One Minute to Midnight Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Amy Silver

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Nicole Blake’s New Year Resolutions, 1990:

  1. Start keeping a journal

  2. Lose half a stone

  3. Kiss Julian Symonds

  If there are two things Nicole can guarantee about New Year’s Eve it’s that there are always fireworks and Julian Symonds is always there.

  Since she was thirteen, no New Year has been complete without Jules. Through school, university and beyond, as friends come and go, Nic and Jules are at the centre of every party. Until one year everything changes…

  Now, as another New Year approaches, Nicole has ghosts to lay and bridges to build – with her husband Dom, with her best friend Alex, and with Aidan, the man who broke her heart.

  Life is about to change again, and once the fireworks are over and the dust has settled, this time Nicole is determined it will be for the better.

  About the Author

  Amy Silver is a writer and freelance journalist, and has written on everything from the diamond trade to DIY dog grooming. She lives in London and has a penchant for vintage clothes and champagne cocktails. This is her third novel.

  Also by Amy Silver

  Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

  All I Want For Christmas

  For Ben, my favourite New Yorker

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Lizzy Kremer and Gillian Holmes

  Chapter One

  Boxing Day 2011

  I GET UP in darkness, while the house sleeps, slipping from the warmth of our bed unnoticed. I dress in the bathroom so as not to wake Dom, then pad down the stairs, taking care to walk on the left side of the staircase (less creaky for some reason). The dogs are curled up in their enormous basket in the corner of the utility room; Mick, the hulking great mongrel, an unholy mix of Alsatian, Rottweiler, some Pyrenean mountain dog and a host of unknowns, completely enveloping Marianne, our tiny, delicate golden lurcher. They look up at me sleepily as I open the door.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I whisper, jamming my feet into my wellies, the sight of which already has them scrambling out of the basket, Mick barking enthusiastically.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ I hiss at him uselessly, lunging for the back door so that I can let him out before he rouses the entire household. Wake everyone up and they’ll all want to come.

  The dogs bound out onto a lawn turned crunchy and white by a thin layer of snow just freezing to ice. I zip up my parka to the very top, tucking my nose under the material, hunkering down against a bitter whip of wind. Fingers of pale winter sunlight are just beginning to creep across the lawn, warming nothing whatsoever.

  Tails wagging furiously, the dogs are waiting for me at the back gate, Mick’s nose pushing against the latch. One day he’ll figure out that all he needs to do is flick his head upwards and he’ll be able to open it. Fortunately, he’s not too bright, so that day is probably a long time away. If Marianne could reach the latch she’d have figured it out ages ago.

  I glance up at the window of the spare room. Blinds still drawn, in-laws still slumbering. Probably not for long. The three of us slip away, out of the gate and into the lane behind the house, making for Wimbledon Common.

  We head north-west-ish, the dogs running ahead, Mick at a gentle canter, Marianne racing out of sight then returning a moment or so later, anxiously bobbing her head up and down like a meerkat, wondering what’s taking us so long. There’s not another soul in sight. Usually by seven-thirty on a weekday there are plenty of runners and dog-walkers around, even in the dead of winter. Not today. Everyone’s still sleeping off the turkey and mince pies. It’s eerily quiet, there’s no traffic noise, no birdsong, not even the faint drone of aeroplanes overhead. I quicken my pace, partly to warm up, but also because, despite myself, this silence is creeping me out a bit.

  Dom hates me going out alone at this hour, with the sun barely up.

  ‘No one’s going to attack me when I’m with Mick,’ I tell him, although we both know that while our beloved dog might look fierce he’d run a mile if there were any real danger. I’ve seen him back down in an argument with next door’s kitten. Marianne would probably provide better protection; she’s got a fierce temper when roused.

  (‘Just like you,’ Dom tells me with a wink, although he isn’t really joking.)

  We get as far as the windmill and I know I ought to turn back. They’ll all be up by now, early risers my extended family. They’ll be wanting their breakfast. Failure to have it on the table will be regarded by my mother-in-law as a dereliction of my wifely duties. Yet another dereliction: does one more really matter? The dogs have barely been out of the house in two days, they need a proper walk. And I have things to think about, mental lists to write.

  On 29 December, in just three days’ time, we’re flying to New York. New York for New Year! Just the thought of it is thrilling: carriage rides through the park, ice skating at the Rockefeller Center, cocktails at the Met. But it’s nerve-racking too. Of the many, many skeletons in my closet, a surprising number of them have, for one reason or another, decamped to Manhattan. They’re waiting for me there. That aside, I’ve just got too much to do before we go: I need to take down all the Christmas decorations (too early, I know, but it’ll depress me to come back to them after our holiday’s finished and Christmas is well and truly over), I need to clean the house (our lovely Albanian cleaner is away until the end of January for some reason); I have to drive to Oxford to do an interview for the Betrayal TV programme I’m producing, email my assistant with our New York contact numbers, read through (and decline?) the Girls Gone Mild proposal from i! TV, shop for a dress to wear to Karl’s party, get my hair cut, my eyebrows threaded and my nails done and take the dogs to Matt and Liz’s place in Sussex. Oh, and at some point I probably ought to reply to that email from my father.

  The first communication of any sort I’d had from him in more than two years, it had arrived on Christmas Eve.

  Dear Nicole,

  I hope this message finds you well. I imagine you’ll be spending Christmas with your mother. Do give her my regards.

  I’m afraid I write bearing bad news. I have been feeling rather unwell lately and after many doctors’ visits have finally been diagnosed with prostate cancer. The doctors assure me that my prognosis is good, the cancer is not too advanced. However, I am due to go into hospital for surgery on 2 January.

  I was wondering whether you might be able to come and see me before I go under the knife? It is relatively minor surgery of course, but one never knows, does one? It’s been so long since we talked, there are things I feel I ought to say to you.

  I know that for one reason or another our relationship is almost non-existent these days. You might not believe me, but this is a matter of great regret for me.

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Happy Christmas, />
  Dad.

  I still haven’t told anyone about it, not even Dominic. It’s not just that it would have put a dampener on our Christmas celebrations, it’s more that Dom can be a bit … prescriptive when it comes to my dealings with my father. It’s only because he wants to protect me, I know, but I need to figure out what I want to do about it by myself.

  The dogs and I get to the northern end of the Common, the point at which it meets the A3. Usually, we would cross over the road and carry on through the Robin Hood Gate across Richmond Park, right up to the brow of the hill. Not today. It’s almost quarter past eight already. By the time we get back home it’ll be after nine o’clock. I might just make it in time to start breakfast before Maureen, Dom’s mum, is bathed and coiffed and downstairs ready to make me feel bad.

  No such luck.

  ‘There you are,’ Dom’s dad says, looking up from his fry-up as I come into the kitchen. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to.’

  Maureen is standing at the cooker, her back to me. ‘You are going to eat this morning, aren’t you?’ she asks, without turning round. ‘I’ve done you a couple of fried eggs and some sausages.’ I turn to close the door between the kitchen and utility room, but I’m too slow. Mick pushes past me, padding mud across the white kitchen tile.

  ‘Oh, do keep the dogs out of here, Nicole,’ Maureen says, wrinkling her nose in distaste at Mick, who’s now standing next to Dom, having a sniff at his breakfast. ‘You should never have animals in the kitchen. It’s so unsanitary. Just look at the mess he’s making.’

  I grab Mick’s collar and drag him out, slamming the door before he has time to barge back in again. ‘Sorry, Maureen,’ I say guiltily, slinking back to the kitchen table like a scolded child. Dom squeezes my knee and gives me a wink.

  We eat in silence, the minutes ticking by. Dom and his father wolf down the remains of their meal while I push the lukewarm bits of greasy egg white around my plate. I can’t bear fried eggs but I’m not about to tell Maureen that.

  Eventually, Peter, Dom’s dad, interrupts the quiet.

  ‘So, when are you two off to the States?’

  ‘Thursday,’ Dom says. ‘Midday flight. Gets us there late afternoon.’

  Maureen sniffs. New York is not a place she’s ever had any desire to visit, and therefore doesn’t see any reason why anyone else should want to.

  ‘We’re going to the golf club for New Year’s Eve,’ Peter says.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ I lie.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s always quite a good night,’ Peter says, ‘isn’t it love?’

  ‘It is,’ Maureen agrees enthusiastically, ‘it’s wonderful. The O’Neills will be there, Dom, and the Harris clan, of course. You remember Simon, don’t you? He married such a lovely girl. They’re expecting their third in April.’

  ‘Always a good night,’ Peter says again, ‘perhaps you two could come along next year?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Dom agrees, without looking at me. ‘We should definitely do that.’

  More silence.

  ‘Are you not enjoying your eggs, Nicole?’ Maureen asks.

  * * *

  They’re gone by eleven, heading back up the M1, back to civilisation. Yorkshire. The second the car pulls away from the pavement outside our house, Dom grabs me around the waist, kissing me passionately on the mouth.

  ‘Three days and not a single stand-up row!’ he says with a grin. ‘That must be a record.’

  I smile ruefully, instantly feeling guilty for spending the two weeks before they came openly dreading their arrival.

  ‘It was good. It was nice to see them. It’s always good to see them.’ He laughs. ‘I mean it, Dom.’ And I do mean it, sort of. Peter’s a lovely man. And I don’t think Maureen means to criticise my every move. She just can’t help herself.

  ‘I know. I thought you did very well.’ We’re walking back to the front door, arm in arm.

  ‘I should try harder with her. Next time we should go to a show or something.’

  Dom laughs again. ‘A show? Good god, woman, that’s above and beyond the call of duty.’

  As I open the front door Dom puts his arm around my waist, pulling my body back against his.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispers into my ear.

  ‘I had a bet with myself that it wouldn’t take you long to suggest sex,’ I say, laughing. ‘But less than thirty seconds after they leave! Impressive.’ Dom has a weird thing about not having sex when his mother’s in the house (just his mother, for some reason, sex with his dad around is fine).

  ‘Oh shut up and get your knickers off,’ he replies, slipping his hand into the waistband of my jeans.

  We only make it halfway up the stairs. Afterwards, while we lie there comparing carpet burns, Dom asks about New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Where is this party exactly? At a bar, I take it?’

  ‘No, no no, darling. It’s at Karl’s new gallery. Much more glamorous.’

  ‘Ri-i-i-ght.’ Dom sounds dubious.

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ I say, kissing the point on his temple from which his sandy hair is fast receding.

  ‘It’ll be full of terrifyingly cool arty types,’ he grumbles. ‘We won’t fit in.’

  ‘What do you mean we?’ I ask, struggling to my feet. ‘I’ll fit in just fine.’

  Dom grabs me again, pulls me back down beside him. ‘Oh is that right?’

  ‘It is. In any case, I’m sure Karl will have invited some other geeky and uncool people to keep you company.’

  ‘Right, bitch, you asked for it,’ he says, running his fingers lightly down my side, sending me into paroxysms of tickle-induced laughter. He doesn’t stop until I beg for mercy.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he says, eventually, wriggling back into his boxer shorts.

  ‘Lesson learned,’ I assure him breathlessly. ‘But there’s just one thing I ought to say …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that no matter how much I love you, no matter how good you are to me or how well you treat me I will never, ever go to the fucking golf club for New Year’s Eve.’

  Chapter Two

  New Year’s Eve, 1990

  High Wycombe

  Resolutions:

  1. Start keeping a journal: write every day!

  2. Read more! A Clockwork Orange, The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, also some classics

  3. Lose half a stone

  4. Volunteer for a charity, do forty-eight-hour famine

  5. Kiss Julian Symonds

  I WAS GOING to my first-ever proper New Year’s Eve party. Okay, it was at my house – for the first time ever I was being allowed to join in my parents’ annual New Year bash – and okay, most thirteen-year-olds would sooner die than attend a party with their parents and their parents’ friends, I’m well aware, but I had an incentive, and his name was Julian Symonds.

  Julian was a couple of years ahead of me at school; he was the son of one of Mum’s nursing friends, he was fifteen years old and he was bloody gorgeous. Tall and skinny with dark hair which was always falling into his huge, brown eyes, he had high cheekbones and long lashes, he wore lots of black and listened to the Velvet Underground, he was into art, he read Rimbaud and the Marquis de Sade, he was languorous, sulky, androgynous, rebellious, dangerous, a smoker. He was divine.

  Under normal circumstances, I’m sure Julian would have had far better things to do with his New Year’s Eve than come to a party at my parents’ house, but he was being punished. The story, told to me by my mum, who had got it from his mum, was that Julian had snuck out to a rave, stayed out all night and came home in the morning ‘high on drugs’. He was grounded for three months, but since his parents couldn’t trust him to stay home all by himself, and since they wanted to come to the party, he was being forced, very much against his will, to come along.

  ‘Little bastard better not bring any drugs into this house,’ my father said when he was informed. ‘I’ll break his bloody neck
. And you,’ he turned to me with a snarl, ‘don’t get any ideas. I don’t want you anywhere near him. You hear?’

  Oh, I had ideas. I had fantasies, daydreams, scenarios, imaginings, entire scripts written in my head. I’d greet him (and his parents) wearing acid wash jeans and my new pink halter neck top from Jigsaw (which was the first overtly sexy piece of clothing I’d ever owned) and he’d be struck dumb, speechless with admiration. I, of course, would play everything really cool, but eventually he’d get up the courage to ask me to dance, and we would, a slow shuffle in the corner of my parents’ living room, the two of us, alone in a crowd. ‘Nothing Compares 2U’ by Sinead O’Connor. I put it on the end of the mixtape I’d made for the occasion (after ‘There She Goes’ by The La’s, The Stone Roses’ ‘I Wanna Be Adored’, ‘Suicide Blonde’ by INXS). Just in case.

  This was of course all total bullshit. For one thing, Julian Symonds – gorgeous, smouldering, achingly cool fifteen-year-old Julian Symonds – wouldn’t look twice at me. He wouldn’t even notice me. Why would he? I was average. Undeniably, boringly average. Average height, average weight (in other words, not thin), boring brown eyes – the only thing different about me was my hair. Mum (and Mum’s friends) were always banging on about how lucky I was to have such lovely hair. ‘Titian blond,’ Mum called it, but to be honest in some lights it looked worryingly close to ginger.

  Julian Symonds would never notice me. He never had before, in any case, we’d passed each other in the corridors at school a hundred times and he had never once glanced in my direction. I was a total nobody. And second, the chances of me slow dancing with anyone while my father was in the same room were remote. Dad wouldn’t like it. And wherever possible, I tried to avoid annoying my father.

  Dad worked in middle management at Swan (tobacco papers, filter, matches) and he was always pissed off about something. Interest rates, football results, the travesty that was Rocky V, you name it, Dad was angry about it. But mostly he was angry with Mum.