by Zoe May
Can chasing love lead you back to yourself?
A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about love, dreams and self-discovery by bestselling author, Zoe May.
Rachel Watson has it all worked out. By 30, she’s ticked off most of the goals on her Life List. She’s a homeowner, a partner at her law firm, she has a gorgeous boyfriend, lots of hobbies and loads of good friends. The only thing that’s missing is a ring on her finger.
According to her Life List, Rachel should be getting hitched around now, so when her boyfriend, Paul, plans a romantic date, Rachel’s pretty confident he’s going to propose. Except Paul has other ideas. He’s jetting off to India to find himself.
Distraught, Rachel doesn’t know what to do. Not one to easily admit defeat, she embarks on a mission to win him back.
Flying solo to India is definitely not part of Rachel's plans, but could her trip teach her unexpected lessons about love, life and herself? Could she realize that perhaps her Life List wasn’t exactly what she wanted, after all?
FLYING SOLO
Zoe May
Zoe May
Zoe May lives in Oxford and writes romantic comedies. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She spent her twenties living London, where she worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first-hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material!
Perfect Match was one of Apple’s top-selling books of 2018. It was also shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Joan Hessayon Award, with judges describing it as ‘a laugh-out-loud look at love and self-discovery - fresh and very funny.’
Zoe is also the author of How (Not) To Date A Prince (May, 2018), When Polly Met Olly (January, 2019) and As Luck Would Have It (July, 2019).
As well as writing, Zoe enjoys walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.
Contents
Blurb
Title Page
Author Bio
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
Copyright
Chapter One
Tonight is the night!
Tonight is the night the love of my life is going to propose. He thinks I don’t know but I’m not a fool. It would have been impossible to miss the signs.
Paul’s been acting shifty for weeks. First, he popped out for a run the other day and left a Google search open on the computer in our living room: ‘Cost of diamond ring’. Hardly subtle.
Then, on my lunch break a few weeks ago, I bumped into him.
I work at a law firm just around the corner from Hatton Garden – London’s go-to destination for jewelry. I nipped out to a café down the road for lunch, and saw Paul, hanging around outside the jewelers, eyeing a window display of engagement rings. I stopped in my tracks, unsure whether I should say hi or just scurry back the way I’d come. Paul must have sensed me looking because he glanced around and instantly spotted me. His cheeks flushed. He works on the opposite side of town so it's not like he could just dismiss the incident by claiming he was simply ‘in the area’. He was clearly checking out rings for a reason.
‘Hey!’ I approached, smiling, trying to look casual as I walked up to him, despite the feeling of glee blowing up inside me.
Paul and I have been together for six years and I’ve been dying to get engaged, but I wanted him to propose. Call me a traditionalist, but I like the fairytale ideal of my boyfriend getting down on one knee, asking for my hand in marriage, wanting to spend the rest of his life with me. It’s just so romantic.
‘Hey,’ Paul replied, smiling awkwardly.
I kissed him, raising my eyebrows slightly in a conspiratorial, knowing way, but Paul didn’t react, choosing to act blasé instead, as though nothing was out of the ordinary at all. As though it’s perfectly normal to make a trip across the city to peruse engagement rings.
‘So… what are you up to?’ I asked cheekily, resisting the urge to give him a nudge.
I glanced at the display of rings. There were some pretty ones, some really pretty ones, but I have to admit, I did find it a bit strange that Paul would have wanted to buy a ring first-hand when his mum gave him her engagement ring a few years ago. She said it no longer fitted, and she’d rather Paul took it to propose when he ‘felt the time was right’. She was clearly trying to encourage him to make a move, but that was several years ago now, and he’s never quite gotten around to it.
‘Err…’ Paul hesitated, glancing anxiously at a passing bus as though looking for an escape route.
Then his phone started ringing. He retrieved it from his pocket. Simon, the name of his boss, flashed up on the screen.
‘Great. Better take this,’ Paul grumbled, pecking me on the cheek, before answering his phone and wandering off towards the tube station.
It was obvious Paul hadn’t wanted to be interrupted and I felt a bit bad that I’d spoilt the surprise, but in an effort to make him feel better, I decided not to mention our encounter. I’d pretend like it never happened and let the proposal pan out as intended. Paul seemed to be on board with this unspoken course of action and neither of us referred to having run into each other in Hatton Garden again.
But I knew. I knew he was going to propose and I’ve been on cloud nine ever since wondering how he’s going to go about it. He came home from work a week ago with a fancy bottle of wine and sushi from my favorite Japanese restaurant. He lit candles and I felt on edge the whole evening, wondering if he’d do a cute at-home proposal. I thought I was going to find a ring tucked away in my tuna nigiri, but nothing happened. No proposal. It was just a regular couples evening in. There were no surprises in my salmon rolls.
But then, a few of days ago, Paul told me he’d booked us a table at the Italian restaurant where we shared our first date, and I instantly knew this was the night. Of course, it was. It was so perfect – being proposed to in the same restaurant where we’d had our very first date – a nod to how we’ve come full circle. The little family-run restaurant tucked away underneath a train tunnel near London Bridge may not be the fanciest or most salubrious venue imaginable, but it has sentimental value and that’s what counts. Once upon a time, we were nervous wide-eyed singletons drunkenly flirting over tiramisu in that place and now we’re fully-fledged adults who share a mortgage and a joint account; that restaurant is part of our history.
Tonight’s the night and I cannot wait. I’m all warm and fuzzy inside as I get ready. I even flicked the fairy lights on around my dressing table mirror and I feel almost like a Hollywood starlet as I wind my locks around a curling wand, twisting my hair into bouncy curls. I finish styling my hair and reach into my side of the wardrobe for a dress I bought especially for tonight. Paul hasn’t seen it yet. I bought it from Selfridges after work the day Paul and I put tonight in the diary. It cost quite a lot, but it’s worth it: a figure-hugging black lace number with a flattering cut that enhances my cleavage and
nips in at the waist. I felt confident and sexy when I tried it on in the changing room, and I knew Paul would appreciate it. It makes a change from the boring pencil skirt and blazer combinations I wear to work.
I step into the dress, admiring my pearly pink lacquered toenails as I do so. Paul doesn’t realize this, but I took the afternoon off today to get ready properly. He probably thinks I’m coming straight from the office like I usually do on the rare occasions that he and I eat out in town, but I wanted to take some extra time getting ready. I spent the afternoon at a beauty salon near the office having a manicure, a pedicure, a spray tan and even a bikini wax and eyelash extensions. I wanted to look my best for the night that’s going to change things forever. The night Paul and I officially become engaged. I can’t wait!
Actually, I can. I’ve waited quite a long time. Tonight is two years overdue according to my Life List. It might sound a bit odd but when I left school, I decided I’d create a plan to follow in order to get the life I’ve always dreamed about. After all, dreaming alone doesn’t get you anywhere. You need to take action, you need goals, you need to work for the things you want. That’s been my ethos throughout my adult life. I have fun, don’t get me wrong, but I know that if I don’t take charge of my destiny, things could easily go awry. It happens all the time, even to the nicest people. They coast along, hoping for the best, and then before they know it, they’re thirty and in a job they hate, living a place they don’t like, feeling unfulfilled and frustrated. I was determined that wasn’t going to happen to me so I made a Life List with clear goals and I’ve stuck to it.
At eighteen, I’d go to a top university to study Law. Tick. I’d graduate at twenty-one with a high 2:1 or a 1st. Tick. I’d move to London and secure a trainee solicitor position at a decent firm. Tick. I’d get a close-knit group of nice, fun, caring friends. Tick. I’d date with the intention of finding a serious boyfriend by the age of twenty-six. Tick. We’d be in a stable relationship and move in together by the age of twenty-eight. Tick. I’d make partner at my law firm by thirty. Tick.
It’s all gone swimmingly. All of my goals have worked out. Except one. In between moving in with my boyfriend at twenty-eight and being made partner at my firm by thirty, I was meant to get engaged. My boyfriend and I were meant to get married and that simply hasn’t happened. That’s the only goal that hasn’t worked out, and now I’m approaching my thirty-first birthday and wondering why that one goal has failed to materialize. Neither Paul nor I are particularly religious, but he knows I’ve always wanted to get hitched. He knows it means something to me, so why has he been holding back? Loads of our friends have been getting married over the past few years and after every wedding, Paul and I end up being awkward and frosty with each other for days – the lack of engagement rings on our fingers an undeniable elephant in the room. But then I get a new case at work or our house needs some renovation and I get distracted. I push it out of my mind and assure myself that it will happen, one day, I just need to be patient.
But I have been patient and finally, it’s paid off. Tonight may be a couple of years late according to my Life List, but it’s here now and I’m going to embrace it.
I pull the zip up at the back of my dress, arrange my hair over my shoulders, and spritz my neck with my favorite perfume. Then I slip my feet into stilettos, grab my clutch and don my coat, before heading out into the night, butterflies fluttering their wings in my stomach.
Chapter Two
I walk down the tunnel towards the restaurant. It’s an unremarkable place, self-consciously as Italian as possible. Not only is it called ‘La Dolce Vita’ but it has a big flag of Italy painted under the sign. And if I remember correctly, framed black and white photos of famous Italian actors are hung on the walls inside. Paul and I hadn’t sought it out deliberately back on our first date, we simply stumbled upon it. I hadn’t had particularly high hopes for that date. At the time, I was two or three dates into seeing a suave, cool and confident investment banker called Jared, who I thought I’d probably pursue a relationship with, even though he had a slightly annoying habit of laughing uproariously at his own mediocre jokes.
Paul and I went way back, but we hadn’t seen each other for years. We both did our degrees in Sheffield, although we went to different universities. Paul was at an arts school, specializing in graphic design, while I pursued my degree in Law. We met because we both did casual waitering work for an events company. Most of the workers were students like us, and we’d don black trousers and crisp white shirts at the weekends and serve canapes or top up glasses of wine at networking events and conferences for people decades older than us. It was decent casual work and paid pretty well, and quite a few of us became friendly, going out for drinks sometimes after our shifts. I’d always quite liked Paul. I liked his thick dark hair, laidback northern charm and dimples, but quite a few of the other waitresses had their eye on him so I never went there. I didn’t want drama at a job I depended on to get by and I was too focused on getting a good degree to really prioritize finding a boyfriend. I finished my course, moved to London, and as time passed, I forgot all about Paul. So, when I was standing on the Tube platform at Waterloo and spotted a familiar face that broke into a smile upon clocking me, with familiar dimples, it was a blast from the past.
Paul and I got chatting. We hopped onto the Tube together and swapped numbers, before he jumped off two stops away. We texted for a few days and agreed to meet up for drinks. I wasn’t sure if it was a date or just two old acquaintances catching up, and although I quite fancied Paul, I didn’t have particularly high expectations, but when we met for a drink in a bar by the river, conversation flowed. We couldn’t stop talking, getting through two or three pints, before taking a riverside stroll at sunset. By the time we got to London Bridge, our stomachs were rumbling. We wandered to the nearest restaurant – this quirky Italian joint – and ate pizzas and drank wine until closing time. I broke things off with Jared the very next day, and from that moment forth, Paul and I have been inseparable. I knew he was the one.
I approach the restaurant. It still has the sign I remember, with La Dolce Vita painted in scrolling writing, but the Italian flag has gone, as have the rickety bay windows that used to be there. My heart sinks as I realize the restaurant’s been refurbished. I peer through the window, desperate to see the cute little alcoves that used to be there, housing tables adorned with gingham tablecloths and waxy dripping candles stuffed into old wine bottles, but all of that’s gone. It’s been completely redesigned. The space has been opened up. There are no alcoves anymore. No gingham. No pictures of Italian film stars on the walls. Instead they’ve been replaced by prints advertising two-for-one offers on cocktails and cut-price dough balls. The restaurant looks like any other pizza franchise now, with tables lined in rows and a depressingly generic, sterile atmosphere. So much for a trip down memory lane.
I push the door open, remembering the portly owner of this place, who greeted me all those years ago like I was his long-lost daughter. He gave me and Paul free glasses of Limoncello at the end of our meal, alongside complementary gelato. He’s gone and instead, I’m greeted by a young waitress with a scraped back bun and a polished but cold smile. I smile back and look across the tables, scanning for Paul. I clock him sitting at the back, eyes fixed to his phone. I point across the restaurant, telling the waitress I’m meeting ‘the man in the corner’. She hands me a menu and I make my way over to Paul. The restaurant even smells different. It smelt of freshly cooked pizza dough before, but now the air smells scented, bleachy and floral. It must come from an air-freshener or cleaning products.
The tables are so tightly packed that I have to walk sideways to weave through the narrow gaps between them. Waiters zip between diners, and I overhear one upselling olives and side salads, and another telling a couple which key to press on the card reader if they’d like to leave a gratuity. I feel a little sad as I cross the restaurant. Back when Paul and I first came here, it had a convivial, relaxed atmosp
here – a hearty Mediterranean vibe that felt warm and welcoming, and yet now it’s more like a pizza conveyor belt, a money-making machine. But this is central London after all. Is it any surprise that a restaurant that lets broke twenty-somethings sit around chatting all night and even gave them freebies has failed to survive? Hardly. And it’s not like I even mind efficient pizza joints, I love grabbing a quick margherita as much as the next person, I’ve just never particularly imagined being proposed to in such a place.
A couple of guys check me out as I cross the restaurant, which makes me feel a little better. At least my outfit’s a winner. Although, as I near Paul, I can’t really say the same about his clothing choices. He hasn’t exactly made an effort. He’s wearing an old navy shirt he’s had for years that’s covered in bobbles. I keep telling him to get rid of it, but he refuses. He loves that shirt. And he hasn’t brushed his hair either. I mean, seriously? Paul may work as a graphic designer in an arty coworking space, he may not be subject to the strict grooming and dress codes as my corporate job, but still. He is meant to be proposing today, he could have made a bit more of an effort.
He looks up and waves limply at me. I fix a smile onto my face, but I feel another twinge of disappointment. He hasn’t even shaved. He doesn’t even look happy. In fact, he looks quite weary and tense. Perhaps he’s as deflated as I am about the restaurant’s transformation. I wave back and try to be more positive. All is not lost. The restaurant may be a bit rubbish, but we can always go to a nice romantic cocktail bar afterwards and have a laugh at what a bust dinner was. Maybe Paul will propose there? Or perhaps we’ll wander over to London Bridge and he’ll get down on one knee with the Thames shining under the light of the moon and the city glittering in the darkness around us. That would be perfect! Maybe this has gone wrong for a reason.
