three 204

  Twenty Four 218

  Twenty Five 225

  Twenty Six 241

  Twenty Seven 249

  Twenty Eight 254

  Twenty Nine 265

  Thirty 273

  Thirty One 282

  Thirty Two 285

  Thirty Three 292

  Thirty Four 305

  Thirty Five 316

  Thirty Six 322

  Thirty Seven 332

  Mandy lives in leafy Wiltshire and has Sting as a neighbour. She lives with her husband, two daughters and two cats (Kravitz and Springsteen). When she isn’t writing she loves to sing and do Lady Gaga impressions (check out You Tube). She will soon be working on her fifth novel – if she can stay off Twitter for long enough.

  Praise for Mandy Baggot

  I've just read your book and thought it was excellent! It had a real ‘feel good’ factor about it. (Excess All Areas)

  I was entertained by the book from beginning to end and when I finished reading it, I felt the same satisfied feeling I have after watching a good film. (Breaking the Ice)

  The book takes a thorough look at relationships, love, commitment and honesty and all the complicated baggage that comes with the territory. It is chick-lit to its fingertips! (Knowing Me Knowing You)

  One

  Bird poo and porridge were basically one and the same bloody thing as far as Kate was concerned. Well, at least they were when it came to stains. No matter how much you scrubbed, no matter what product you used, you were always left with a white residue that stood out a mile.

  A pigeon had shit on her in the car park, all over the shoulder of her one decent work jacket. Old style M&S she had picked up at a charity shop but still in good condition. That meant the first four chargeable units of the morning had been spent trying to get the mark off. And it was, as always, to no avail. You could still see it and now it didn’t look like bird shit, it looked like a semen stain.

  It was 2.00pm now and she had just noticed another mark on her sleeve. This one was definitely porridge unless a bird had got very intimate without her knowledge. Judging by the hard, crusted, almost concrete look about it, it had possibly been there for weeks. She hadn’t had a chance to get to the dry cleaners in ages. Giuseppe gave her a good discount and his mother’s special recipes for everything Italian, pasta and tomato based, but dry cleaning was still something she considered a luxury. And, every time Kate went in to Giuseppe’s she suspected he knew she hadn’t tried any of the recipes because she couldn’t cook and she was sure he could smell that.

  The M&S jacket was one of those wool mix ones that you couldn’t just put in the washing machine, which was probably why it had ended up in Marie Curie. The last time she had risked the washing machine with a jacket like that, it had shrunk to something not even a size six model could force herself into.

  She hurriedly slipped it off her shoulders, ripped a paper towel from the wall and wet it under the tap. For the second time that day she began dabbing and scrubbing and cursing under her breath, getting hotter and more frustrated by the second. It wasn’t shifting; the paper towel was disintegrating until the only things rubbing the stain were her fingers. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She had spilt coffee on her desk this morning and had to share the lift with Smelly Milo from the post-room, the Ready Brek was the last straw. It felt like her world was ending. This couldn’t be how it was going to be from now on. She didn’t want to feel tired all the time, inadequate all the time and she didn’t want to be sorting out soiled clothes all the time, especially her own. What was next? Incontinence and the nursing home? She was only just past thirty.

  She was just about to give in to the emotion threatening to spill out when the door to the toilets swung open with a bang and in walked her boss, Miranda Marsh.

  Blonde hair swishing, a reek of designer fragrance, and the familiar tip tap of her Jimmy Choo's introduced her. Now was no time for losing control. A stiff upper lip was required and more restraint than a stag party in a lap dancing bar.

  ‘Oh there you are Kate,’ Miranda remarked, standing uncomfortably close to her as only she could.

  She was wearing a Jigsaw suit that fitted like a glove. No charity shop cast offs for her, she was a Per Una woman if ever there was one. Miranda was a size eight, petite, always smart, always organised, completely bloody annoying and unstained.

  ‘Yes, here I am. Sorry, is Mr Coombs here already? I was just coming,’ Kate spoke hurriedly, putting her jacket back on and crossing the damp sleeve behind her, out of sight.

  ‘No he isn’t. He’s cancelled again! Silly bloody little man, that’s the third time. And this time he didn’t bother to make up a plausible excuse, just muttered something about his granddaughter needing his professional opinion on buying an MG,’ Miranda replied with a sigh, turning away from Kate and checking out her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Oh that’s a shame,’ Kate remarked not meaning it at all.

  She had a tonne of work on her desk already; she could do without meetings with clients until she had broken the back of it.

  ‘He’s a time waster anyway that man. Too much money, not enough to keep him occupied in his retirement. I really don’t know why we bother acting for him. A change to his Will here, a bit of conveyancing there and that ridiculous trust fund he insisted on setting up. It isn’t going to make us millionaires is it?’ Miranda continued, putting her hands in her long, blonde hair and preening it.

  Kate didn’t respond. She knew that the ‘us’ didn’t really include her; it meant Randall’s, the firm of solicitors they both worked for. Kate was a legal executive and Miranda was a solicitor. There wasn’t much difference in their legal knowledge and ability, but being a solicitor and the head of the department meant Miranda had her eyes on the prize that was partnership.

  Kate on the other hand didn’t really know what she was doing practising law. It had been a choice between that and engineering, according to a very dodgy questionnaire she had gone through with her school careers adviser many years ago. There had been nothing else she had a yearning for. So she got on the study treadmill, looked at all the right books, attended all the necessary courses and passed all the exams for the heart-flipping excitement of drafting wills and dealing with dead people. Still, the pay was reasonable and she got the occasional bag of home-grown marrows from Mr Jarvis who seemed to change his Will as often as he changed his fertiliser.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten Friday have you Kate?’ Miranda said in a way that was more of a statement than a question.

  Kate watched her; she was still looking at herself in the mirror and pouting her lips at herself. She looked like someone with a horrendous facial tic.

  ‘Friday?’ Kate queried a chill running up her spine. Oh God!

  She knew exactly what Miranda was going to say next and she was desperately trying to sound like she didn’t for lots of reasons.

  ‘Yes, the dinner at the Grand, Peterson Finance,’ Miranda reminded.

  ‘Oh yes, yes, Friday, of course. I hadn’t forgotten, I just, couldn’t remember what day it is today,’ Kate answe
red lamely.

  ‘Good! Perfect! I knew you wouldn’t! I have finally found the dress after weeks of searching and I can’t wait to wear it. It’s just like the one Kate Winslet wore to the Oscars, you know the one don’t you?’ Miranda spoke with a wide, red lipstick smile turning her attention back to Kate and finally away from the mirror.

  ‘Er, um, yes of course, that dress. I can’t wait to see it,’ Kate replied.

  She didn’t have a clue what Kate Winslet had worn to the Oscars on any year she had attended and she didn’t really care that much either. The Oscars had no place in her life at the moment and in fact never had. The only Oscar she knew of was a woolly-faced owl in one of Bethan’s story books.

  Kate smiled at Miranda and tried to ignore the extremely uncomfortable feeling that was creeping over her at the thought of a large social engagement she didn’t want to attend. She hadn’t been out much lately, a couple of dinners with some of her childminder Hermione’s friends from the Medieval Fair Society and a pizza and vodka night with her secretary Lynn and some of the other very young secretaries who seemed to be able to drink their own body weight in shots.

  ‘So, who are you bringing?’ Miranda enquired, looking straight at Kate with her ice blue eyes.

  They were sharks eyes, large and emotionless, like a Great White. They showed signs of ferocity but very little common sense.

  Kate froze for a moment and gawped at Miranda as if what she’d said had been in a foreign language and she hadn’t a clue how to translate. And then she realised Miranda was still staring at her, waiting for her to respond. She needed to speak to stop her mouth from hanging open. What to say? Try not to scream.

  ‘I - haven’t decided yet,’ Kate said hurriedly internally cursing herself.

  ‘I see! Checking out that little black book. I like it! Perfect! OK, well, Collins deceased calls for me, how are you doing with the Slater case?’ Miranda asked, turning the conversation back to business.

  ‘Fine, yes, I’m doing fine with that,’ Kate replied swiftly.

  Yes, she was doing fine with that, not even registered the death certificates with the banks. Well he’d only been dead three months and she’d been busy.

  ‘Good! Perfect! Let me have the papers when you’re done,’ Miranda said and flashed Kate another pearly white smile before heading out of the door.

  Kate smiled back, waiting for the door to close. As soon as it did the smile fell from her face. Who was she trying to kid? She just couldn’t cope. It was eight months on and she was as useless now as she was at the start. All she wanted to do these days was cry, cry and cry some more. Everything was hopeless, she had been a terrible wife, she was a terrible mother and a very extra terrible legal executive. And now today she had terrible, terrible bird shite and porridge down her only good jacket. And if all that terrible stuff wasn’t enough, now she had to find a man to take to a dinner on Friday night. She didn’t know any men; she didn’t really know how to go about getting one. What was she going to do? Let herself be humiliated by Miranda like always? Turn up alone and be a laughing stock for not having a date, or cry off and be a laughing stock for trying to avoid turning up without a date? There was no winning situation here.

  She could feel tears pricking her eyes but quickly the door opened again and Kate fixed her smile back on, like it was a pair of false lips from a Christmas cracker. She eked the smile wider, acknowledging the entrance of Dorothy from accounts, stretching her mouth so wide that it hurt. She had got used to conjuring up a happy expression now; she had practised at home in front of the mirror. She had the ‘good morning’ smile for when she came into the office first thing. Not too wide with the mouth, crinkling the eyes slightly. She had the ‘yes I’m absolutely fine thanks for asking’ smile. Slightly wider with the lips, showing teeth. And she had the ‘life is wonderful I’m getting on without him’ smile which was as wide as her lips would allow and complete crinkling of the eyes until they were almost closed. Oh and laughter if required.

  She waited for bouffant haired Dorothy to close the cubicle door and then she hurriedly left the toilets before she started up a conversation while she peed. She always did that and Kate found talking while listening to someone else peeing quite unsettling. It just wasn’t right.

  She sat back down at her desk determined to have a proper stab at the Slater file. It was a horrible case, a farmhouse (agricultural relief), two small companies, (business property relief) and an argumentative family, (no relief at all).

  She looked at her screen and stared at her reflection. It was horrible. What was she doing worrying about pigeon shit on her jacket when she looked such a mess? Her hair was a state because she hadn’t had time to shower and her straighteners were broken. It was also in desperate need of a cut. It was naturally dark and thick which had been an asset when she had time to brush and style it, but now it had started to resemble a Halloween witch’s wig.

  Today she also had larger than normal grey bags under her eyes due to Bethan waking her up at 2.30am and 4.00am unable to locate her dummy. And to top it all off this morning’s lipstick, which she had scrawled on while reverse parking, was now just a thin line on her bottom lip.

  She clenched her teeth together and swallowed another urge to cry. This was all Matthew’s fault. It wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. She should have been feeling confident, comfortable and settled in her life not the complete opposite.

  Matthew, her husband, well ex-husband technically, had left her and a then sixteen month old Bethan, eight months ago. He claimed he hadn’t taken to fatherhood, it wasn’t what he wanted, it had never been what he wanted and she had pushed him into it. Kate hadn’t known what to say the day he announced this. Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ had been playing on the radio, Bethan had been happily hammering on her highchair tray with a spoon and she had been standing in her dressing gown, milk down her front and Rice Snaps in her hair. He had mumbled something about going to his mother’s and then left the room. She was still stood in the same position, staring blankly at her babbling daughter, trying to take in his words when he had come back down the stairs carrying two suitcases, already packed.

  She had absolutely fallen apart. She hadn’t known what to do. She didn’t know who to turn to or what happened next. For days she lived some sort of half existence where day and night merged together around episodes of In the Night Garden and Zingzillas. She couldn’t face work, she rarely got dressed and Bethan kept saying ‘Daddy’ at really inopportune times, like when she happened to let her eyes flit over the wedding photo on the dresser, or when she found an item of Matthew’s clothing in the laundry basket. She needed help.

  Help had come in the shape of Hermione Wyatt. Realising that you didn’t get money in the bank by sitting around in your nightwear watching This Morning, Kate knew she had to go back to work. But because in her misery she hadn’t been able to face taking Bethan to nursery, she had lost her place there. At first, in angry tones she had tried calling the manager a Nazi. Then when that hadn’t worked, she had offered to pay for the time Bethan had missed. The manager said no and Kate broke down, sobbing until the hand piece was wet, trying to quote passages of law in an effort to frighten Mrs Hitler into giving her back her place, but even that had no effect on the hard-nosed manager.

  So, she found the nearest childminder with a vacancy and got Hermione.

  Hermione was eccentricity personified. She spent all day potato printing, hula-hooping and biscuit making with three of her own children, and a strange looking dark-haired boy called Cyrus who would only communicate by whispering.

  Her house was filled to the rafters with toys, books and beloved clutter she and her husband Philip had picked up on the far-flung adventures of their youth. The couple were in to dreams, feelings and controlling your own destiny. Hermione read tarot cards and did rune readings as a sideline to her childminding. At first that made Kate question her suitability but Bethan had warmed to her immediately and that was the only reassurance she nee
ded.

  In a short space of time Hermione had become much more than a childminder, she had become a firm friend. She had helped her get herself together after Matthew left, and was determined to stop her from looking back. It was a good job Hermione had taken on Project Kate because there was no one else. Her parents were dead and her Aunt Jess lived in Scotland and they weren’t exactly on the best of terms.

  Hermione was her whole support network and she and Kate were all Bethan had.

  It was almost 6.00pm when Kate rang the doorbell of the Wyatt house. She let out a breath, glad she was there, glad she wasn’t at work and glad she had stopped at the supermarket and bought a bottle of wine.

  She had spent too long choosing the wine really. She had recently developed a liking for South African wine, primarily because it was cheap but also because she had found a brand that was 14% and not too harsh on the taste buds. But they were sold out and that meant she had to investigate an alternative which in turn meant checking every price label for the best deal and finding one with the highest alcohol content. She had plumped for a 13.5% Chilean.

  There was screaming from inside the house and then thundering footsteps and growling. The door was thrown open and Philip grinned at her as he whipped a hairy troll mask off his face.

  ‘Hello Kate, come in. We were just re-enacting ‘The Three Billy Goats Gruff’ weren’t we kids?’ he spoke letting out another roar and making all the children scream excitedly and run away from the front door and into the living room.

  Philip was tall and lean with sandy coloured hair that always seemed to flop down in front of his eyes. He had a permanent grin on his face that made him look like an oversized naughty teenager. He loved being with the children but was also equally at home burying his head in books about the lost treasures of far off tribal villages. Primarily he worked at the university but he was also involved with lots of archaeological societies whose work took him all over the world.