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  HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in fiction. Prior to becoming an author, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency – and is an expert in all things dating! She lives in South London with her husband and twin daughters. Love Is… is her second book.

  LOVE IS…

  Haley Hill

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To my grandmother, Grace, whose love life never quite measured up to the romance novels she read.

  Keep flirting with the Elvis impersonator, nan, there’s still time.

  One of the greatest secrets to happiness is to curb your desires and to love what you already have.

  Emilie du Chalet

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  I sat on the toilet and stared at the packet.

  After years spent bringing couples together, attending their weddings, then their offspring’s christenings, spending more money on baby gifts than I did on my mortgage, surely I deserved my chance of happiness too. Wasn’t that the way this karma thing was supposed to work? I thought Eros and I had a deal.

  I glared up at the ceiling to register my protest, then ripped off the cellophane. It must have been about the hundredth pregnancy test I’d bought since our wedding day. I’d tried to restrict it to one per cycle, but invariably I ended up back at Superdrug, clearing the shelves in the family planning section, hoping that a different brand might provide a different result. And I’d tried them all, from the basic two-liners to the early-response super tests complete with digital screen to spell out the result in shouty capitals. And then of course there were the ovulation kits, the sight of which now triggered some kind of Pavlovian response in Nick, sending him on a desperate quest for alcohol before I presented myself wearing Ann Summers lingerie and a ‘you know what that does to your sperm count’ nod at his wine glass.

  I continued to stare at the turquoise and pink branding until the colours merged like a Maldivian sunset and my thoughts wandered back to our honeymoon. At the time, I’d believed that all it took was a sandy beach, white linen sheets and a quick flick of the fertility fairy’s wand. And after seven nights of consummating our marriage in a five-star beach hut, as I skipped into the chemist at the airport, I couldn’t have been more certain that the tiny mound of a stomach I’d developed was the manifestation of Nick’s and my future happiness, and entirely unrelated to the ten thousand calories I’d consumed each day at the hotel buffet. I glanced back down at the box and laughed out loud. If only I’d known, I thought.

  My phone vibrated. I ignored it.

  ‘Well, I know now,’ I said to myself as I pulled out one of the tests, ‘that even with the aid of a NASA-engineered ovulation detector, we had no hope of conceiving.’

  Our first Harley Street consultation had been over a year ago, but since then, the doctor’s words had been bouncing back and forth in my head like a ping-pong ball.

  ‘Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection is the only option,’ he’d said.

  He’d gone on to explain in medical terms that I had the follicles of a fifty-year-old heroin addict, my uterine lining was thinner than an Olsen sister, and my ovaries were about as useful as a snorkel in a tsunami.

  My stomach churned. This round of treatment was our third and final chance. I took a deep breath and pulled out the test. My heart beat faster. I could feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers. I lost my grip for a second and it slipped from my grasp. I caught it swiftly with my other hand, as if it were the Olympic torch.

  I’d learned from the fertility forums that it was better to wee into a container, to ensure the stick was properly immersed, rather than hold it under a stream of urine. The method was more accurate, ‘Mum to Three Snow-babies’ had advised. I rested the test, lid still on, on the cistern and spread the information leaflet open. I already knew it by heart. It didn’t matter. I read it again. Just to be sure.

  It is best to conduct the test in the morning after a night’s sleep. The urine is more concentrated.

  I couldn’t recall sleeping, although my uncompromised pelvic floor muscles had at least managed to hold off any bladder evacuation.

  My hands were trembling as I reached for an old lid from a toothpaste pump dispenser. It was the perfect size for collecting a sample, ‘Here’s Hoping’ had explained on the Fertility Friends forum. I sat down on the toilet and held it under me until I felt warm urine overflowing from the top. Once I’d carefully submerged the test in the container, I closed my eyes, visualising the word ‘pregnant’ in my mind, hoping it might somehow instruct the test to comply. Moments later, when I found myself chanting and rubbing my womb, unwittingly re-enacting a hypno-spiritual video I’d seen on YouTube, I realised that I was in dire need of distraction. Instinctively, I went to call Nick, but then I remembered he had an important breakfast meeting, so instead I called Matthew.

  He answered on the first ring.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  I could hear a child screaming in the background so I raised my voice.

  ‘The two-minute wait,’ I said.

  I heard more wailing and then a noise that sounded like something choking. Matthew issued a reprimand and then came back on the line.

  ‘OK, Ellie,’ he said, retaining the disciplinarian tone for me too. ‘Move away from the vision board. That photo of you and Nick cradling a Photoshopped baby isn’t helping anyone.’

  ‘It’s worse than that,’ I said. ‘I was chanting.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘two minutes is but a mere blip on the timeline of life. I’ve got another seventeen years to get through until these two are off my hands.’

  I let out a deep sigh and flopped down onto my bed. ‘It’s not just the two minutes,’ I said. ‘It’s all that came before it too. Surely you understand that?’

  Matthew laughed again. ‘Ah, but I do, my sweet.’ He paused for a moment to intercept a further misdemeanour then continued. ‘I remember precisely what preceded this current bout of neurosis.’ He took a deep breath and then exhaled. ‘This all began long before you started fretting about your inability to breed.’

  I’d been hoping for distraction not ego annihilation. ‘What did?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ he said, in a manner that implied he was drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Let’s consider Eleanor Rigby’s life journey so far, shall we? What were you doing before this all-consuming quest for conception?’

  ‘I don’t know, working?’

  He sighed. ‘Ellie, you spent five years planning your wedding.’

  I went to speak but Matthew continued. ‘Prior to that you spent four years aggressively soliciting a proposal from Nick. Before that you engineered a career that enabled you to personally interview thousands of eligible men.’

  ‘And women,’ I said, ‘as a matchmaker. I was trying to help people.’

  He chuckled. ‘This behaviour,
although disturbing enough in isolation, was preceded by many other alarming antics: a shambolic engagement, two disastrous cohabitations, fours years cyberstalking Hugh Jackman, a stretch hyper-parenting a pet rat and six years fanatically coddling two Cabbage Patch dolls.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Ellie, you’ve been looking for love since the day you were born.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, pulling myself up from the bed. ‘And FYI, Bungle was a guinea pig. Not a rat.’

  Matthew must’ve handed the phone over to his toddler, because all I could hear was the choking sound, then wailing, then manic laughter, then some salivary noises, then more wailing then Matthew coming back on the line.

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘That’s what your life will sound like if you get what you wish for.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘It can’t be all bad.’

  ‘It’s not all bad,’ he replied, ‘but it won’t make you happy. Just like marriage won’t make you happy. And kids certainly won’t make your marriage happy.’ He paused for a moment, seemingly to wipe a child’s orifice, then continued. ‘If you kept abreast of the latest research, as you should, you would know that a recent study showed a couple’s happiness decreases proportionately with the birth of each child.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Who conducted that study?’ I said. ‘Was it you, interviewing yourself?’

  He laughed. ‘We’re conditioned to think we need to have children in order to be content, when in fact, if we bother to look at the evidence, the opposite is true.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘Why else do you think Lucy went back to work and left me looking after the little buggers?’

  I giggled. ‘You love it really.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I really don’t. I love them, of course, but I don’t especially enjoy sacrificing my every human right in the name of positive parenting.’ He moved away from the phone to confiscate some crayons then continued. ‘Freud said that our need to procreate is driven by a fear of death.’ He went on to adopt a lady therapist voice. ‘Do you fear death, Eleanor Rigby?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘The only one who should fear death is you, if you don’t shut up.’

  He was still laughing when I hung up.

  I checked the timer on my phone. Twenty seconds to go.

  I flopped down on the bed again, feeling the weight of my body sink into the mattress. Nick said he would love me no matter what.

  Would he really though? I wondered. Even if I could never give him the sandy-haired children he’d always wanted? The son he could hoist up onto his shoulders and teach what it means to be a man, or the little girl with pigtails reaching for his hand, eyes wide with adoration. What if it was just us? For the rest of our lives. Our union having no greater purpose than to provide comfort to each other in old age. We’d play bridge, grow vegetables and potter around the house. And then we’d die.

  Ten seconds to go.

  I burst back into the bathroom. Before I reached for the test, I stopped and looked up at the ceiling, retracting my earlier complaint to the Almighty and substituting it with a pledge to reinstate my monthly charitable donations.

  I snatched the test from the pot and stared at the screen on the side. The words registered straight away.

  Not pregnant.

  I looked again, just in case I was hallucinating the ‘Not’. I shook it and then held it up to the light. I knew there was nothing I could do to change it. I threw it in the bin along with the backup test and then went to get ready for work.

  Chapter 2

  I nudged the front door closed with my shoulder to force the lock into place. A flake of black paint fell onto the front path.

  I turned to see Victoria, who was bouncing on the spot, clad head-to-toe in Lycra, ponytail swinging like a metronome.

  ‘Morning, Ellie,’ she said.

  ‘Morning,’ I mumbled, pulling my handbag onto my shoulder. I’d hoped I would be able to sneak out before she’d emerged from her five-thousand-square-foot double-fronted mansion for her morning showy-offy jog.

  She continued to bounce but at the same time cocked her head. ‘You didn’t reply to my text.’

  I sighed. Victoria had been charting my IVF process with the precision of a government agent. This, I suspected, was precisely the reason she’d been lurking by her front door since 7 a.m., jog-ready, to jump out and catch me on my way to work.

  I glared at her. A glare that I hoped would say: Do you think my face would look like this if I’d just discovered I was incubating a much-longed-for half-me-half-Nick bundle of cells? No, Victoria. Instead of expressing elation, relief and the warm glow of raised hCG, this face is more befitting an exhausted and dejected woman who has endured two years of invasive medical interventions comprising, yet not exclusive to, double-dose vaginal suppositories, self-administered stomach injections, daily internal scans performed with a dildo ultrasound device, leg-stirrup procedures with disturbing terms such as ‘egg harvesting’ and ‘implantation’, then topped off with a giant needle stuck between my eyes to release my chakra. And all that to be told once again that I have failed to do the very thing that women were made to do.

  Victoria screwed up her face. She’d been at the Botox again. ‘Aw, Ellie, no luck?’

  I shook my head and made a point of theatrically rubbing my barren uterus.

  ‘Third time lucky maybe?’

  ‘Victoria, this was the third time.’

  ‘Oh yes, fourth then.’ Her bouncing quickened. For a moment, there was a glimpse of empathy in her stretched smile.

  I scowled at her. She knew there’d be no fourth attempt.

  She sniffed, and started bouncing higher.

  ‘You could always adopt,’ she said, adjusting her heart rate monitor. And with that she sped off.

  I stood on the street for a moment, not realising I was still holding my stomach, and looked up at Nick’s and my house. Against the rows of magnificent Victorian villas, it looked like the neglected stepchild, stuck on the end like an ill-considered afterthought. While its siblings had been sent to Farrow and Ball finishing school, ours had been pebble-dashed and left to fend for itself against the elements. They say a pet chooses the owner and I wondered if that might be true for a house too. As much as I’d tried to fit in on this street, I was starting to doubt I ever would.

  Up the road, mothers were bundling impeccably presented offspring into shiny cars. For them, life seemed so easy. Most had met their dashing eloquent husbands at top-tier universities, or later, working in some kind of glamorous grown-up profession. They’d gone on to marry in a grand French chateau or palatial Tuscan villa, then breed effortlessly, popping out rosy-cheeked cherubs every year or so, sometimes two or three at a time, while also advancing their careers, renovating and interior-designing their houses and serving quail eggs as appetisers. They even found time to accessorise with chiffon scarves.

  When Nick and I moved here, I wanted to be just like them, but in the past few weeks, the L.K.Bennett riding boots I’d bought on Northcote Road had started to pinch a little.

  My thoughts were distracted by the sight of Victoria’s three-year-old Boden-clad daughter marching out of their front gate, followed by an exhausted-looking woman who I presumed to be the latest au pair.

  ‘Morning, Camille,’ I said, grinning at the little girl a tad overzealously.

  She looked me up and down and frowned. It was as though she could sense I wasn’t biologically qualified to be communicating with her. Then she scooted off, her little ponytail swinging briskly. I watched her for a while, then made my way to the station, dodging stylishly swathed pregnant bellies and designer buggies.

  I arrived at the Canary Wharf office with a large latte in hand. It felt good to be able to pollute my body again without the potential of embryo toxicity bearing down on my conscience. I pushed open the double doors to reception and took a deep breath. My role as CEO may have been usurped by the venture capitalist’s grandson, Dominic, who’d apparently learned everything there was to know a
bout romantic love at Harvard Business School, but what truly mattered was that the dating agency I had conceived seven years ago was now an international corporation. Matthew might believe my motives were questionable, but over the years I had helped thousands of people find love. I took another sip of coffee and smiled. If that wasn’t a legacy worth leaving then what was?

  ‘Afternoon, Eleanor,’ Dominic said in his I’m-American-in-case-you-wondered accent. Then he slammed a file onto my desk. ‘Meeting’s in five.’

  I gulped down the rest of my latte and leafed through the file, which contained the minutes and action points of the last investor meeting. My smile faded. I pushed it to one side and then switched on my computer, so I could at least reply to a few emails before the investors arrived.

  Ten more franchise enquiries. One from Korea.

  Matchmaking in Korea? I wondered. Surely they had more pressing things to worry about.

  Then one from Victoria and her unnecessarily double-barrelled surname.

  Subject title: FW: New hope for IVF-resistant couples.

  I deleted it. Then I glanced at my phone. Nick had called five times. I dropped my phone back down on the desk. I knew it was cruel to extend his two-minute wait to an entire day, but I’d decided that a statement such as ‘You have no hope of ever being a father, unless you substitute me for a fresh-follicled twenty-something or we find a psychologically unhinged surrogate on the internet’ was probably best delivered in person.

  Suddenly Mandi sped past, wearing an oversized neon pink kaftan.

  ‘Meeting time, Ellie!’ she shrilled, leaving the throb of luminous pink in my eyes. Dominic strutted ahead of her, clenching his buttocks as though he were harbouring a hamster in his colon. I screwed up my face, wondering if I had just cause to alert the animal authorities.

  Then I looked back down and continued with my paperwork procrastination, flicking through the post. At the bottom of the pile was a gold envelope. It looked like a wedding invitation. My stomach flipped. The excitement had never waned. I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out a card. It had a watermarked image of a slim woman, grinning and holding a cocktail. We’ve finally done it! was the quote on the front. I flipped it over and read the back.