More Than A Feeling by Cate Woods

Life isn't turning out quite how Annie expected. In her twenties, she had a dream job, an amazing social life and bags of confidence. Now, she's living with her boyfriend Luke and is a stay-at-home mum to their baby daughter. The promising career has petered out, and along with it, her confidence and creativity.And then Luke does the unforgivable. Annie will need the help of her group of loyal friends more than ever. Is old Annie gone forever, or could this finally be the chance to find herself once more?

Extract:

PROLOGUE 

Five years ago

 “Girl, I am gagging over your look tonight. That headscarf – I die! Total glamazon realness. Vintage Pucci?” “Oxfam discount bin,” I grin, striking a pose. When a drag queen compliments your accessories you can be pretty sure you’re doing something right. “Well that was 20p fabulously spent, Miss Annie-licious. Pussy is on fire!” She bends down to give me a theatrical air-kiss on both cheeks: in wig and heels, self-styled ‘door bitch’ Madame Kiki Beaverhousen must be pushing seven foot. She lifts the rope and I slip under, sensing the mass scowl from the line of people waiting round the block who’ve just watched me queue-jump.

 “See you inside,” I say, waving to Madame Kiki, and disappear into the darkness beyond the doorway. All the signs are there: tonight is going to be fun. As I make my way down the velvet-lined corridor, my step unconsciously falling in time with the music, excitement bubbles inside me. I pass a large gilt mirror and pause to check my reflection: total glamazon realness pouts back. It took me two hours to get ready, which I guess is pretty standard for a Thursday night; after all, Thursday is the new Sunday, which was once the new Saturday, which used to be the new Friday… or something like that. As well as the headscarf, I’m wearing a full-length pink kaftan with jewelled neckline, armfuls of bangles and a pair of gold platform sandals (it’s quite a casual club night, so I didn’t want to overdo it) plus my signature make-up look: winged eye-liner, strong brows, pale matte lips. 

Okay, I suppose it’s not my signature make-up look – I stole it from Barbra: the divine Ms Streisand – my style icon, role model and all-year-round girl crush. My wardrobe of vintage and charity shop finds is entirely inspired by her own from the Sixties and Seventies. (Not so much Eighties-era Barbra, though, as even she struggled to make a crispy-gelled poodle perm look good.) The woman is a goddess. My Streisand obsession started over ten years ago when I was in my early teens.

 I have been blessed with a magnificent megalith of a nose, an impressive slab of nasal architecture that I’m now rightly proud of – although try telling a self-conscious 14-year-old who just wants to look like Britney Spears that big noses can be beautiful. I’d come home from school in tears one day after yet another nose-based bullying, when my wonderful father sat me down and put on the film The Way We Were. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There, on the screen, was MY nose, slap-bang in the middle of the face of the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. My nose was getting to kiss Robert Redford! My nose was wearing the most fabulous pale-pink halter-neck jumpsuit! My nose – was a star! It was a life-changing moment, and it was then I decided that when I grew up I was going to be Barbra Streisand. And while I might not have her life – I’m yet to achieve the superstardom or multiple zeroes on my bank balance – I most certainly have her look. 

The corridor opens out into the bar and I spot a group of work friends. This club is currently a favourite with the fashion crowd: even if I turn up on my own, I know there’ll be plenty of familiar faces here. I start working my way through the throng towards them.“Annie! Hey, how are you gorgeous?” Tomo, a male model I’ve known for a few years – and who you probably know too from countless ad campaigns – looms out of the crowd and wraps me in a bear hug that goes on for longer than you’d expect in the circumstances. “I’m just going to say hi to Riva, Delphine and the others,” I say, gesturing to the group by the bar when he pulls away. “Okay, but first I’ve got a little proposition for you.” Tomo reaches for my hand. “Come with me…” Models, male and female, tend to fall into two camps: they are either fetishised for their weirdness (these are the ones who look more alien than human – fashion simply adores a freak) or worshipped for their flawless beauty. With his achingly handsome face and gym-worked body, Tomo sits firmly in the latter category. He’d be a nightmare to have as a boyfriend because he gets hit on constantly (by both men and women) but he’s a great mate, plus we often end up in bed together anyway – and tonight, as he steers me towards a quiet corner of the bar, I’m guessing he has mischief on his mind. “So I was thinking,” says Tomo, stroking a strand of hair off my face, “how about my favourite photographic assistant and I give this place a miss, and head straight back to mine? I look up at him, eyebrows raised; I guess when you’re this good-looking you can afford to be blatant. “But I haven’t even had a drink yet,” I say. “Well, I’ve got vodka in the freezer, champagne in the fridge and if madame would like anything else I will call my agent and get her to courier it over to the flat.” He reaches round my waist and pulls me closer. “How about it, Annie? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” I chew my lip, thinking over this undeniably tempting offer. “I really shouldn’t T, I’ve got an early start in the morning – Jay’s shooting Nadia for Harpers. Besides,” I add, my armfuls of bracelets clanking in corroboration, “I think I’m a bit over-dressed for a private party at your place.” 

Tomo leans towards me, until his perfectly symmetrical face is so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath, and murmurs: “That’s exactly what I was thinking, too…” Looking into Tomo’s dark eyes and at his full-lipped mouth that I know from experience is highly proficient at kissing (and other orally-related pursuits) I’m this close to giving in – but it’s already gone midnight, and I’ve got to be in the studio tomorrow for an 8 o’clock start. “Next time,” I manage eventually with an apologetic smile. Tomo fixes me with his trademark sex-look for a second longer, then shrugs. “You’re no fun anymore, Taylor,” he grumbles – but there’s a smile in his voice, and as we weave our way back towards the bar he loops his arm through mine. “So how’s work?” “Brilliant and shit in equal measure.” “I don’t know how you hack working for Jay. I heard he was doing a shoot for Vogue the other day and he had a massive fit about the model being fat. She was, like, 16 or something, and he was screaming at the editor while this kid was sitting right in front of him!” “Yep, I was there.” I shake my head, thinking about my charmless boss. “And people let him get away with it because he’s an ‘artist’. He’s just brought in this new rule that his female assistants have to wear nail varnish, because someone told him that’s what Mario Testino does. I’m having to paint my nails every night because as soon as I start lugging the camera equipment and lighting around they get chipped.” “Well, look at it this way, once you’ve worked with Jay Patterson your photography career will be sorted for life. That’s got to be worth a nightly manicure, right?” 

Later that night I’m standing at the bar waiting to order a round of drinks. It’s been a brilliant night – my face is aching from laughing – but I can’t be late for work, this job is far too important, so I’ve told myself that I’m allowed one more vodka, a quick dance with Tomo (possibly also a kiss if I promise to behave) and then I really do have to go home. I’ve completely lost track of time, so I pull out my phone to check how late it is, and when I look at the screen my hand flies to my mouth in shock. Oh my god. It’s nearly 3am, which means I need to be up again in four hours – but the really disturbing thing is the 17 missed calls from my sister Tabitha. 

When I left our flat earlier this evening she was already on her way to bed. What the hell has happened? “Right, what can I get you?” asks the barman. But I’m already turning away, fighting through the crowd so I can get outside to phone her back, panic flooding through me as I elbow my way towards the door. I try to think of a reason my little sister might need to get hold of me so urgently, but none of the possibilities I can come up with are reassuring. After the heat of the club, the chill November air slams into me like a physical force. 

Gathering my kaftan tighter around me, I dial Tabitha’s number and she answers immediately. “Annie! Oh, thank god.” Her voice is squeaky and breathless, as if she’s on the edge of hysteria. “Tabby? What’s wrong? Where are you?” “I’m at home. Annie, the… the police are here. I…” She breaks off, collapsing into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. “Tabitha, talk to me! Please! Tabby?” But there’s no reply, just the heart-breaking sound of her crying, and after a few moments an unfamiliar male voice comes on the line. “Is this Ann Taylor?” “Yes – who is this?” My heart is racing now, and I reach for the wall to keep myself upright. “What’s happened to my sister, is she hurt? Please, what’s going on?” “This is Sergeant Clive Ellis.” His tone is grave. “And I’m afraid I’m going to need you to come home right away…