A Year and a Day

by Isabelle Broom

  Isabelle Broom

  * * *

  A YEAR AND A DAY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  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

  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

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A YEAR AND A DAY

  Isabelle Broom was born in Cambridge nine days before the 1980s began and studied Media Arts at the University of West London before starting a career first in local newspapers and then as a junior sub-editor at heat magazine. She travelled through Europe during her gap year and went to live on the Greek island of Zakynthos for an unforgettable and life-shaping six months after completing her degree. Since then, she has travelled to Canada, Sri Lanka, Sicily, New York, LA, the Canary Islands, Spain and lots more of Greece, but her wanderlust was reined in when she met Max, a fluffy little Bolognese puppy desperate for a home. When she’s not writing novels set in far-flung locations, Isabelle spends her time being the Book Reviews Editor at heat magazine and walking her beloved dog round the parks of north London.

  You can follow her on Twitter @Isabelle_Broom or find her on Facebook under Isabelle Broom Author.

  For Sadie

  The snow started as night fell and with it came the silence. That magical, almost ethereal quiet that always seems to accompany the gently falling flakes, as if all the inhabitants of the world had paused just to admire their beauty.

  One person, however, was not moved by the snow – nor was she watching it. Standing by the wall on the edge of the bridge, the cobbles wet beneath the soles of her shoes and her breath clearly visible in the sharp, still air, she found herself drawn instead to the dark mass of water below.

  What would it feel like to plunge straight down into it? she wondered. Would the river impale her with its icy fingers, would she cough and splutter and flail her arms above her head, or would she feel nothing but a sense of relief? The latter option was deliciously tempting. These past few days had been so exhausting, and she was weary. Weary of the confusion, weary of the uncertainty and weary of the pain.

  She heard the clock begin to strike and closed her eyes, the individual chimes rattling her insides with their unintended finality: a countdown to hopelessness, a symphony of despair. The snow was falling even harder now and it was becoming difficult to see through her tears.

  Just one step up, a leg swung over, a final gasp of air and then a single jump. It could all be over in less than a minute.

  High above the bridge and past clouds bloated with snow, the moon sat snug and proud in the sky. From up here the world was merely a coloured penny in an ocean of blackness, a bright pebble of life and love and sadness and joy. Back on the bridge, the moonlight was everywhere, illuminating the statues and making the patches of rubbed gold gleam blue in the darkness. Still the snow fell.

  The clock had chimed for the final time and with it came the realisation. She took a deep breath and steadied her hands against the stone wall, preparing to support herself as she climbed up. But as her foot left the ground, she heard a shout.

  It was him. He had come.

  1

  Megan screwed her jeans up into a ball and lobbed them as hard as she could across the room. They hit the wall with a disappointingly quiet thump and slid forlornly to the floor, landing on top of the three shirts and five pairs of knickers she had already thrown.

  Packing was something she’d always been good at, a fact she was quite smug about. Those neatly rolled clothes, socks stuffed into shoes, toiletries decanted into miniature bottles and a careful amount of space left over for any purchases made while away.

  This time, however, she was having a hell of a job.

  Just what did you pack for a trip you’re taking with a friend who is a man, but definitely not your significant other? A man you kissed once when drunk ages ago, but who you don’t want to kiss again. A man who has invited you along on a trip to Prague on a purely platonic basis, but who is most definitely single. A man who you will have to spend some serious one-on-one time with over the next five days. A man who you will even have to share a bed with.

  It was a bit weird.

  Megan had refused to listen when her friends told her it would all end in tears. Hell, even her own mother had issued a word of warning.

  ‘I don’t want the poor boy getting hurt,’ she’d said. Typical Mum.

  Megan had waved aside their concerns, telling them that it was fine. Ollie knew that the stupid kiss had been a one-off, and that they were just good friends.

  But still – weird.

  Should she pack her black dress with the great cleavage? It looked nice on her and she liked wearing it, but would Ollie think it was a sign that she wanted him to notice her? Would she lead him on without even meaning to? And what about pyjamas? If she brought the new satin set with the lace trim, would he take them as a green light and assume she fancied a friendly fumble under the covers? But her only other alternative was the grotty T-shirt and shorts combo that had been festering away in her chest of drawers since university. She didn’t want Ollie to think she was a gross old tramp either. It was a problem.

  Vest tops that had once been so innocuous now reeked of suggestion, jeans that had fitted well across the bum had all of a sudden become slutty, and as for her underwear selection … she didn’t even know where to start with that heap of provocative red flags to a sex-mad bull. It was no good, she was going to have to go to the most boring clothes shop in London and buy a sample wardrobe of the plainest and least offensive garments they had. Great.

  Megan’s phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from Ollie:

  Hope you’re all packed.

  Looking forward to tomorrow.

  Pints at the airport at 6 a.m.,

  right? You’re buying x

  Oh God, he’d added a kiss. It had started already.

  She chewed her lip as she mulled over her reply, finally settling for:

  Packed hours ago, you div.

  And YOU’RE buying.

  No kiss for him, oh no.

  Sighing, Megan abandoned the sheer hopelessness that was her packing and picked up her camera instead. Immediately she felt calmer. She loved feeling the weight of it in her hands, the texture of the casing beneath her practised fingers, the gentle click as she shifted the lens into position, and the surge of pleasure as she finally pressed the shutter down and captured her image. A snapshot of a moment, a memory saved forever, the view of the world as she saw
it. Nothing made Megan happier than taking photos, and she knew photography would always be her first love. Not a man, not her friends, not even – her brain frowned momentarily – her family could compete. This camera was as much a part of Megan as her limbs, skin, hair and soul, and just holding it now, in the midst of a pile of rejected clothes, she felt comforted.

  When Ollie had revealed that he’d be teaching his class of eight-year-olds about Prague next term, he had asked Megan if she’d accompany him on a fact-finding trip during a teacher training week. As his non-official photographer, Megan had done extensive research on the place before making her decision – and it looked absolutely magical. All those cobbled streets and statues, not to mention the beautiful Vltava River, which ran right through the heart of the city. Prague was also packed with architectural treats, some dating back to before the thirteenth century, and Megan felt the hairs stand up on her arms with anticipation whenever she thought about it.

  She was so sure that the trip was going to inspire her that she had finally chewed up her nerves, spat them out, and booked herself a May exhibition space along the South Bank here in London. It was to be her first big showcase in the capital and, with Christmas only a few weeks away now, she was cutting it quite fine, time-wise – but that’s how she preferred to work. Setting deadlines, writing lists, nagging herself to get up and get out, do something with her day, achieve something, anything – that was Megan all over.

  Her phone was vibrating again.

  Just thought – should we

  travel to the airport together?

  Taxi from mine? x

  Megan put her camera down and groaned. She only had herself to blame for agreeing to flights that departed at such an ungodly hour, but she didn’t want to add to her sleep deprivation by trekking all the way over to Ollie’s at five a.m. And he’d added another kiss.

  Come to mine – it’s easier. Megan pressed send and waited, watching as the message registered as delivered. As she suspected, it didn’t take Ollie long to reply.

  OK boss xx

  TWO KISSES?

  Megan spent the rest of her afternoon procrastinating. Having firmly decided that it was totally absurd to buy boring clothes that she’d never wear again, she packed, then repacked her case, then deliberated for twenty whole minutes over whether or not to bother shaving her legs. By the time she was cleaned, preened, packed and settling down in front of the TV with a glass of red wine in hand, it was almost ten o’clock. If Ollie was coming round at five in the morning, she had better try to get some sleep soon, although there was only half a bottle of red left. No point in leaving any dregs if she was going away for five days – that was just wasteful.

  The sound of the doorbell almost made her lose what was in her glass.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, picking up the baseball bat that she kept by the top of the stairs and wrapping her oversized cardigan tighter around her body. Megan had lived in North London for over ten years now and never in that time had she been mugged, attacked or otherwise burgled, but a girl living on her own could never be too careful.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she yelled through the door.

  She heard a low chuckle, before Ollie’s familiar voice replied: ‘The man of your wildest dreams.’

  Megan lowered her bat and opened the door a crack, glaring at her bespectacled friend through the gap.

  ‘You’re a bit early, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ollie had the grace to look momentarily confused, and Megan realised now that there was a suitcase by his feet.

  ‘I thought you were coming over in the morning.’

  ‘What, trudge all the way over here from Putney at five in the morning? As if I was ever going to do that. I thought you meant me to come over tonight.’

  He didn’t look like he was lying, and Megan opened the door a fraction further.

  ‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa,’ she told him, trying not to care that she was wearing fluffy dog slippers and not a single scrap of make-up.

  Ollie heaved his case over the threshold and Megan let him go up the stairs first. She told him it was because she needed to lock the door properly, but really she didn’t want him staring at her bum on the way up. She’d caught him gawping at it once before, on an occasion where she had regrettably worn some very tight jeans, but she had no idea what he’d found so alluring. If she was going to pick one word to describe her bottom, it would be gargantuan.

  ‘Help yourself to wine,’ she told him when they were upstairs, already lamenting the extra glass she’d been planning to drink. Then again, she reminded herself, they could do all the drinking they liked over the next few days – Prague was famous for its beer halls.

  As if reading her mind, Ollie proposed a toast to ‘the first of many’ when he clinked his glass against her own, and she allowed herself to smile at her friend for the first time. There were plenty of things she liked about Ollie: he was tall, he had lots of thick chestnut hair that he actually remembered to wash, he had a nice job that provided lots of funny anecdotes on an almost daily basis, he still spoke to his parents regularly and not under duress, he was funny, and he was one of the best, most loyal friends she’d ever had.

  ‘Do you think this is going to be weird?’

  She hadn’t meant to say it, but she was glad she had when Ollie merely grinned at her and placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

  ‘Nah.’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  He’d taken off his glasses because they’d steamed up, as they always did in her tropical front room. The radiator had broken years ago and was set permanently to super-high, but Megan, unlike any other poor soul who dared to enter her lair, had grown used to it.

  Ollie’s eyes were probably his best feature, she decided. They were a bright hazel colour and magnified most of the time by his specs. She, by contrast, had tiny eyes, and they were a rather uninspiring pavement shade of grey.

  The silence that had inexplicably reared up was becoming uncomfortable, so Megan filled it by telling him about her plans for the new exhibition. She hadn’t settled on a theme yet, she told him, but was hoping that Prague would give her all the inspiration she needed. What she didn’t do, however, was explain exactly why this exhibition meant so much to her. That could wait for another day.

  ‘It sounds great,’ Ollie said, draining his wine and topping up both their glasses with the small amount that was left. He was always so supportive about her work – it was one of the reasons she liked having him around.

  ‘We are doing something special for my birthday, though, right?’ Ollie looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘I turned thirty-five a month ago, and I’ve yet to get so much as a card from you. Thirty-five is a milestone, you know. So I insist you take me to dinner at the classiest goulash joint in the whole of Prague.’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she told him, wondering silently if she had time to sneakily go online, find a restaurant in Prague and book them a table before their flight. She guessed that she probably didn’t.

  ‘I’m only teasing you.’ He nudged her leg with his foot and she clocked his bright pink socks. ‘How about another snog instead?’

  Megan couldn’t help it; she pulled a face.

  ‘Ollie …’ she began, but he held up a hand.

  ‘I know, I know – we’re friends and there’s to be no funny business whatsoever. I promise I was only joking, Meg.’

  She narrowed her eyes at his bemused expression.

  ‘You’re so easy to wind up,’ Ollie told her, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

  Megan was suddenly assailed by a memory of the first time they’d sat side by side on her sofa, having only met a few hours before. She had been buoyed up by wine in her system then too, but the outcome had been very different to this.

  ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ she murmured, looking up to find Ollie peering at her in amusement.

  ‘You’ve gone all pink
in the face, young lady,’ he said, taking her glass out of her hand and draining it himself. ‘Come on – time for bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.’

  Megan forced herself to walk to the cupboard and fetch the spare bedding, which she dropped on the sofa next to him, waiting out in the hallway until she heard him start to undress.

  This trip was clearly going to be weird, she realised. But then there was nothing Megan Spencer loved more than a challenge.

  2

  For a long time after her daughter hung up, Hope simply sat and stared into space. She supposed she ought to feel grateful that Annette hadn’t actually slammed down the receiver, but then you couldn’t really do that any more, could you? Not with everyone and their pet dog owning a mobile phone. It was far less dramatic to jab a screen with your finger than smash plastic against plastic and hear that satisfying ring of enraged silence, but the result was still the same: she felt as if her heart was breaking into pieces.

  There was a bowl of fruit on the table in front of her, and Hope picked up one of the satsumas. It was an easy peeler, the kind you found in every supermarket in the run-up to Christmas, and this one was definitely past its best. The skin had started to harden, and when she squeezed it, Hope could feel the overripe fruit mushing unpleasantly inside.

  It’s just like me, she thought – outwardly tough, but mush underneath. Annette didn’t agree, though – she’d said as much on the phone just a few minutes ago, accusing her mum of having no heart, of being selfish, of ruining her life.

  Hope stood up abruptly and took the satsuma into the kitchen, where she tossed it into the bin. Reaching across the narrow space, she flicked on the kettle and readied a mug for tea, more out of habit than an actual desire to drink one.

  She still felt a bit like a spare part in this flat. Back at home – well, back at the other house – she’d always had a job to do. Beds needing to be made, dinner to be cooked, laundry to be done. But here? Here there was just the two of them, and such a small amount of space.