by Ali Harris
Ali Harris is a magazine journalist and has written for publications such as Red, ELLE, Stylist, Cosmopolitan and Company and was deputy features editor at Glamour before leaving to write books and have babies. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two children. Follow Ali on twitter @AliHarrisWriter and on facebook at www.facebook.com/AliHarrisWriter
By the same author:
Miracle on Regent Street
The First Last Kiss
A Vintage Christmas (ebook-only)
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Ali Harris 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Ali Harris to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback B ISBN: 978-1-47112-552-2
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47112-553-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-47112-554-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
‘Shipping Good’ reprinted by permission of Lemn Sissay.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
To my two little stars Barnaby and Cecily,
I love you to the moon and back
The clock clicks in a child’s hand
As she skips to the tics and tocs
Under the park tunnels run from the dark
While sun circles the clocks
Flowers grow for those that know
To bloom is to know your roots
To give the earth all it’s worth
Tend to the new shoots
And a horse on course its hooves
Drum beneath the earth
Where dreadnought’s sleeping seamen
Are weeping for the berth
While the marshes sigh at night
When sky dives into The Thames
Greenwich and I will sleep again
And wake again as friends
It is the thudding in my ear
Upon the pillow that sounds
Like a black mare churning
Dreams from the ground
As she charges towards
The Meridian Line
Leaps Sheperds Gate
And dives into time
Where an Ancient mariner
His guest no longer cross
Sings songs of his wrongs
To a circling albatross
(What you bring home and take away
Are the goods that become
The story of Royal Greenwich
And all she has done)
A coffee cup lifts to the face
In its reflection a woman sees the sea
Where a small girl in a boat smiles
She whispers this must be me
And the girl cranes her neck
She sails the swirls in the cup
And smiles for a minute and frowns
And holds the flowers up
Here lies the beginning of time
Where the river cradles the land
Here lies the roundabout
About the sun and the sand
And the star rises on observatory hill
and watches them watching him
And the water spills on a quiet wharf
Where the silver mermaids swim
And a woman collects the crests
and takes them home to spin
She makes Sails for the high road
For our dreams to begin
‘Shipping Good’, Lemn Sissay
Contents
Prologue
One Year Earlier
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
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue
Prologue
30 April 2014
‘I didn’t intend to be a runaway bride. Honestly, I didn’t. I didn’t wake up that morning thinking: What can I do to cause as much shock and distress as possible to the people I love most in the world? The person I love most in the world . . .’ I trail off momentarily, unable to continue my well-practised speech. I look around at all the expectant faces shining as brightly as the tulips. Is it really worth dragging all this up again? Today of all days, when everyone just wants to celebrate this momentous occasion?
There are a couple of awkward coughs, a few whispers and I feel a rising panic in my chest, like I’m about to be sick, or worse, pass out. Oh God, please not that. Not again. Just then I feel a squeeze of encouragement to my left hand and I suddenly feel buoyed by warmth and support, anchored by familiarity and self-belief. I turn and look at him and he smiles and nods and I know that he’s telling me to trust my instincts.
‘The truth is, I’m not sure I was thinking much at all that day,’ I continue. ‘I knew I was nervous, but that was all. I was just focused on dealing with each “Got To” stage as it came. You know, got to get up, got to get ready, got to get in the car, got to walk down the aisle. And well . . .’ I pause and smile wryly. ‘We all know how that turned out.’
Laughter floats like petals through the air.
‘There were many times that I questioned myself,’ I go on. ‘Le
aving my husband at the altar was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. Many people said it was the worst.’ I smile at my best friend, Milly, who nods and holds her hand up in a gesture of agreement. ‘But no matter how much I doubted myself, I knew that wasn’t true.’ I close my eyes momentarily, remembering a long-ago mistake. I will never forget, but now at last I have moved on. Even though it was heartbreakingly hard, I always knew it was the right choice.
I look around at everyone again and then back at the man standing next to me. It feels like he’s always been there; like this was all meant to be . . .
One Year Earlier
April
Dear Bea
I’ve never believed that ‘April is the cruellest month’. For me April has always signified new beginnings. It is truly Mother Nature’s New Year. Suddenly we witness beautiful displays of colourful flowers exploding like fireworks in our gardens. The grass glitters with golden daffodils, grape hyacinths burst through the earth like rockets, anemones dancing next to them like purple rain showers. Hellebores and tulips bop enthusiastically in the breeze like bridesmaids on a hen night.
Amongst all these new shoots there are many decisions to make – and even the most experienced gardener can find it overwhelming. Sometimes I’m sure it feels like all you can see is bare soil. And in my experience, dear daughter, spring has often been the time that I’ve felt an urge to bare my soul. To speak up. Pause and take a moment to reflect on how I’m feeling underneath the surface.
Contrary to popular opinion, I find raking over old ground a very therapeutic – and necessary – exercise. As an experienced gardener I say, cut any dead growth otherwise new shoots will be at risk of being damaged. Don’t be too hard with the pruning though, or you may accidentally cut off this year’s flowers. And remember, don’t let the grass grow under your feet or it will yellow, weaken and die.
Do all this and your garden is sure to bloom as much as you will.
Love, Dad x
Chapter 1
30 April 2013
Bea Bishop is about to take the plun—
‘This is no time to be doing a Facebook status update, Bea!’ my younger brother Caleb chastises, sounding more like a parent than a sibling as he snatches my phone off me.
‘Hey!’ I look at him in annoyance, half-expecting to see standing next to me outside the church the curly-haired kid who used to chase me round the beach like a puppy. Instead, there’s this charming, sensible, responsible twenty-eight-year-old man in a morning suit – a dad no less. I still can’t believe Cal has two children. Where did the years go?
I try to grab my phone but he holds it above his head teasingly and then puts it in his pocket. Infuriated, I turn to Loni who is standing on my right but she just puts her hands up as if to say, ‘Off-duty.’ Then she peers down her cleavage and rearranges her neckline so she’s showing more skin.
‘Ready to strut your stuff, sis?’ Cal says lightly. Then he leans in and winks. ‘Because Loni certainly is . . .’
I look at them both, wanting to tell them that, without Dad here, I’ll never be ready. But instead I smile, take a deep breath and turn to face the heavy, walnut church doors. Harder than it sounds in this ridiculously tight lace fishtailed frock. I know it’s the wrong dress for my body shape – made for someone tall and graceful, not petite and a bit tomboyish. It was thrust upon me because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted and because my future mother-in-law, Marion, told me I’d look ‘uncharacteristically elegant’ in it. I should’ve hit the eject button right then. Instinct now tells me it’s probably better to look as much like you as possible on your wedding day. A scrubbed-up version of yourself, obviously, but still like you.
Instead, the hairpiece my wayward curls are coiled tightly around is as heavy as lead, as is the enormous Hudson family tiara that is clinging to the top of my skyscraper bridal hairstyle like King Kong on the Empire State Building. Marion told me at my final dress fitting that I had to wear it because – and these were her exact words: ‘Unfortunately, Bea, you’re the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have.’ Emphasis on unfortunately!
‘Bea!’ Cal says impatiently, reminding me where I am and what I’m meant to be doing, ‘I said, are you ready . . .’
‘. . . for your prison sentence?’ Loni intercepts, nudging me playfully as her giant purple and pink fascinator bobs on top of her crazy corkscrew hair which bounces down her back in swirly silvery curls.
Cal shoots her a warning glare. She holds her hands up innocently as if to say, ‘What? Joke!’ and then takes a swig from a little bottle she’s clearly swiped from the hotel minibar. ‘Just a little snifter for Loni to ease the pre-wedding wobbles,’ she says with a wink. My mum often refers to herself in the third person. Apparently it’s what happens if you are mad – I mean, a tiny bit famous. She writes books about relationships. Her first one was Why Be Married When You Can Be Happy? It was a surprise hit and stayed in the bestseller charts for twenty-three weeks. Over twenty years, and countless books later, people still see her as the go-to guru for marriage break-up guidance. Not so helpful on your wedding day, it turns out.
Loni is not the biggest fan of the institution of marriage. She’s a free spirit, a single soul, and has been ever since my dad walked out when I was seven and Cal was five. She’s always said marriage is an unnatural state. And as a result, so have I.
I blink, the familiar panic rising as I remind myself of what I’m about to do.
‘Are you OK?’ Milly whispers. I turn around and look at her and, as I do, I see a glimpse of Holkham Hall in the distance, the elegant Palladian-style mansion with its stunning grounds that this church sits within and where our wedding reception will take place. The venue is the one decision I managed to make for this wedding. It had to be here, in Holkham. Close to where I grew up, opposite my favourite beach, and where, even as a little girl, I told my mum and dad I’d one day get married. Marion wasn’t happy. She’d wanted somewhere bigger, grander, nearer London than Norfolk. But for once, I stood firm. I didn’t care if they wanted to invite a hundred people I’d never met (which they practically have) but it had to be here.
I focus back on Milly. She is the picture of poise and calm in her shimmering gold bridesmaid dress that glides over her Bond-girl body. Milly is a striking mix of her Persian mother and Indian father and is always the most beautiful person in any room. Her dark burnished shoulder-length hair is always perfect. A thick, blunt fringe frames her chocolate eyes, which are usually so serious, thanks to her stressful job as a hedge fund manager. They are now swimming with concern. I’m pretty sure most best friends don’t go to the lengths Milly does to look out for me. She has done ever since she found me on my first day wandering the school grounds like a lost sheep, unable to find my Year Seven French class. She says it was like I had no idea what direction I was meant to be going in.
I still haven’t.
I can’t do this, a voice in my head whispers.
I glance at Milly with an agonised, rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression, trying desperately to bat the doubt away – or for her to do it for me.
‘You can do this, Bea!’ Milly says instantly, reading my mind. She clasps my hand. ‘You’re marrying Adam, remember? The love of your life.’
‘Mills,’ I blurt out suddenly, overcome by panic. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Really? Now?’ she says, smoothing back an escaped curl into my tight bridal chignon. ‘OK,’ she sighs. ‘Fire away.’
‘How did you know Jay was The One?’ Milly’s eyes flick to me and then to Cal. She smiles brightly back at me but I can see the alarm behind it. Watch out, people, this bride’s about to blow!
‘How did you know?’ I press, looking down at Milly’s left finger and the two rings that have been firmly planted on it for three years. Jay is Adam’s best man and her husband. She met him the same night I met Adam, but Milly and Jay’s relationship moved much quicker than ours. Ad and I have been playing catch-up ever since
.
‘I – I . . .’ Her eyes dart nervously from me, to Cal and then to Loni. ‘I mean, I can’t explain how I knew, Bea, I just did.’
I swear my heart plummets down to my stupidly high wedding shoes because the truth is I don’t ‘know’. I’m not sure, or certain, and I don’t know why that is. Why, when Adam is so wonderful, don’t I know? What is wrong with him, or rather, me?
‘Come on, sis!’ Cal says as if reading my mind. ‘This is you and Adam we’re talking about. You’re made for each other. You’re crazy and he’s utterly crazy about you.’
‘Ba da doom tish,’ I reply with a weak smile.
I snatch the miniature from Loni and try to take a swig but the combined weight of my hairpiece and tiara has rendered my head incapable of movement.
