The No-Kids Club by Talli Roland

even gone as far as opting for the predictable timetables of GPs or dermatologists—but Clare didn’t mind. She found the change invigorating, despite the near-constant sensation of jetlag. A roil of nausea went through her and she closed her eyes, willing it away. Ugh, speaking of jetlag . . .
    Slowly, she poked out an arm from under the duvet, feeling the cool air of the room, then stretched. Ahhhhhh. She loved the silence, the freedom to come to terms with the day ahead on her own time. Sharing a bed was bothersome, really. There were too many limbs and too much movement for such a small space.
    Funnily enough, though, whenever Edward stayed over, she’d slept like the dead. The memory of his broad chest rising and falling and the even sound of his breathing crept into her mind, and she shoved it forcefully away.
    Clare turned on a light, as if by doing so she could banish the memories. Onwards and upwards, she told herself as she swung her legs around the bed, wiggling her bare toes against the cold floor. Okay, the No-Kids Club still had a way to go, but it was growing. Granted, she had been hoping for more women like her. The inaugural members weren’t really what she’d envisioned: a homemaker who’d rival Martha Stewart, and another who was desperate for children. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and the club had to start somewhere.
    Maybe Ellie would have some ideas how to reach new members, Clare thought as she scrubbed her dark hair in the shower. Her friend’s social networking ability was legendary—she’d brought in some hefty commissions because of it, propelling her straight to the top of the agency’s best sellers. They hadn’t spoken since the baby shower, despite Clare leaving several messages. She knew Ellie was busy, but . . . She’d try to ring her again later.
    Shrugging on a robe, Clare slathered her face with moisturizer, then padded into the kitchen and made an espresso. Steaming drink in hand, she plonked down at the table with her tablet to check the Facebook page for any new messages. There were the usual enquiries from far-flung locales, along with spam and crazies. Sighing, she was about to put down the tablet and go get dressed when a post on the club page caught her eye.
     
    Sounds very interesting. I’d love to come along to a meeting. Please message me with more details.
     
    The name was Nicholas Hunt, and from what Clare could make out from the thumbnail-sized profile picture, he looked normal enough. She clicked on the photo, tapping her fingers on the table as she waited for the larger size to load. With blond hair, blue eyes, and an open, friendly smile, he’d seem at home on the pages of a J. Cre w catalogue. Fingers flying across the keyboard, Clare messaged him with the date and time of the next meeting, saying she’d be in touch again once she confirmed a venue. God knows they needed to move on from Foyles.
    She was about to log out when her messenger pinged. Could that be him, she wondered? She hadn’t thought anyone would be up at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning!
     
    Shame, I’m busy this Wednesday. Would love to meet soon and learn more about the club, if you’re available?
     
    Clare bit her lip. Hmm, okay. It’d be good to see a potential member in the flesh before they came along to the meeting. She was typing a response when her messenger bleeped again.
     
    Taking a punt here, but are you free for coffee this morning ?
     
    Her eyebrows flew up. This morning! Well, why not. She was gagging for caffeine and could do with some company. She’d planned to visit Tam and drop off her Mother’s Day gift a day early, but Tam was visiting her own parents in Suffolk. And without Edward or Ellie, Clare’s days off seemed to stretch forever.
     
    I can do eight, if it’s not too early for you. Carluccio’s, on Fulham Road?
     
    Clare grimaced as she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Wet hair hung around her face in clumps, and dark circles ringed