Someone Like You: Escape with this perfect uplifting romance

by Tracy Corbett

  But then Will had noticed her questioning frown, and had kissed her with such intensity that it had squashed any concerns she might have had. He’d wanted this as much as she did, of that she was certain. Whatever demons he was trying to outrun, he wasn’t voicing them out loud, and she was fine with that. She hadn’t wanted anything to spoil their perfect night.

  And it had been perfect. Tender. Intimate and loving. He was considerate, experienced and completely attentive. Every inch of her had been caressed, kissed and enjoyed, and she’d been left feeling thoroughly ravaged and extremely content.

  Affectionate cuddling had followed, a joint shower, and then drifting in and out of sleep in each other’s arms.

  Just before four a.m, he’d nuzzled closer and asked if she’d wanted to watch the sunrise with him. It had seemed the fitting way to conclude the evening.

  But it also marked the end of her holiday. And as such, the end of her romance and the reinvention of Lily. This time tomorrow, she would be back in rainy Haringey, surrounded by her grandparents’ dated furniture, facing a return to work on Monday.

  The thought was enough to kill her afterglow.

  And so here they were. Sitting on the beach at dawn. Both uncertain as to how to say goodbye.

  ‘I’ve had the most amazing holiday,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I’m sad it’s over.’

  ‘Me too.’ She leant into his shoulder, relishing his warmth. ‘I wish we could stay another week.’

  ‘Or month.’

  ‘Or year.’

  They both laughed.

  He laced his fingers into hers. ‘Not sure my work colleagues would be very happy.’

  ‘Mine either.’ She rested her head on his shoulder and watched the sun emerge from behind a shaft of pink light.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’ He glanced down at her, his expression earnest and a little sad. ‘I wasn’t expecting… you. This. Us. It’s taken me by surprise.’

  She knew the feeling. But was it such a surprise? After all, she’d come to the Caribbean looking for an adventure. And she’d found one. She just hadn’t expected it to be Will Taylor.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, kissing the top of her head.

  She raised her chin to look at him. ‘What for?’

  He paused, as if deciding how much to say. His arms rested on his bent knees, looking down at the sand, shaking his head. ‘Before this holiday, I was… I don’t know… stuck, for want of a better word. I needed to move on, but I didn’t know how. Being with you has broken down a barrier I didn’t know I’d erected.’

  Cryptic. He’d been running away from something too, had he? He’d kept that bit quiet. But then, so had she. And she wasn’t about to starting prying now, not when they were about to part company. What was the point?

  ‘Nothing about these last two weeks has been hard work,’ he said, staring out to sea. ‘It’s been fun and easy. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much, or felt so relaxed. You’ve been like a tonic. And I know it has to end, but I want you to know, I’ll treasure these moments with you for ever.’

  She swallowed awkwardly. ‘Wow, that’s heavy.’

  He barked a laugh. ‘Sorry. It’s just that my life has been difficult of late. I feel like you’ve changed that. So, thank you.’ He leant forward and kissed her. ‘You’re an incredibly gorgeous woman, Lily Monroe.’

  She smiled back at him. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ It was a flippant response to such a heartfelt admission, but what could she say? That he’d changed her life, too? That nothing was ever going to be the same from now on? She couldn’t do that.

  Why? Because she’d pretended to be a successful, confident, and competent woman who had her life and career sorted. If she admitted now that she was none of these things, and that she’d merely been ‘pretending’, then it might taint what they’d shared. He would think less of her. And she couldn’t bear that. This holiday had gone a long way to restoring her battered self-esteem. No way was she about to sully that by revealing the truth. She’d held it together this long, all she had to do was see it through until the end… which was now.

  The time had come to say goodbye.

  She broke eye contact and moved away. Touching him right now wouldn’t be helpful. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on emotional farewells. I wouldn’t want a big scene at the airport or anything.’

  He frowned. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘We say goodbye here. Now. We end this on a positive note, with a stunning view to remember and an unblemished memory to cherish.’

  ‘Right.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘Good plan.’

  She had no idea how to react, or what to say. But it wasn’t like they had an option, was it? There was always going to be an expiry date on their liaison. It didn’t make leaving him any easier, though.

  ‘Thank you for your company during these last two weeks,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s been wonderful. You’ve been wonderful.’ She had to force the words out, the pain in her chest was crippling. ‘I hope you have a safe flight home, and good luck with your events business.’ She stood up, brushing sand away from her shorts. ‘Goodbye, Will.’

  He caught her hand before she could walk away. ‘Wait a sec.’ He got to his feet and pulled her close, his watery eyes searching her face. He looked pained and conflicted. Tormented even. He opened his mouth as if to say something… but then sighed, and shook his head. ‘Goodbye, Lily. Take care.’

  ‘You too.’ She reached up on tiptoes and kissed his tearstained cheek, trying to memorise his scent, the curve of his jaw and the way his wavy brown hair had been lightened by the sun.

  Without a backwards glance, she turned away and walked down the beach. Away from Will Taylor. She fought to hold back tears and she resisted the urge to turn and run to him, hold him, and never let him go.

  But he wasn’t hers. He never had been. He’d been on temporary loan. A gift. A moment of unadulterated pleasure.

  It wasn’t love, even though it felt like it. How could it be? She didn’t know him, not really. And he certainly didn’t know her.

  He’d met Lily Monroe. Enigmatic, mysterious costume designer and temptress, who wore revealing clothing, and didn’t baulk in the face of adventure.

  But underneath the bluster and pretence, was her old true self. A quiet, sad and lonely woman, who had no career prospects, who was alone in the world, and who was about to be made homeless.

  A broken heart was the least of her worries.

  Chapter Eight

  One month later…

  Lilith had been back in the UK for four weeks. Four long agonising weeks that had felt like four years. So much for feeling rejuvenated and empowered to change her life. The moment she’d stepped off the plane at Gatwick the fog of grief had descended. It was like the Grim Reaper had been awaiting her return, and was now taunting her for believing she could overcome her struggles and emerge the other side stronger and happier. But no. The sense of loss she’d felt prior to heading off to the Caribbean still consumed her, only now it was magnified by missing Will. The holiday bubble had definitely burst.

  She scrunched up the letter from Haringey Council which reminded her she only had two months left before she had to quit her local authority property, and chucked it at the bin. It hit the rim and landed on the worn mottled brown carpet. Typical. She couldn’t even get that right.

  She manoeuvred herself around her dressmaker’s dummy, which was standing in the centre of the tight living space. The half-finished cobalt-blue dress looked out of place against the drab surroundings, the bright colour stark against a background of beige woodchip wallpaper and dark-wood furniture. Making the dress had been a feeble effort to lift her low spirits. An attempt to recreate the vibrancy of her Caribbean holiday. It hadn’t worked. If anything, it had deepened her sadness, adding to the tightness already constricting her chest.

  Lilith hoisted her rucksack onto her back and collected her bike fro
m the cramped hallway. It didn’t help that she was surrounded by constant reminders of her granddad. The flat still looked the same. It smelt the same. It felt the same. It was as though her Granddad would appear at any moment, balancing on his walking frame and ask for a cup of tea. Her grief was reignited every time she stepped over the threshold, and it wasn’t helping her move on. Maybe being forced to move home was a blessing in disguise. It might shift her out of her slump.

  As she closed the door behind her and wheeled her bike down the pathway, she glanced back at the terraced bungalow. It had no character. The brickwork was bland, the windows tainted by condensation, the brown paintwork dulled and flaking. But the thought of leaving still made her chest hurt. Whatever its fault, it had been her home for more than two decades. Leaving would be a wrench.

  Mrs Black appeared from next door carrying a bag of rubbish. ‘Morning, love. Off to work?’

  Lilith forced a smile. ‘Yes. At least it’s stopped raining.’

  Mrs Black shuffled down the pathway in her bright green slippers. ‘And it’s Friday, so you’ve got the weekend to look forward to.’

  ‘This is true.’

  Her elderly neighbour leant against the rickety shed for support. ‘Anything nice planned?’

  ‘House-hunting, most likely.’ Lilith balanced her bike against the shed. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She took the bag of rubbish from her neighbour.

  ‘Bless you. The wet plays havoc with my arthritis.’

  Lilith dumped the rubbish in the wheelie bin. ‘I received my formal notice to quit this morning.’

  Mrs Black gasped. ‘Oh, love. I’m sorry. We’re going to miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, too.’ She helped her neighbour retrace her steps up the pathway. ‘But these properties are designed for older residents, not the likes of me. There’ll be someone who needs it more than I do. It wouldn’t be fair of me to stay.’

  Mrs Black patted her hand. ‘But it’s your home. You’ve lived here most of your life.’

  ‘I know. But I need a fresh start. It’ll do me good,’ she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt. ‘And it’s not like I’ll be gone tomorrow. I’ll be around for the next couple of months.’

  ‘You make sure to stay in touch. You’re like family to us.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Black. That means a lot.’ She smiled at her frail neighbour, as she was hit by another wave of remorse. Who would do their shopping for them? Or carry out errands with her not around? It made her sad to think of them struggling alone.

  Maybe she’d have a word with the council before she left and see if they could provide some support for the couple. ‘I’d better be off to work, I don’t want to be late. My boss is a stickler for timekeeping.’

  ‘Of course, off you go.’ Mrs Black squeezed her hand. ‘Have fun,’ she called out, as Lilith headed back down the pathway.

  ‘I will,’ she lied, mounting her bike. Fun wasn’t a word she ever associated with work. Torture was a more fitting description.

  Pushing away from the kerb, she did her usual unsteady wobble, before she got control of the bike and headed up the hill. Her thighs complained as she peddled harder trying to ascend the incline until she reached the top and could free-wheel down the other side.

  She wasn’t a huge fan of exercise, cycling to work was a financial necessity. She’d never partaken in sports or gone to the gym. Any free time she’d had had been used to design and make clothes, even as a child. But she supposed cycling the mile to work and back every day was good for her lungs. Plus, it allowed her to blow off steam.

  Why her grief had intensified over the last four weeks, she couldn’t fathom. Tears had come easily, as did the ache in her chest. Her plan to improve her flagging spirits by jetting off to paradise for two weeks had spectacularly backfired. Instead of sticking to her proposed schedule of relaxing, swimming, and soaking up the sun, she’d stupidly partaken in a holiday fling. And then she’d exacerbated the situation by falling for the blessed man. That hadn’t been a smart move.

  Lilith was startled when a car horn blared from behind. She swerved into the traffic, distracted by thoughts of Will Taylor. At this rate, she wouldn’t need a new place to live, she’d be joining her grandparents six feet under.

  Waving an apology at the driver, she concentrated on riding her bike. She panted as she negotiated another hill and tried to avoid hitting a car door that opened in front of her.

  She hadn’t meant to get so involved with Will. It had crept up on her. One minute she was enjoying his friendly banter, the next she was staring into his hypnotic grey eyes and removing her clothes.

  In that moment, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. The perfect antidote to a multitude of ailments. The need to be touched. The need to stop thinking. To feel something other than loss. She’d felt sated afterwards, caressed, loved, even. And it had felt good.

  Boy, had it felt good.

  She just hadn’t realised the feeling wouldn’t last, and that instead of them parting company with good memories and no regrets, their separation would leave a gaping hole in her chest that you could drive a bus through.

  Initially she’d reasoned that the sadness would quickly fade. Once back in the UK all thoughts of Will Taylor would be forgotten. After all, it had only been a two-week romance. How attached could a person get in a fortnight? It wasn’t logical to pine over a man she barely knew. But logic didn’t seem to be winning over. Yearning was the dominant emotion, and that wasn’t helping to lift her spirits.

  Her place of work came into view as Lily entered the grimy industrial estate situated behind the high street. The roads were busy, filled with commuters. The fumes from the buses and trucks clung to the spring air, creating a haze of grey that dulled the sunshine and made her cough. The smell stung the inside of her nose. London air was not conducive to healthy breathing.

  Work was another factor contributing to her low mood. Despite all her good intentions that she was going to launch her career as a costume designer the second she returned to the UK, her resolve had deserted her when faced with impending homelessness.

  It wouldn’t be sensible to jump ship until she’d secured a new home. Plus, she’d applied for the team leader role where she currently worked. A promotion would mean more money, more experience. A step closer to achieving her goal of becoming a designer. Running a costume department would require people-management skills. Skills she currently lacked. Maybe if she had six months’ team leader experience under her belt, a company might be more inclined to take her on.

  That was what she kept telling herself, anyway. As an attempt to kill the niggling voice in her head that kept pointing out she was making excuses. Procrastinating. Being a feeble coward.

  Whatever the reason, the desire to be bold and ‘get out there’ had disappeared. And she was gutted as hell.

  She secured her bike to the railings outside Clothing Connexions and made her way inside. The building was a large generic oblong, identical to the other units on the estate. Only the large sign hanging above the doorway differentiated it from the tile centre next door or the kitchen wholesalers opposite.

  Her mood dipped further as she touched her security pass against the clocking-in machine and realised she was late… again. That wouldn’t help her promotion prospects.

  Speeding up, she dumped her rucksack in the lockers, and raced towards her workstation, praying her line manager wasn’t on the prowl. But luck wasn’t with her this morning.

  ‘You’re late,’ he barked, when she skidded through the double doors.

  She tried to look apologetic. ‘Only by a couple of minutes,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard above the whir of sewing machines. Ahead, rows of tables were filled with an array of tape measures, scissors, pattern paper and metres of unrolled fabric. Behind the tables were dozens of workers, all wearing their signature blue tabards. It was a familiar sight, one she’d seen virtually every day for the last thirteen years.

  Her
boss folded his arms across his wide chest. Keith Long – aka Darth Vader – often stood by the entrance like a security guard, ready to pounce on any unfortunate workers who dared show up late. He was wearing his usual tan-coloured steward’s overalls with his Shop-floor Manager badge. He resembled a 1970s TV cop, with his dated green tie, slightly too long unkempt hair and one-too-many-beer-belly-paunch.

  He checked his watch. ‘Three and a half minutes, to be precise.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Long. It won’t happen again.’

  He produced a notepad. ‘That’s the fourth time you’ve arrived late for work since January of this year.’

  He was keeping track? ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘The company will not tolerate poor timekeeping, Miss Monroe.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but—’

  ‘One hour’s pay will be deducted from your salary.’

  ‘An hour’s salary?’ She felt the colour drain from her face. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘The company cannot be expected to pay for workers’ non-attendance.’

  ‘But a whole hour’s pay? I was only a couple of minutes late.’

  He gave her a hard look. ‘If you refer to page nine of your employee handbook, you’ll note that as your line manager, I have the authority to deduct an hour’s pay for repeated offences of poor timekeeping.’

  A few colleagues were watching the exchange. Some giving her a sympathetic smile. Others looking grateful it wasn’t them getting it in the ear.

  ‘But I’ve worked here for thirteen years,’ she said, baulking at the unfairness of her situation. ‘Until January of this year, I’d never been late for work before.’

  ‘But you’ve been late four times since,’ he said, tapping his notebook. ‘Four times in four months. That is not acceptable. Consider this an official warning.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘You’ve failed to take notice of the verbal warnings issued on three previous occasions, so perhaps this time you’ll take heed of my words.’

  Technically, he was right. She had been late a few times. But it was hard to focus on work when your personal life was disappearing down the toilet.