by Hayley Doyle
NEVER SAW YOU COMING
Hayley Doyle
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Copyright © Hayley Doyle 2020
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Hayley Doyle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008365752
Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008365769
Version: 2020-02-24
Dedication
For Oli.
Epigraph
The truth is, of course, that there is no journey.
We are arriving and departing all at the same time.
— David Bowie
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Three
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About the Publisher
PART ONE
1
Zara
‘I’m going,’ I tell Katie over the phone. ‘My bags are packed.’
I’m sitting at a waterside cafe drinking fresh mint lemonade, watching people ferry back and forth across Dubai Creek on traditional wooden water taxis, known here as abras. To my far right, the Burj Khalifa pings from the Downtown skyline like a giant pen, touching the cloudless blue sky with its tip. Katie was supposed to be meeting me, but as usual of late, she cancelled again.
‘So, you’re leaving Dubai,’ Katie says, ‘to go and live in some British city that you’ve never been to before, with a fella you hardly know?’
‘Nick and I talk about living together all the time,’ I say.
‘And yet you haven’t seen Nick for six months.’
‘That’s nothing when you plan to spend a lifetime with somebody.’
‘Zara Khoury. You’re not thinking straight.’
How patronising. It’s not about not thinking straight. It’s about thinking off-course, doing something that’s out of the ordinary. And there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? How can wonderful things happen to us if we don’t do wonderful things to start off with?
‘Your daddy can’t bankroll your love life,’ she says.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘He won’t.’
She doesn’t respond, unless she’s waiting for an explanation.
‘I’ve got some savings, Katie. And a plan. I want to study again; finish my degree.’
‘Right. You know what they say? Once a dropout …’
‘Look, it’s not just about Nick Gregory.’
‘Ah, come on, Zara, don’t kid yourself. It’s all about Nick Gregory.’
The call to prayer filters across the creek, a beautiful and somewhat haunting melody that pauses me momentarily as I glance towards the mosques in the distance. Dusk will fall soon. Day turns into night so quickly in this patch of the world, the bold sun taking a break to allow an even bolder moon to rule the purple sky. I’ve never felt at home here, even though it’s been the place I’ve spent the majority of my thirty years. I long to feel an urge to root down, but all I can feel is flight; a gentle breeze trying to lift me from this seat and take me far away. The scar sitting on my right cheekbone, the size of my middle fingernail and the shape of Australia, is no longer a reminder of what can go wrong, but a sign of what can turn out right.
‘Believe me,’ I say. ‘This is all meant to be.’
Katie tells me she has to go; she has a meeting. I don’t get wished a safe flight, or nudged to give her all the juicy gossip. She doesn’t even mention the weather; and expats love to mention the British weather. She just goes.
As I intend to.
Tomorrow morning, I will land at Heathrow Airport. I’ll go and buy that second-hand car I found online and drive two hundred miles north of London, to a city famous for its football, its accent and, of course, The Beatles. A place where they call something good boss.
‘If only you could come here,’ Nick says, often. ‘You’d love it.’
Well, Liverpool, here I come.
2
Jim
‘Unknown’.
I always answer my phone if the number’s unknown.
It’s one of my three life rules. Being up at six to get here, the Mersey Tunnel toll booth, for work at seven a.m. is another. This rule’s partnered with navy pants, a V-neck pullover and high-visibility jacket, otherwise I’ll lose my job. And the last rule’s making sure my ma takes her tablets and climbs the stairs five times daily to keep her heart pumping.
Beyond this, I let myself be.
Except now, ‘Unknown’ flashes, skittering beside my hand, vibrating.
My phone lies face up on the small desk my knees are crammed beneath, next to a tattered paperback. Gene Wilder’s autobiography; another Oxfam bargain. I’ve been at work for the best part of an hour, but this desk isn’t mine. Tomorrow I might be put in the toll booth next door. Yesterday I worked three booths to my left. I watch my phone, itching to answer.
‘Y’never heard of a barber, mate?’
It’s the fella in the Ford Focus. He exchanges his quid for the correct tunnel fare every morning whilst listening to local radio, some crass breakfast show churning out the latest, not-quite-greatest hits. I’ve met with the overbearing stench of his aftershave many a time, not to mention the same old jibe about my hair.
‘Have a g
ood day, mate,’ I reply, handing over the change.
‘Nice one.’
And off the Focus speeds through the tunnel with an unnecessary rev. The next car pulls up; the window winds down; I hand over change.
‘Unknown’ continues to vibrate.
Christ. I always answer unknown numbers. Ever since my dad died eight years ago. Look, I don’t want to delve into it. But seeing that word flashing before me reminds me. I hadn’t answered the first time, had I? Or the second. And it was only on the third attempt I bothered picking up. It’d been the hospital, calling to ask for a Jim Glover, and I said, ‘That’s me.’ The voice, light and female I recall, asked me to come and identify a man, thought to be Roy Glover, brought in dead on arrival. A heart attack on the Dock road.
But guess what?
There’s a gleaming problem with answering my phone right now. You see, it’s a sackable offence. I’m allowed to read. We all are. Books, papers, even a good old crossword. But phones? Nope. The use of mobile phones whilst working within the cage of a toll booth is a sackable offence. No ‘three strikes and you’re out’. It’s an automatic lock-in.
‘Unknown’.
I hunch over the desk, press the green circle, grumble, ‘Hello?’
‘WELL, SOMEONE’S STILL HALF ASLEEP,’ the male voice belts into my ear. It’s a harsh, nasal twang. I can’t place it but it’s an altogether familiar sound.
‘Who’s this?’
A flurry of laughter ensues, overpowered by a husky female voice.
‘HEAVY NIGHT, WAS IT?’ she asks, finding herself hilarious.
Shit. Noticing a lady waiting in her car beside my booth, I whip my phone beneath the small desk and dish out some change. Then, peeping over my shoulder to check there isn’t another car behind, I bring the phone back to my ear.
‘WE’VE LOST HIM,’ the male voice says.
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’
‘SHALL YOU TELL HIM, CONNIE? OR SHALL I?’
‘OH, GO ’EAD, CARL, THE PLEASURE’S ALL YOURS.’
‘Hurry up, I can’t really talk.’
‘JIM GLOVER?’ Carl sings.
‘How do you know me name?’
‘YOU’RE LIVE ON AIR, MERSEY WAVE 103.4.’
‘Y’what?’
Connie’s husky laugh takes over. ‘You’re live on the breakfast show with Connie and Carl, Jim. Now’s your chance to become a winner.’
‘A winner?’
Stretching ahead of me, and behind me, is grey tarmac. That single word, winner, is not part of my daily vocabulary. The two simple syllables sound full and foreign in my mouth, my breath still fresh from instant coffee.
‘You’re head to head with Sophie,’ Carl says. ‘Say hi to Jim, Sophie.’
‘Hiya Jim,’ a crackled voice says, the slight echo confirming that Sophie’s using a hands-free kit from her car. And yet, who is this Sophie? And why is she – with me – live on the radio?
‘Whoever answers this question first will become the proud owner of a brand-new BMW,’ Carl goes on. ‘Or, as Connie would call it, “a posh white car”.’
‘That’s a bit sexist,’ Sophie’s voice says.
Her comment is completely ignored. The game that me and her are somehow a part of continues. Cars filter into the tunnel ahead of my glance, weaving their way from other booths. Any second now, a car’ll pull up beside me and this game, this quiz, this radio prank, will come to a sudden end.
Why haven’t I already hung up?
For every second I remain on the line, I’m begging to be fired. The joy it’ll give Derek Higgins to demand that I see him in his office, to click his dry, swollen fingers as he orders me to remove my high-vis jacket. If reading is the perk of my role, then dishing out a P45 is Derek’s.
‘Jim? Sophie? Are you ready?’
We both mumble a yeah.
A mashup of the theme tunes to Countdown and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? comes whistling through the speaker. Instead of waiting eagerly for the question, I can only focus on willing the banging in my chest to piss off. I’m breaking my boss’s rule to adhere to my own, and it could result in me losing my job. Sure, rules are rules, but what about priorities? I should hang up.
‘Okay; First one to say the correct answer wins.’ Connie clears her throat. ‘Name the author of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Dr No and Thunderball.’
A gasp from Sophie tickles my ear. ‘JAMES BOND!’
Bloody hell. My heart lightens. My knees are numb squashed beneath this little desk, my fingertips clammy.
‘Ian Fleming,’ I say.
A white van pulls up beside my booth, and with the efficiency of a robot, I hand change to the driver.
‘Good fucking morning to you, too,’ the driver spits. ‘Rude fucking bastard.’
I sigh and take a breath, knowing it’s now or never.
There’s a good chance that Connie and Carl and the whole of Merseyside missed my muffled answer. Or perhaps Sophie heard it, and she’s now ready to steal, to shout it out louder, clearer, stronger …
I blink. ‘IAN FLEMING.’
And just like that, I win a brand-new car.
Connie and Carl play ‘Congratulations’ across the airwaves, singing the word ‘commiserations’ to Sophie, finding themselves unbearably funny.
I put my handset on loud speaker, drop the phone onto my knees.
‘Stay on the line, Jim,’ Carl says.
A horn honks.
Again.
‘The producer’ll chat to you in a mo.’
Four, maybe five cars have piled up behind my booth, the one in front honking away with unashamed clarity. Derek’ll be making his way over any minute. With expert speed, I hand change to the impatient driver before he bombs it through the barrier. I recognise the next car. A Nissan Micra, silver, a sun-shaped sign stuck on the back window that reads Be the Light. Namaste. The girl behind the wheel passes through the tunnel regularly, never at a specific time of day. Sometimes, her hair’s snatched up or curled all fancy like a Charlie’s Angel, her wrists decorated with a bunch of bangles. Ed Sheeran sings through her speakers. Even now, in November, she never fails to wear oversized sunnies.
‘Hey, you,’ she says, rolling down her window and dipping her glasses to the edge of her nose. I give her a one-sided smile. She’s a right chatterbox, this one, always trying to entice me out on the lash with her mates or making a remark about me looking ‘cold’ or ‘hot’ or ‘tired’. Today it’s ‘worried’.
‘I’m going for a few drinks tonight in Oxton,’ she tells me. ‘Fancy coming?’
Oxton. Pretty posh. Over the water.
A horn honks.
‘Me best mate’s having a party,’ I say. ‘Bonfire night, and all that.’
Another horn honks.
The girl pushes her sunnies up her nose with her middle finger, mouths, ‘whatevs’ and drives away. Another car pulls up. Then, another. My head’s frazzled. Have I really, really just won a car? Come on, focus. I move fast, get the queue of cars to settle into a smooth, quiet rhythm as I wait for the producer to speak to me. I’m still on hold. And still trying to fathom how this has happened.
Last month’s payday.
Yep, that was it. The day I signed my name.
I’d been sheltering from the wet drizzle, browsing around a discount book store. Fluorescent strip lighting and BOGOF offers surrounding me, I stood reading the back of a Truman Capote biography. My phone rang.
‘Alright, Mam, what’s up?’
‘It’s nothing, love. I’m okay. Honest.’
‘You don’t sound okay. What happened?’
‘I was just making tea, that’s all. Me mind must’ve wandered. I forgot to concentrate for a moment. I burnt me hand. It just dropped, the kettle, it just dropped.’
‘I’m on me way. Don’t worry.’
I discarded Capote into the bargain bucket beside me and headed through town, towards Liverpool One to catch the bus to my ma’s. Wind whistled thro
ugh the city, a cold chill reminding shoppers that autumn was falling into winter. I was almost at the bus stop when I noticed a white BMW made entirely from Lego. It wasn’t on the road, of course, but beside the shopping centre’s crowd-pulling outdoor piano. Impressive. As were the two young girls holding clipboards, approaching passers-by to sign up. Resembling a manufactured girl band, all petite with dark lashes and pouty pink lips, they wore bikini tops and hot pants, oblivious to the current climate.
‘We only need three more names,’ one of the girls shrieked.
I dodged out of her way, but her mate stepped in.
‘Come on, sign up,’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed on our break ’til the sheet’s full.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. Because I couldn’t. I had to get to my ma’s.
‘Don’t you wanna win a car?’ both girls sang, like a kitsch pop duo.
A pen got thrust into my hand.
‘What’s the catch?’ I asked, scribbling down my name and number as fast as possible. I never waited for their answer. I just legged it for the bus.
Had it been as simple as that to win a car? Really?
‘Jim Glover?’
The voice from within my phone hollers around the toll booth.
‘Yeah?’ I reply.
The producer of Connie and Carl’s breakfast show gives me strict instructions for how and when I can collect my prize. She’s most unenthusiastic, as if me winning this car is a hassle her life can do without.
‘You’re totally serious, like?’ I ask.
‘Why did you take part if you didn’t think it was serious?’ she snaps.
Bloody hell. My whole morning’s gone from boring to bonkers. I’m really trying to control myself here, but Christ, I’ve just won a car. What’s the catch? Come on. Surely there’s a catch.
‘There’s no catch,’ the producer says.
She hangs up and the line goes dead. The rain outside has stopped, the sun stretching through the cold, windy air. Steam clears from the windows of my toll booth and a hint of blue sky frames the top of the tunnel entrance. I allow myself to smile, a wide, cheesy grin.
‘Jim Glover?’
I stare at my phone. Who said that?
A rat-a-tat-tat sounds against the reinforced plastic window.
