Summer Under the Stars
CATHERINE FERGUSON
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 2019
Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2019
Cover design © Diane Meacham
Cover illustration © Shutterstock
Catherine Ferguson 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.
Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008302504
Version: 2019-04-11
For Matthew. You make me so proud.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
It’s the third Saturday in May and I’ve booked to take Mum to the theatre for her birthday.
Her all-time favourite musical is running for two weeks.
Oklahoma!
I remember being over the moon when I realised it coincided with Mum’s special day. It seemed significant somehow. I booked the tickets straight away – the best seats available.
I’m imagining her swaying in time to ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’, a delighted smile dimpling her face and lighting up her brown eyes. She’s going to have the best birthday ever.
There’s only one problem … I can’t for the life of me remember where I put the tickets.
Recent events have muddled my brain like never before, so I suppose it’s not surprising my mind has gone temporarily blank. But I’m certain I put them on the hall table along with all the other post, and they’re clearly not there.
‘Rachel?’ I yell for my flatmate. ‘Rachel!’
She appears in the hall, a look of alarm on her face, holding her hands aloft as if about to conduct an orchestra. ‘Daisy? What’s happened? Are you okay?’
I carry on scrabbling through the pile of mail, even though I’ve been through it three times already.
‘I can’t find the tickets,’ I wail, trying to ignore the horrible panicky feeling rising inside.
‘Oh.’ Absently blowing on her newly varnished nails, she contemplates me with the slightly worried frown I’ve grown used to lately. ‘I put them in the kitchen drawer when I was clearing up. I … um … wasn’t sure you’d be going. What with … everything that’s happened.’
My eyes flash with impatience. ‘Of course I’m going. It’s Mum’s special day and this is her birthday treat. You know she loves musicals. Especially this one.’
Rachel nods, murmuring, ‘Oklahoma!’
‘Precisely, and I need to get a move on,’ I call, haring through to the kitchen and pulling open the messy drawer where all the miscellaneous items live. ‘Or else I’m going to be late. The performance starts at two.’ Finding the tickets, I sigh with relief.
‘Are you getting the bus in?’ Rachel is hovering in the doorway. ‘Shall I come with you?’
I turn away from her to close the drawer, suppressing a sigh and flicking my eyes to the ceiling. ‘There’s really no need, Rachel. But thanks for offering.’
I love Rachel to bits. But I wish she wouldn’t fuss so much. I’m absolutely fine, and I’ve told her that over and over again, but she obviously thinks I’m lying.
Rachel and I have been friends ever since we worked as reporters on the same local newspaper when I was fresh out of journalism school.
Our career paths have diverged a little since then. We’re both thirty-two. But while Rachel has worked her way up to be chief sub-editor at a well-known glossy magazine, saving enough to own this house, I spend my days writing about flappers and float valves. This sounds more boring than it is. Actually, scratch that. It’s exactly as tedious as it sounds. But it pays the rent.
Writing for a plumbing trade publication called Plunge Happy Monthly is not my dream job if I’m honest. But on the plus side, anything I don’t know about spigots and galvanised steel piping really isn’t worth knowing about.
Another advantage is that I don’t have the unsociable early mornings and late nights that Rachel has in her senior position, so therefore I’ve got more free time to focus on writing my book. That’s the theory, anyway.
I’ve been working on my book – a quirky romance, with an accident-prone heroine called Hattie – for the last five years, on and off. Mum keeps saying I’m too talented a writer not to finish it and I keep promising I’ll get it done but it never seems to happen. I suppose I’m worried that when I’ve finally finished it, everyone will laugh and think it’s terrible, and say things like, Who on earth does Daisy Cooper think she is? Imagining she can write a book people would actually want to read?
I’ve made a decision, though, that now is the right time.
I will stop critiquing the chapters I’ve already written and making little changes to the opening, and instead, I will push on till the end. Mum will be so proud of me.
Riding the bus into town, I sway from side to side, my thoughts drifting to the last time I went to see one of the old-style musicals with Mum. It was her birthday that time, too, and the musical in question was West Side Story.
Even I was excited about that one. I’d grown up singing the songs from West Side Story because the soundtrack was on in the house all the time. We used to do the housework on a Saturday morning, singing along to ‘America’ because it has such energy. And I clearly remember whirling around the living room, clutching cushions like dance partners and trilling ‘I Feel Pretty’ at the tops of our voices. We collapsed, hot and laughing hysterically, on the sofa and Mum drew me in for a hug and declared that when I wrote my best-selling book one day, it would be even more fabulous than her favour
ite musical. I wanted to be a writer even then, when I was about ten. It’s funny the things you remember.
It was just Mum and me at home because my dad died when I was four, soon after we moved up north from Surrey, and our only relatives – Dad’s sister and her family – live in Canada. Mum’s oldest friend, Joan, lives down in Surrey – they met at primary school down there – and she goes down to visit Joan, but not very often. It’s not surprising, I suppose, that Mum and I have always been really close. I’d say that, as well as being the most brilliant mum I could ever have, she’s also my best friend. We talk about absolutely everything and she’s always so supportive, even when she doesn’t entirely agree with my decisions.
As well as owning the soundtrack to West Side Story, we also had the film version on video when I was a kid – it’s probably still there in a box somewhere – and we watched it together so many times that, even now, I’d probably be word-perfect if you asked me to write down the lyrics. Beautiful actress Natalie Wood played the lead role. She died in a mysterious boating accident several years before I was even born and I remember being haunted by the sad tale of her losing her life at such a relatively young age. She was just forty-three.
My eyes mist over, taking me by surprise. Life is so horribly fragile. It can be over in a split second.
But I swallow on the silly lump in my throat, telling myself this is going to be a happy day.
When I reach the theatre, it appears I was wrong about the happy bit.
A huge sign hangs above the doors.
Performance cancelled due to illness.
My heart plummets into my shoes. This can’t be true, surely. Not today of all days. Maybe the sign is still up there from yesterday and they’ve forgotten to take it down …
In the theatre, I walk up to the desk and stand in a queue with other disappointed musical lovers to find out what’s going on. When finally it’s my turn, I can’t help the snippiness in my tone, even though the very nice woman on duty explains that, sadly, the cast have been struck down with laryngitis.
I give a bitter laugh. ‘What, all of them?’
‘Well, no, the lead and her understudy.’
‘Well, that seems a bit odd. I mean, laryngitis isn’t infectious, is it? Not the kind you get from straining your voice.’
Confrontation is not my style as a rule, but agitation makes the words burst out.
The woman blanches slightly. Maybe I’m speaking too loudly. Or looking too desperate.
Lowering my voice, I lean a little closer. ‘Look, I know it’s not your fault it’s been cancelled. But this was meant to be a treat for my mum’s birthday. She’s sixty-one today and she’s been looking forward to it for ages.’ I’m starting to shake slightly and I can feel the tears welling up. ‘She circled the date on her calendar with a red marker pen, like she always does when she’s excited about something. It can’t possibly be cancelled.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The woman’s face softens with sadness. ‘I know it’s not quite the same but an extra day is being added to the show’s run. Can I put you both down for two seats on the thirty-first instead?’
She scans the entrance hall, presumably expecting to spot someone who looks like she might be my mum.
I swallow hard.
If I tell this nice woman the truth, her face will fall in shock and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.
‘Yes. Two seats on the thirty-first would be perfect.’
‘Lovely. Let me just organise that for you.’
I nod, blinking furiously as the tears threaten to spill over. I can’t bring myself to tell her that, actually, only one seat is required.
Because my lovely mum died eleven days ago.
I can hardly say those words to myself, never mind a stranger.
It won’t sink in that she’s gone. I keep thinking it’s all been a bad dream and that, any moment, my phone will ring and it’ll be her, wanting to know if I’d prefer chicken or beef for the big Sunday lunch she always makes for us, and laughing about some TV show she’s been watching.
I suppose I’ve been in denial ever since that terrible day when I had to say my final goodbyes.
The woman looks up from amending the booking with a big smile.
‘I’m sure your mum will still enjoy her birthday treat. Even if it is just a little bit late …’
*
Afterwards, I walk straight to the nearest pub, go up to the bar and order a double brandy. I don’t drink much as a rule. A glass or two of wine at the weekend is all. I don’t even particularly like pubs. But numbing the raw pain with alcohol suddenly seems like a very good idea.
It’s mid-afternoon and the pub is fairly deserted, which I’m thankful for. It means I can sit at my table in a shadowy corner for as long as I like, with no curious eyes looking over, wondering about the identity of the sad person sitting all alone, drinking double after double.
All I want is to feel numb. I want to reach that stage of intoxication where you’re wrapped in a warm glow and anaesthetised against reality.
But unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be working.
No matter how much brandy I down, thoughts of Mum – and how I’m going to manage without her – continue to march relentlessly through my exhausted brain.
If only Mum hadn’t had a fear of doctors and hospitals, she might still be here. But she’d ignored the tiny lump in her breast, not even telling me about it because she knew I’d march her straight along to the GP. She kept telling herself it was nothing and, by the time she eventually decided she should probably get it checked out, it was already too late.
Sitting there, all alone with just my drink for company, frustration and anger at Mum for not going to the doctor sooner mingles queasily with my grief.
I need to go!
I stand up – whoa! – then promptly sink back down again. I feel like I’m on a whirling merry-go-round. I appear to have lost control of my legs, which is not good. Not good at all.
How will I get home?
Toby.
It’s after seven so he’ll probably be finishing up for the day.
My boyfriend is a busy fund manager at Clements & Barbour, based in the City – just around the corner from here, in fact. A lift would be perfect. (The idea of trying to board the correct bus in my helpless state – climb on any bus, for that matter – is not an appealing one.)
I scramble in my bag for my phone and start panicking, convinced I’ve lost it, before realising it’s right there on the table in front of me. I stab at his name.
It rings for ages but, finally, he answers.
‘You’re there!’ Relief floods through me at the sound of his voice. ‘It’s Daisy. Could you – could pick me up, please, Toby? I’m in The Seven Bells and I’m – er – a little bit squiffy.’ A loud hiccup escapes. ‘Oops. Sorry.’
There’s a brief silence. I can hear papers rustling on his desk.
‘Can’t you get the bus?’ he asks at last, and my heart sinks. Tears spring to my eyes from nowhere. I hate being a bother. Especially when Toby works so hard and such long hours.
I swallow hard. ‘It’s just I’ve had the worst day and the alcohol has gone straight to my head.’ And I really want you to scoop me up and take me home and tell me everything is going to be all right!
‘Okay. Well, if you give me five minutes, okay? Five minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ I repeat, but he’s already hung up.
I sink back in the seat, feeling wretched and guilty, like a teenager who’s sneaked out on a school night and is now in the doghouse waiting to be picked up.
I glance expectantly at the door every time it opens. But forty minutes later, Toby still hasn’t arrived. Some emergency must have come up, delaying him …
People are giving me funny looks. I need to get out of here.
Then I think of Rosalind, Toby’s mum. She lives just a short walk from here.
Somehow I manage to make it across two main roads in one pie
ce, and then I’m knocking on Rosalind’s door. I can hear screaming and wailing from inside and I nod, reassured. Definitely the right door. It’s just a normal day in the life of the chaotic but lovable Carter family.
Toby doesn’t know how lucky he is to be part of such a large brood.
Rosalind takes one look at me and pulls me against her large, pillow-like bosom, almost squashing the breath out of me. ‘Oh, you poor love. What’s happened?’ she murmurs into my hair.
Her familiar warmth is too much, and the tears I’ve been trying to suppress all day start leaking out.
‘Come on in.’ She pulls me over the threshold.
‘It’s Daisy!’ yells one of Toby’s ten-year-old twin brothers and the screaming suddenly stops. Several pairs of small feet thunder along the corridor to greet me. I’m called upon to admire a model of a jet aeroplane, and a paper bag of sticky red sweets is thrust under my nose from another direction.
‘Let me talk to Daisy, you lot,’ commands Rosalind, shooing the kids away good-humouredly and ushering me into the kitchen. ‘Honestly, what’s this place like? A total madhouse!’
I breathe in the smell of home baking and feel my shoulders relax.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say, sinking down at Rosalind’s scrubbed wooden table with a sigh.
CHAPTER TWO
I first met Toby when we bumped into each other – quite literally – in the centre of Manchester one day.
I noticed this dark-haired man hurrying in my direction, engrossed in his phone, and I prepared to step aside to avoid a collision. But he looked up, saw me and swerved the same way, which resulted in us doing the awkward ‘dancing’ thing, shifting one way then the other. We apologised and laughed – and I noticed he had the most startlingly blue eyes.
The encounter was all over in a few seconds, but as I watched him striding off, I suddenly realised he’d dropped something. A book. I picked it up. It was a slim volume entitled Mergers & Acquisitions.
I started hurrying after him, eventually catching up at the entrance to a large, glass-fronted building with a plaque announcing, ‘Clements & Barbour Financial Analysts’.
‘Excuse me.’
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