Champagne Babes Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Amanda Brunker

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Eva Valentine is back and Trouble is still her middle name!

  After surviving a near-death experience, Eva marries the man who nursed her back to health. Living it up in style on their honeymoon she is shocked to discover she is already three months pregnant.

  When little Daisy is born life is far from perfect and soon Eva is struggling with marriage to a man she hardly knows.

  Thankfully, her best friends drag her away for weekends of fun and excitement, and with all the temptation on offer, she no longer feels like a desperate housewife. But it’s anyone’s guess whose bed she’ll end up in . . .

  Champagne Babes

  Amanda Brunker

  To Jade Goody and all other cancer victims.

  I had a scare during the writing of this book.

  And I know how lucky I am.

  1

  ‘DON’T BLAME MICHAEL for just being a man – he can’t help being clueless. It’s genetics . . .’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me . . . Your husband is reacting no differently from any other man in his situation. You’ve had a baby, and that means he has to share you. Men don’t like to share.’

  ‘Oh, so that means I just have to ignore his mood swings, then . . . Sorry, but was I not the one who gave birth? Am I not allowed to be the fragile one?’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re the mother. You’re the one who has to know all and understand all. And if you’d had any sense, you’d have known not to get pregnant two seconds after his whirlwind proposal.’

  ‘Says those in glass houses! At least I married the father of my child. You don’t even know the name of yours.’

  As celebrations went, this was a disaster. It was my first night out on the town since the birth of my daughter Daisy, a month previously, and for some reason my best buddies Lisa and Maddie were at each other’s throats and bitching at me in the crossfire. Tired, emotional and with half a bottle of Bollinger inside me, my temper was flaring. Maybe I was annoyed with my grumpy husband at home rather than the girls, but he was there and they were here, and nobody was going to boss me about on my first night out.

  ‘Well, at least I didn’t trap my man,’ snarled Maddie, clearly wounded by my comments. ‘One minute you’re in a coma, next you’re pushing Michael – who you’d barely even noticed before, may I add – and then you’re marching him up the aisle. You hardly had time to find out if he was a grumpy bastard or not.’

  ‘Fuck off, Maddie. He’s a decent guy. Just because we’re fighting at the moment doesn’t make him a shitty person. All couples argue. Since when did he become public enemy number one? He cared for me through my coma, and nursed me back to health in the months afterwards. The man deserves a medal.’

  ‘Oh, get off your high horse,’ growled Maddie again. ‘A minute ago you were cursing him. And now you’re—’

  ‘Oh, stop barking at her, Maddie,’ interrupted Lisa. ‘Just because you’re a mother doesn’t make you an authority on everything. This was supposed to be fun, remember?’

  ‘Well, I just think Eva needs to remember her role as a mother, now. Daisy is special and she needs extra—’

  Not able to contain my anger, I saw red. In a fury I grabbed my coat and bag from under the table, and screamed, ‘Stuff your champagne. I don’t need a lecture from you . . .’ And with that I ran out of the bar, leaving the two girls dumbstruck, and pushed my hand out in front of the first taxi I saw. I needed to get away from Maddie before any more hurtful things were said. I wasn’t used to getting so angry with her. Maybe it was my hormones, but I was too mad to be reasonable.

  Despite the fact that I had really been looking forward to getting out and feeling like the old Eva, this wasn’t the evening that I had planned in my head. I was all dressed up, but the only place for me to go was home . . .

  Within seconds a car had pulled up and I gratefully slumped into the back. With the directions to the house in Terenure given, I closed my eyes and practised some breathing exercises I had learnt at yoga, hoping to steady my nerves. I hated it when there were cross words between us. It didn’t happen often. I just needed to get home and sleep off this frustration. Or maybe I’d have a little nap on the way? I didn’t think I had had too much to drink, but the fresh air had kinda knocked me for six. Yes, a short sleep would be good. The taxi was nice and warm, and . . . somehow exhaustion had overpowered me. I was sleepy. I was too hot. I wasn’t sure where I was.

  I had to open my eyes, though. Something didn’t seem right.

  What was that smell? Was it cigarettes, coffee and sweat? Who was touching me? It hurt. The weight on my chest made it hard to breathe.

  I had to sit up.

  I couldn’t.

  I tried to open my eyes, but they were now being held shut. I tried to wriggle, but somebody was on top of me.

  Wake up, Eva, this is serious.

  The pressure on my chest was increasing. It was now almost impossible to breathe.

  Focus, girl, snap awake and fight.

  I didn’t feel strong enough but somehow a natural instinct to defend myself kicked in.

  ‘Je-sus Ch-rist,’ I screamed through the dirty hand across my face. Panic gripped me. The realization that I was in a car with a man on top of me, and, hold on . . . this was a taxi. I was in a taxi . . . and this was the taxi driver who was crushing me. I was being pushed down on the back seat, while the man I’d trusted to get me home safe held me down with the weight of his body. One of his hands was on my face, while the other was forcing it’s way down my top.

  I struggled, but he was so strong. His hands were rough and abrasive on my skin as I tried to free myself from his vice-like grip. The stench of stale nicotine on his fingers was as violent as the force he was using to keep me trapped.

  A memory of stepping into the taxi flashed through my head. I’d hailed it after running out on the girls. The streets had been quiet. I’d been standing all alone. I’d been easy prey: I’m sure I’d looked drunk stumbling down the street. A vulnerable woman without the protection of her better judgement.

  Had I noticed if it was a licensed taxi or not? I was certainly fully aware, now, what was happening to me.

  Storming off in a drunken huff had not been a wise move, and I was paying the price for my diva behaviour.

  Apart from grunting, my attacker didn’t speak. But he did pant rhythmically with arousal.

  My head was still quite hazy, but as he crushed my face and breasts I knew I was in grave danger. Was I about to become another rape statistic? Or would this animal kill me?

  I didn’t want to die.

  I needed to think quickly. This was not a time to panic, and struggling was getting me nowhere. His face was a blur, but he felt like a big man. I would need to trick him to get free. So I stopped moving, and tried my best to steady my breath. He didn’t notice at first, but then he temporarily paused – as if to reassess the situation before returning to his groping.

  Still, there were no words.

  I could feel the pull of the leather strap of my handbag on my neck. The handbag itself was lying across my stomach,
which was probably protecting me from his wandering hands. If he wanted to explore my body further he would have to reposition himself and remove the bag.

  What I needed was a diversion, just one lucky moment to make my escape.

  I wanted to scream for help, but as his hands slipped down from pressing my eyes and latched themselves around my neck I could see very little through the steamed-up windows. Outside was dimly lit and I was clearly nowhere near the bright lights of the city centre. What was the point of screaming? No one would hear me, and it would probably only anger him more. Worse still, he could keep me hostage in a cellar somewhere as his sex slave for the next fifty years.

  If only there was some way I could hurt him. If only I had a knife or something sharp in my handbag. Desperate thoughts kept flashing through my head. I had visions of him tying me up and dumping me in a lake. Or of him beating me with a crowbar and then running me over. Maybe he’d just torch the car with me in it?

  Complete terror had started to overwhelm me, when a mobile phone began to ring. It was his phone ringing from its cradle in the front. Instantly he froze, but he still said nothing.

  While he retained his grip around my throat with his left hand, he started to fumble his right one out of my blouse, getting it tangled in my bag strap and nearly decapitating me in the process. With my heart almost pounding out of my chest, I tried to keep my composure.

  Could this be my moment?

  As the phone continued to ring his mood became panicky. It was obvious that he needed to take the call. His balance unsteady, he made wild swipes to grab the phone with his freed hand, but kept missing. Then, in a clumsy move, he knocked the phone out of its cradle on to the floor. He gasped loudly and then stretched further to retrieve it.

  He strained but obviously couldn’t reach it. It had stopped ringing. Had he answered it by mistake? Or had he cancelled the call?

  I was just about to scream for help, when he lifted his other hand off me but held it just a couple of inches from my face. He kept stretching but still seemed unable to reach the phone. Again I thought about screaming for help, but what would have been the point? I didn’t know where I was, so how could anyone rescue me?

  Despite his shuffling and my deafening heartbeat, the car was extremely quiet. And as I remained still I faintly heard a voice from the phone, and so did he.

  That was the first time I saw him properly. He had tightly cropped hair, a neat moustache, and a large mole on his left cheek. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old. As the voice from the phone continued he retreated slowly back to the front seat and gave me this evil glare. Still there were no words, but he made a signal with his hands for silence and a devilish stare that said: ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

  In total submission I raised my two hands while I positioned my feet under me towards the door. He didn’t notice in the darkness. He was now too concerned with getting to his phone.

  This was my moment. It was either now or never – so I scrabbled at the door handle, unlocked it and pushed it open with one surprisingly swift and easy movement. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my captor panic. It was almost as if he half-lunged towards me but changed his mind midway. I didn’t know what stopped him, and I didn’t care.

  As the cold damp night air refreshed my face, I could feel strength come back to my body. The alcohol haze had lifted and I was focused on my getaway. As I leapt from the taxi I could hear him bash his hands off the steering wheel. He was grunting, but he didn’t scream or call out after me. And I wasn’t hanging around to exchange goodbyes.

  Although I took a lump out of my ankle as I scraped it on the kerb I kept moving forward with speed. Splashing through the waterlogged grass in my strappy Louboutin heels, like a rugby player in drag, I trailed my new Prada handbag that the hubby had bought me for Christmas.

  I ran for about ten minutes solidly, until I found myself in a brightly lit housing estate, one of those generic property-boom nondescript mazes, and collapsed once again in exhaustion behind a black Golf Polo that sat in a sterile, uncultivated garden. Although I never looked behind me, I knew I hadn’t been followed. I sensed my freedom almost immediately, as if some guardian angel was leading me away from danger.

  I had no idea how long I crouched beside the car, rigid with terror. Despite being scantily clad, I could have been there anything up to an hour before I noticed the cold of the cement driveway rising up through my bones.

  It wasn’t until a passing fox stumbled upon me on a midnight ramble that I snapped out of my trance. It stared at me for a while, with suspicious beady eyes that seemed to question, ‘What the hell are you doing out?’ At first its body arched with surprise, but then the fox began to relax; no doubt it sensed that I was more scared than it was. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, the white of its tail disappearing around the corner of the house.

  Left alone once more, I noticed the state I was in.

  My feet were destroyed: bloodied and torn from running to safety through bushes and fields, and over gravelled road works. My shoes were ripped, and the M which I had had tattooed on my right ankle on my honeymoon, as a sign of my love for Michael, was covered in mud and barely recognizable.

  We’d been so in love the day I’d got that tattoo. We’d larked about, pretending that we were Brad and Angelina, morphing our names to Michaeva, and telling each other that we’d be for ever inseparable.

  What another fine mess I had landed myself in! That M would stand for ‘magnet for trouble’ if, or should I say when, my marriage to Michael failed. Everything I touched always seemed to turn to shit.

  The last eight months had been a roller coaster. People tell you the first year of marriage is the worst, but you don’t really believe them. Whether I’d wanted to or not, I was beginning to now. I’d thought we would be different. Be the couple to defy the odds and make everyone else jealous. Who had I been kidding? Not me any more, that was for sure. I suppose Michael still was my Mr Wonderful, my rock, my soul mate, but for some reason the universe kept throwing us curve balls to push us off course.

  Sometimes I looked at him and wondered what I’d ever seen in him. I wasn’t even sure I fancied him any more, as all he ever did was annoy and irritate me. Sometimes just the way he left his dirty plates in the sink instead of placing them in the dishwasher six inches to the left would send me crazy. It wasn’t exactly a major deal, but it drove me mad.

  ‘It doesn’t take much,’ he’d bark at me, as I banged and crashed around the kitchen. After that, we wouldn’t talk for days. Neither of us would be able to back down. ‘You’re stubborn to the core,’ my best friend Maddie always said, and she was right.

  But how was I going to explain myself to Michael tonight? He hadn’t been impressed that I had ‘abandoned him’ with Daisy. She was only four weeks old and he was ‘only a man, after all’.

  I had needed some head space, though. I hadn’t wanted to become a mother so soon. It had come as a shock to me, too.

  Babies were something other people worried about. I might have done an extremely grown-up thing by getting married, but I hadn’t been ready to take on any extra responsibility. I wasn’t even thirty-two years old yet, and little over a year ago I had been very single, and partying like it was going out of fashion.

  As my best friends Parker and Maddie had started to settle down, Parker in a serious (yet currently rocky) relationship with Captain Sensible Jeff, and Maddie becoming a doting mum to Woody, I’d been stepping things up a notch with lesbian girlfriends and Jacuzzi threesomes with cocaine-snorting bad boys. Unbelievably it had taken a bang on the head from the handlebars of a Ducati 1098 to actually knock some sense into me.

  I had spent three weeks in a coma, lifeless, tuning in and out of people’s conversations yet completely unable to communicate with them. Everyone had been so worried about me. My limp body had given very little hope to those around me that I’d ever pull through. I’d just been starting to get to know Michael at the time.
He’d been reserved and sweet, and for some reason into me, despite my reputation as a spoilt brat.

  The first time he’d kissed me I’d still been in a coma. But he hadn’t taken advantage of me. I had willed him to lock lips with me. In some ways it had been like he’d breathed new energy into me with each tender smooch. He had given me the kiss of life, and been there by my bedside when I’d eventually woken up.

  Along with my family he had helped nurse me back to health, so when he’d popped the question and produced a massive single solitaire diamond ring for my birthday just two months later, how could I have said no? It’d been the stuff of fairy tales. It would have been so unromantic to have looked for reasons not to marry Michael.

  I had read The Secret. I’d been a convert. I had felt reborn, and positive thinking had been top of my ‘To Do’ list every day.

  I had cheated death and that had made me feel bulletproof.

  I had become a ‘YES’ woman. ‘Yes, I’ll raise money for the hospital.’ ‘Yes, Maddie, I can babysit for you Saturday night.’ ‘Yes, Michael, I don’t mind you going on yet another stag party to Amsterdam this month.’

  If there had been a question, the answer had been yes. But as the months went by, and life started to wear down my enthusiasm for a perfect world, my attitude had occasionally reverted back to its old diva ways.

  Before the accident my only commitment had been to myself and getting home safely after a wild night out. Something I was still clearly struggling to do.

  On paper I was a totally different woman, but I hadn’t become a nun. Yes, I might have been knocked down, hit my head and almost died, but I hadn’t had a lobotomy!

  I turned the key in the front-door lock as slowly and gently as possible. It was 3.25 a.m., and most of the house lights were on. But that didn’t necessarily mean Michael was awake. He wasn’t the most energy-efficient person I knew, so there was still a hope that . . . fuck . . . My dishevelled head had barely passed through the door when his furious face swung around from the living room, screaming, ‘What fucking time do you call this?’