What Next? Read online

  WHAT NEXT?

  SHARI LOW

  CONTENTS

  Before you turn the page…

  The World Of ‘What Next?’

  Carly Morton

  1. Val Murray

  2. Carly

  3. Carol Cooper

  4. Carly

  5. Val

  6. Carly

  7. Val

  8. Jess

  9. Carly

  10. Carol

  11. Val

  12. Jess

  13. Carly

  14. Carol

  15. Val

  16. Jess

  17. Carly

  18. Carol

  19. Val

  20. Jess

  21. Carly

  22. Carol

  23. Val

  24. Jess

  25. Carly

  26. Carol

  27. Val

  28. Jess

  29. Carly

  30. Carol

  31. Val

  32. Jess

  33. Carly

  34. Val

  35. Carly

  36. Carol

  37. Carly

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More from Shari Low

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  To my own bucket list pals, Liz, Lyndsay and Jan, for the annual adventures, the laughs and the gin.

  And to my brilliant editor, Caroline Ridding, because once again, this book wouldn’t exist without you.

  Love, Shari x

  BEFORE YOU TURN THE PAGE…

  A NOTE FROM SHARI

  Dear chums,

  Huge thanks, as always, for picking up one of my books. If you’ve read some of them before, welcome back. And if you’re new to them, hello! I’m so chuffed you found your way to this one.

  Either way, there’s a bit of a story behind the pages you’re about to read, so let me catch you up.

  Twenty-one years ago, in January 2001, my first novel, What If? was released. It was the chronicle of Carly Cooper and her merry band of friends, Kate, Sarah, Carol and Jess, all of them in their late twenties and navigating their way through life, love and the occasional disaster.

  In that book, Carly was having a pre-Millennium crisis. Single and restless, she quit her job, her home and her life and set off to track down the six men she’d almost married, determined to see if she’d accidentally said goodbye to her soulmate. I won’t give away any spoilers, but all that matters is that you know that, in the end, Carly found her match and as the new century dawned, she celebrated with her rekindled flame, her best friends and cocktails. Lots of cocktails.

  What If? was a bestseller for the second time, when my publisher, Boldwood Books, released an updated and re-edited special anniversary edition in 2020.

  And then came the next chapter in Carly’s life.

  Over the two decades since the first version of What If? many readers had asked what happened next to the gang of pals. I was curious too. Did Carly and her husband go hand and hand into the sunset? Did Sarah find happiness after escaping a destructive marriage? Did Jess ever recover from her scandalous affair? Did Carol’s marriage to Carly’s brother, Callum, go the distance? And did Kate get a sainthood for being the cool, loving voice of reason in every situation?

  Well, I had to know. In 2020, I laughed, cried and drank endless cups of tea at my laptop as I delved back into their world and in 2021 the sequel, What Now? was released. Set twenty years after the first book, it found the friends older, but not so much wiser. Over the years, they’d stuck together through marriages, divorce, love, heartbreak and tragedy and there was still more to come. When I typed The End on that story, I thought I’d maybe look in on them again in another decade or so.

  But then the strangest thing happened. They refused to pipe down and leave my head. They’re bolshy that way. When we turned the last page of What Now? the women were all on the cusp of new lives, new futures, new happy ever afters and they all knew for absolute certain that 2020 was going to be their best year ever.

  Sigh. We all know how that turned out.

  Curiosity got the better of me once again, and I couldn’t resist dropping back into their lives. After more laughter, more tears, and more endless cups of tea at my laptop (yes, I have the strangest job ever), here’s what I found. What Next? kicks off at the end of 2021. Plans have been scrapped, relationships have changed, and some of the women are about to face a couple of those curveballs that life chucks at you when you least expect it.

  Read on to find out if they caught them or let them fall.

  And thank you again – I’m so grateful to every single reader who lets me tell stories every day.

  Much love,

  Shari xxx

  THE WORLD OF ‘WHAT NEXT?’

  Carly Morton (formerly Cooper, then Barwick) – jobbing writer, grateful mum, unfailingly loyal friend, wife of Hollywood megastar, Sam Morton, and survivor of more bad relationship decisions than she can count.

  Sam Morton – Carly’s husband. They first dated back in the nineties, when they both worked in a Hong Kong nightclub. Later, Sam moved to LA when his tale of being a high-class escort got made into a movie. That catapulted him into a life of fame and fortune, but now he’s a producer who stays firmly behind the scenes.

  Mac Barwick – 19 – Carly’s wild, driven, adrenaline-junkie, 6 foot 4 inch son, loves basketball, working out and partying. He occupies 50 per cent of Carly’s maternal heart and causes 90 per cent of her maternal worry.

  Benny Barwick – 17 – the other 50 per cent of her heart. A laid-back, caring bloke whose common sense and maturity is clearly a throwback to a latent gene in the family line.

  Mark Barwick – Carly’s ex-husband of nineteen years, now a co-parent and much-loved friend. Most of the time. Except when he’s being just a bit uppity or judgemental about her life. A corporate lawyer who always plays by the rules.

  Tabitha Hendricks – Mark’s thirty-year-old live-in girlfriend, a legal shark who is making a name for herself in the field of Human Rights. Gym obsessive with abs that could double as speed bumps.

  Val Murray – Carly’s aunt, born and bred in Glasgow, a woman who never misses an opportunity to laugh, to call people out on their behaviour, or to eat a caramel wafer. Val has suffered two huge losses in life – the deaths of her daughter, Dee, and her best friend, Josie.

  Don Murray – Val’s husband of fifty years, the only man she has ever loved or lusted after (if you don’t count George Clooney and Tom Jones).

  Kate Smith – One of Carly’s gang of lifelong friends who all met in primary school in Glasgow, and who, one by one, moved to London in their twenties. Kate and Carly have been next-door neighbours for the last twenty years, and Kate’s architect husband, Bruce, knocked up a natty waterproof shelter joining their back doors because Kate’s hair turns to frizz in the rain. Her offspring, Tallulah, Cameron and Zoe are all in their twenties.

  Carol and Callum Cooper – Carly’s brother and his wife, another of Carly’s pals since childhood. Married for twenty-two years, Callum is now an in-demand silver fox model, while former model, Carol, has built a new, very successful career as a blogger and influencer on social media.

  Charlotte and Antonia Cooper – Carol and Callum’s twin daughters, now twenty and already more responsible than their parents. After being humiliated in a public revenge-porn incident, Antonia (Toni) is now an influencer and spokesperson on cybersecurity, anti-bullying and mental health. Charlotte recently announced that her childhood abbreviation of ‘Charlie’ is no longer appropriate now that she’s working towards a career in the legal sector.

  Jess Latham – the brains of Carly’s friendship group, she’s brutally honest, unfailingly blunt. Jess now runs a company that specialises in crisis management and her skills frequently come in handy. Her son, Josh, is at uni, her only child from a duplicitous and bitter marriage. She’s finally left her loathing of her ex-husband behind, now that she’s fallen in love with…

  Arnie Deluca – Sam Morton’s former stunt double and right-hand man. Jess is living with Arnie at Sam’s estate in LA, and they’re planning their wedding (her second, his third).

  Sarah Russo (deceased) – one of the original gal pals, Sarah and her husband, Nick, were killed in a plane crash in 2016. They are survived by their adult children, Hannah and Ryan, who both remain close to their mother’s best friends.

  Estelle Conran – Sam’s ex-girlfriend, a Hollywood goddess and Oscar-nominated actress. Gorgeous on the outside, bitchy to her soulless core on the inside, the kind of woman who smiles convincingly at you while she’s secretly planning your death.

  Hayley Harlow – a client of Jess’s crisis management firm – a British model who claims she’s pregnant by a sleazy Hollywood talent agent, Dax Hill.

  CARLY MORTON

  PROLOGUE – DECEMBER 2021

  Set You Free – Kelly Llorenna

  * * *

  ‘My TripAdvisor review of this place isn’t getting five stars,’ one of my cellmates mutters. ‘Not even a bloody minibar.’

  Yep, cellmates.

  Things I learned today:

  The American dream is only a couple of twists away from the kind of nightmare they make movies about. Right now, The Shawshank Redemption and The Great Escape come to mind.

  I really need to brush up on my driving skills as at least one hospital admission in the Los Angeles area today was my fault.

  Right now, out in the world, there’s probably a lawyer already planning a court case against
me that will destroy my life.

  Oh, and a Los Angeles jail cell isn’t that different from a London one. Four walls. A locked steel door. And despite ample padding in the posterior area, my arse is not designed for a concrete bench.

  A wave of anxiety makes my stomach churn and my skin crawl. Apart from the buttock area, which is comfortably numb. But that’s not the point. I’m in jail. Again. And in the words of the cowboy with chafed thighs, this ain’t my first rodeo.

  A couple of years ago, I found myself in a London police station, after a video of me threatening to take a cheese grater to the balls of a scumball who was blackmailing my eighteen-year-old niece, Toni, went viral. Of course, I’d never have actually done that. I like my cheese grater too much. My electric sander though…

  Anyway, that time around, the charges were dropped and I ran, arms wide in celebration, shouting ‘Freedom’ in the streets. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. I actually scurried out, flushed with mortification and hightailed it home before they changed their minds.

  But this time?

  Oh bollocks, another gut wrench of anxiety. This episode of incarceration in the clink is so much worse on way too many levels. For a start, as aforementioned, I’m in the USA. Sunny California. Although my chances of getting a suntan are currently zero unless my one phone call is to St Tropez Spray Tan to ask them to smuggle me in a face mist in a natty shade of deep caramel.

  There’s also an element of public interest in this case, given that my fairly new husband is someone who shares the stage on talk shows with guys like Brad Pitt and George Clooney. Pretty sure any hopes I had of George’s missus, Amal, inviting us to their home for a starry barbeque have been scuppered after this performance by a lead perpetrator in a real-life crime drama. Although, she is a hotshot lawyer, so perhaps she can give me some pointers.

  The last time I got jailed, Mark Barwick, my then-husband of twenty years was furious. It wasn’t the reason for our divorce, but it didn’t help. This time around, I’ve only been hitched to my current matrimonial partner for eighteen months, and although that’s a lifetime in Hollywood relationship years, there’s a real possibility that his crisis-management team are already leaking divorce rumours to the Daily Mail.

  Another twinge of dread. If that happens, it’s a sure-fire bet that my sons back in the UK will read it on their Twitter feeds over their morning protein shakes and get straight on to Loose Women to share stories about my parenting fails. I’ve gone from the mother who preaches good decisions and accountability at all times, to ‘the accused’. My slide down from the moral high ground has been swift and bumpy.

  That thought makes me glance to my left, where one of my alleged accomplices is brushing some imaginary dust off her bright pink palazzo pants, her blonde bob – the size and consistency of a motorcycle helmet thanks to her daily application of more hair product than the average boyband – decidedly unruffled by our current predicament. Even her pink lipstick and blue eyeliner are still flawless. Granted, I’ve never seen her any other way. She could go through a car wash and she’d still come out looking like RuPaul’s immaculately groomed, more flamboyant granny.

  Yep, I’ve landed my Auntie Val in the slammer with me. Val Murray. Aged sixty something. She refuses to discuss her real age and I’m too scared to ask for written evidence. Born and bred in Glasgow, she’s a woman who has overcome the kind of heartbreak and devastation that could make some people bitter, cynical or defeated, yet she somehow manages to love life, love her family and friends, and love a bit of adventure. Although, I’m not sure this is going to be in her top ten lifetime highlights.

  Sensing my gaze, she unpurses her pink pucker to speak and I brace myself for profound words of wisdom.

  ‘I suppose there’s no chance of room service popping in with a gin and tonic and a Toblerone. Or a packet of cheese and onion crisps.’ She lifts her legs and nods in the direction of the totteringly high pink sandals on her feet. ‘I’d give one of these furry mules for a Greggs steak bake. I’d be walking in circles for the rest of the day, but I don’t s’pose it would matter in here.’

  Our third cellmate closes her eyes and, for a second, I wonder if she’s upset or trying to contain her anger, but then I realise that she’s actually just committing every detail of this to memory to be recounted later to her fans and followers. My sister-in-law, Carol. I know the whole Carly and Carol thing can be confusing. But when we met as kids, on the first day of primary school, we had no idea that our friendship would last a lifetime, or that she would marry my brother, Callum, and make the whole damn thing even more befuddling. I didn’t change my name when I married my first husband, so for a long time we were Carly Cooper and Carol Cooper. But now that I’ve remarried and changed my name to Morton, it’s a bit less of a situation. It’s a relief to be honest. It does things to your ego when your name is confused with a size 10, utterly stunning former model, who retired from the catwalk and then became one of the original Instagram influencers, with 1.2 million followers and counting. Although, I’m not quite sure how her followers will feel about the fact that I’ve now landed her in the kind of exclusive club that qualify for their very own prison tattoos.

  The fourth felon in our criminal gang shakes her head. ‘Just remember, say nothing without a lawyer,’ Jess says, because she’s always been the smart one and because she feels she qualifies as a legal expert as she always guesses the correct outcome on Judge Judy.

  ‘I’m so, so, sorry about all this,’ I bleat, for the 234th time since the metal door banged shut. ‘I promise that somehow I’ll make it up to you all.’

  ‘An invite to George Clooney’s house for a pool party might just about do it,’ my Auntie Val demands. ‘I know you’ve got connections there.’

  I decide now isn’t the time to let her in on my certainty that I’ll be about as welcome as a sausage at a vegan restaurant in A-list circles after this. I appreciate her trying to inject some levity into the situation, but it isn’t working. The reality is I’ve seriously messed up. I’ve undoubtedly shamed my husband. Been a shit example for my sons. Pissed off my friends. Enraged my brother. And served my ex with the perfect excuse to call me irresponsible and feel smug about our parting of the ways.

  I can’t see how it could get any worse.

  ‘Morton!’ A shadow is cast across the floor as a muscle-bound guard the size of a Portaloo appears in front of the bars on the door.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

  He stands to one side and there is one of the best lawyers in the business – according to the role he once played in five series of an Emmy Award-winning legal drama.

  In real life, he’s Sam Morton, former actor turned movie producer. And my husband. The man I’d vowed to love in sickness and health. For richer and poorer. I just wished I’d written in a line about ‘in times of happiness, in sorrow, and when you’re looking like an extra from Orange Is The New Black.’

  Our eyes meet and I’m not sure what I see there, but the muscle that’s throbbing on the side of that perfect jaw of his tells me it’s not happy thoughts.

  This is it. Our first major test as a married couple. If you don’t count my cooking.

  ‘Are you here to get us out?’ I ask weakly, deciding this isn’t the time for small talk or sweet endearments.

  His beautiful brown eyes darken, that muscle in his jaw throbs faster, and his head goes into a slow-motion, loaded shake. That’s when I realise our score on that marriage test is about to be an epic fail.