The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with

The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with Julia Williams Claudia Carroll Miranda Dickinson Stella Newman Anna-Lou Weatherley Sophie Hart Laura Ziepe A free collection of short stories from some of the top names in women’s fiction today. Featuring irresistible tales of love, friendship, betrayal and passion, from Claudia Carroll, Miranda Dickinson, Julia Williams and many others, The PERFECT ESCAPE is the must-have collection of the year.Each short story is followed by exclusive extracts of each of the authors upcoming titles.Everyone’s against Claire marrying Barry in Don’t Marry Barry. Claire is determined to prove them wrong. If only she could get a significant ex out of her head …Four for Home is the moving story of Jim, left by the love of his life to bring up his three young daughters …My Midsummer Miracle is the story of Lizzie, who is penniless and lonely. Before she died, Lizzie’s mother promised her some midsummer magic. This Midsummer's’ Day will Lizzie’s fortunes be changed?Amanda’s excited about her hen party in The Naughty Girls Hen Weekend. But the best laid plans never do run smoothly …In The Psychic 32-year-old lawyer Gina does nothing but work. Little does she realise that a surprise gift to see a psychic will change her life …The Goslathon is Stella Newman’s witty tribute to Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Gosling.Soldedad had thought she had finally tamed womaniser Lance in The Clause. But leopards can’t change their spots and when a mystery woman catches Lance’s eye on holiday, sparks fly … THE PERFECT ESCAPE Julia Williams, Miranda Dickinson, Claudia Carroll, Sophie Hart, Laura Ziepe, Stella Newman and Anna Lou Weatherley Table of Contents Title Page (#ud7f15ecf-f1eb-5dfb-b975-e467e7aab8a1) Don’t Marry Barry Short Story (#u83a5d22d-f822-5f62-b783-af4c520b7c87) Don’t Marry Barry Social Media Note (#ud63b6e29-5552-5af4-9b75-29830fd28ee2) Don’t Marry Barry Extract (#u6e2b25f1-7322-5b5c-a964-b0c2a169bb48) Four for Home Short Story (#u41a65a94-7fe9-540d-a009-0a5f516844c8) Four for Home Social Media Note (#u42447e3f-06c2-547f-b6de-112cc7618697) Four for Home Extract (#ua02dac46-9470-5127-9a09-defd57f145df) My Midsummer Miracle Story (#litres_trial_promo) My Midsummer Miracle Social Media Note (#litres_trial_promo) My Midsummer Miracle Extract (#litres_trial_promo) The Naughty Girls Hen Weekend Short Story (#litres_trial_promo) The Naughty Girls Hen Weekend Social Media Note (#litres_trial_promo) The Naughty Girls Hen Weekend Extract (#litres_trial_promo) The Pyschic Short Story (#litres_trial_promo) The Pyschic Social Media Note (#litres_trial_promo) The Pyschic Extract (#litres_trial_promo) The Goslathon Short Story (#litres_trial_promo) Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo) The Goslathon Extract (#litres_trial_promo) The Clause Short Story (#litres_trial_promo) The Clause Social Media Note (#litres_trial_promo) The Clause Extract (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Don’t Marry Barry (#ulink_29238f3b-5e18-570a-bb4c-a8c355fd9c2a) Julia Williams ‘So, you’re going ahead with it then?’ Mel Andrews asked, as she watched Claire Corrigan flicking through bridal magazines. ‘Ahead with what?’ Claire looked up from the page she was perusing. ‘The wedding, you dope!’ Claire looked at the exquisite diamond ring, now adorning her fourth finger, and then out at the splendid view of London, that Barry’s fantastically airy loft apartment provided. ‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘Don’t you start.’ ‘But you can’t marry Barry,’ said Mel. ‘As your best mate, I have to be sure that you’re doing the right thing.’ Claire looped back her auburn curls over her shoulder. ‘Yes, Mel, I am. Barry and I love each other. What exactly is your problem with that?’ ‘What about Steve?’ Steve. Ah, the if-onlys that were contained in that name. ‘What about him?’ Claire shifted slightly uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I seem to recall a time when you used to say you couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.’ ‘Yes, well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ Claire got up, and looked out of the window. The late summer sun was setting across the river, and in the distance its light reflected in the London Eye, performing its stately dance around the sights of London. She didn’t like thinking about Steve very much. Too dangerous. It was all too easy to conjure up a vision of him in his leathers, or riding his bike, oozing animal magnetism. There had been something earthy and primitive about Steve, and even now, after all this time, she went hot all over at the thought of him. ‘Steve couldn’t have given me all of this,’ she said waving her arms around at the luxurious apartment. ‘He hardly earned a bean.’ ‘Money isn’t everything,’ said Mel. ‘You’re right,’ said Claire, ‘money isn’t everything. But that’s not why I’m marrying Barry. He’s prepared to commit to me, Steve never was. It’s that simple. I wanted the fairy tale wedding and happy ever after, and all Steve could promise me was this year, next year, sometime, never. It would never have worked.’ ‘Whereas Barry …’ said Mel. ‘… Is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. He’s sexy, handsome, funny. And he’s solid and reliable. He can give me security and commitment. Two little words that Steve just can’t.’ And yet, said a treacherous little voice in her head, now you’ve got it, is it all it’s cracked up to be? She’d traded her leathers and DMs for Katharine Hamnett and Manolo Blahniks, but sometimes, she wistfully longed for the days when Steve would just pitch up out of the blue, and she’d hop on the back of his bike and they’d ride off, anywhere, just for the sheer joy of it. She had security now, for sure. But joy? Barry wasn’t good at joy. ‘Well if you’re sure …’ said Mel . ‘I’m sure,’ said Claire, as much to convince herself as Mel. ‘Barry’s good for me. We’re good together.’ ‘So it’s not a rebound job then?’ It was true that Barry had followed hot on the heels of Steve. In fact, when Claire gave it any thought – which she studiously avoided doing most of the time – they had got together indecently quickly after she had finished with Steve. But, she had been so furious with Steve by the end. He just hadn’t understood why she wanted to move to London and find a job in PR, when she could have stayed in Bolton watching him take a series of dead-end jobs. ‘It’s because I want to make something of my life,’ she had argued with him. ‘I don’t want to fester here forever.’ ‘You mean you want to join the rat race,’ Steve had said. ‘At least if I don’t tie myself to a job, I can be free to take off whenever I want.’ ‘And how long can you go on doing that?’ Claire had demanded. ‘One day, you’re going to have to grow up.’ In the end, she had come to London anyway, and for a while they had limped along, with her going home or him coming to see her. But they had both known it was going nowhere. The final straw had been Steve driving down from Bolton on his motorbike and offering to take her on a cheap round the world trip. He had seriously expected her to get on the back of his deathtrap and follow him. Never mind the great job she had just landed, or the new flat she had just found herself. No, she was just supposed to up sticks and go with the flow. So she had said no, and they had parted angrily. And apart from a couple of tortuous phone conversations, they hadn’t spoken since. Stubborn pride had prevented her contacting him again. That, and meeting Barry. Three weeks after she split up with Steve, she bumped into Barry in the lift in the smart new offices on the edge of the City, where she’d just started temping as a PR assistant. The company Barry and Mel worked for was on the fifth floor, one floor above her office. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so different to Steve that first attracted her to him. But she couldn’t help admiring his clean-cut looks, his Armani suits, and hint of regular guyness. And because he was Mel’s new boss, she found herself running into him rather a lot. At first it seemed accidental, the way she always seemed to meet him in the lift. Then it started to seem rather too coincidental. Till the day that they had found themselves in the lift alone. And the lift had broken down on the third floor. For a few moments they had tried to pretend they were ignoring each other, then it was as if a floodgate had opened, and they were all over each other like a rash. As Claire told Mel afterwards, it was the most passionate non-sex she had ever had. And from then it was just a short step to living together and getting engaged. Steve was history. And Claire told herself she had moved on. ‘No, I’m not just doing it on the rebound,’ she said firmly. ‘I love Barry, he loves me. End of story. Now which dress do you think it the nicest – the Donna Karan or the Katharine Hamnett?’ * ‘This is a bit posh for us, love,’ said Claire’s mum in awed tones, as Claire ushered them into her new home. Her parents didn’t like coming to London, and Claire’s romance had been so whirlwind, this was the first time they’d either met Barry or been to the flat. They’d come down for a pre-wedding get-together, but now they were here they looked out of place. Claire hoped they’d love Barry the way she did, but they seemed so startled by the open-plan design, and the huge glass frontage that overlooked the Thames; she wondered if it had been wise to meet here. So different from their dingy little terrace in Bolton. ‘Don’t you like it?’ said Claire, but her heart was sinking. Her parents looked so out of place here. They seemed to physically shrink as they walked through the door. And part of Claire was ashamed to admit it, but she almost wished they hadn’t come. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right for you London folk,’ said her father in a disapproving manner, ‘but it’s a bit too fancy for the likes of us.’ Claire sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. Claire had worked hard to divorce her London life from her home life – the two were so different – but her parents had, not unnaturally, insisted on meeting Barry before the wedding. She’d have been cowardly happy to do the introductions on the day, even though she knew she was being unfair. So they were all booked into a posh new restaurant that had opened up by London Bridge. She had a feeling it was going to be a disaster. ‘Here, let me show you to your room,’ she said, and took them through to the far side of the enormous lounge, where a cunningly hidden atrium gave way to a spiral staircase which led to the next floor. ‘I thought you said you lived in a flat,’ said her mother. ‘You could fit three of our house in here.’ ‘Well it’s a big flat,’ said Claire. ‘But we like it. We’d better get on. Our table’s booked for seven.’ * A couple of hours later, Claire made her way into the plush surroundings of the Chimera Restaurant. She had just about got used to dining in these sorts of places now, but even she thought it was pretentious beyond belief. The entrance hall was adorned with a huge picture of a monster with a lion’s head – the owners of the restaurant were apparently artists, and fancied themselves mythologists, so the place was decorated with naked nymphs being chased by Dionysus and the like. A lot of the pictures were rather rude, and Claire could see her mother was shocked. The waiter showed them to their table, where Barry’s parents, Moira and Stuart, were waiting to greet them. There was no sign of Barry. Damn, he had said he had a meeting, but promised Claire he wouldn’t be late. Claire rang his mobile, but it was switched off, so she sent him a text, and hoped he’d get there soon. Greetings exchanged, everyone sat down to an awkward silence. Claire never knew what to say to her prospective in-laws at the best of times, but here without Barry, she felt completely stuck. Particularly as Dad humiliated her by asking for a pint of bitter, and Mum a glass of sherry, just like they were at home in the British Legion Club. When offered lager as an alternative, Dad looked as if it were poison, and in the end settled for a glass of red wine. Mum plumped for the Chardonnay Moira was having. ‘Very Bridget Jones,’ Moira said smiling gaily. ‘Bridget who?’ asked Mum, puzzled, and Claire groaned inwardly at another demonstration of her parents’ lack of sophistication. She was about to text Barry again, when he bowled rather drunkenly across the long and echoing restaurant floor. ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone, unavoidably detained,’ he swayed over and kissed Claire full on the mouth. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, but couldn’t help the prickles of desire that made her want to kiss him back – hard. But they were coupled with, well, embarrassment. Her parents didn’t go in much for physical demonstrations of affection, and her mother was doing little to hide her disgust. The evening was an utter failure. Dad refused to try any of the food – ‘foreign muck’ he called it, though most of it was English, while Mum was scandalised that they could charge so much for a basic meal like sausage and mash. Moira, meanwhile (whom Claire suspected was really nouveau riche; she seemed to try so hard to show off her superior social skills) was throwing into the conversation tidbits about visiting the Tate Modern and going to the Globe, which left Claire’s parents completely cold. It was with huge relief that the meal finally ended, and they were all able to pile into a cab to get home. But even there, the torture wasn’t over. Barry cuddled up to Claire, and insisted on stroking her leg, which would have been nice at any other time, but was excruciating when she was squashed up next to her dad. Barry was also extremely drunk by now, and kept repeating over and over, ‘You know I’m a lucky man, Norman, Jean. Your daughter ish beautiful lady, my beautiful lady.’ ‘You won’t be saying that when we’re married,’ Claire tried to make a joke of it. ‘Course I will, come on gissa kiss.’ Claire managed to dive out of his way, and he ended up with his face in her lap. A sensation that she wouldn’t have found unpleasant at any other time, but at this precise moment, was utterly mortifying. ‘Ah, here we are,’ she said with a false smile, and the taxi drew up outside their apartments. She and Dad had to virtually manhandle Barry up the stairs. By this time he had started to sing rather rude songs, and Claire was sweating as she finally got to the front door of the apartment. ‘Shh,’ she said to him, as he started up again about various parts of her anatomy. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘I jush want the world to know that you’re beautiful. All of you’s beautiful, and you’re the best shag I’ve ever had.’ ‘Barry!’ Claire could have died. ‘Bed right now!’ ‘What have I done wrong?’ Barry looked like a hurt little boy, and part of her wanted to burst out laughing, but the other part of her was furious. How could he show her up like this? She pushed and cajoled him into their room, while her parents watched in silent horror. Having got him on the bed, she made a quick exit. She knew from experience, he would be asleep by the time she got back. And she also knew her parents were waiting to read her the riot act. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, hoping to avoid the issue. No such luck. ‘Claire, sit down,’ said Dad. ‘Your mum and I want to talk to you.’ ‘About …?’ Claire had a feeling she knew where this was heading. ‘Barry,’ said Mum firmly. ‘Are you sure he’s right for you?’ ‘Absolutely,’ said Claire defiantly, although actually thinking, at this moment after he’s embarrassed me so spectacularly, no, I can’t say I do. ‘But love,’ pleaded Dad, ‘think about it. Look at this place – this just isn’t us. And to be honest, it doesn’t really seem like you. And your Barry, well he might be a nice enough lad the rest of the time, but I’m not too impressed by what I’ve seen tonight.’ ‘Tonight he’d had a bit too much to drink,’ said Claire. ‘But I love him, really I do. And he loves me. I’m sorry you haven’t seen the best of him tonight, but I am going to marry him. I just want you to be happy for me.’ Claire’s parents looked at each other and sighed. ‘Well, we only want the best for you, love,’ said Dad. ‘But if that’s what you want …’ ‘It’s what I want,’ said Claire. ‘Now I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so I’d better get to bed.’ * ‘What is it with people trying to interfere in my life?’ Claire moaned at Mel the next day. ‘First it’s you telling me not to marry Barry, and now it’s my parents asking me if I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I’ve a good mind to run away to Gretna Green and do it behind everyone’s back.’ ‘Oh come on,’ said Mel . ‘They only want what’s best for you. And by all accounts it didn’t sound like he behaved himself all that well.’ ‘No he didn’t, but Jeez – I wish everyone would get off our backs. We’re getting married and that’s that.’ But she had to admit, she was beginning to have slight doubts herself now. Barry had behaved badly the previous evening, and though he had been attempting to make up all morning, sending her flirty text messages and emails as well as the biggest bunch of flowers she had ever seen, she did feel uneasy. Maybe she was making a mistake. Would Steve have embarrassed her like that in front of her parents? She didn’t think so. Steve would have instinctively known how to act around them, while it never occurred to Barry that they might be shocked by his behaviour. But then, as her dad would say, Steve was one of us … ‘Let me take you away from all of this.’ Barry appeared at her desk, straight from ‘some damned boring accountant’s meeting, during which you were all I could think of’ at lunchtime, looking at once apologetic, and damnably gorgeous. It was very hard to stay cross with him for long. Claire sometimes wondered about Barry’s job – he was in financial advice, so he said, but he seemed to get an awful lot of money for doing not a great deal, as far as she could tell. He often took her out for lunch, usually when she didn’t have time. But Barry was very hard to resist. ‘I don’t know that you deserve me,’ said Claire, determined to keep up a little bit of pressure. ‘Probably not,’ said Barry. ‘But I do love you.’ ‘If you say so,’ said Claire, picking up her bag. It really was impossible to deny him. ‘Where do you want to take me, then?’ ‘Where?’ said Barry, taking her arm and steering her towards the door. ‘More like how.’ ‘Don’t start all that again,’ said Claire, as they entered the lift. ‘Look how much trouble it got you into last time.’ The lift was empty, apart from the two of them, and they looked at each other and laughed. ‘There’s something about an enclosed space …’ said Barry, and pulled her close towards him. ‘Isn’t there just?’ said Claire and responded to his kiss with passion. Lifts and Barry would forever be associated in her mind with sex, or at least foreplay. By the time they got to the ground floor she was quite giddy with desire. ‘Are we going to bother with lunch or what?’ she asked. ‘What do you think?’ said Barry with a grin. ‘I take it your parents have already gone?’ ‘Yes, they got the first train back this morning,’ said Claire. ‘They could only cope with one night in the great metropolis.’ ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Barry pulled her out of the door, and nearly fell into the road, waving his arms like a maniac, ‘Taxi!’ ‘I think,’ he said, ‘it’s time to carry on where we left off last night.’ ‘Good idea,’ said Claire, sinking into his arms. * A week later, Claire came humming into work. Her sex life had been great for the past week. She had been getting a little worried recently that Barry hadn’t been quite as attentive to her needs as when they first met. But this past week had put paid to that notion. Which was just as well, as he had to go off on a course for a couple of days. She felt slightly better about it, knowing that Mel was going too, and had promised to look after him. ‘Any messages for me, Kerry?’ Claire asked their lank and morose receptionist, who was possibly the least welcoming person in the universe. ‘Yeah, there was one. He rang last night, after you’d gone.’ ‘Who rang?’ It was always rather difficult extracting information out of Kerry. ‘Said his name was Steve. He said you’d know who he meant.’ Steve. Steve. Claire couldn’t help the traitorous little leap her heart gave at the mention of his name. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’ Claire tried to keep her voice casual. ‘Nah. Just said he’d catch up with you tomorrow.’ ‘Did he leave a number?’ Claire had deliberately deleted his mobile number from her phone when she had started to see Barry. And now she had a new phone, so Steve couldn’t ring that. For all she knew he might still be at the same address, but knowing Steve, he was likely to have moved on again. ‘Nah. Just said he’d be here by lunchtime.’ ‘Wha-a-at????’ Claire’s knees went weak and trembly. She had to hold onto the pillar beside Kerry’s desk. ‘He’s coming here? When? How?’ she croaked. ‘That’s what the man said,’ said Kerry looking up for a moment from the all-important task of filing her nails. ‘And lunchtime, is lunchtime. So I dunno, I expect he’ll be here after 12.’ Claire went upstairs to her office, and sank down at her desk, in a total state of shock. Steve coming here? What on earth was she going to say to him? Claire spent a nervous morning twitching every time the phone rang in case it was Kerry to say that Steve was there. She should refuse to see him. That was the most sensible course of action. Except … it would be good to see him again. And she was curious as to why he had come. She waited till 1pm, but he still hadn’t turned up, so in the end she went out to get herself a sandwich. He probably wasn’t coming. It must be a wind-up. She was just turning back down the street where her office was, when she heard the sound of a revving engine, and a blur of silver and black roared past her, heading for her office entrance. She swallowed hard. Typical of Steve to want to make a grand entrance. He mounted the pavement in the square in front of her office, and sat legs astride his bike, the engine still throbbing, a vision of masculine beauty in his black leathers. He took off his helmet as she arrived, and shook out his tousled mane of black curls. He gave her his wonky grin, and his green eyes sparkled with delight as she approached him. Claire was having difficulty breathing. She had forgotten he could have that effect on her. After Barry’s rather pretty boy looks it was quite a shock to reencounter the rugged sensuality that was Steve. ‘Hi,’ she squeaked, her mouth dry, and her heart hammering so loud she felt sure the whole world could hear it. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I came to see you of course,’ said Steve, switching off the engine, and climbing off the bike. ‘You do know I’m getting married in three weeks, don’t you?’ Claire felt like a child in a sweet shop, so wanting to touch, and knowing she shouldn’t. ‘Yes, I know. I ran into your mum in town.We went for a coffee in Costa. She told me.’ ‘Really?’ Claire was amazed. All the time she’d been going out with Steve, she’d got the impression they thought she could do better. How come her mum was suddenly having coffee with him? ‘She’s worried about you, Claire,’ he said. ‘Both your parents are. They don’t think this Barry is right for you.’ Claire was speechless. How dare her parents interfere in her life? ‘It’s none of their damned business,’ said Claire. ‘Or yours for that matter.’ ‘Isn’t it?’ he looked at her. Such a look, it made her feel he was staring into her soul. ‘Don’t marry Barry,’ he said. ‘Marry me.’ Claire swallowed hard. Here he was asking her the one question she had always wanted him to. Now. When it was too late. ‘Steve, I can’t. It’s over. I love Barry, and I’m marrying him. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Not even if I proved to you that Barry is wrong for you, and that we should be together?’ ‘How are you going to prove that?’ said Claire. ‘Besides. He isn’t wrong for me. You are. You’ve never committed yourself to anyone or anything in your life. Why should I believe you?’ ‘Because I’ve changed,’ said Steve. ‘You were right. I was going nowhere in my life. But I’ve just enrolled on a college course in ICT. But before I do that, I still want to travel. My offer still stands.’ ‘It’s too late,’ said Claire. ‘I am going to marry Barry. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ Still shaking, she brushed past Steve to go into the building. He caught her arm, and pulled her to him, and suddenly she was drowning in his arms, and they were kissing as if they had never kissed before. ‘No,’ Claire pushed him back. ‘Sorry, Steve, this is just wrong. I have to go.’ ‘Now tell me we’re wrong for each other.’ She couldn’t bear to see the pleading in his eyes. ‘We’re wrong for each other,’ Claire said, and stumbled inside. ‘I’m not going to give up,’ Steve said. ‘I love you.’ ‘Too late,’ said Claire. ‘I’m in love with someone else.’ * Three weeks later, Claire stood in the bright July sunshine, dressed in the Donna Karan dress she had chosen so many weeks ago. She posed for pictures with her five adorable little bridesmaids (all nieces of Barry), and Mel, her only grown-up one. And she smiled and smiled, as she tried to blot out the image in her mind of Steve in his leathers, roaring up on his motorbike to whisk her away. He had rung her every day since their meeting, but she had refused to take his calls. And several times he had waited for her after work, until she had got really angry and told him to sod off in no uncertain terms. It seemed he had taken her at her word, as she hadn’t seen him for over a week now. She didn’t know if she was glad or sorry. Because however much she told herself that this was what she had always dreamed of, and that it was going to be the most perfect day of her life, she couldn’t help the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that something was missing. She wasn’t sure if it was the fact that she had hardly seen Barry in the weeks leading up to the wedding – he blamed work commitments as a reason for not getting more involved in the preparations – or the fact that she was beginning to feel a stranger at her own party. She felt like she was on a rollercoaster that she couldn’t get off. She would have confided in Mel about it, but until today, she hadn’t seen Mel for weeks. Mel, too, seemed to always be busy when Claire wanted to talk. Claire shook her head in a determined fashion, as the photographer pointed her and Mel towards the church door for one last photo. She was being daft. All brides were nervous. It was only natural. ‘You look green,’ said Mel digging her in the ribs. ‘You’re not having second thoughts are you?’ ‘Course not,’ said Claire, more forcefully then she felt. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ said Mel. ‘But don’t mind me.’ ‘Shut up,’ said Claire, grimacing at the photographer. ‘Heard from Steve again?’ said Mel with a grin. ‘No,’ said Claire. ‘And you didn’t tell Barry about seeing him?’ said Mel. ‘No,’ said Claire. ‘What a way to start a marriage,’ said Mel. ‘It’s nice to know both of you have secrets from one another.’ ‘What do you mean, both of us?’ ‘Did I say both of you? I meant you of course,’ said Mel. ‘Isn’t it time we got in the church?’ Claire couldn’t help wondering what Mel meant as she walked down the aisle to the Trumpet Voluntary. God, what a clich?! Shame Barry’s mum couldn’t have chosen something a little bit more interesting. Steve would probably have had her stepping down to Born to be Wild or something. She reached Barry, at last, and Dad handed her over to him. They smiled shyly at each other, and Claire took a deep breath. She was doing the right thing. This was just what she had always dreamed of. Claire was in a happy daze as the service started, and before she knew it, the all-important moment arrived. It was time to make her vows, and become a married woman. ‘Is there any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony?’ the vicar was saying in sonorous tones, and everyone was no doubt nodding and smiling as they always do at weddings, knowing no one is going to say anything, when— ‘Yes!’ The whole congregation turned to the back of the church. Claire turned last, reluctant to acknowledge the sound of a voice she knew, and trying to repress the singing in her heart as she heard him call her name. ‘Claire, you can’t marry Barry,’ Steve said, standing in his black leathers, bathed in sunlight, like a glorious vision, a modern day Sir Lancelot, come to take her away on his metal steed. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Because he doesn’t love you,’ said Steve. ‘And I do.’ ‘Of course he loves me,’ Claire felt she had to say it. ‘Don’t be daft.’ ‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Steve. ‘He’s having an affair with your bridesmaid.’ ‘He’s wha-at?’ Claire couldn’t take it in. It all fitted. Barry’s indifference. The fact that Mel had been so absent for the last few weeks. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Barry. ‘Of course I haven’t been having an affair.’ ‘Yes, don’t be silly, Claire,’ said Mel. ‘Why would I do that to you?’ ‘Nah, it’s true,’ Kerry’s voice piped up from the middle of the church. ‘The whole office knows about it.’ ‘And I’m the last to know,’ said Claire with icy anger. ‘She doesn’t mean anything,’ gabbled Barry. ‘It’s you I love.’ ‘You bastard,’ said Mel and took her bouquet and whacked Barry round the head with it. ‘If you must know, you were a lousy lay. You’re welcome to him, Claire.’ And she stormed off. ‘So it is true,’ Claire looked at Barry sadly. ‘How could you?’ ‘I – er – but I love you,’ sputtered Barry. ‘You have a bloody funny way of showing it,’ said Claire. ‘Here take this. Your next girlfriend might want it.’ She flung her engagement ring in his face, lifted up the skirts of her dress, turned round and ran down the aisle into Steve’s arms. ‘Fancy coming for a ride?’ he said, with a mischievous twinkle. ‘But I haven’t got a helmet,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, you have,’ Steve said, leading her out of the church. ‘I kept your old one. It’s on the bike, along with your leathers and DMs.’ They ran hand in hand towards Steve’s sleek, silver machine. Steve climbed on board, and passed Claire her helmet. She hitched up her skirts, kicked off her high heels, replacing them with her much worn and loved DMs, put her leather jacket on over her dress, and climbed up behind him. ‘Aren’t you worried about the dress?’ said Steve. ‘Not in the slightest,’ said Claire. ‘I’m just picturing Barry’s mum’s face, when she realises what is happening to the very expensive Donna Karan dress she bought. Where are we going?’ ‘Does it matter?’ asked Steve. ‘No,’ said Claire, leaning against him with a delicious sigh, ‘but round the world sounds like a good place to start.’ When I was getting married many moons ago, there was a point at which I felt like I had got on a rollercoaster which I couldn’t get off. I guess nearly every bride feels that pressure at some point. And I guess for all of us there is that slightly seductive thought about the one that got away. Suppose we’ve chosen the wrong route, and there’s someone waiting in the wings we should have gone for? Which is where this story comes in. I liked the idea of someone getting involved in a whirlwind romance because her fianc? seems to be offering the commitment her ex can’t. When in fact, she should be with the ex all along, and he’s offering her the chance to escape to something much better … My latest book, Midsummer Magic is inspired by A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I love the mix of magic and mayhem in that play and it seemed perfect to play around with my putative lovers at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve in a magical setting in Cornwall. I had a lot of fun writing it, and hope you have as much reading it! You can follow me on Twitter @JCCWilliams, and I’m also on Facebook as Julia Williams. My blog is http://maniacmum.blogspot.com and my website is http://juliawilliamsauthor.com. Read on for an exclusive extract of Julia William’s new novel, Midsummer Magic: (#ulink_329c5be2-0cc4-5ef1-a3ad-20deaaf4d0ca) Halloween ‘Combining your moving-in party with a Halloween one was a brilliant idea,’ declared Diana. She looked gorgeous as ever, in a little black dress which accentuated her curves, her auburn hair piled high on her head, with some fetching curls escaping, as she bustled round Josie’s kitchen. From the lounge – which they’d spent the afternoon decorating with wispy bits of cobweb, spiders dangling from the ceiling, flashing skull-shaped lights and pumpkin-shaped candles – came a loud set of expletives, as Harry tried to plug in various bits of electrical equipment to make a sound system any nightclub would have been proud of, but which Josie was somewhat doubtful was needed in a small London flat on a Saturday night. ‘I seem to remember it was more your idea,’ laughed Josie, as she got out plastic cups and put them on the kitchen drainer with the copious amounts of wine and beer that Harry had cheerily brought back from Sainsburys. ‘Josie, it’s so fab that you and Harry are moving in together, why don’t you have a party?’ she mimicked. ‘Josie, Halloween’s coming up, you can combine them, wouldn’t that be amazing!’ ‘Well if I left it up to you, you’d have just snuck in here like a pair of sneak thieves, as if you were embarrassed about the whole thing, rather than celebrating the wonderfulness of you two becoming a proper partnership,’ declared Diana. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you’d do without me.’ ‘Er, get on with my life without being bossed about?’ said Josie, and ducked as Diana chucked some peanuts in her direction. ‘I can only hope Harry’s more domesticated then you are,’ said Diana. ‘I don’t know how you’ll managed to keep this place clean without my help.’ Until recently Diana had been renting Josie’s spare room, but when it became clear that Harry was becoming a permanent fixture, she’d tactfully moved out to live with friends down the road. ‘Three is definitely a crowd,’ she’d said, ‘and I don’t fancy being a gooseberry to you two lovebirds.’ ‘I miss this,’ said Josie, ‘are you sure you’re okay about leaving?’ Di had been incredibly positive and supportive since Josie had first broached the awkward subject of Harry moving in, but Josie knew how good she was at covering up her emotions. Di didn’t have a huge social network, didn’t get on immensely well with her family, and for all her playing the ‘I love being single’ card, Josie had the sneaking suspicion that she was secretly yearning to settle down herself. ‘Of course I am,’ said Diana, ‘I mean, it is bloody annoying being best friends with someone as pretty, rich and successful as you are, who’s managed to nab a gorgeous man to boot, but I’ll survive.’ ‘Oh Diana, now I feel terrible,’ said Josie, giving her friend a hug. ‘It was a joke, Josie,’ said Diana affectionately. ‘You are so gullible.’ ‘Still,’ said Josie wistfully, It’s not going to be the same now, is it?’ Josie had met Di five years earlier, through a mutual friend, Carrie, who worked with Amy and had been to school with Di. They, both quickly decided they didn’t like Carrie as much as they did each other. They’d started meeting once a week for drinks, and soon it had turned into regular weekends on the pull – Diana’s confidence taking Josie places she would never have been alone. Without Diana pushing her, Josie doubted she would have followed up Harry’s tentative calls when they’d first met up again. It was no good, happy as she was, Josie was going to miss sparky, lively Diana, who called a spade a spade and always let you know when you were in the wrong, but was also an incredibly loyal, fun friend. ‘No it won’t,’ said Diana, ‘but it will be different. And that’s good too.’ She was being so positive about it, Josie hoped she wasn’t protesting too much. ‘And you really don’t mind?’ ‘Don’t be daft, of course I don’t,’ said Diana, ‘I’m happy for you. You and Harry are made for each other. Now what else do we need to do? How’s the punch?’ Josie looked at the punch into which Harry had cheerfully flung a bottle of vodka, copious amounts of red wine, and not nearly enough orange juice, in Josie’s opinion. It seemed to be a bit lacking in the fruit department, and they’d run out of oranges. ‘What do you think about this punch? Does it need more fruit?’ ‘Haven’t you got any more apples?’ said Diana. ‘It’s Halloween, you have to have apples. It’s the law.’ ‘I think I might still have some left in the cupboard,’ said Josie. She rummaged around, and then produced a couple of rather wrinkled-looking apples. ‘Great,’ said Diana, ‘here, let me peel them.’ ‘Why?’ said Josie. ‘Because …’ said Diana. ‘It’s Halloween and you need to see the name of the man you’re going to marry … which will begin with H, obviously.’ Despite her straight talking and often cynical nature, Diana was extremely superstitious, always walking round a ladder, and freaking out if a black cat strolled across her path. She grabbed one of the apples from Josie and peeled it with a flourish. ‘Now,’ she instructed, ‘you have to fling it over your shoulder, and it should fall in the shape of the letter that begins the name of your future husband.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ said Josie. ‘Famous Halloween tradition, young maids did it all the time in olden days, don’t you know anything?’ Diana was a force to be reckoned with so, feeling incredibly foolish, Josie threw the apple peel over her shoulder. It landed with a plop on the floor, and despite herself Josie turned round to see what the result was. ‘Knew it was stupid,’ she said, ‘look, it’s formed the letter A. I don’t know anyone whose name begins with A, apart from Harry’s mate Ant, and I’m hardly going to marry him.’ ‘Oh,’ said Diana, looking a bit despondent. ‘I can’t believe it hasn’t worked.’ ‘Come on, Di, you can’t believe all that mumbo jumbo,’ said Josie, laughing. She could never get over how gullible Di could be. ‘Well you never know, Halloween is a strange time of year,’ said Diana. ‘I just think there are things out there we know nothing about.’ ‘Go on then, you have a go,’ said Josie indulgently. Diana peeled the other apple and with a great sense of drama, slowly threw it behind her shoulder. This time the apple peel landed with a more definite thud, and split into three pieces which, if you were being very imaginative, may just have formed the letter H. ‘Well that’s not right, either,’ said Diana, ‘the only H I know is Harry.’ ‘There you go,’ said Josie, ‘I knew it was daft. Besides, I’m not marrying Harry just yet. Without your help I’d never have persuaded him to move in here. I might just get him convinced about marrying me in the next decade.’ ‘Get me convinced of what?’ Harry came into the kitchen holding a pair of leads and looking a bit bemused. Josie’s heart did the little leap it always did when she saw him. Lovely dependable Harry, with his brilliant blue eyes, curly black hair and cute smile. It made her feel warm all over thinking they were now a proper item again. They had first met at university, although Josie might never have paid much attention to the quiet studious boy on her course if he hadn’t tagged along on a group weekend away at her parents’ home in Cornwall. When he was the only person who was prepared to go and watch Shakespeare with her on a rainy summer’s night at the local open air theatre she knew he was special. And for a while there it looked like they might go the distance, then time, and space and work intervened and somehow they lost touch. It still seemed such luck not only to have met Harry again at Amy’s wedding, but for him to have still remembered, and (apparently) thought about her, just as she’d thought about him over the years. In one way their relationship had been a whirlwind, they’d only been ‘together’ properly for a few months, but in other ways it felt like she was coming home. Harry in her mind had always been the one who got away. ‘I think I’m going to have to head out to B&Q to find another lead,’ he said, ‘there’s a connection I’m missing.’ ‘Nothing,’ said Josie, digging Diana in the ribs and glaring at her to stop her spilling the beans. But as usual it did no good. ‘Josie’s been doing an old Halloween trick of seeing the name of the man she’ll marry,’ said Diana. ‘She threw a piece of apple peel over her shoulder, and look, it fell down in the shape of the letter H. I wonder what that could mean?’ Josie felt herself blush deeply. Marriage was something she wanted with Harry, of course it was, but given how fast they’d moved so far, she thought marriage might be rushing things a bit. She wanted him to ask her in his own way, at the right time. Harry peered at the floor, ‘Are you sure that’s an H?’ he said. ‘What about that one?’ ‘Oh that was my turn,’ lied Diana glibly, ‘I got an A.’ ‘Ah, shame Ant’s still in Oz, otherwise I’d introduce you,’ said Harry with a grin. ‘Ant? You want to inflict Ant on my best friend?’ said Josie as she swept the apple away. ‘It’s all foolish nonsense anyway. As if an apple peel can tell you who you’re going to marry.’ ‘As if indeed,’ said Harry, but he looked thoughtful as he picked up the car keys and left the room. ‘There, he’s going to ask you now,’ Diana teased her, ‘sure as eggs is eggs. Did you see the look on his face?’ ‘Don’t you ever stop interfering?’ said Josie, blushing. ‘He’ll ask me if and when he’s good and ready.’ ‘Well there’s no harm in pushing him along a bit,’ said Diana. ‘You know you two are made for each other. You just need a little help from Cupid’s arrow, that’s all.’ ‘What was all that about?’ Harry muttered to himself as he got in the car and drove the short distance to B&Q. One of the most restful things about being with Josie was that she had never ever mentioned the ‘M’ word. Not that Harry was against the idea, but things had already moved faster then he’d anticipated, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get married. Indeed, his best friend, Ant, had laughed like a drain when he found out that Harry was even contemplating moving in with Josie. ‘You are joking?’ he’d said over the phone, when Harry had tracked him down to a bar in New Zealand to tell him the good news. ‘Before you know it, you’ll have his ‘n’ hers slippers and she’ll be walking you up the aisle. And then it will be only a matter of time before she starts mentioning babies, and your life will effectively be over. Don’t do it, mate. You’ll really live to regret it.’ Knowing that he really really wouldn’t regret it, or at least regret taking the first step of sharing a home with Josie, allowed Harry to pass off Ant’s teasing in a good humoured fashion. ‘You’re only saying that because you’re a jealous saddo who doesn’t have a clue how to attract, let alone keep a beautiful woman,’ he joshed back. ‘Women, beware, Ant’s here.’ Ant had always had plenty of women, but no one serious, apart from one mysterious relationship after uni, which he rarely mentioned, but had clearly left a scar. ‘Your funeral, mate,’ said Ant. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Ant, who was currently taking the gap year he’d been threatening ever since before he and Harry had been students, had sent him a very rude Facebook message when he found out that Harry actually had gone the whole hog and was going ‘all domesticated’, as he put it. Harry didn’t happen to think Ant was right. Sure, when they were young guns straight out of college there had been a certain cachet in seeing who got the most women – getting any women at all had been Harry’s main aim when he’d arrived at university, in the autumn of the millennium – but once Harry met Josie again at a mutual friend’s wedding, nights on the pull had definitely lost their charm. It hadn’t taken long for Harry to realise he’d fallen swiftly, deeply, irrevocably in love. He and Josie had got together at the end of university, and he’d always regretted letting her get away. He’d never been quite sure how it had happened, but he and Josie had been together such a briefly short time, and once they went to work – him to a small local newspaper in Newcastle, her to be a marketing assistant in a factory in Swindon – things had fizzled out. He had always thought he should have fought harder to keep her. So now they had found each other again, nothing was going to keep them apart. However much Ant might bitch about it, no amount of teasing would change his mind. But … marriage? Harry thought about it as he scanned the electrical shelves in B&Q for the right scart lead, wishing, not for the first time, that manufacturers would just make a universal lead which adapted to fit every bit of electronic equipment it seemed necessary for a modern man to have in his possession. Were he and Josie ready for that? He had to admit to a certain amount of relief and pleasure when they’d made the decision to move in together. No longer the need to be out there in the savage forest of dating; time to hang up his spurs, sit by the fire, and sip wine with his one true love. Simples, as the meerkats would say, but true. Eventually buying two leads, certain that one of them would fit, Harry made his way back home, where he found Josie and Diana already giggly, having tried out his punch to ‘see that it was strong enough’, according to Diana, although Josie was worried it had too much vodka. ‘Nonsense!’ said Diana, ‘you can never have too much vodka!’ and promptly poured the remaining half of the bottle Harry had resisted pouring in before. Diana was a whirlwind. One he quite liked, he thought, but so different from Josie, Harry sometimes wondered how they could be friends. She was vivacious, lively, pretty and incredibly flirty: like a female version of Ant, a good-time girl out on the pull. She often gave off a tough vibe, but underneath it all Harry suspected she hid a vulnerability she wasn’t prepared to let most people see. And she liked him and seemed genuinely happy for them both. Harry had a huge soft spot for her. Josie poured some more orange juice into the punch, while Diana answered the door to their first guests. Once Harry had sorted out the music, the next few hours went by in a blur of congratulations, drinking and laughter. By midnight, Harry was feeling distinctly the worse for wear, and sitting happily ensconced on the sofa, watching Josie dance to the dulcet tones of Lady Gaga. He could sit and watch her dance for hours, she moved so gracefully, it was mesmerising. He was so lucky to have her. Josie was so beautiful, and kind, and wonderful. And she was his … sometimes he couldn’t quite believe it. Maybe it was time to make things more permanent between them. Someone had put something slower on, and a few of their friends were cosying up together – Diana, he noticed with amusement, was smooching with Josie’s boss – ‘Come on. Lover boy,’ Josie came swaying towards him, as drunk, he realised as he was, ‘time to dance.’ ‘Always time to dance with you,’ he smiled, and pulled her close. She leant against his shoulder, and he felt her softness, and smelt her perfume. He was suddenly overcome with a dizzying sense of what could only be described as joy. He wanted to hold her and keep her and never let her go. “You are so perfect,” he said, kissing her softly on the lips, “how did I get this lucky?” Josie blushed, and said, “I’m the lucky one,” as she kissed him back, and he was overcome with a happiness he could never remember feeling before. With her small trim figure, her gorgeous fair pre-Raphaelite curls, and her stunning blue eyes, Josie was perfect in every way. She was kind, sweet, funny, loyal and he already knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. So why not make it formal? What was wrong with marriage, after all? A perfectly sensible institution which had been round for centuries. ‘Josie,’ he said, feeling his heart hammering with happiness, ‘will you marry me?’ ‘Oh my God, Oh my God!’ An overexcited and slightly pissed Josie dragged Diana away from a rather interesting situation with Josie’s to-die-for good-looking boss, Philip (trust Josie to nab a lovely guy and have a good-looking boss) into the kitchen. ‘It worked, I can’t believe it, but it worked.’ ‘What worked?’ Josie wasn’t the only one who’d drunk too much, Diana suddenly realised, as the walls came crashing in on her suddenly. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Your Halloween thing,’ said Josie, ‘you know, the apple core.’ Diana dragged herself away from the delicious prospect of a night in a penthouse with Phillip, to focus on a faint memory of the early evening. ‘But you got an A?’ ‘No I didn’t,’ said Josie, ‘I got an H, remember? Ta-da!’ She waved her ring finger in front of Diana’s bleary eyes. There was a platinum-looking ring on it. ‘What? He didn’t?’ ‘Yup, Harry just proposed!’ said Josie triumphantly. ‘Of course we need to get a proper ring, but this will do for now.’ On closer inspection, Diana realised Josie was wearing the ring pull from a Coke can on her finger. ‘That’s, that’s – words fail me,’ Diana suddenly felt the urgent need to sit down, and slumped against the wall and slid down it. She wanted to say something more effusive, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. ‘I know,’ said Josie, sliding down to join her, ‘and it’s all down to you. You are going to be my bridesmaid aren’t you?’ Diana screamed in delight. ‘You’re getting married!’ she whooped, ‘and I’m going to be bridesmaid. That is fabulous!’ Fabulous. That was the word she’d been searching for. ‘I know!’ said Josie, ‘isn’t it great?’ Diana suddenly felt a sudden, sober chill. It was great, of course it was great, but drunken misery suddenly set in, ‘What about u-u-uss?’ she wailed. ‘You’re going off to get married and you’ll be shacked up and happy and I’ll be on my own and single for ever!’ Suddenly great sloppy tears were running down her cheeks. Damn, that punch had been a serious mistake. ‘Oh Di, don’t say that,’ said Josie, clutching her in panic, ‘you’re my best friend, I couldn’t live without you.’ She was crying too. ‘You couldn’t?’ Diana paused and blew her nose, not very attractively. She hoped Philip didn’t choose that particular moment to look for her. ‘Of course not,’ said Josie, sobbing nearly as loud as Di was, ‘you’re always going to be my best friend. What would I do without you?’ ‘But it’s not going to be the sa-aa-me,’ hiccoughed Diana. ‘It will, it will,’ said Josie, ‘pinkie promise.’ She linked her little finger in Diana’s, setting off a fresh round of wailing, ‘Oh that’s so lovely,’ she wept, ‘I love you so much.’ ‘And I love you too,’ howled Josie, hugging her tightly. ‘But you love Harry more,’ said Diana. ‘I do,’ said Josie her eyes shining through her tears, ‘I really do.’ Diana looked around her, suddenly surprised that they were sitting on the floor. ‘Then what are we doing sitting here?’ she said. ‘You’re getting married. That is so fantastic. C’me on, let’s dance!’ She staggered up, dragging Josie after her, and went to find Harry who was sitting looking slightly dazed in the corner, ‘Woohoo, you two getting married, that is so brilliant! Listen up, everyone, Harry and Josie have just got engaged!’ ‘This calls for champagne!’ someone shouted. ‘We don’t have any,’ laughed Josie, ‘we’ll have to do make do with vodka.’ ‘Vodka it is!’ said Diana. She busied herself filling people’s glasses, and then declared a toast, ‘To Harry and Josie!’ she said. ‘Harry and Josie!’ everyone said, raising their glasses and cheering, and the next half hour disappeared in a flurry of congratulations and back slapping. It was only as the party began to die to down that Diana remembered Philip. She looked round for him and couldn’t see him anywhere. Sneaky bastard. A bleep from her phone confirmed it. Sorry, had to dash. Catch you soon? This year, next year, sometime, never. She looked over at Josie caught in a romantic clinch with her future husband, and tried not to feel that she was getting left behind. In a bar in Australia, Antony Lambert, known to his friends as Ant, opened his laptop and checked his emails. He’d sent a rude message to his best friend, Harry, the previous day in response to the dire (in Ant’s mind at least) news that he was settling down and moving in with his girlfriend, Josie, after a ridiculously whirlwind romance lasting a few short months. Ant had been horrified, not least because at twenty-eight the notion of settling down seemed as far removed as it had when he’d first met Harry at uni ten years ago, but also because Harry had already dated Josie back then, and they’d lost touch. If she was so great, why hadn’t they stuck together before? Hmm? Ant’s motto was always look forward, never look back. He felt sure that Harry was making a big mistake, and had told him so in so many words. Well. Very few words actually. It had been more along the lines of What are you doing you stupid bastard? I thought Josie was all in the past? It seemed Harry had been remarkably swift in his reply. Their correspondence while Ant had been away had been in the main, short and sweet, and they’d often been known to go weeks without hearing from one another. It was only the imperative need to tell his best friend not make a complete dickhead of himself which had impelled Ant to write yesterday. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Hi mate, 1I hope you’re sitting down … 2 And I hope you are in a bar … 3 And I also hope you have a drink in your hand … What the …? Ant had a sip of his beer, and scrolled down to the bottom of the email where he read words which caused him to nearly spill his drink. He had to reread in case he’d got it wrong, but no, there it was in black and white. I know you’re not going to like this, mate, but it’s my life. So … the big news is Josie and I are getting married. Next year, September, we think. I know, I know. It’s sudden. And I’m going to have to put off travelling for a bit. But … I let her get away once. I’m not going to make that mistake again. Try to be happy for us. Harry. P.S. We’d like you to be best man. Best man. Harry wanted him to be best man? Could it get any worse? ‘Fuck me sideways,’ said Ant out loud. ‘I think it’s time I went home.’ Part One ‘Four days will quickly steep themselves in night Four nights will quickly dream away the time …’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Act II, Scene i ‘Magic tricks are all about dissembling. Distract the punter with your voice, or a bit of stage business, and they miss the actual trick itself. It’s easy when you know how.’ Freddie Puck; The Art of Illusion Chapter One ‘Is that the lot?’ said Harry as he paused to take a breather. Though early in the morning, the June sun was already hot and he was already working up a sweat. He looked on in horror as Josie, still somehow looking cool and collected in a strappy summer dress and sandals, came down the flat steps, with the second large holdall she had apparently packed for a simple weekend away. ‘How long are we planning to be away again?’ ‘This one isn’t mine, it’s Di’s,’ said Josie. Di had come to stay the night before, terrified of oversleeping on her own. ‘And before you start bitching about how Diana always takes advantage of me, she’s bringing her bigger one.’ ‘She’s got a bigger bag than this?’ Harry said as he took the bag from Josie, and tried to squeeze a space for it in the not-too-huge boot of his Honda Civic. A car that, not unnaturally, Ant had sneered at very loudly, as being ‘a girl’s car.’ Sometimes Harry wished Ant would keep his opinions to himself. But there was no chance of that. Ant, back from his travels, was louder and more opinionated than ever since his time away. It hadn’t taken him long to be employed by a flash advertising company (‘Recession, what recession?’ he’d queried) with more cash than sense and was driving down alone in his brand new top of the range Merc. He was planning to meet them at a motorway service station en route, as hilariously for Ant who was always overconfident, he appeared to have had an attack of nerves at the thought of arriving before them and meeting Josie’s parents on his own. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to fit this all in,’ said Harry, looking despairing as Diana, her ginger curls escaping from a straggly bun, tottered down the steps in high wedges, skinny jeans which accentuated every curve and a skimpy top which left nothing to the imagination, dragging an even bigger and more cumbersome bag behind her. ‘Di, you’re going to have to have your bag in the back with you,’ said Josie when she realised that there really was no more room in the boot. ‘Either that, or we’ll ring Ant up to see if he can take you in his car.’ ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Diana as she squashed herself into the back, complete with the offending bag. ‘Ant’s an unusual name.’ ‘It’s short for Anthony,’ said Harry, ‘though sometimes he goes by the name of Tony.’ ‘I knew a Tony once, he was a total wanker. What’s yours like?’ ‘A total wanker,’ said Josie, and Harry dug her in the ribs. ‘Well, he is,’ she protested, ‘as far as women are concerned. He’s charming and witty and funny of course, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.’ ‘He’s not that bad,’ protested Harry half-heartedly as he started up the car. ‘He so is,’ said Josie, ‘Don’t you remember Suzie at uni? Poor cow was so in love with Ant, and I lost count of the number of girls he cheated on her with. And still she came back for more.’ ‘I’d forgotten about her,’ said Harry. ‘Then there was the time we were out for my birthday and he started the evening with one girl and went home with another.’ ‘Oh God, and the time we met him at the cinema and he pretended not to see us because he was with the wife of the local landlord,’ said Harry. ‘I’d forgotten all that. But you never know. Maybe he’s changed since he’s been away.’ ‘I doubt it,’ said Josie. ‘He hasn’t stopped sulking since you asked him to be best man. Anyone would think you were committing suicide the way he goes on about the fact you’re getting married.’ ‘Well to Ant, marriage is a form of suicide,’ said Harry, as he turned left out of their road and headed for the main road which led to the motorway. ‘I can’t see him ever getting hitched. He’ll be trying to pull birds when he’s old and grey.’ ‘Birds,’ groaned Diana. ‘Does he really use the word birds?’ ‘Afraid so,’ said Josie. ‘but it’s all right, he doesn’t bite, honest.’ ‘To be fair to him,’ said Harry, ‘I think there was someone after uni he was quite serious about, and she ditched him. He’s always been really cagey about it, but I think she really hurt him.’ ‘Well then, maybe it’s time he got over it,’ said Diana. ‘Perhaps you can help,’ said Josie slyly. ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Di firmly, ‘he really doesn’t sound like my type.’ Within half an hour they were on the motorway and heading down to Cornwall, to Josie’s parents, where Josie’s mum was indulging in a spot of pre-wedding hysteria. After much dithering, Harry and Josie had only recently fixed the date for next June. They’d talked vaguely about September when they first got engaged, but it turned out getting married was like planning a military operation and no one in their right minds would attempt to organise a wedding in such a short space of time. Harry, who’d been hoping for something small and quiet, was beginning to realise his wishes were unlikely to be met. Josie’s mum, Nicola, had firmly taken charge since Christmas, when Harry had moved in with Josie, and now most of their spare time seemed to be taken up with wedding plans. Harry was beginning to find it a little wearing. Nicola had insisted on having a long weekend with Josie, Harry, the best man (Ant, naturally) and bridesmaid (Diana, of course), to plan things. Quite why he and Ant were needed was a mystery to Harry. So far his input into preparations was to have been told things, like what he had to wear (morning suit, top hat, and pink ties – Josie was very insistent on the pink) – who he was inviting (‘we get twenty-five friends each and twenty-five family, or in my case, forty family and twenty friends, as I have more family’), and where the event was going to take place (‘St Cuthbert’s of course,’ Josie’s mum opined, ‘it’s where we got married, and Josie was christened, and Reverend Paul has known her since she was little, so it’s perfect’). Just recently, the tone of the long phone conversations Josie was having with her mum seemed to have ratcheted up a notch. Having read in a magazine that it was all the rage to have live entertainment in the evening, Josie had got a bee in her bonnet about having not only fireworks, but possibly hiring jugglers and magicians for the night. Harry’s protests about the money had been ignored – he was beginning to appreciate his fianc?e had a steely side of which he’d been hitherto unaware – ‘Dad won’t mind,’ Josie had assured him, which was true. Josie’s dad Peter doted on his daughter and would spend any amount of money to keep her happy. But Harry minded. Peter was always polite to him, but he had the distinct impression that his future father-in-law was disappointed that his daughter had come home not with a city magnate, but a lowly paid journalist without much ambition. Harry would much rather have had a smaller affair, to which he and Josie could contribute financially, without him feeling so indebted to Josie’s parents. Harry still felt his career had time to get going. He’d always wanted to get into travel journalism, and had been planning to join Ant out in Australia when he met up with Josie again. Since then, everything had happened so fast that Harry had laid aside his ambitions to see something of the world. And when he’d tried to talk about it to Josie, she’d laughed and said, ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’ But the further the wedding preparations went on, the more he could feel that particular ambition receding, particularly as he had the sneaking suspicion that Nicola was already laying plans for them to move down to the neighbouring village as soon as they were able. She was a very forceful woman, and sometimes, he worried what Josie might be like in middle age – whether behind that mild-mannered image was a female tiger, just waiting to pounce on him. Harry sighed; he was beginning to wonder if he’d rushed into this marriage thing. He felt he was on a rollercoaster and couldn’t get off. ‘Why the heavy sigh?’ said Josie, ‘Is anything wrong’ The lightness of her touch on his arm, and her quick and ready sympathy were enough to bring him to his senses. He was marrying Josie, who was gorgeous, and everything he wanted in a woman. Of course it would be all right. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. In fact, nothing could be more right.’ Diana was regretting the amount of packing she’d done for a weekend away. But she was nervous. She’d only met Josie’s parents once or twice when they’d come up to London to see Josie and they were so posh, they’d turned her into a gibbering wreck. She wasn’t often ashamed of her council house upbringing, but a few days with Josie’s mum and dad had managed to make her feel inadequate. Josie hid her privileged upbringing well, and because she was so kind, went out of her way to put people at ease, so most people who met her in London would have had no idea of the luxury awaiting her at home. Of course, she took that for granted too, and was often puzzled when Diana mentioned that she couldn’t afford something, giving a delicate little frown and a perplexed smile. With anyone else, Diana might have felt envious, particularly since she’d bagged such a great prize in Harry, but Josie was such a joy to be around, envy just seemed like the wrong emotion. Harry was the kind of man any girl would be happy to have. Lovely, solid dependable Harry – a bit dull maybe for her tastes, but Diana had a soft spot for him. He was always kind and welcoming to her; she could do worse than have a Harry of her own. But men like Harry never came Diana’s way, which was partly her own fault of course. Diana had had to fight to get where she was – opposing her parents’ plans for her to go into law, to take advantage of the opportunities they never had,and choosing travel as a career instead (and the way that was going at the moment, she was going to have to admit to her dad soon it might have been a big mistake) – and learning the hard way that people let you down, especially in love. Josie had never had those kinds of experiences. Things had a habit of going her way, and sometimes that was an annoying trait in a best friend. But Josie was the kind of person it was impossible not to love, so Diana put such thoughts behind her as unworthy. She was the unkind one, Josie was not, and didn’t deserve anyone to be bitter and nasty about her. ‘So where are we meeting this friend of yours?’ Diana said, from her uncomfortable position in the back of the car, squashed up as she was against her big suitcase. She knew taking it had been a mistake, but she’d wanted to make sure she had something to wear for any occasion. ‘There’s a service station not far from Honiton,’ said Josie, ‘we thought we’d catch up with him there.’ ‘And how soon will we be there?’ said Diana, looking at her watch. They seemed to have been in the car for hours, and she felt hot, cramped and awkward. Diana didn’t drive herself. Although she’d miraculously passed her test, after having a car in the first few months she’d lived in London she’d decided the stress of driving the mean city streets was far too much to be going along with. Besides, after three prangs in as many weeks, she couldn’t afford the insurance any more. As a result, most of her travelling was done by train, and she really hadn’t a clue how long this journey would take. ‘Not for another half an hour at least,’ said Josie, ‘honestly, it’s like having a small child in the back. That’s the fourth time you’ve asked since you set off.’ ‘Well you two are like my surrogate mum and dad,’ grinned Diana. ‘Okay, I’m going to have a kip. Wake me when we get there.’ Josie was a bundle of nerves. It was only the second time she and Harry had visited her parents since their engagement, and this time she was bringing Diana and Ant. Her mother could be a terrible snob, and Josie knew that while she was too polite to say so, she thoroughly disapproved of Diana, whom she thought rather common. What she was going to make of Ant, the lord only knew. Josie just hoped he could manage to keep his mouth shut and behave himself. Knowing Ant, that was highly unlikely. She was also nervous about how Harry was going to get on with her parents too. They seemed to like him, but she suspected they were slightly disappointed in her choice. They’d wanted her to marry someone in the city, not an impoverished journalist – her dad’s clumsy jokes about them starving in garrets making it clear what he really thought. It didn’t matter either that Josie had a good career in marketing and was earning enough for both of them, and that more importantly she loved Harry to pieces and had never been happier then the last few months when they’d been living together; her parents were desperately old fashioned about life. As soon as Josie was married, she would be expected to stay at home and raise a family, which was why marrying someone rich was so important. They couldn’t see that that was what appealed to Josie about Harry. That he wasn’t rich, didn’t take much store by all of that. He was kind and compassionate, and the loveliest person Josie knew. They’d originally met and had a brief fling on their English course at university years before, but the physical distance between them afterwards had meant they’d drifted away from one another. Meeting Harry again at Amy’s wedding, and seeing how straightforward and uncomplicated he was after years of dating unsuitable and complicated men had made him instantly attractive. The fact he didn’t earn much money didn’t matter. She earned enough for the pair of them. It was a pity Mum and Dad didn’t see it like that. No doubt Dad at least, would be more impressed with Ant. He had the flash job and car, and was annoyingly good at charming the birds off the trees. Josie hoped Dad wouldn’t compare Harry unfavourably to his friend. ‘You all right, hon?’ she said to Harry, squeezing his knee hard. He was very quiet, and she had a feeling he was even more nervous than she was. It was going to be a long weekend. ‘Yeah, fine,’ he said. ‘Just hope I can get through the weekend without making too much of an idiot of myself.’ ‘You’ll be fine,’ Josie assured him, ‘Mum and Dad love you.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back while she said this. Perhaps if she wanted it to be true enough, it would be … She looked at her watch, they’d been on the road for nearly three hours and they weren’t too far from Honiton now. Josie turned back to Diana who was snoring in the back. ‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead. We’re nearly there. Time to meet up with the man of your dreams.’ ‘Wha-a?’ Diana jerked herself awake. ‘Just saying, we’re nearly at Honiton. And finally you get to meet Ant. It could be a match made in heaven.’ ‘From everything you’ve said, I doubt it,’ snorted Diana. ‘You never know,’ said Josie, ‘he might surprise you.’ ‘Hmm, we’ll see,’ said Diana, but Josie was amused to see she’d got out her compact and was anxiously checking to see if her make up hadn’t smudged. ‘The best man and bridesmaid have to get together,’ declared Josie. ‘It’s the law.’ ‘In your dreams, pal,’ said Diana, chucking an empty packet of crisps at her friend. ‘I’m happily single, and however good looking the best man is, that’s how I plan to stay.’ Ant sat leaning on his convertible, sipping a coffee, and smoking a cigarette. The sun was very bright and the sky a clear blue, so the sunglasses he had put on, part affectation, part a means of deflecting the hangover from the night before, had turned out useful. His head was pounding and he could have done with a couple of hours more kip. God he wished he hadn’t been persuaded to go to Cornwall for the weekend to meet Harry’s new in-laws. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d even agreed to do it, but Harry was his best mate. And despite being certain that he was making a huge mistake, Ant felt duty bound to support him, and even he had to concede, certain as he was that it would all go pear shaped, Josie was pretty gorgeous and a lovely person to boot. If Harry hadn’t got in there first … In fact, thinking about it, how had Harry got in there first? From memory it was Ant who had introduced them at some party or other. And then she’d invited them all down to her place one summer. Ant felt sure he’d gone down with the express intention of nabbing Josie, but it hadn’t happened. Unbelievable that Josie could have possibly chosen dull old Harry over him. He looked at his watch. Harry had thought they’d be arriving around midday, but there was no sign of them, yet. Ant had been at a sales conference in Salisbury (hence the hangover) and come straight on from there. He checked his BlackBerry and dealt with a few outstanding work issues, before ringing up Harry to see where he’d got to. ‘Harry, where are you mate? I’m feeling like a right idiot standing here in this car park on my own.’ ‘It’s Josie,’ said a crisp clear voice on the other end. Josie’s voice sparkled like a babbling brook, he’d forgotten what a lovely sound it was. ‘And we’ll be with you in about five minutes. Don’t be so impatient.’ Delicious. Josie even sounded lovely when she was telling him off. Harry was a lucky man. No doubt about that. Five minutes later, true to Josie’s word, Harry’s poxy little Honda Civic drove into the car park. It really was a girl’s car. Putting out his cigarette, Ant unrolled himself from his position and strode over to say hello. ‘Harry, great to see you, mate!’ he said giving him a thump on the back and feeling absurdly affectionate towards his oldest friend. ‘You, too!’ said Harry punching him in the ribs. ‘Josie, you look lovely as ever,’ he said, giving her a hug and huge kiss on the lips. ‘Flatterer,’ said Josie, neatly escaping from his grasp. ‘And who have we here?’ Ant noted with pleasure a very fetching pair of legs encased in a pair of skinny jeans, emerging from the back of the Civic. ‘Ant, meet my friend, Diana,’ said Josie with a smile. ‘Diana, this is Ant.’ Ant nearly dropped his coffee in shock, as he followed the legs up (via a very and the jeans and busty top) to a ginger (she said auburn) head of hair and pretty face, with those emerald green eyes he remembered with clarity even though they’d last met eight years ago. ‘You!’ they said simultaneously. On a balmy summer evening, anything can happen … the new enchanting and entertaining novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here: MIDSUMMER MAGIC: 9780007464487 (http://ads.harpercollins.com/bobauk?isbn=9780007464487) Four for Home (#ulink_58c1fcbf-2b75-5547-b0eb-8f31c0708413) Miranda Dickinson ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – the Maynard Sisters Theatre Company proudly presents … The Three Beautiful Princesses!’ Jim Maynard’s chest swelled with pride as his eldest daughter introduced her latest theatrical extravaganza. Looking down at the handwritten programme, painstakingly decorated with wax crayoned flowers and unicorn stickers, he smiled. The Three Beautiful Princesses a musical play by Daisy Heartsease Maynard Starring Daisy Maynard age 9 with Guin Maynard age 7 and Elsie Maynard age 5 and a bit Enjoy the play xx ‘I am Princess Jewel, and I am a beautiful princess!’ exclaimed Daisy, already tall for her age, her hair messily plaited under a crown of silver Christmas tinsel. ‘I come from a faraway kingdom and I have two beautiful sisters …’ She glared, stage right, towards the wriggling and giggling long Indian silk curtain over the patio doors leading to the garden. ‘Comeon…’ The curtain gave one final squirm and two blonde-haired girls emerged, their wonky tinsel crowns and too-long bedsheet cloaks causing great annoyance to their playwright sibling. ‘I am Princess Snowflake and I can talk to unicorns,’ said the older of the two, her russet red cheeks and baby blue eyes shining as she held her youngest sister’s hand. ‘And I am …’ the smallest Maynard sister’s cherub-like face crumpled in consternation, ‘… I am …’ ‘Princess Poppy …’ Guin prompted in a loud stage whisper. Elsie’s smile beamed back into life. ‘I am Princess Poppy and I have a puppy called Spot.’ ‘No you don’t,’ Daisy hissed. ‘You have a magical talking bird called Cassandra.’ Elsie’s lip jutted out. ‘But I don’t want a bird. I want a puppy.’ ‘It’s only pretend,’ Guin interjected, ever the practical peacemaker. ‘Then I can have a pretend puppy,’ Elsie replied, her stubborn streak as bold as ever. Jim held up his hands. ‘Girls, it doesn’t matter whether Elsie has a puppy or a bird.’ ‘But it’s my play,’ Daisy moaned. ‘And I’m the oldest, so they should do what I tell them.’ ‘You’re a bossyboots, Daisy!’ ‘No I’m not!’ Rolling her eyes, Guin stepped between her sisters. ‘Let’s do the song now.’ Pacified, the eldest and youngest Maynard sisters obediently fell into line, singing Tomorrow from Annie with breathless enthusiasm. Jim relaxed back in his old striped deckchair, sipped a cup of chai and listened to his daughters’ voices mingling with the summer hum of bees from the flowerbeds surrounding the garden. This is what Sunday afternoons were made for, he mused to himself: fun and laughter and music and family. The warm July sun glinted in the windows of the three-storey family home, sparkling on the three tinsel crowns and golden blonde heads of his daughters. Like sunshine personified, his mother always said of the three little girls when they visited her cottage in Hove. You have a little cluster of sunbeams dancing round you, Jim. Never forget how blessed you are. Grandma Flo was right, but then she had a knack of being right about most things. She had been right when he first brought nineteen-year-old Moira O’Shaughnessy to meet her, himself barely twenty and smitten with the blonde haired beauty he had met on his travels. ‘She’s a storm waiting to happen,’ his mother had warned, her sudden change in demeanour catching him off-guard when Moira had gone. ‘You watch that one, Jim, or else she’ll break your heart.’ But Moira Abigail O’Shaughnessy had stolen Jim Maynard’s heart and nothing – not even the warning words of his beloved mother – could dissuade him from his chosen path. While Guin was the spitting image of him, Jim often caught glimpses of Moira in Elsie and Daisy – and even now it tore at his heart to see their mother’s likeness: a bittersweet, constant reminder of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Despite everything – despite the lies and the barrage of words hurled in anger, despite the sleepless nights and silent days – he knew he still loved her. The emptiness he had felt for so long in her company was now echoed in the emptiness of his life without her in it and, to his shame, he suspected that if she were to relent even now he would run back into her arms and forget it all. ‘Daddy, you’re not listening!’ Daisy’s voice by his ear made him start. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. What were you saying?’ Her sigh was laden with more exasperation than her years could contain. ‘I said that you have to be the King and grant us each a wish.’ ‘Ah. Righto.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am King James the fourth of Brightonshire and I will grant you each a wish.’ ‘Daddy. Not like that.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘You have to say, “I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?” Do you want me to write it down for you?’ Jim suppressed a grin. ‘No, I think I’ll manage, Daisy. I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?’ ‘Well done, Daddy!’ Elsie applauded him, the suddenness of it bringing unexpected tears to Jim’s eyes. He was glad he had decided to wear his sunglasses this afternoon. He gave a little bow, revelling in the beaming smiles of the three most precious people in his life. * Once, his daughters had brought joy to Moria, too. When Daisy was born, Moira’s every waking hour had been filled with the thrill of caring for her new baby. Even though they agreed to take turns for night feeds, Moira almost always appeared at her husband’s side in the small hours of the morning, her hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed at their firstborn child. ‘I can’t believe we made her,’ she would whisper, her breath warm as a summer zephyr setting his pulse racing despite the gnawing ache of tiredness in his body. This was all Jim had ever wanted from the first day he set eyes on the woman he would one day call his wife. In that moment, he had known without doubt that anything was possible when this woman was by his side. Growing up with an absent father and a fiercely independent mother, Jim had promised himself that when his opportunity for fatherhood came, he would be the most committed, loving father he could be. All the things he had yearned so much for during his childhood he pursued as a father, first for Daisy, then Guin and, finally, Elsie. His initial fear that he may have inherited his own father’s lack of paternal instinct vanished the second he laid eyes on the tiny pink form of his first daughter; from then on, fatherhood fitted him perfectly. ‘You’re a natural,’ his mother marvelled, watching her son cradling his daughter on their first visit to her home. ‘Oh Jim, it makes me so proud to see it!’ Flo had been right about that, too. Being a father was what Jim Maynard was created for – of that he was convinced. He never once questioned the commitment, the long hours, the trials of teething and terrible twos. Nappies and snot and vomit were never insurmountable challenges; neither were long-running squabbles as three growing, headstrong girls vied for supremacy in the seaside townhouse. Because for each messy, headache-inducing negative there were a hundred positives: long weekend afternoons spent on Brighton beach, throwing stones into the sea and consuming ice creams with sticky enthusiasm; magical bedtime stories shared under makeshift Bedouin bedspread tents; feeding the ducks with bullet-hard chunks of bread made the day before by three pairs of little hands in the family kitchen; and the constant surprise of childlike creativity bursting out across the house – paintings and drawings pinned to the walls and stuck on the fridge, epic drama productions in the dining room and back garden, and snippets of song floating down the wooden staircases. Jim loved it all; but most of all he loved the free spirit of his girls – unfettered by convention, or expectation. He hoped they would always maintain this, always be free to be their own person in a world ruled by labels and boxes. He understood the importance of their freedom because it was part of who he was. From an early age, Jim had dreamed of travelling the world – a dream encouraged by his mother despite the disapproving remarks of his maternal grandparents, who hailed from an era when every man knew his place and accepted it without question. Growing up in the brave new world of the early fifties, with a convention-defying mother who refused to remarry when her good-for-nothing first husband abandoned his family, Jim knew that his life would be lived differently – that anything was possible. His uncle Sidney, an officer in the merchant navy, presented him with an illuminated globe from one of his distant travels and Jim would lay awake late at night plotting imaginary expeditions to exotic locations. India was a favourite destination even then – and as he entered his teens and Britain entered the Swinging Sixties, he became increasingly drawn to the culture, music and mysticism of that great country. Several of his friends were already there, and the brightly coloured postcards they sent back to him urged the young Jim to make haste and join them. They spoke of a land filled with colour and spectacle: where every shade was a hundred times brighter and every flavour magnified. While Jim worked extra hours in his father’s furniture store and gardened for older people in his street, he dreamed of walking India’s streets, taking in every experience the country could offer him. For as long as he could remember, India had signified adventure, promise and freedom: but more than that, he sensed that he would become a different person for having been there. India was to be the making of him. As soon as he had saved enough money, he had headed for Goa, staying for a month in Vasco da Gama before venturing further afield. It was while travelling in R?jasth?n that he first met Moira. He had arranged to meet an old school friend in Udaipur – a beautiful city surrounded by water, known as ‘the Venice of India’ – but his train from Jaipur was delayed for five hours, so that the sun was already beginning to set when he arrived in the city. Walking through streets bathed in the rose-gold glow of early evening sunlight, Jim made his way towards the small hostel where his friend was staying. The city was a multisensory assault of noise, heat, colour and scent, at once exotic and familiar, and Jim was swept away by the raw beauty of it all. When he reached his destination he was surprised to discover not a backstreet apartment block but an imposing dusky pink palace, its carved balustrades and gothic arched windows a faded reminder of its former British Empire days. Hibiscus-framed stone steps led up to the main entrance, through a crumbling archway towards a small courtyard garden with a bubbling stone fountain at the building’s centre. And there, dressed in a long white shirt, jeans and sandals, her head swathed in a cool white scarf, was Moira O’Shaughnessy. Jim had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life – even the city that had beguiled him so completely since his arrival seemed to dim in comparison. In the middle of the chaos of Udaipur, Moira appeared as a vision of calm – poised, contained. As Jim gazed at her it was as if coolness emanated from her, like a frosted glass of iced water in the midst of the R?jasth?ni heat. For some time, he didn’t know what to do. Should he approach her? Say something? His mouth was dry and words had all but deserted him, yet his head was awash with thoughts. Eventually, he was rescued by the familiar voice of Ray, his friend, calling from the third floor balcony overlooking the garden. As Jim raised his head to greet him, Moira looked up, too, and when his eyes returned to her he saw she was smiling at him. ‘I didn’t know you were expecting company, Ray,’ she said as Jim’s friend appeared beside them in the garden. ‘Surprising though it may be, Moira, I do actually have friends in this world apart from you,’ Ray grinned back and for an awful moment Jim feared that they were a couple. ‘Better get the formal introductions done then, hadn’t we? Jim Maynard, may I present the wonderful young actress Moira O’Shaughnessy. Moira’s here “finding herself” before embarking on her glittering showbiz career, isn’t that right?’ ‘You’re the only drama queen in this palace, Ray,’ she scolded him, holding out her slender hand to Jim. When he took it, he was surprised at how warm it was. A gust of hot breeze shuddered through the Malati blooms which dripped large white, jasmine-shaped flowers like pearls from trails along the balconies overhead, sending a waft of clove scent towards Jim and Moira as their hands touched for the first time. From that day to this, Jim would always associate the smell of cloves with her – his breath catching in his throat whenever he used the spice in food he cooked at home for his young family. At Ray’s invitation, Jim stayed in Udaipur for three weeks, initially exploring the city with his friend but increasingly venturing out with Moira. Ray, sensing the growing attraction between them, made his excuses and left them alone – a kindness which would later be repaid when Jim made him best man at his wedding. On the last night of his stay, sitting hand-in-hand with Moira at sunset on the banks of Lake Pichola, surrounded by ancient palaces, temples and hills, Jim found the courage to kiss her. In the midst of such history, it was as if they were outside of time itself – caught up in a magical world where nothing else mattered except the touch of their lips. He knew he was in love – and Moira felt it, too. Swept up in a tide of emotion, she refused to let him leave alone and, the next day, Ray waved off not one but two of his friends at Udaipur station. They returned to England together, Moira surprising her mother by moving back home to Shoreham-by-Sea after several years of living in London. ‘I need to be near him,’ she had insisted, despite Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s insistence that she continue to pursue her career in the capital. ‘I love him, Ma. I’m going to marry him.’ While Jim’s mother had privately voiced her concerns about the suitability of her son’s wife-to-be, she became supportive of the young couple as soon as she could see their determination to marry. Moira’s mother, on the other hand, made no secret of her feelings on the matter. ‘He’ll hold you back,’ she warned her daughter, in full earshot of Jim. ‘You’re destined for greater things than keeping home for him. I didn’t raise you to be ordinary, Moira Abigail. I raised you to be a star.’ ‘I can still act in London and live in Brighton,’ Moira argued, gripping Jim’s arm as if it were a lifebuoy. ‘Jim doesn’t want me to surrender my career. This is what I want, Ma.’ Never pacified, Mrs O’Shaughnessy maintained her objections, taking every possible opportunity to remind Jim of his unsuitability for her acting prot?g? daughter. Moira paid no attention, but Jim – despite appearances – found her disapproval painful. In later years, when he was alone, her words of dissent would plague him: had she been right? Had he stifled the promise of the woman he loved? * The rich tang of bubbling curry rose through the townhouse to meet the laughter of the Maynard sisters as Jim opened the front door and ushered his mother inside. ‘How are the three tornadoes?’ she grinned, hanging her handbag on the carved wooden balustrade and glancing up the stairs. ‘Overexcited,’ Jim replied over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘We had another of Daisy’s theatrical masterpieces this afternoon.’ ‘Another one? Well, well, that young lady’s becoming positively prolific. I’m sorry I missed it.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ve a feeling they’re planning an evening performance.’ Jim smiled to himself as he stirred the spicy sweet potato and lentil dahl, savouring the Indian spice-infused steam. Somehow the house itself seemed to relax whenever Grandma Flo arrived. In the three years since Moira’s departure he had come to a new understanding of how special his mother was. She had been a constant support, picking up Moira’s discarded baton and running with it – a selfless act of devotion to both him and his girls that he would forever be grateful for. In the early days of his sudden single-fatherhood, Flo had practically moved in; cooking meals, cleaning the house and running around after three very confused children while Jim stared vacantly at the seemingly irreparable shards of his life that surrounded him. She had never once complained, always present and tirelessly attentive, making sense of the chaos of a home and life that had become alien to her son. Little by little, her patient persistence paid off, gently coaxing Jim back into the world he was so reluctant to face. He thanked her, of course – over and over again – but even this evening as he prepared the meal, he felt as if it would never be enough to express what his mother’s involvement meant to him. He gave the saucepan a final stir, poured a cup of Assam tea from the kingfisher-blue teapot and rummaged in a drawer for knives and forks. ‘Right, dinner’s almost ready. I’ll just set the table and then call the girls down.’ To his surprise, when he entered the dining room, Jim found Flo holding his wedding album. ‘I really don’t understand why you still have this,’ she said. ‘It’s there if the girls want to see it,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the fistful of cutlery he carried to avoid seeing what he knew his mother’s stare contained. ‘They have a right to know.’ ‘They’re still too young to understand, thank heavens. I’ve held my tongue through all of this, but honestly, Jim! That woman makes a mockery of you, leaves you on your own with three young children and you still can’t be angry with her. I swear if she walked back into this house today you would carry on as though nothing had happened.’ She accepted the cup of tea from him, but her darkened expression remained. Jim had heard it a million times before, but now was not the day to challenge his mother. She was entitled to her view as much as anyone, but he didn’t have to agree with her. It was nobody’s business what he truly thought or felt – and his right alone to keep it hidden. ‘Would you mind setting the table for me, Mum? Oh, and while I remember, after dinner you must have one of the biscuits Daisy made at school, or else we’ll never hear the end of it.’ ‘Grandma Flo!’ Guin’s excited squeal heralded the noisy arrival of three very excited children as they burst into the room. Jim whisked the teacup away from his mother’s hands seconds before her arms were filled with blonde-headed invaders, catching her thankful grin as he did so. ‘Now, now, calm down lovelies! Stop wriggling for a moment and let me look at you. Girls, I do believe your father has been stretching you again.’ ‘No he hasn’t,’ Daisy giggled. ‘We’re just growing. Look!’ She broke free of her grandmother’s embrace and pointed to the highest of a vertical row of pencil marks on the wall by the dining room door. ‘That’s how tall I am now!’ Guin and Elsie followed suit, excitedly chatting at once about their new heights, although Elsie couldn’t quite remember which one was hers, pointing at several in her haste to be part of the impromptu show-and-tell. ‘Gracious, isn’t that something? I can see you’re eating your greens then.’ ‘Trees!’ Elsie yelled. ‘Daddy gives me green trees for my tea and they make me grow big.’ ‘Broccoli,’ Jim explained, seeing Grandma Flo’s confusion. ‘I learned early on with Elsie that she wouldn’t eat it unless we called it green trees.’ His mother’s eyes glistened with pride. ‘You’re a natural, James. A wonderful father …’ The sadness in her expression completed the sentence as a moment of understanding passed between them. Jim nodded. ‘I know.’ ‘Grandma, have you seen the pretty dress book?’ Guin asked, and Flo and Jim turned to see – too late – the wedding album in her small hands. Swallowing hard, Grandma Flo unpacked her calmest smile. ‘Yes, I have, darling.’ Daisy and Elsie were crowding around the photograph album now, causing Jim to look away as a sharp shard of pain pierced him. Instinctively, his mother reached out and took his hand, her eyes never once leaving her grandchildren. ‘Daddy looks so handsome,’ Guin said, stroking the cellophane that covered the photographs on the open page. ‘And what about the lady in the pretty dress?’ Grandma Flo asked, her expression steady. ‘Do you know who she is?’ ‘That’s Mummy,’ Daisy replied, her baby blue eyes suddenly old beyond their years. ‘She doesn’t live with us anymore. But it’s OK: we have Daddy.’ Jim’s smile at his little girl belied the tears he was biting back. * The day of the wedding could almost have been a portent for what was to come, being beset by angry thunderstorms that churned the sea, turning the waves a murderous dark green as they crashed onto the shingle beach. But for the young couple embarking on a new chapter of their lives, it was everything their relationship was: drama, passion and high adventure. Moira laughed when her mother insisted on crossing herself repeatedly whenever another rumble of thunder punctuated the wedding service in the small Roman Catholic chapel of her hometown. ‘Stop being so superstitious, Mother! This is the happiest day of my life.’ It was not – as was blatantly obvious to everyone else at the ceremony and small reception afterwards – the happiest day of Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s life, however: a fact evident in her disgruntled complaints and pursed lips over everything from the order of service and the playing of the church organ, to the flowers, the food and the wedding cake. Her vociferous opinions rose like the growing storm overhead until it appeared she was engaged in a shouting match with nature itself. Jim’s mother, aunts and friends all failed in their attempts to silence her, their intervention only serving to heighten the woman’s disdain. But Moira and Jim saw nothing but each other: the thunderstorm, raging mother-in-law and everything else in the dining room of the seafront hotel paling in the blaze of their love for each other. The photographs in the album attested to this fact. ‘Daddy looks so handsome,’ Guin breathed, her small fingers tracing the outline of Jim’s figure in the photographs. ‘And everyone looks happy. One day I’m going to marry someone just as handsome as Daddy.’ Jim reached out to ruffle the mess of curls on her head. ‘I’m sure you will, darling.’ ‘Let’s put this away, shall we?’ Jim’s mother suggested, gently pulling the photograph album from her granddaughter’s hands. ‘Awww! Just a bit longer, Grandma Flo!’ Guin protested. ‘I love looking at Mummy and Daddy when they were happy.’ Jim looked away, the poignancy of his daughter’s words too intense. ‘I don’t,’ Daisy said, suddenly. ‘Mummy doesn’t love us any more.’ ‘Daisy Heartsease! What a thing to say!’ Daisy ignored her grandmother’s rebuke and stood her ground. ‘It’s true! She promised to love Daddy forever, but she lied. Just like she lies about everything.’ Grandma Flo cast a startled glance in the direction of her son who was gazing out at the garden. ‘Sweetheart, sometimes grown-ups have the best intentions but they find they can’t keep promises. It’s nobody’s fault when things go wrong …’ ‘Why did Mummy go away?’ Elsie asked suddenly, her small cheeks reddening. ‘Why doesn’t she want us any more?’ Heart shattering at the sound of his youngest daughter’s stark summation, Jim turned back into the room. ‘Oh, baby. Your mum loves you.’ ‘She said she loves us, but she isn’t here,’ Daisy agreed, joining her youngest sister in a defiant show of solidarity in the middle of the dining room carpet. Guin burst into tears and Flo gathered her into a secure embrace. ‘Of course your mummy loves you my darling,’ she said, her eyes searching out a response from her son. Say something to them, James … Words failed Jim as he stared helplessly back. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie? His heart still yearned for their mother, but how could he justify what she did? Given the apparent ease with which Moira had discarded him and their girls, what other conclusion could there really be? * The signs had been there, of course, but Jim had chosen not to see them. Maybe he thought it was temporary, or could be solved with enough love and time; perhaps he was blinded by his own unwillingness to accept the inevitable. When hindsight illuminated the truth it was as obvious as the sun in the summer sky, but by then it was too late. Moira’s mood had blackened over several months; she had lost a worrying amount of weight, hiding her body beneath voluminous jumpers; and her eyes, ringed with permanent dark circles, seemed to be sinking inside her. She abandoned her expensive London salon shampoo and scraped her lifeless hair back into a severe ponytail. Her interest in everything waned: even the weekly arrival of her copy of The Stage, which had been a highlight of her week for as long as Jim could remember. Instead of being eagerly pored over, the trade papers lay untouched in a pile by the front door, greying with dust. Jim saw all of this with gnawing concern, but said nothing. In fact, neither of them said anything: to the point where Jim was tempted to provoke arguments simply to break the silence that hung like a shroud between them. But then, quite unexpectedly, an old RADA friend of Moira’s who had since become an agent, called with a job offer. A production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof would tour local secondary schools – and the part of Maggie was hers if she wanted it. To Jim’s relief, Moira appeared to rally, and the mood in the seaside townhouse lifted. He helped her learn lines, while the girls played contentedly around them. Her appearance improved and her smile made a welcome return. And Jim, seeing a glimpse of the girl he loved, believed the storm had passed. Three weeks after Elsie’s second birthday, Moira asked Jim to take the girls to Brighton beach to give her time to focus. The start of the tour was less than a fortnight away and nerves were getting the better of her. ‘Two hours, Jim. That’s all I need to sort this.’ So Jim gathered their children and set off for an afternoon of seaside fun. Walking along the promenade, the early summer sun warming his head and the laughter of his daughters warming his heart, he allowed himself to relax. Contentment that had eluded him for so many months now flooded his being and he felt alive again. It was like stepping out of a cold, dark building into brilliant sunlight – and it felt good. He bought ice creams from a kiosk on Brighton Pier, and they strolled together along its length, watching as green waves moved far below through the gaps in the boardwalk. It was a perfect afternoon, with seagulls wheeling lazily overhead and the tang of sea salt in the air – and life felt good again. ‘Daddy?’ Elsie’s face was one-third human and two-thirds raspberry ripple as she gazed up at Jim. ‘Yes poppet?’ ‘Are we going on holiday?’ ‘No, honey. But then we don’t need to, do we? It’s like being on holiday right here.’ ‘So are we going on holiday when we get home, then?’ Jim suppressed a grin as he looked at his youngest’s seriousness. ‘No, darling.’ ‘But we must be going on holiday, Daddy!’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because Mummy got the big suitcase out.’ ‘That’s right,’ Guin agreed. ‘I saw her put it in the downstairs loo when you were making breakfast. Perhaps it’s a surprise for when we get back.’ At that moment it was as if the world froze on its axis. Jim’s ice cream cone dropped to the boards of the pier as he scooped Elsie into his arms and grabbed Guin’s hand. ‘Girls, we have to go.’ ‘But we only just got here,’ Daisy protested, following her father as he walked quickly towards the pier exit. Saturday strollers milled aimlessly across their path, causing Jim to swerve around them, but once his feet hit the tarmac of the promenade he broke into a run, dragging Guin alongside him with Daisy struggling to keep up. Terrified, Elsie burst into tears, her pitiful wails loud as a siren in Jim’s ears as he ran. ‘Daddy! Slow down! Where are we going?’ Guin shouted. ‘We’re just … I have to go back … I forgot something …’ he panted, a terrifying image of what he dreaded most hanging stubbornly before his eyes. ‘I don’t want to go home!’ Elsie sobbed. ‘It’s all going to be fine,’ he lied, his heart plummeting as he rounded the corner of their street and saw the waiting taxi. Reaching the gate, he stopped, lowering Elsie into the arms of her eldest sister. ‘Girls, just wait here, OK? I won’t be a minute.’ Staring at him, Guin took Daisy’s hand and Jim walked into the house. ‘What’s going on?’ Startled, Moira froze in the hallway, the packed suitcase in her hand and folded coat over her arm answering the question before she spoke. ‘I’m – I have to do this. I’m sorry.’ ‘No. No, you don’t have to do anything until we’ve talked, Moira. Where are you going? How long are you going for?’ Guilt dragged her shoulders towards the tiled hallway floor. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Is that all you can say?’ ‘That’s all there is to say.’ ‘Don’t do this …’ ‘I don’t have a choice!’ she yelled. ‘This place smothers me, Jim! I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything! I don’t know who I am anymore …’ ‘You’re my wife. And their mother …’ Jim pointed through the open doorway towards the three small, forlorn figures at the end of the garden path, ‘or had you forgotten that?’ ‘None of it matters, don’t you see? This isn’t who I am, Jim! It’s not what I was destined for.’ ‘But they need you—,’ he stepped forward, placing his hand on her birdlike wrist, ‘—I need you …’ Her eyes met his and the coldness of them made him draw back. ‘But I don’t need any of you.’ She brushed past him and walked out of the house. As Jim’s universe began to implode, a taxi door slammed and the shock of three young screams shattered the calm of the quiet suburban street … * ‘I am Princess Poppy and I have a magic bird called Cassandra who can talk,’ Elsie grinned proudly at Daisy, who beamed back, ‘… and a puppy called Spot.’ Jim shrugged as Daisy’s face fell. ‘Sounds like a good compromise to me, darling.’ He sat back in his armchair, pride blazing within him as he watched his daughters performing their latest masterpiece for their beloved grandmother. How far we’ve all come. He saw Daisy, strong, confident, her character already suggesting the beautiful young woman she would one day be; Guin, independent and full of energy, refusing to compromise and proud to discover her own way through life; and little Elsie, remarkably resilient at such a young age and developing a sense of humour that would no doubt serve her well in the future. My beautiful family… Whatever lay ahead of them, Jim Maynard was confident he and his girls would be fine. ‘… and they all lived happily ever after. The End!’ THE END Four for Home is the story of a relationship that comes to define one man’s life. I wanted to look at how love can bind and break people – and how life’s unexpected twists and turns bring us to places we never imagined. Jim Maynard is a central character in my novel When I Fall in Love – and this is the story of his incredible journey from young traveller to devoted father of three. I hope you enjoy it! An exclusive extract from When I Fall in Love will follow the short story, drop me a line and tell me what you think. You can chat to me on Twitter @wurdsmyth, join the lovelies on my Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Miranda-Dickinson/151177097525 and see my blog and vlogs at my website: www.miranda-dickinson.com. Looking forward to meeting you! Read on for an exclusive extract of Miranda Dickinson’s novel, When I Fall In Love: (#ulink_473a286e-54c0-5131-bf47-d7faf89fb832) CHAPTER ONE Not supposed to be like this ‘Excuse me, miss?’ Elsie Maynard looked up from her half-crossed-out shopping list to see the hulking figure of a security guard blocking her way. ‘Hi. Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush, actually, so if you’ll just …’ ‘I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, please.’ This was the last thing she needed today. Not only had her lunch break been delayed by forty-five minutes by a particularly persistent wafer-cone salesman but also, in her haste to complete all the shopping tasks on her list, she had left work without her umbrella just as the heavens opened. And now this … ‘I’ve told you, I don’t have time to stop.’ The huge security guard gave a world-weary sigh and clamped an enormous hand rather too heavily on her shoulder. ‘I must insist, miss. I believe you have goods you have not paid for, so if you will just accompany me back into the shop, please …’ What on earth was this man-mountain on about? Of course she had paid! What kind of person did he think she was? Incensed at the very notion, Elsie opened her mouth to protest, when a new voice interrupted her. ‘Hey. Can I help?’ He was young, arguably handsome, with dark brown hair and green eyes. Everything about him gave the impression of someone in complete control: from his neat haircut to the well-cut suit and overcoat he wore, together with the fact that, frustratingly, he was apparently immune to the large splats of rain Elsie could feel soaking through her too-thin work uniform and tights. Over his shoulder Elsie caught sight of a blonde-haired young woman dressed in a turquoise and black Fifties diner waitress outfit, looking as if somebody had just tipped a bucket of water over her head – and her heart sank as she realised it was her own reflection in the shop window. Mr Impervious-to-Rain’s smile would probably have been welcome, were it not for Elsie’s sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying the sight of her, bedraggled, flustered and now squirming with embarrassment on the steps of the high street chemist’s. ‘I’m fine, thank you. It’s just a misunderstanding …’ she began, but Mount Kilimanjaro had turned his attention from her to seek solidarity with the recent male addition to the street spectacle. ‘She hasn’t paid,’ he confided, pointing a thick finger at the haemorrhoid preparation and earwax softener in Elsie’s hand, ‘for those items.’ Oh. My. Life. In her fury at being accused of theft, Elsie had completely forgotten the two quite possibly most embarrassing items in the whole world that she now held. But of course she had paid for them! Hadn’t she? The young man suppressed a smile and Elsie felt her stomach lurch again as cold raindrops permeated her collar and began to run down the back of her neck. ‘I’m sure it’s just a small misunderstanding,’ he smiled affably at the gargantuan unsmiling man still gripping Elsie’s shoulder. ‘Look, here’s twenty quid. Can’t be any more than that, can it?’ A brief glimpse of softness flashed across the security guard’s steely expression. ‘Well …’ Sensing his opponent weakening, the young man’s smile eased wider. ‘I imagine you see this kind of thing every day, huh? Lunchtime shoppers, brains left at the office, so many shiny things to buy that they make one tiny slip of judgement …’ He turned the whiteness of his sincerity on Elsie, a move which may have been intended to comfort but had the directly opposite effect. ‘I mean, this girl seems very lovely and not really your average shoplifter, eh?’ The steel returned as Mountain Man surveyed her. ‘Takes all sorts.’ ‘I’m sure it does, officer. But, trust me, I see all manner of felons in the course of my job and I can spot a wrong ’un a mile off. This, sir, is not one of them.’ This? Despite the help obviously being offered by the smartly dressed stranger beside her, being referred to as an inanimate object was a step too far for Elsie. ‘Now hang on a minute …’ Her planned tirade was halted by a raised, gloved hand and a look that threatened dire consequences if she defied his gesture. Fuming, she dug her drenched heels into the pavement and glared at him. ‘Come on, twenty quid?’ he continued. ‘I’ll even go back into the shop with you to get a receipt. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’ To Elsie’s amazement, the security guard shrugged his bulky shoulders and released her. ‘All the same to me,’ he muttered, pocketing the twenty-pound note and turning back towards the store. ‘Just tell your girlfriend to pay a bit more attention next time.’ ‘What? I’m not his gir’ ‘Absolutely. Stay there, darling. I’ll be back in a moment.’ Smiling like an advert for tooth whitening toothpaste, he winked at Elsie as he accompanied the guard inside the shop. Gazing down in utter disbelief at the questionable items in her hand, Elsie remained frozen to the spot trying to process what had just happened. One minute she had been dashing around the huge high street chemist on the corner of Brighton’s North Street and Queen’s Road looking for baby wipes and mascara, the next she had been interrupted by her father calling to ask her to pick up some embarrassing but necessary items for him … Maybe her mind had been elsewhere – especially given the important decision she had made that morning – but she had paid for the items, she was sure. Who would try to steal pile preparation and earwax remover anyway? Certainly not Elsie Maynard, assistant manager of Sundae & Cher ice cream caf?, upstanding citizen of Brighton and the last person on the planet to ever consider shoplifting. Even as a teenager she had always maintained an unblemished record, her fear of getting into trouble only strengthened by witnessing the fallout from minor misdemeanours involving her two older sisters (more often than not involving overindulgence in alcohol and trips home in panda cars …) ‘There, all sorted.’ The smiling man was back, a triumphal glow from his recent chivalrous endeavours lighting his face. He handed her a receipt. ‘Busy day, eh?’ ‘I paid for these,’ Elsie insisted, the sting of injustice still smarting. ‘You didn’t. But it’s OK, I sorted it for you.’ Pushing the receipt back at him, Elsie grabbed her purse from her damp handbag and angrily flicked through the receipts in the wallet section. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, and I’m not being ungrateful, but that bloke was mistaken. I distinctly remember paying for these things with a twenty-pound note. I know this because I only had one twenty in my wallet that I’d just taken out from the cash machine and now, as you can see, it’s not … Oh …’ Her heart plummeted to her soggy toes as she pulled out a folded twenty-pound note, exactly where she’d put it at the cash point before she entered the shop. The young man’s voice softened. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. It happens to the best of us.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Torin, by the way. Torin Stewart.’ Still reeling from the revelation of her unwitting descent into petty crime, Elsie shook his hand. ‘Elsie Maynard.’ ‘Pleasure to meet you, Elsie Maynard,’ Torin grinned. ‘Under different circumstances would’ve been preferable, of course, but I’m glad I was able to help. So, how about a coffee? You look like you need one and it’ll get you out of this rain.’ Thoroughly mortified and filled with a compelling urge to remove herself from the situation, Elsie pushed the twenty-pound note into his hand and began to leave. ‘I’m sorry, I really have to go …’ ‘Hey, why the rush?’ ‘I’m on my lunch break, which ended about twenty minutes ago,’ Elsie returned, hoping that the pace she injected into her steps would deter him from following her down the street. Unfortunately for Elsie, Torin was not one to be brushed off so easily. ‘Now come on. I just saved your life back there. Surely that entitles me to at least a coffee with you? It can be my treat if money’s a bit tight …?’ That was the final straw. Blood pumping furiously in her ears, Elsie spun round to face him. ‘Excuse me? I have money, actually. What part of “I have to go” do you not understand? I’m late for work and I’m soaked through from this stupid rain and, believe me, the very last thing I would like to do right now is go anywhere with you. I’ve paid you back so I don’t owe you anything.’ ‘Is that the way you thank all your rescuers?’ The twinkle in his eye sent a second wave of fury pumping through Elsie. ‘Who do you think you are, Lancelot? And where do you get off interfering in other people’s business, anyway? I am entirely capable of looking after myself, you know. I am not a damsel in distress that needs rescuing by a big, strong bloke. I would have sorted the situation, without your help. I would have managed. So thank you very much for jumping in, but I really didn’t need you to.’ Torin was stopped in his tracks and Elsie felt the smallest glint of satisfaction as she walked away. Fair enough, he had helped to release her from the iron grip of the security guard, but he didn’t have to make a virtue of the fact. Or attempt to turn the situation into some kind of emotional blackmail to go with him for coffee, either. Honestly, the cheek! ‘Un-be-lievable!’ a voice shouted behind her. Elsie groaned as she pressed on, dodging lunchtime shoppers hurrying through the insistent mid-March rain. Does this bloke ever give up? ‘I thought you looked like somebody in need of assistance,’ Torin continued, drawing level with Elsie as they stormed together down the street. ‘And all I did was try to save you from an embarrassing and potentially litigious situation. Well, more fool me!’ ‘You said it,’ Elsie muttered, wishing with all her heart that he would get the message and leave her alone. ‘Talk about ungrateful! Some women would see what I did just now as chivalrous.’ ‘And some women would think you were a pathetic male on an ego trip, making yourself appear superior. “Stay there, darling …” as if I was some dumb-nutted bimbo! Chauvinism is not chivalry, mate.’ ‘Oh, so stopping a security guard from hauling you back into a shop in full view of half of Brighton was patronising, was it?’ Of course it wasn’t. But Elsie was tired, embarrassed, soaked to the skin and not likely to give in to the annoying man who still seemed impervious to rain. ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t have time for this.’ ‘Time for what? For being told how unreasonable you are?’ Elsie gave a hollow laugh as she skirted round a caf? A-board placed unwisely in her path. ‘Oh right, I’m unreasonable …’ ‘Yes, you are. May I remind you that there was every chance that security guard wouldn’t have let the situation go?’ ‘How do you know that? You can’t possibly know that!’ He was matching her pace, step for step, his reddening face pulling closer to hers. ‘It was obvious to anybody! You only had to see the gleam in his eye to know that he intended to make an example of you. It could have involved the police, a magistrates court visit, a fine … a criminal record?’ Halting suddenly, Elsie faced him. ‘OK, enough! Believe it or not, I have more important things to think about today than whether or not I would have ended up with a criminal record if you hadn’t intervened. I’ve said thank you, I’ve paid you back, what more can you possibly want from me?’ Breathing heavily, Torin held up his hands. ‘Nothing. Obviously nothing.’ Then, to Elsie’s surprise, instead of hurling a clever comeback at her, he backed away, turned and disappeared into the crowd. If she hadn’t seen the look of sincere disappointment in his eyes, Elsie would have just dismissed the whole thing. But the unexpected impact of it sent a whisper of conscience cutting like a scythe through her consternation. Blinking away the raindrops dripping from the edges of her fringe, she stood in the middle of milling shoppers, the events of the past ten minutes replaying over and over in her mind. The insistent ringing of her mobile brought her sharply back to the present. ‘Hello? Oh hi, Dad. Yes, I have your things. I’ll bring them over after work.’ Taking one last glance up the street, Elsie shook the nagging doubt from her mind. ‘Weirdo,’ she told herself. ‘Clearly a weirdo.’ CHAPTER TWO Moving on … By the time Elsie parked her car outside her father’s three-storey townhouse later that day, thick grey clouds had laid siege to Brighton’s skies, emptying their weight of rain on the streets of the seaside city. Despite her best efforts to shield herself from the torrential downpour by holding her handbag above her head as she dashed from the car, she arrived at the purple wood and stained-glass front door soaked once more. The tinkle of a small wind-chime over the door and heady smell of warming patchouli oil and Nag Champa incense sticks were immediately soothing as she walked into the hallway and headed towards the Indian bead curtain that covered the entrance to the kitchen. It had been many years since she had moved out of this place but it still always felt like home when she returned. Jim Maynard beamed when Elsie walked into the kitchen. He was out of his work clothes already, his respectable business suit replaced by his favourite Nepal striped patchwork shirt, baggy combat trousers and bright orange Doc Marten boots. Elsie smiled back. She always preferred the sight of her father in his relaxed attire, with his much-beloved gold earring back in his ear: it was a truer version of himself than his well-respected Brighton businessman persona that he had adopted since taking over his father’s classic furniture store business. ‘It’s my favourite youngest daughter!’ he exclaimed, wrapping her up in one of his famous Dad-hugs, which was even more welcome today than usual. ‘Good day?’ Elsie opened a brightly painted enamel tea caddy and popped two ginger and cinnamon teabags into a hand-painted kingfisher-blue teapot, a gift to Jim from his middle daughter Guin when she set up her pottery business in Shoreham-by-Sea four years ago. ‘Annoying day, actually.’ She smiled at her father. ‘But it’s better now I’m here.’ ‘I’m glad, darling. I knew there was a reason we needed patchouli oil today. Sit down, take a deep breath and tell your old dad about it.’ Jim took the whistling kettle from the gas stove and made the tea. ‘What happened?’ ‘Oh, nothing, really. I just had a bit of an ordeal at lunchtime.’ Her father was about to enquire further when the kitchen door opened and a chorus of ‘Shoplifter!’ filled the kitchen, followed by loud shrieks of laughter. Elsie groaned as her two older sisters piled onto her, shouting, laughing and ruffling her hair. Sometimes being so close to your sisters (and texting them as soon as anything happened in your day) was a bad thing … ‘Our little sister, the petty thief!’ Daisy Maynard laughed, flicking back her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and clapping slender hands at the sight of her sister’s chagrin. ‘I’m so proud!’ ‘We were going to get you a swag bag and mask from the fancy dress shop on the way here but Junior decided to play up,’ Guin added, patting her burgeoning belly. ‘You seem to have this one on side already, Els.’ Elsie grinned despite her embarrassment and reached out to stroke her sister’s considerable baby bump. ‘You’ve got taste, kid. Just stick with your Auntie Elsie and you’ll stay relatively sane.’ ‘Although she’ll have you signed up to the family crime business before you know it,’ Daisy added as she and Guin descended into hilarity. ‘What’s this about crime?’ Jim looked from one daughter to the others, trying to keep up. After their mother had removed herself from the family unit when all three girls were little. Jim had assumed the role of sole referee of the whirlwind known as the Maynard sisters and was often left bewildered by their endless energy and the breakneck speed of their conversations. ‘Our little sister was almost arrested for shoplifting today,’ Guin said, groaning as she lowered herself carefully onto a chair by the kitchen table. Her blue eyes flashed with mischief as she pulled a hairband from her wrist and wound her wavy blonde hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? Goody-Two-Shoes Elsie a criminal mastermind!’ ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Elsie protested. ‘I handled the situation.’ ‘Really? You handled it?’ Daisy asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Yes,’ Elsie replied firmly, wishing again that she hadn’t informed them so comprehensively of the event in a string of texts that afternoon. ‘I had a lot on my mind and honestly thought I’d paid. It was obvious in the end that I had made a mistake.’ ‘Oh.’ Jim handed out mugs of tea, not really sure how to respond to this revelation. ‘Well, we live and learn, eh?’ Filled with a rush of love for her father, Elsie squeezed his hand as she accepted a mug from him. ‘We do. So you see, Dad, everything’s good now.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, I did a bit of baking last night. Don’t suppose I can interest any of you girls in a slice of banana and walnut bread, can I?’ This was met by a chorus of appreciation and, delighted, Jim opened an old Roses tin to serve up his recent culinary triumph. As he and Guin began to chat, Daisy grabbed Elsie’s hand and pulled her into the small hallway at the back of the kitchen. ‘So?’ she demanded, folding her slender arms and giving Elsie a classic Older Sister Stare. Elsie was having none of it. She had outfaced her eldest sister many times over the years and she wasn’t about to be intimidated by her today. ‘So what?’ ‘You know what, Elsie Maynard. Why didn’t you mention the chap?’ Elsie shrugged. ‘Dad didn’t need to know.’ ‘How do you figure that? That handsome stranger saved you from being arrested,for heaven’s sake!’ ‘Shh! Keep your voice down … And I never said he was handsome.’ Dropping her voice to a harsh whisper, Daisy eyeballed her sister. ‘I beg to differ. Anyway, why are you so het up about this? It’s OK to admit you needed help, you know. It’s no reflection on you. It doesn’t mean you can’t cope or anything …’ Elsie had heard enough. ‘Drop it, Dais! Let’s just … talk about something else for a bit.’ Daisy relented and wrapped an arm around Elsie’s shoulder. ‘Fair enough, lovely. I’m sorry. So, was he fit?’ ‘Daisy!’ ‘Oh come on, Elsie, humour me!’ ‘I suppose he was, in an annoying, waterproof way. I wasn’t looking too closely at the time.’ An indeterminable look passed across Daisy’s face. ‘Good. That’s good.’ Later, when the Maynards were sitting around the dining room table in the large, first-floor living room eating vegetable tagine with tabouleh and pearl couscous (a particular favourite of Jim’s), Elsie decided to announce the decision that she had been distracted by when she inadvertently became a lunchtime shoplifter. It had been on her mind all week, ever since she had decided to finally open the small, chocolate satin-covered box by her bed after eighteen months of waiting. This morning, she had made her decision: the first part of moving on … ‘Right, everyone, I’m glad you’re all here – and sitting down – because I’ve something I want to say.’ She smiled at the apprehensive looks of her nearest and dearest. ‘Don’t panic, it’s good news, I think.’ She took a breath to steady herself. ‘I’ve decided to start dating again.’ ‘Oh Els …’ Guin’s face reddened and she burst into tears, much to the amusement of her sisters. Since she had discovered she was pregnant, the normally pragmatic middle Maynard sister had become an emotional wreck, sobbing uncontrollably at everything from songs on her car radio to television adverts for pet food and sofas. Laughing at her own emotional state, she accepted the box of tissues her father always kept close for such occasions and wiped her eyes. ‘Man, I am such a wuss! I hope all this sobbing isn’t going to traumatise my baby. I’m just so – happy Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/anna-lou-weatherley/the-perfect-escape-romantic-short-stories-to-relax-wit/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.