published thirteen novels, including Whatever It Takes and The State We’re In. All her novels have been top ten bestsellers; she’s sold 2.5 million copies of her work in the UK alone, and has been translated into twenty-five different languages. Adele is known for writing unforgettable heroes and lovable (although sometimes cheeky!) heroines.
She has spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives very happily with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right and good for your health! Therefore she’s an Ambassador for The Reading Agency, a charity that encourages the love of literacy in all.
Visit www.adeleparks.com to learn more about Adele. Find her on Facebook www.facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks and follow her on Twitter @adeleparks
‘I’m thinking of throwing a Valentine’s party this year,’ said Katie, dishing up a big, innocent grin.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘More partying is in everyone’s interest.’
Jane sighed and looked at her sister with a blatant mix of accusation and incredulity. ‘You’ve hosted three birthday parties this year. Why would you even think of having another party?’
‘They were for the kids. I want to throw a party for grown-ups? I mean adults.’ Katie corrected herself. The adults she knew were not all grown up; that was her point.
Jane felt sick. This was the most ridiculous and painful idea her well-intentioned, but woefully misguided, sister had come up with yet. Valentine’s Day! Jane’s own private hell. These were the two words most likely to strike fear into her heart; crueller than ‘facial hair’, more uncomfortable than ‘smear examination’.
Jane, unlike her sister, did not have children to throw birthday parties for. Nor did she have a husband or even a boyfriend. She had been engaged once, in her early twenties. They’d split up before the wedding. On Valentine’s Day. To coin an old-fashioned phrase, she’d jilted him. Sometimes, when she looked back on her actions, she struggled to remember them with absolute clarity; she laboured to justify them. She remembered feeling panicked that the wedding planning was cutting into far too much of her studying time –she had her exams to think of –and she remembered thinking that Mark was a nice enough guy but that nice enough wasn’t enough. Although it wasn’t clear exactly what might be enough for Jane. It was all such a long time ago. She’d since dated various men on and off but she’d never committed. Sexy, bad boy types disappointed her, she ridiculed and distrusted devoted romantics and she dismissed any one in between as, ‘Boring, far too normal.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Katie often asked, exasperated.
‘Just someone who understands I have a career and friends of my own. Someone who has that too but wants to share.’ Jane didn’t think this was too much to ask. It seemed practical and sensible so it should be possible. Jane was all about the practical and sensible; admittedly she gave less thought to what was possible.
Her mother had never quite forgiven her. ‘What sort of girl calls off her wedding on Valentine’s Day?’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve ruined your one chance of happiness.’
Jane thought her mother was wrong about her ruining her one chance of happiness. It simply wasn’t true. Jane was happy. At least, she felt very content, which was a lot like happiness. She had a full life. She was a solicitor and would probably make Partner next year; all her studying and hard work had paid off. She went to gigs with the frequency of a teenager, she had good friends, two dogs –not cats, she’d resisted becoming a cliché –and a stylish home. A home in which she was free to eat whatever she liked, whenever she liked and to watch anything she pleased on TV. Microwave meals for one and uninterrupted viewing of The Walking Dead were sufficiently compensatory. The only time that she found being single difficult, and contentment illusive, was on Valentine’s Day.
On February 14th, Jane’s life felt like an enormous black hole. No matter how many computer literacy or yoga classes she fitted in, committees she sat on or hours she spent in the office, she could not fill that day. She found herself dwelling on the fact that every other woman in the United Kingdom was wearing silky lingerie under her new, fabulous dress, eating a delicious meal by candlelight and drinking vintage champagne while her husband or boyfriend serenaded her and threw red rose petals in her path. Jane told herself that it was actually, simply a materialistic, manufactured, almost grotesque commercial enterprise but the image of a more beautiful and romantic version of Valentine’s Day, largely manufactured by glossy, glorious magazines, always chewed its way into her consciousness and, secretly, she longed for it.
Not that she’d ever admit such a thing. If there was one thing a single girl understood the importance of, it was saving face.
‘Well, count me out,’ declared Jane.
‘Have plans do you?’ asked Katie.
Jane glared at her. ‘No one will come anyway. Don’t couples want time by themselves on Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that the point?’
‘I don’t just know couples.’ Actually, Katie’s friends were mostly couples but she thought they would rally when they heard her plan; all her friends were aware of Jane’s singledom.
‘Why would you want a bunch of drunks staggering around your house and throwing up in the cloakroom?’
Katie laughed at Jane, obviously unwilling to be put off. ‘It won’t be like that. I’m going to have a romantic theme and ask everyone to wear pink.’
‘Even the men?’
‘I’ll serve salmon canapés and rosé cava.’
‘You’ll find it spilt on your new cream sofa.’
Katie ignored her. ‘I’ll have a chocolate fountain.’
‘Chocolate is not pink, it’s not theme appropriate,’ pointed out Jane churlishly.
‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Aunt Jane. A party is a marvelous idea. You might meet someone and find luuurvvve?’ Isobel, Katie’s eldest, interrupted the conversation. She had a habit of sneaking up on her aunt and mother when they were chatting. She’d found eavesdropping a tremendous source of information since she was an infant.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Jane. ‘I believe in “luuurvvve” less than I believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.’
‘Don’t let George hear you. He wavered in his belief this year.’
‘At least George is eight. Your mother told me Santa didn’t exist when I was three!’ The outrage in Jane’s voice was as crystal clear now as it had been back in 1979 when the truth was first revealed.
Katie cringed inwardly. She’d only been seven when she blurted out her discovery that the man who filled the stockings was their dad and that the elves that produced the gifts didn’t exist, it was their mum who spent from November trailing the stores for treats. Katie had spent her life trying to make up for the faux pas that robbed her sister of her innocence. Sometimes, Katie worried that the early disillusionment was the reason behind Jane growing up to be such a pragmatist. She was so sensible, rational and logical which was, in Katie’s opinion, the real reason she’d never fallen in love. To do so, you had to give a little. In fact you had to give a lot. You had to trust, hope and lose control.
Katie didn’t think that being married was the only way to find happiness, but it was the way she’d found happiness. She,