GOOD HUSBAND MATERIAL
Trisha Ashley
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd in 2000
This edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2013
Copyright © Trisha Ashley 2000
Cover design © debbieclementdesign.com 2019
Cover illustration © Dominique Corbasson 2019
Trisha Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847562814
Ebook Edition © March 2013 ISBN: 9780007494088
Version: 2019-11-28
Dedication
For Mary Turner Long, with love.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: A Dream of a Man
Chapter 2: Home, James
Chapter 3: Painted Out
Chapter 4: Wild in the Country
Chapter 5: The Bourgeois Bitch
Chapter 6: The Posy Profligate
Chapter 7: Drained
Chapter 8: Busted Flush
Chapter 9: Nutthill Nutria
Chapter 10: Just Award
Chapter 11: Nasty in the Woodshed
Chapter 12: Mayday!
Chapter 13: And the Beet Goes on
Chapter 14: In the Drink
Chapter 15: Brief Encounter
Chapter 16: Cats Paw
Chapter 17: A Fête Worse than Death
Chapter 18: Fencing
Chapter 19: One Big Ham
Chapter 20: No Change
Chapter 21: Through a Glass, Darkly
Chapter 22: Bugged
Chapter 23: Love Goes West
Chapter 24: Reciprocations
Chapter 25: Blood and Roses
Chapter 26: Pregnant Pause
Chapter 27: Similar Conditions
Chapter 28: Bonfire of the Vanities
Chapter 29: The Great Castrator
Chapter 30: Pupped
Chapter 31: The Least Little Thing
Chapter 32: Tie-dyed
Chapter 33: Christmas Spirit
Chapter 34: Twinkle,Twinkle
Chapter 35: Uncertain Appetites
Chapter 36: Guilt-edged
Chapter 37: The Sweet Wine of Love
Chapter 38: Unlicensed Behaviour
Chapter 39: Dress Optional
Chapter 40: Sold a Pup
Chapter 41: Green-Eyed Men
Chapter 42: Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre
Chapter 43: Out of the Dark
Chapter 44: Aftershock
Chapter 45: Issues
Chapter 46: Alignments
Chapter 47: Photo Finish
Chapter 48: Besieged
Keep Reading
Keep Reading
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
The lyrics of the new Goneril single, Red-Headed Woman, taken from the album of the same name, show a searing agony of loss and grief. Singer/songwriter Fergal Rocco plumbs new depths of helpless agony and despair in a voice that seems to have been created for that very purpose.
New Musical Express
Fergal: 1986
My first brief glimpse of Tish seems to have been indelibly imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, for even after almost twelve years and God-knows-how-many women, I only have to close my eyes and there she is: a dryad poised far above me in the shivering green oak leaves, stretching forward with one hand reaching out, her expression intent.
Then the sharp crack as the branch gives way beneath her weight, precipitating her into a long downward swoop towards me, apricot hair flying behind her like a wild Renaissance angel a mermaid swept by the glassy green waves a ships figurehead forging ahead, one out-thrust hand clasping
Well, not a trident, at any rate, only some small grey thing. It didnt just then make the same impression that Tish was about to: a bolt from the green.
While Id like to say I caught her, truth compels me to admit I merely broke her fall, ending flat on my back with the angel sprawled across me. Enormous smoke-grey eyes stared apprehensively down into mine from an inch away. I decided to give in without a struggle.
Then something scuttled shiftily up my arm on hot, pronged feet and bit me savagely on the ear.
I swore and the creature let go and gave an evil laugh.
Im not joking.
When Dad came round the corner of the house to see what all the noise was, he found the angel still sprawled over me, incoherently apologising and dabbing at my bleeding ear with a wadded-up bit of filmy skirt.
A small, evil-looking grey parrot stood nearby (too near) regarding us with interested, mad eyes.
Always Fergal catches the girls, Dad said cheerfully, taking the scene in his stride. Then, with his usual aplomb, he removed his jumper and enveloped the parrot in its folds.
The small assassin gave a dismal squawk, echoed by a screech of outrage from behind us. A tiny, well-preserved blonde, like a piece of shellacked fluff, was advancing up the drive with the martial air of one about to rescue her daughters honour or die in the attempt.
Leticia get up at once!
Leticia? I questioned incredulously, looking up into the grey eyes so close to mine. (And feeling as I did so as if Id been sucked into a Black Hole and squeezed out on the other side like toothpaste.)
Her hand stopped its rather painful and ineffectual dabbing and she glared. I dont see that Fergal is any better! she said defensively. And anyway, Im always Tish.
And Im always Fergal, Angel, so youll just have to get used to it.
Her eyes widened slightly, then she suddenly removed herself from me in a flutter of flowing green fabric (no wonder I hadnt seen her in the tree) planting her knee unintentionally I hope in a delicate part of my anatomy in the process.
Leticia is a nice name, Dad said interestedly, giving it an Italian pronunciation. And I am Giovanni Rocco, your new neighbour call me Joe, everyone does. For six months only we rent this house while our own is renovated the cracks appear, these old houses in London, they are not well built. And this must be your mamma?
I am Mrs Norwood, the fluffy little blonde lady said icily, eyeing Dad with the dubiously surprised expression of one meeting a tall, blond, green-eyed Italian for the first time. (My Mediterranean darkness I owe entirely to my Irish mother.)
So pleased to meet you and your charming daughter. This is my eldest son, Fergal. I have four sons and one daughter. Perhaps you have heard the youngest ones playing in the garden? They love this big garden.
Yes, I have heard them. Normally this is such a quiet, select neighbourhood.
The girl turned pink and began nervously to pleat the folds of her bloodied skirt. I I like to hear children playing, she ventured shyly. Im glad to meet you, Mr Rocco.
Joe.
Joe, she amended. And Im so sorry my parrot bit your son, only he escaped, you see, and I was trying to catch him.
I hauled myself up from where Id been sitting on the grass, stunned in more ways than one, and the blood dripped down my once-white T-shirt.
Oh dear, she said guiltily. But its only a little bite. Ears bleed a lot, dont they?
Mine certainly seems to, I agreed, smiling down at her, and she blushed again and looked away. Perhaps you should come round later and see how I am? I added cunningly.
Yes, come for dinner, said Dad expansively. I stay home tonight, so I will cook and what is one or two more? You too, Mrs Norwood, and Mr Norwood, of course.
I am a widow. And I am afraid I am otherwise engaged. And Leticia
Seeing she was about to scupper any designs I might have on the angel I interrupted rudely, Theres some disease you can catch from parrots, isnt there? Psittacosis? Tish really ought to come and check on me.
I is there? stammered Tish, looking frightened. Oh dear, then perhaps I had! And you will put some antiseptic on it right away, wont you?
You can check on that, too in about an hour?
She nodded, still looking frightened, until I winked at her, when she blushed again and glanced away, stifling a giggle.
Leticia! began Mrs Norwood in a hectoring voice. You
Whatever she was about to say was silenced by Dad helpfully shoving the wrapped, protesting bundle of parrot into her arms and tucking the jumper as carefully around it as though it were a baby.
She looked even more aghast than shed done when she saw her daughter entwined with me on the grass, and they both retreated down the drive, accompanied by muffled squawks.
Such a pretty girl, Dad said appreciatively. So tall and slender, and the hair like sun-warmed apricots. But very young, Fergal maybe only sixteen or seventeen. The mamma is right to be careful.
She was only seventeen, and I was her first love, but I was twenty-two and should have known that, for her, it wouldnt last for ever.
I suppose I was lucky it lasted a year.
Chapter 1: A Dream of a Man
November 1998
Last night I dreamed I was back in Fergals arms.
Nothing new there, then.
I often dream about the current heroes of the romantic novels I write, who all bear a definite (physical) resemblance to Fergal. The sort of dreams that make you wake up and feel guilty when you look at your husband.