Summer under the Stars: A romantic comedy that will have you laughing out loud this summer.

by Catherine Ferguson

  I smile to myself. There’s no way Toby would have sat down. The bugs would have ruined any attempt to relax, and he wouldn’t have wanted to get all manner of nasty earthy stuff on his expensive jeans. A fleeting feeling of dismay comes over me when I think of the future if Toby and I stay together.

  Will I be sentenced to a lifetime of swatting bugs?

  I glance around the clearing, enjoying the peace. If I stay with Toby, it won’t be the sort of relationship I dreamed of finding when I was younger. But aren’t all those romantic notions of blissful true love and happy-ever-after just something you read about in novels? They’re hardly the basis for a life-long relationship …

  I finish my sandwich and take a long swallow of water. Then, feeling the post-lunch dip in energy more than usual because I was up all night with my rolled-up newspaper, I decide I’ll have just five minutes lying on the lovely soft green bracken, with my cardigan as a pillow.

  Lying down, I close my eyes. It’s surprisingly comfortable and I feel like a character in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, pausing a while in their nocturnal wanderings to rest under a shady tree.

  The sound of birdsong and the breeze rustling gently through the leaves is the perfect soundtrack for relaxation and, within seconds, I find myself drifting off to sleep …

  *

  The next thing I’m aware of is opening my eyes and not being able to see a thing.

  Panicking, I stare into the pitch darkness.

  And then the same old flashback starts playing in my head …

  It’s dark and I’m in a spooky place – no houses, just snowy hedges on either side. And I’m running. I’m clinging tight to something I’m terrified I’m going to lose. The scariest thing of all, though, is the hoarse gasping noise that’s so loud in my ears. It’s as if someone is right behind, trying to catch me – but when I glance back, there’s nothing there. Panic grips me. I need to go back but something is stopping me. Then the thing I’m holding slips from my hands and I start to howl …

  An owl hoots close by, jerking me from the dark place in my head.

  Sitting up, I hear rustling noises beneath me and I stare into the black void, my heart banging against my ribs. A second later, my eyes start to adjust and, through the grey gloom, I see the ghostly outline of branches reaching out towards me.

  And then I remember.

  Eating my ham sandwich sitting under the oak tree and thinking I’d lie down and have just forty winks …

  I must have been asleep for hours!

  Scrambling to my feet, I dig in my pocket for my phone so I can switch on the light and find my way out of the forest. But it’s out of charge. Horror leaps in my chest at the thought of being trapped in the woods all night. What will Toby think? I’ve no idea how late it is. Will he be back yet? Will he come looking for me? But he won’t have a clue where to find me.

  My heart is racing but I tell myself to keep calm. The best thing is probably to try and head back the way I came. But the path, which was fairly faint in daylight, is now almost invisible, so all I’ve got is my instinct and a rough idea of the direction I came from.

  It’s just a forest. There aren’t any monsters. It’s going to be fine.

  Something digs me in the back and I scream. Spinning around, I realise it’s just a branch and relief makes me laugh out loud at my own ridiculousness.

  For goodness’ sake, get a grip, girl! It’s just a forest. There aren’t any monsters.

  I shake my head, chuckling at my idiocy. The trouble with having an active imagination is you can end up making a melodrama out of nothing! What on earth did I imagine was going to happen? That I’d be attacked by a mad axe murderer, who lives in the forest and hangs around just waiting for the next knackered explorer to fall asleep under a tree?

  I stumble away, trying desperately to find the path, but panic is building inside me. I keep blundering into trees, sharp twigs scratching my face, and getting my feet tangled in what must be fallen branches.

  Minutes later, I realise I’ve lost all sense of direction. I’m staggering around with no idea where I’m going. In fact, I have the horrible feeling I’m probably walking in circles, getting precisely nowhere.

  And everything looks so sinister and ghostly …

  Next second, a dark hulking shape rears out of the gloom, and my heart leaps into my mouth. I freeze in horror as The Thing walks towards me.

  It’s going to get me! I’m going to die a grisly death, right here in this bloody wood! Why didn’t I go to Maple Tree House while I had the chance? Now it’s too late and I’ll never meet my birth mother!

  I walk slowly backwards until I can feel the solid trunk of the oak tree at my back. Then I move behind it, hoping The Thing hasn’t spotted me.

  If I stay here and keep very still, I might just make it out of here alive …

  A torch shines in my face and a gruff voice barks, ‘You? What the hell are you doing roaming the woods at this time of night?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘I … er … I fell asleep.’ The voice is vaguely familiar and, if he’d just put that torch down, I might be able to see his face …

  He laughs as if he can’t believe it. ‘Who are you? Bear Grylls? There are better places to catch up on some shut-eye.’

  I swallow hard.

  Oh, God. It’s him. Last time we met I accidentally revealed Toby’s penchant for sex in unusual footwear. But hopefully, he won’t remember …

  He shines the torch on my feet. ‘No wellies today, I see.’

  ‘No, but I’m wearing my apron under here, if you’d like to take a look!’ I shoot back, as my cheeks heat up like a sauna. I’m hoping to flatten him with my quick-fire riposte.

  But it backfires spectacularly when he runs his eyes over me, smiles lazily and remarks, ‘That’s the most exciting offer I’ve had in a long time.’

  Unaccountably stuck for words, I feel heartily glad to be under cover of darkness. Then the torch travels upwards, revealing my flushed face in all its glory.

  ‘I presume you got lost,’ he says brusquely.

  I grit my teeth. I’m probably more lost than those people in that TV programme, Lost, but I’m not about to admit that to him. I’m not sure why but he makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s as if I become magically transparent whenever he’s there and he can see right into my head.

  ‘I know exactly where I am, thank you very much. I was just – er – having a rest before I headed back.’

  ‘Ah, right. Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it.’ He turns away and panic sets in immediately.

  ‘Stop!’ I try to swallow but my tongue appears to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. ‘I mean, could you wait a moment, please?’

  He swings round and I’m flooded in light again.

  ‘If you could just turn that torch off!’ I snap.

  He shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t advise it.’

  I shield my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘Just turn it off! Please?’

  ‘Okay.’ He snaps off the torch and we’re plunged into darkness so thick, I can no longer see my hand in front of me, never mind find the path to get me home. I guess he’s proven his point, which is so bloody infuriating.

  But whether I like it or not, I’m totally at this man’s mercy if I want to get out of these woods and back to the glamping site.

  I heave a sigh and say politely, ‘I’d be grateful if you could point me in the right direction for the glamping site, please? And a spare torch would be useful.’

  He switches the light back on but trains it on the ground. ‘I can do better than that. I can give you a lift.’ He motions with the torch for me to follow him.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll walk.’

  ‘All right. I’ll come with you. I’m not going to be responsible for you coming to grief because you’re too proud to accept help.’

  ‘I’m not too proud.’

  ‘Well, take the lift, then.’

  I take a deep breath in
. The thought of walking all the way back to the campsite, trying to keep up with this obnoxious man’s giant stride, is not an attractive thought.

  ‘Fine. Where’s your car?’

  ‘You can trust me. I’m not a serial killer.’

  ‘I expect that’s what they all say. Serial killers, I mean.’

  ‘You’ve got a point.’

  ‘Why are you lurking in the woods at night?’

  His mouth twists with amusement. ‘I’m not lurking. I’m camping out here for a few days.’

  ‘Really?’ That explains the week-old stubble.

  ‘Yes, if you’d walked just a few hundred yards further before you decided to have a kip, you’d have stumbled across my ridge tent. Come and take a look if you don’t believe me.’

  I give him a deadpan look. ‘Actually, it’s your driving I’m more worried about.’

  He fishes in his pocket. ‘You take the wheel, then,’ he says and lobs something at me that I actually manage to catch.

  I give a snort of surprise to find his car keys in my hand. ‘No, you’re all right. I’ll risk it.’ I throw them back at him with a little more force than I intend.

  He catches them easily and holds out his other hand. ‘Jake Steele.’

  ‘Daisy Cooper.’ For a second, I feel my hand captured firmly in his and a funny little tingle shivers its way along my arm.

  ‘Come on, then.’ He lets go of my hand. ‘My car is parked by the lake just beyond the woods.’

  ‘So we’re taking a path right through the woods to the other side?’

  ‘Yes, we’re tracking the shores of the lake, which is just over there through those trees.’ He points to our left, although all I can see is more ghostly shapes.

  Toby would say I was putting myself in grave danger, being alone at night in the woods with a strange man. But there’s something about Jake Steele that makes me trust him to carry me out of danger.

  ‘Almost there,’ he says, probably guessing my thought processes. ‘The woods aren’t actually that big once you get to know them.’

  ‘Have you been here a while already, then?’

  ‘A few days. Sometimes I come here to work. I like the peace and quiet and the thought that no one will disturb me.’

  I make a guilty face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  ‘Wow. Really? With a publisher and everything?’

  ‘Yes, the whole works. I’m contracted to write a book a year.’ He sounds less than pleased about this.

  ‘What are you writing about at the moment?’ I ask curiously, wondering why he sounds so down. If I had a contract with a publisher, I’d be dancing a jig every day of my life!

  ‘I’m not. Writer’s block.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There’s a heavy silence and when I glance at his profile his jaw is set and he’s staring broodingly into the distance. He might even have forgotten I’m here.

  ‘Maybe … maybe being out here in the woods will help?’ I venture.

  He grunts. ‘Nothing can help me right now,’ he says, and I blanch at the roughness of his tone.

  We walk on in silence, crunching over twigs and bracken, and I wonder what could have happened to stifle Jake Steele’s creativity. Is there something more than writer’s block plaguing him?

  He shines the torch to our left. ‘My temporary home.’

  Sure enough, the light reveals a green ridge tent in the centre of a small clearing. There’s evidence of a campfire that’s now just smouldering and a folding chair sits beside a small table.

  ‘The car is this way.’

  I follow him through the clearing and out into the woods on the other side. Just a hundred yards further on, the trees thin out and the lakeside road comes into view. There’s a car parked on the verge. Jake’s presumably.

  He shines the torch across the lake. ‘See where we are?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve walked right through the woods and come out the other side!’ I laugh. ‘I’m amazed. I had an awful feeling I might be just walking round and round and getting totally lost.’

  ‘You probably were,’ he says bluntly.

  ‘Yes. Well, thanks for rescuing me.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  We get into his car and he starts the engine. ‘Did you manage to contact your … boyfriend? Or should that be husband?’

  ‘Boyfriend. Toby. And no, I couldn’t get a signal.’

  He grimaces. ‘Let’s hope Toby hasn’t called the police to report you missing.’

  I groan. ‘God, I hope not.’ I fumble for my phone as we drive along the lakeside before remembering it’s dead.

  ‘Want to use mine?’ Jake hands me his phone.

  Toby picks up on the first ring.

  ‘Hi, love, I’m so sorry I couldn’t contact you. I fell asleep in the woods and my phone ran out of charge but I’m on my way back now. You must have been really worried.’

  ‘Daisy?’ There’s the sound of voices and music in the background. He shouts above the noise. ‘Daisy? Did you get my message?’

  ‘No, I told you. My phone went flat. Where are you, Toby?’ I ask, puzzled.

  ‘In the bar of the Crown Hotel in Guildford. I’ve booked a room and I’m just going to stay over tonight and come back tomorrow. Is that okay?’

  I swallow and glance at Jake.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Um … see you soon.’ I disconnect the call.

  Jake frowns. ‘Isn’t he there?’

  I paste on a smile. ‘Yes, yes. He was just … over at the owners’ house getting some pastries for breakfast.’

  ‘Was he worried about you?’

  ‘No, no. I – um – told him I might be late back, so …’ I shrug as if I’m not concerned in the slightest about Toby’s lack of concern.

  Jake nods slowly. ‘He’ll be glad you’re back, though.’

  ‘He will.’ My cheeks are starting to ache with all the forced smiling.

  We pull in outside Clemmy’s house and Jake turns the car around. It’s a narrow road but he executes the manoeuvre with ease. I can’t help but think that it would have been a twenty-six-point turn if I’d been behind the wheel.

  He leaves the engine running. ‘Right, well, enjoy the rest of your holiday, Daisy.’ He sits back, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite fathom in the dim light.

  ‘I will. And thank you again for rescuing me. God knows what I’d have done if you hadn’t. Stayed there till it got light, I suppose.’

  ‘Hey, it was no problem.’

  ‘I hope your writer’s block goes away soon. That must be awful, especially if your publisher is expecting you to deliver a book soon.’

  ‘It’s not the best situation,’ he murmurs.

  ‘When’s the deadline?’

  ‘I need to get the first draft written by November.’

  I nod. ‘I suppose your work doesn’t end there, though. It’s a long process, publishing a book. You’ll have more drafts to do, then all the edits and the final proofread. And then there’s all the marketing and promotion to be planned.’

  I’m aware I’m stalling, keeping Jake Steele talking. But I’ve never met a real live writer before. That’s probably why I have this sudden urge to stay in the car and carry on talking to him.

  He looks surprised. ‘You seem to know a fair bit about how publishing a book works.’

  I smile ruefully. ‘I’m a frustrated writer myself. Well, not a writer. A writer is someone who’s been published and I haven’t even dared show anyone my manuscript yet.’ I swallow. ‘Except my mum.’

  ‘Did she like it?’

  ‘She loved it. But she’s my mum.’

  ‘Why haven’t you shown it to anyone else?’

  ‘I’m scared it’s not good enough and they’ll think I’ve got ideas above my station.’

  ‘Isn’t it worth taking that risk, though? If you don’t put it out there, you’ll never know how good it
is.’

  I sigh. ‘You’re right, of course. But it’s … I don’t know. I’ve wanted it for so long. To be a published writer. I suppose I’m worried that if I start trying to make it a reality, I might be rejected and then all my lovely dreams of making it as an author will go up in smoke.’ I give a mirthless laugh. ‘And then I’ll have nothing to dream about.’

  ‘It took me seven long years of trying and failing and getting more knock-backs than anyone should ever have to deal with. The secret is to keep going.’

  ‘And now you’re a success.’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, my books sell. And that’s all I ever dreamed of.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I say softly.

  ‘If you go by my experience, being a published writer is ten per cent talent and ninety per cent persistence. So you need to keep going, Daisy Cooper. And show that manuscript to someone.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You’d better go in. Toby will be wondering what’s keeping you,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I’m taking up too much of Jake’s time. He’s here because he wants to be alone to get his writing inspiration back – not to have me bending his ear for ages about being a writer! But when I get out of the car, it’s with a feeling of reluctance. I’d love to talk to him some more …

  As I get out, Jake glances across at the campsite and frowns. ‘There don’t seem to be any lights on in any of the tents. Are you sure Toby’s there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He, er, said on the phone he was really tired and he was going to bed,’ I bluster, wondering why on earth I’m lying about Toby being there, when he’s miles away, tucked up in a comfy Guildford hotel for the night! I suppose I don’t want Jake thinking my romantic glamping holiday is already teetering on the brink of disaster …

  He nods. ‘Well, if you need any advice on the route to getting published, you know where I am. Not that I’m anything of an expert. But it helps to hear of other people’s journeys.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I duck down and smile at him. Our eyes meet and that funny little shiver runs through me again.