Wags To Riches Read online

  Wags to Riches

  By Jane Vernon

  Text copyright © 2012 Jane Vernon

  All Rights Reserved

  To my fiancé and my daughter

  Thank you

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 1

  Hurray I’m home! Work has been one long complicated phone call after another and right now all I can think about is my tea and having a nice hot bowl of pasta and sauce to warm me up on this bitterly cold night. I kick my boots off, pausing to switch off my iPod. I must have walked quicker tonight when I got off the bus – normally I’m on track five of my Kings of Leon playlist when I get home, but tonight I’m still on track four. I pause briefly to look at my reflection in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs. I look great. Mascara smudges under my eyes through staring blankly at a computer screen all day and hair that looks like a birds nest thanks to the wind. Nice.

  While trying to smooth my hair down, I make my way to the kitchen to inspect the contents of the fridge. Not much in there – a pint of milk, half a bag of salad leaves which might still be edible, some butter and Bully’s special prize – half a bottle of white wine. I’m so glad I saved that on Saturday night and didn’t get completely arseholed as I do normally. I reach for the salad and peer inside the bag. Seems to be okay. I’ll have that on the side with some pasta and a nice tomato and basil sauce. A quick look through the cupboards though reveals I’ve got half a jar of dried basil and that’s it so I rummage in my bag for my purse to see what I’ve got to go to the supermarket with. £2.36. That’s all I’ve got until I get paid tomorrow. Alex (my friend at work and complete shopaholic) cannot understand why I don’t have a credit card or even an overdraft. “Gail Auden” she said today, “You are 26 years old. Isn’t it required that you have at least a little bit of debt?”

  “I’ve got my mortgage” I’d said.

  “That’s different – that’s not real debt is it?”

  “What – like what you’ve got you mean?” I’d said and grinned at her. “With your ten credit cards or however many you’ve got.”

  “I don’t have that many” Alex had replied rolling her eyes, “I’ve got three – all well within their limit thank you very much. I’m just saying – it’s a nice way to be able to treat yourself and not have to pay it all at once.”

  Trouble is though I couldn’t do that. I’d be up all night worrying about it.

  “There must be something you’d like to treat yourself to” Alex had pressed me. “I know you’ve just had your birthday, but there must be something you’d like.” So I told her about the beautiful pair of designer black satin high heeled shoes I’d seen in a magazine. That’s what I’d buy if I had a credit card and that’s precisely why I don’t have one. It would be too tempting. It’s not as if I need them either.

  But thinking about it, if money was no object, I’d have a room devoted entirely to shoes, where I could sit on a chair in the middle of the room and just look at them all. It would be my version of a panic room – not a serious ‘I need protection from a nutter’ room, rather a ‘de-stress and don’t panic about getting old and being alone’ room, a place where I could go and forget about days like this room. But for now I’ll go to the supermarket and see what I can get with my £2.36. Think I’ll have a quick cup of tea first and get changed.

  I go upstairs, change into my jeans and an old comfy jumper and bring some washing downstairs to put into the machine. God I’m so organised. Shame I can’t sort the rest of my life out really. Another January, another birthday – got my house, but I’m still single. It’s not as though I’ve not had dates or anything – it’s just when I’m on the date, the guy turns into Britain’s most boring man. Take that guy who asked me out when I was in the pub with Alex for example. He seemed really nice and was really good looking, so off we went, out for dinner. I shake my head smiling as I put the kettle on. “And what did he do?” I say aloud to the empty room, “he spent the whole time going on and on about his ex-wife.” Which is not the greatest thing to be listening to when you are supposed to be on a romantic dinner date. I stayed until the end because I didn’t see why I had to miss out on the dessert trolley, but I didn’t arrange to see him again. Too many issues.

  I go into the living room and pick up a magazine I bought yesterday, a flagrantly extravagant purchase which I know I shouldn’t have made, but I had a moment of complete madness and I did. Going back into the kitchen with it, I make a cup of tea then sit at the breakfast bar to drink it. There’s a feature on the Top 5 most eligible men in sport – might be worth a look. Hmmm – that guy at Number 3 is alright – he’s an Olympic runner. The man at Number 2 - I am surprised at as I thought he would be Number 1, because he is really good looking. Can’t remember which football team he plays for though. So who is at Number 1 then? Like it really matters! But I can’t resist turning the page to find out.

  And there in front of me is a photograph of the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in my life. Who is that? I wonder, my heart racing. Then I remember – I’ve seen him before in a magazine at the hairdressers. It’s Adam Finchley, footballer for Grandmere United and he looks gorgeous in this photo. I’m tempted to stick it on my bedroom wall, like I used to with pictures of Take That, but I’m a bit old to do that now. Perhaps I’ll just keep it and look at it often.

  I finish my tea and glance at my watch. I need to go to the supermarket really. Wonder what it would be like to go for dinner with someone like Adam? I muse as I put my coat back on and pick up my handbag. I bet it would be fantastic. Yeah - fantastically boring. I know he’s good looking and got tons of money but all footballers are either so up themselves or incredibly dim that the conversation would probably revolve around his last free kick against West Ham. Yawn yawn yawn.

  Not that I’m likely to find out anyway, I don’t go in the kind of nightclubs that someone like him must frequent. I’ve never even met anyone who’s famous. I lock the door and shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat, head off down the street. I love my coat. It’s a bright electric blue furry monster of a thing. I bought it from this fantastic vintage clothing shop in town with some of my birthday money. My mum thought it was a bit loud and it is, but I like to think it matches the colour of my eyes.

  I cross the road and walk down the next street, tramping my way through the slushy remains of snow that fell two days ago. After turning left, I’m at the edge of Supersavers car park. It’s great living this close to a supermarket, especially if like me you can’t drive. It’s on my list of things I need to do to get my life sorted – along with get a brilliant job, a fantastic man and lose two stone. And next week I’ll try and win the Nobel Peace prize.

  As I walk across the car park I notice a car parked near the front of the store. I don’t know much about cars, but I know that particular car is expensive. Sleek. Jet black. Pale ivory leather seats. It’s amazing. A man points it out to his girlfriend as he pushes their overflowing trolley past it.

  “That’s a Bentley Continental that is” I overhear him say, “Best part of a hundred and ten grand sat there.”

  Gosh – I can’t imagine having a car that costs a hundred and ten thousand pounds. That’s almost as much as my house cost. Perhaps if I win the lottery, I’ll buy one. But for now, I’ll go into the supermarket and just spend my £2.36.

  Going past the magazines, I notice the latest issue of Gush! which I pick up and flick through. I don’t buy the magazine, but I just get kind of drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. All these people are so beautiful. I always feel a bit guilty after reading it and think I should go and read something worthy instead like Jane Eyre or whatever posh incomprehensible novel has won the Booker prize. This week, there’s a TV presenter who’s ‘getting over heartbreak with new love’ – I’m so glad, I’ll rest easy tonight now knowing that and over the page there’s some footballer’s girlfriend posing proudly in her new kitchen, with her hair extensions in - probably shaven off some poor peasant woman’s head who is trying to get some money to buy potatoes - pearly white smile and perfectly French manicured nails. I bet she never cooks in that kitchen. Or cleans that oven, judging by the length of her nails. I bet she has someone to do that for her. Bet she’s never done a day’s work in her life – just got lucky in a nightclub one night. Her only redeeming feature, I have to say are her shoes, which are lovely – high heeled gold strappy sandals. I bet they cost a fortune. I sigh, put the magazine back on the rack and head over to the reduced fresh items. I don’t know why I look at that stupid magazine. It just makes me feel depressed and inadequate. All the people in there seem to be having a better time than me. I cheer up though when I find a fresh tomato and basil pasta sauce reduced to 89 pence. That’s what life is all about. Now I’ll go and get pasta and th
en I can go home and eat.

  I go to the pasta section and there seems to have been a run on it – there’s not much left. I look for a pack of penne and I can just see some on the very top shelf towards the back. I try and reach it, but being a teeny 5’2, even by standing on tiptoe, I can’t quite get it. There’s a tall guy stood with his back to me further down the aisle. I’ll play the helpless female and ask him to get it for me and just hope he isn’t a lovelorn loser who decides that we were meant to be together.

  “Excuse me” I begin, “Would you mind...?” and the rest of the request just dies on my lips as he turns round.

  I am looking into the eyes of Adam Finchley!

  What the hell is he doing here in Supersavers? And what the hell am I doing wearing an electric blue honey monster coat with old jeans and a bobbly jumper? Look at him – he’s gorgeous in his dark blue crew neck jumper, designer jeans and funky trainers! I should be wearing my little sexy black dress and killer heels when I meet him! I’m sure that’s the agreement I made with the universe when I saw the picture of him earlier. But then – who wears that to come to Supersavers in? Only perhaps some woman who is trying to pull the grocery manager. Knowing my luck, even if I had got that outfit on, I would have skidded on a loose grape and ended up head first in the 3 for 2 on prepared salads. He’s looking at me with an expectant, mildly quizzical expression. I need to say something! Oh God please don’t let me say something stupid!

  “Hello – erm - would you mind passing me a bag of penne off the top shelf please? I can’t quite reach it” I say in a slightly higher and breathless voice than I use normally.

  Adam smiles at me – a dazzling smile that makes my knees go weak. His teeth are amazing! They are so white, they’re brighter than the sun! Well, nearly.

  “Sure” he says and we go over to the shelf. He’s stood so close to me, I can smell his aftershave and now my heart is pounding nineteen to the dozen. He lifts a packet of pasta down and passes it to me. “Is this the one?” he asks.

  “That’s it thanks” I say and put it carefully in my basket as though it was a precious gemstone. I’m trying desperately to think of something to say. “Are you – hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you Adam Finchley, the footballer?” Okay, it wasn’t brilliant, but at least I didn’t shout ‘I love you! Let’s get married!’ at the top of my voice.

  “That’s me.”

  “I saw you today” I blurt out and then cringe. What a thing to say! Now he’s going to think I’m a mad stalker type who’s been secretly following him all day and he’ll have to ring for his bodyguards who have been hiding behind the special offer on packs of Hula Hoops who will usher him out of the shop after issuing me with a restraining order. “No – what I mean is – I saw a photo of you in a magazine I was reading” I hastily explain.

  “Oh right” Adam replies, looking slightly nonplussed. Then he smiles at me again. “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Gail” I croak like a wheezy little frog.

  “Nice to meet you Gail” Adam says and holds out his hand. As we shake hands, I can feel the silver ring he is wearing pressing gently against my fingers. His hand is all nice and warm, not like my clammy paw. A few seconds of mad fantasies about where I would l like him to put his hands flash through my mind and now I think I’m going to faint.

  “It’s nice to meet you too” I say, my mouth dry. “What are you doing here?” I say suddenly find myself saying and blush. What did I ask that for? It’s none of my bloody business what he’s doing!

  Adam looks slightly taken aback. “Erm – I’m just getting some food” he replies, looking puzzled. “Why?”

  “Well” I say, desperately trying to get myself out of this conversational hole I have fallen into, “I would have thought that someone like you would have had all your food delivered from Harrods or something in a silk lined hamper.” Now I’m so far down the hole, I can’t even see daylight. How to mess up an encounter with the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met - just watch me. Watch and learn sisters.

  To my surprise, Adam doesn’t start backing away quickly. Instead he smiles and laughs! “I only do that on special occasions” he replies. I laugh too, but very nervously and God it sounds horrible.

  “Well, nice to meet you Gail” Adam says and smiles at me again as he starts to walk away.

  “Yes – nice to meet you too!” I reply and watch as he goes to the end of the aisle and disappears from view. I’m so tempted to run after him! Why oh why couldn’t I have met him when I was dressed up and why the hell couldn’t I think of anything sparkling and witty to say? He is so gorgeous! And - oh my God! He’s come back!!!

  “Hello!” I say surprised.

  “Hi!” he replies and then rubs his hand across the back of his neck in an awkward fashion. Okay – what’s going on? I wonder. I bet he’s going to tell me that I’m not allowed within 50 yards of him because I completely freak him out, I know it.

  “I don’t suppose you would like to go out for dinner with me, would you Gail?”

  I’m so shocked, I can’t speak for a few seconds. “Me?” I say finally, looking round to see if there is someone else that Adam could be addressing. “You mean me? You and me?”

  “Yes” Adam says smiling, a faint blush creeping up round his neck and face. “What do you think?”

  Oh. My. God. “Erm – yes that would be great!” I say, completely stunned.

  Adam smiles more widely at me and I have to fight the urge to swoon. “Great!” What’s your number Gail?” he asks, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket.

  “Oh – erm...” I mumble as my brain has gone mushy and it’s hard to remember my name, let alone my phone number. I eventually remember it and tell it to Adam, who types it carefully into his phone and then repeats it back to me.

  “I’ll phone you and we’ll sort out a date and time then yeah?” he says.

  “Okay!” I say grinning.

  “Great!” Adam says “See you soon Gail” and he walks away. I stare after him, not quite believing what has just happened. Has one of the most handsome and eligible footballers around just asked me – Gail Auden out to dinner??!! I must be dreaming. Either that or I’ve eaten too much sugar, that’s what it is. I’m having visions. I must not eat so many biscuits at work.

  I pick up a mini garlic bread and then go to the checkout. A few of the female staff are clustered round one of the windows looking outside and talking excitedly. “What’s going on?” I ask the woman on the checkout.

  “We’ve just had Adam Finchley the footballer in here!” she says smiling.

  “Really?” I say. I’m not having visions then because she saw him too. He’s real! It happened! Oh my God! I can’t breathe.

  “Oh yes” she replies, turning round to look through the windows. “Look! There he is!” I leave my shopping for a minute and walk over to the windows. Peering through the glass, I can see a tall guy in jeans, jumper and funky trainers getting into the expensive looking car I saw earlier. Oh my goodness. As he drives off, I turn away and go back to the checkout.

  “Did you see him?” the woman on the till asks.

  “Yes, I did” I say as I put my shopping into a bag and pay.

  “You ought to have come through the till earlier – you would have been able to say hello to him then. It is a shame you missed him” she says, giving me my receipt and change.

  “Yes isn’t it? Never mind!” I say and smile as I walk towards the exit, my mind in a whirl.

  Chapter 2

  On the way home, I feel like I’m walking on air. I can’t believe that Adam Finchley, gorgeous man and number one on the list of most eligible blokes in sport or whatever it was has asked me out for dinner! I’m amazed! I’m euphoric! The smile on my face is so wide, it hurts. Wow! Oh God, I’ve no idea at all what to wear – I’ll have to have a look through my wardrobe, as I don’t think my finances will stretch to me buying a new dress. Oh God, I can’t believe this is happening!

  But why, I wonder as I arrive home, has he asked me out anyway? I’m nothing like your typical footballer’s girlfriend (or wife for that matter). I don’t have hair extensions or fake breasts – I concede I do use fake tan and have been known to wear the occasional pair of false eyelashes, but that’s all. All I can presume is he must have had a moment of madness – a temporary aberration and he will realise his mistake, smile, shake his head and hastily delete my number from his phone. It would be great if he did phone though. No – mustn’t think like this. It will not do for me to get my hopes up. I will get on with cooking my tea and try very hard not to think about Adam in his navy blue jumper and his gorgeous smile.