Second Time Around. Erin Kaye

>

      ERIN KAYE

       Second Time Around

      To Janet Marie, my elder sister

      Table of Contents

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Erin Kaye’s thoughts on writing Second Time Around

       Reading Group Questions

       Read an extract from Always You

       About the Author

       By the Same Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

      Jennifer walked through the door of The Lemon Tree on busy Donegall Square in Belfast city and noticed him straight away. Conversation competed with piped pop music, somewhere a phone rang, and fleet-footed staff clattered noisily up and down the open metal staircase. Yet, there he stood, behind the brightly-lit bar, dark head bent, arms folded across his chest, listening intently to a black-shirted waiter. Athletic shoulders strained against the yoke of his pink shirt and the rolled-up sleeves revealed pale-skinned forearms, thick with dark hair. His lower half, clad in jet black jeans, was slim, almost thin. And he had to be ten years younger than her. Jennifer, trailing behind her friends, and surprised by the sudden yearning he stirred in her, blushed and looked away.

      A waitress wearing slim-fitting trousers showed them to their table, a wooden tray clasped against her chest like a breast-plate. Jennifer slid onto a bentwood chair and the waitress, businesslike, thrust a menu into her hand. She opened it and tried to concentrate on the words swimming before her eyes. What was she doing, eyeing up a guy so much younger than her, a man who wouldn’t give her a second look? And even if he did, she’d run a mile. She’d forgotten how to flirt. And the rest of it. It had been three years since she’d been with a man.

      ‘I know it’s Friday lunchtime but I think you need a birthday cocktail!’ suggested Donna, a full-figured bottle blonde.

      Jennifer smiled her assent, determined both to enjoy the company of her best friend – and to give her the courtesy of her full attention. They did this – went out somewhere nice for lunch – twice a year, on each of their birthdays. And, because they lived in Ballyfergus, a town some twenty-five miles away, it felt like a very special treat.

      ‘The food’s supposed to be fantastic,’ said Donna who, despite being over forty, retained an enviably youthful complexion. ‘Donegal oysters are just coming back into season now September’s started, aren’t they?’ She went on without waiting for an answer, ‘I wonder if they’re on the menu yet …’

      The drinks came, they ordered food and Jennifer took a sip of the cranberry-coloured cocktail. She smiled as Donna related a funny story about one of the receptionists at the clinic where she worked who came in so hungover she threw up in a plant pot. But, in spite of her best efforts, she could not ignore the man behind the bar. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on Donna but she was aware of his every move and gesture, her attention drawn to him against her will. For the first time in her life she wished she was younger, that she could start all over again. That she could make a man like that desire her.

      ‘Are you okay, Jennifer?’ said Donna. ‘You seem a little distracted.’

      Jennifer’s face reddened. ‘Sorry.’ She ducked her head of dark, straight hair and blurted out, without thinking, ‘It’s just that I feel old this birthday. For the first time ever.’ She looked around the restaurant, suddenly aware that the two of them looked out of place, dressed up in heels and smart clothes while the tables all around them were taken by younger people in casual, summery chic. Even their choice of sophisticated drinks marked them out as from a different generation. She looked down at her slim black pencil skirt, tight across the hips, and her black satin-trimmed jersey shirt, and felt foolishly, inappropriately, over-dressed.

      ‘You’re only as old as the man you feel,’ said Donna suggestively and, when this elicited a feeble smile from Jennifer added, more soberly, ‘Your fortieth birthday’s supposed to be the depressing one, you know, not your forty-fourth. By our mid-forties we’re meant to have it all sorted, aren’t we?’ She waved an arm in the