Praise for Miranda Dickinson
‘Oh my heart, this book! What a story. It’s so achingly tender and bittersweet, and a spark of true joy. I adored every page’
Josie Silver, bestselling author of One Day in December
‘An engrossing love story, beautifully written’
Sarah Morgan, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘An exquisitely tender and breathtaking novel, beautifully written. This is Miranda at her best’
Cathy Bramley, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘Romantic, heartbreaking and emotional … A magical story about love, hope and forgiveness, and I am envious of anyone who has yet to read it’
Cressida McLaughlin, author of The Cornish Cream Tea Summer
‘A sweet, clever love story … I adored this book’
Dorothy Koomson, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘Tenderly written novel [that] is full of hope and the joy of taking a second chance’
Daily Express
‘A sparkling romance, packed with tenderness’
Woman’s Weekly
‘Emotional story … full of both heart and soul’
Fabulous
‘A love story we can all connect with’
Woman & Home
‘This story will have you championing the pair all the way’
The Sun
MIRANDA is the author of eleven books, including six Sunday Times bestsellers. Her books have been translated into seven languages and have made the bestseller charts in four countries. She has been shortlisted twice for the RNA awards (for Novel of the Year in 2010 with Fairytale of New York and again in 2012 for Contemporary Novel of the Year for It Started With a Kiss). She has now sold over a million copies of her books worldwide. Miranda lives in the Black Country with her husband and daughter.
Also by Miranda Dickinson
The Day We Meet Again
Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Searching for a Silver Lining
A Parcel for Anna Browne
I’ll Take New York
Take A Look at Me Now
When I Fall in Love
It Started With a Kiss
Welcome to My World
Fairytale of New York
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First Published in Great Britain as Illustrated Child by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2020
Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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 © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008323257
Version 2020-07-31
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
Change of font size and line height
Change of background and font colours
Change of font
Change justification
Text to speech
Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323240
For Rachael, with my love.
Because she loved Otty and Joe first.
‘When nothing is sure, everything is possible.’
MARGARET DRABBLE
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Also by Miranda Dickinson
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Acknowledgements
Extract
The Day We Met
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Publisher
Chapter One
OTTY
It’s my last day.
I repeat it in my mind like a mantra as I go through the motions of the job I’ve done since I was twenty-one. Even though I have longed for this day to arrive, it’s surreal to be living it.
Dad keeps glancing over when he thinks I’m not looking. I know what he’s thinking. It’s two hours until my final shift ends and I haven’t had the talk. Yet. But I feel it in the air, the low rumble of approaching thunder.
‘It won’t be the same without you, bab,’ Sheila says, setting another mug of tea next to my workbench. Where other people use words, Sheila Wright uses tea. This is easily the thirteenth mug she’s brought me today, although, to be honest, I stopped counting around lunchtime.
‘In a few weeks you won’t even notice I’m not here,’ I smile back, reaching for her hand when her eyes glisten. ‘And I’ll still see you at the cricket.’
She nods, dabbing her nose with a tissue she produces from her sleeve. When I was little, I used to imagine the inside of Sheila Wright’s cardigan sleeves as endless winter landscapes of white. She’s as close to a real auntie as I’ve ever had. I
’m going to miss her chats every day.
But it’s time to go.
I turn my attention back to the bike frame propped up on the bench. There’s something dodgy with its suspension and I’m determined to sort it before I hand in my RoadTrail staff badge. A clean slate for my next big adventure to begin.
An hour later, the inevitable happens.
‘It’s a good job, this.’
I smile but keep my attention on the suspension unit. ‘It is, Dad.’
‘I’m not looking for anyone else.’
‘Well, you should. Steve and Jarvis can’t manage the workshop on their own.’
‘Oi,’ Jarvis says, his head popping up from the bench on the other side of the workshop. One thing I definitely won’t miss is never being able to conduct a private conversation in this place.
‘I’m just saying you need an extra pair of hands here, Jarv.’
‘If they come without a gob it’ll be an improvement.’ His grin is a balm to his barb. For Jarvis and Steve mickey-taking is a badge of belonging. If they mock you, you’re in.
‘You hope,’ I grin back.
‘This is a proper job,’ Dad says. And there it is.
‘So is my new one.’
‘I mean a steady job. One you can rely on. People are always going to need their bikes fixing…’
‘And they’re always going to watch TV.’
‘Writing,’ Dad says, spitting the word out like a fly in his tea. ‘That in’t safe, bab. Six months and then what? You’ll be out on your ear with moths in your wallet.’
I meet his frown. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I’ll be more than fine. Writing is my dream. I’ve done the sensible thing for years, my full-time shifts in Dad’s bike shop nothing compared with the endless unseen hours spent wrangling words onto the page. Tomorrow that me gets to step out into the light. I’m still expecting to arrive and find it’s all a prank. I’m terrified of failing. But I can’t wait to try.
‘You can still change your mind.’
‘I can’t.’ I glance over at my colleagues, lowering my voice. ‘Russell Styles is expecting me.’ He wants me, I want to add, but I don’t. Dad doesn’t understand what that sentence means to me. Out of the fifteen hundred scriptwriters who applied, a famous showrunner chose me. Even though it’s my first experience as a staff writer, my first in a writers’ room. My first of anything. Russell read my script and wanted me on his team.
‘If you work with Jodie Comer tell her she needs a hunky bike mechanic in her life,’ Steve says.
‘Hunky? More like chunky, mate,’ Jarvis shoots back.
Dad doesn’t smile with them. ‘Just think about it, our Otts. It’s risky to rest your bills on a pipe dream.’
Nothing I say will change his mind. So I just hug him.
At the end of the day, we gather by the back door of the workshop. The sun is just beginning to dip over the warehouse roofs of the trading estate and starlings are bickering in the ash trees over the road. I fill my lungs for the last time with the scent of oil and metal, sawdust and leather. It’s strange to think I won’t smell it again, won’t be followed home by it clinging to my clothes and hair.
Sheila is in tears, Steve has his arm around her and even Jarvis isn’t cracking jokes. Dad stands beside me, a silent sentinel. For a moment, everything is calm. It only lasts as long as a slow intake of breath, but I feel more expressed by the silence than by anything words could say.
‘Right then,’ I say, surprised to feel tears arriving. I hand Dad my badge and door pass and he takes it as solemnly as a war widow accepting colours from an officer. ‘Thanks, guys. For everything.’
Jarvis gives my arm his usual punch, and then scoops me into an enormous hug. ‘Knock ’em dead, Otty. You show ’em.’
I smile against his chest, the pull of Past Me suddenly strong. ‘I will.’
Steve shakes my hand, which is the most physical contact I’ve had with him in all the years we’ve worked together. ‘We’ll be watching for your name on them telly credits.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
I hug Sheila and Dad. ‘See you soon, yeah?’
They nod and stand together as I walk from them across the car park to my car. When I open the driver’s door, I turn back and take one last look. As one, the RoadTrail team raise their hands in salute.
I don’t let myself cry until I’ve driven off the estate.
Tonight, I’m going to have a quiet one. Let it all finally sink in. I plan a takeaway from Diamond Balti across the street from my flat with one of their enormous Peshwari naans and a bottle of Chang beer, followed by a night of classic drama repeats on telly. Perfect. I’d say an early night, too, but I know my brain. It rarely switches off before midnight and tonight my nerves will probably push that much later. I’ll sleep when it comes.
Monty, my yellow Fiat 500, creaks into the car park and when I kill the engine I sit in the stillness for a moment. Last time I’ll make that journey. Last time I’ll get home with the itch of not having written all day. Tomorrow, everything changes.
I consider going straight to Diamond Balti, but decide on a shower first. Leaving my car, I punch the entry number into the door lock and head inside. The three flights of stairs seem to take longer to climb this evening but everything feels significant today. I’m on the cusp of the next season of my life, my toes inching towards the edge, ready to leap…
Hang on. What’s that?
There’s an envelope drawing-pinned to my front door. That’s odd. Why wasn’t it posted through the letterbox? I pull the pin out, which takes more effort than I expect. Someone bashed it into the painted wood with considerable force. When I look at the brass dome of its head, I can see the pin is dented from whatever implement whoever put it there used. Poor thing. I pocket the pin and the envelope and unlock my front door.
It’s not Birmingham’s most spacious home, but I love my flat. I’ve rented it for seven years and it might as well be a palace for the security and comfort it gives me. That was another battle with Dad I stuck out and won. He wanted me to stay at home with him, but I needed my own space and somewhere I could write without having to justify it. I love Dad and I know he loves me, but I wish he wouldn’t think he has to protect me from the world. I’ve stopped trying to argue the toss and instead just go with it, trusting that he’ll see I made the right choice in time. This flat was the right choice for me: the first night I lived here, I wrote all night, going into the workshop the next day dizzy with exhaustion but buzzing.
I drop my rucksack by the kitchen counter and pull the envelope from my pocket. Inside is a single sheet of paper, typed.
Dear Miss Perry
NOTICE OF EVICTION
As landlord of Flat 6, Princess Building, West Park Road, I hereby give notice of the termination of your tenancy agreement, effective immediately. You must vacate the property, including all furniture and personal effects, by 10 a.m. tomorrow. Failure to do this will result in legal action being pursued against you.
Yours sincerely
Barrington Theopolis (Mr)
Landlord
What?
I stare at the paper as if the words might relent and rearrange themselves into something else. The letter creases as my fingers curl into fists around it. Eviction? Why? I have always paid my rent on time, never missing a payment in seven years. I haven’t had any warning of this. He can’t just evict me!
Shaking, I reach for my phone and dial Barry’s number. I swallow my panic and tears as I wait for him to answer. I won’t cry on the phone. I won’t.
‘Yes?’
‘Barry – Mr Theopolis – it’s Ottilie Perry. I just got your letter.’ You utter bastard, I add in my head, sucking in a lungful of air to keep myself from screaming at him or bursting into tears.
‘And?’
‘You can’t evict me. I’ve always paid my bills, I’ve never had a complaint from you or anyone else in the building…’
‘I have another tenant.�
��
‘I’m your tenant, Barry. I’ve been your tenant for seven years.’
‘She needs the flat tomorrow.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This can’t happen, not tonight. My life is supposed to change tomorrow. And not like this. It can’t be this.
‘I need the flat now.’ Deafening silence on the other end of the line sets my blood boiling. ‘And anyway, you can’t just evict me. I have rights.’
‘That’s not my problem.’ There’s no emotion in his voice, not even a hint of remorse or embarrassment at what he’s doing. ‘I will collect the keys at 10 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘No you bloody won’t,’ I growl back, any pretence of calm abandoned now. He doesn’t deserve civility. And I’m not going to beg him. If he wants me gone, it will be on my terms. ‘I’m starting a new job tomorrow. So if you want the keys you will be here at 6 a.m. And I will require my deposit in full, in cash.’
‘Six?’
‘Six. Or else it will have to be late tomorrow evening. Your choice.’
A beat. I can hear his breathing rasp a little. ‘Fine. 6 a.m., sharp.’
I hang up before he has the chance to do it first.
Anger fires through my body, tears and shock chasing its heels. My legs give way and now I’m on the floor, shaking, sobbing, gasping for breath. I should fight this, get legal advice, refuse to leave. But there’s no time. I have a new job tomorrow and that’s all that matters. I will not give Barry Theopolis the satisfaction of a fight. I will take my business elsewhere.
I just have no idea where.
I allow myself one moment to look around my home – now not my home for much longer – taking in the features so familiar I don’t see them anymore. The faded curtains, the stacks of books rising around the walls like the skyscrapers of the city because I’ve never had space for bookshelves, the sagging sofa that came with the flat and will be left here tomorrow when I’m no longer its tenant.
I can’t believe I have to leave.
I sit up, drag my sleeves across my eyes to rid them of tears, will strength into my spine. I need to start packing. I’ll work out the rest later.
Chapter Two
JOE
‘Come over.’
Our Story Page 1
