by Lucy Coleman
SUMMER ON THE ITALIAN LAKES
Lucy Coleman
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About Summer on the Italian Lakes
Bestselling Brianna Middleton has won the hearts of millions of readers with her sweeping – and steamy – love stories. But the girl behind the typewriter is struggling… Not only does she have writer’s block, but she’s a world-famous romance author with zero romance in her own life.
So the opportunity to spend the summer teaching at a writer’s retreat in an idyllic villa on the shores of Lake Garda – owned by superstar author Arran Jamieson – could this be just the thing to fire up Brie’s writing – and romantic – mojo?
Brie’s sun-drenched Italian summer could be the beginning of this writer’s very own happy-ever-after…
Contents
Welcome Page
About Summer on the Italian Lakes
Dedication
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
Acknowledgements
About Lucy Coleman
Also by Lucy Coleman
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
To Lawrence – for one glorious summer in Italy, in a villa set high up in the hills.
Love you forever!
Prologue
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
My hand gropes around in the semi-darkness for yet another tissue; the flow of tears is now almost completely obliterating my vision. When all that my fingers succeed in finding is a gaping cardboard hole, it is with great reluctance that I drag my watery gaze away from those adoring eyes in front of me.
Empty? How can the box be empty?
I scowl in disgust, scanning the sofa and taking in the profusion of crumpled whiteness caught in the flickering glow from the TV screen. I’m surrounded on one side by what looks like a surreal stack of miniature snowballs and, despite my tears, I begin laughing. With a defeated shrug, I drag the sleeve of my PJ top across each cheek in a quick swiping action. Then I return my gaze to its original position staring, mesmerised, into Jude Law’s eyes.
He’s looking directly at me as if it’s just the two of us here and I take in every little detail of that half-smile he’s trying so hard to disguise. Okay, so it’s aimed at Cameron Diaz and not at me because I’m watching The Holiday and it’s just a film; but on pause Cameron isn’t even in the frame. Jude is all mine to savour for as long as I want.
To my horror, suddenly the screen goes black as the TV switches into standby mode and the room is consumed in an eerily bleak darkness. With a thudding heart, I frantically scrabble around, desperately trying to locate the remote control and in the process upending the remains of a bowl of crisps.
‘Damn it! Now is not the time to be eco-friendly!’ I cry out angrily, at my so-called intelligent TV system.
My fingers continue to rake across the surface of the sofa, each passing second making me feel increasingly desperate. Home alone. And in the dark I’m feeling scared. A creak behind me sets me on edge, my heart beginning to race and increasing the urgency of my search. I discover the half eaten bar of chocolate and push it carefully to one side, then move on to discover the almost empty bag of popcorn. Swallowing hard to disperse a lump that has risen in my throat, I’m painfully aware that binge eating isn’t the answer to anything. But you know how it is, one handful turns into two… then three.
As my eyes finally begin to adjust to the gloom, I see a dark shape poking out from beneath the discarded scatter cushion. I snatch it up, stabbing my index finger on the power button. Two clicks and Jude is back, bathing us both in a comforting glow of light. Warmly wrapped up in his navy blue, wool overcoat and sporting that festive red scarf, the ground around him is dusted with snow. I settle back, feeling happy once more.
‘I missed you,’ I whisper, softly. My voice wavers a little. I wish he could talk back. To me. And not to Cameron.
That gorgeously cheeky little glint in his eye threatens to melt my now calm heart, as I surrender to his powerfully romantic gaze. Stuffing a generously sized square of chocolate into my mouth, I rather reluctantly press play and the film continues. The camera pans around to catch the utterly gorgeous Cameron fluttering her eyelashes at Jude, and in that instant she snatches him back. Once more the tears start to fall. Sometimes life can be so cruel.
Why can’t I find my own Jude Law?
Sniff.
Swipe.
Sniff.
1
Word Count: Zero
It’s 6 a.m. and I should be online stoking the flames of my social media train and littering the internet with my sexy book covers. After all, who doesn’t want to look at a gorgeous, half-naked man with an eight-pack at this time of the morning? Well, the truth is me, for one. Unless it’s the real thing, of course.
Instead, I hop out of bed and slink downstairs to make a strong cup of coffee and grab a packet of biscuits, before I head back to write. Which is ironic, because I haven’t written a word now for over a month. Well, not one that still exists on the blank page beneath a rather lonely looking title, as they’ve all been consigned to the electronic bin.
I have no idea why I can’t seem to break this cycle which feels as if I’m going around in a never ending circle. Write, delete; write, delete. And I’m even hiding myself away from everyone – except the enigmatic Jude Law, of course, but I don’t think that counts. It’s been weeks since I ventured outside. Apart from brief exchanges with the postman and the online supermarket delivery guy, I’m turning into a virtual recluse. I haven’t looked at my inbox for days now and I can’t remember the last time I wore anything other than PJs or a tracksuit.
I’m supposed to be working towards a deadline, but the line is well and truly dead, with a zero word count so far. I mean, this inability to settle down and make a real start can’t last forever, can it?
With a dozen plus novels under my belt, over half of which are international bestsellers, the expectations of me are high. I’m a professional and if I can’t fill the screen with meaningful words then it’s over and the bills won’t get paid. I don’t have a back-up plan if the day job goes awry and I don’t think I’m capable of doing anything else. It’s the only job I’ve ever had and therein lies the problem, I suspect. Do all writers eventually run out of things to say, the spring of inspiration reduced to a dribble? Or in my case, drivel.
Come on, Brie, pull yourself together. Have a shower, brush your teeth and your hair and instead of lying in bed battling with a string of words that aren’t inspiring you at all, sit down in front of that very expensive desk of yours.
Maybe I need to feel the part again, rather than glancing in the mirror and wondering why it doesn’t shatter when I see that Medusa h
ead staring back at me.
Make this the day when things start to pick up, lady. The little voice inside my head is adamant. There is a story in there somewhere, but it isn’t the one my agent, or publisher, is expecting. I groan out loud. The price you pay for not being true to yourself is that it’s rather like wearing a mask. At some point it could slide off and that’s precisely why I’m in this mess now.
When your birthday just happens to fall on the fourteenth of February you are pretty much marked for life. It was my fourth birthday and the memories are still vivid in my mind. After I’d opened a stack of presents, my dad gave my mum a large bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates tied up with a big red bow. I’d never even heard of Valentine’s Day, until a friend broke the news later that day. Well, she was more of an acquaintance really: the playground is a tough place and kids can be crushingly mean.
‘You aren’t special at all,’ Carol Ann had taunted. ‘They aren’t happy just because you’re another year older. No one really cares about that. Everyone has a birthday!’ And in a split second the party was over.
But as time passed the significance became an ever increasing thrill. So many people expressing their love at the same time: sending a wave of good karma rippling outwards to warm the hearts of even the least romantic folk amongst us. I also came to believe that I had been doubly blessed; I hadn’t just been born a true romantic at heart, but also an eternal optimist. I awaited each birthday with eager anticipation because it was a day when a lot of people were very happy. To be surrounded by couples pledging their love and giving each other thoughtful gifts, flowers, and even engagement rings, was special. And that made me feel extra special too, as if the promise of finding a perfect love had been bestowed upon me. I simply had to bide my time until our paths crossed. And, of course, I would instantly know he was the one I was destined to be with forever.
My first crush was a brief and painful experience; he broke my heart by not reciprocating my overwhelming feelings. I was distraught for a while, but my heart eventually healed. My second crush, Lucas, happened when I was nine years old and he broke my heart, too. The pattern was set and as the years rolled on, so the former boyfriend count continued to mount.
The problem with being a dreamer and a wistful romantic is that it’s hard to find a man to live up to your dreams. At the tender age of fifteen I began writing and creating my own heroes. Four years later I finally had a manuscript worthy of getting some attention and after an editor knocked off the edges and corrected my erratic punctuation, it was good to go. My first publisher believed in the sort of stories I wanted to write, but three novels later the sales figures weren’t exactly setting the charts alight. And I was still living at home with my parents. Then I met my agent, the awe inspiring, Carrie Preston. She is the definition of a bubbly personality and an uber confident person. So much so, that she has become the role model for my feisty heroines. Our first meeting was brutal. She didn’t hold back.
‘The truth is, Brie, that sex sells books. Do you want to earn some money, or languish in the charts and scrape by?’
I remember recoiling in horror. Sex? As it turned out, what I lacked in experience I made up for in imagination. Well, aided by a copy of the Kama Sutra, which turned out to be a tax deductible item – according to my accountant. I let my imagination run riot. It was bestseller time and I enjoyed basking in the glory.
Living with my parents had allowed me to save a satisfying large nest egg. I only needed a small mortgage to buy a quirky, thatched, five bedroom cottage in the Forest of Dean and finally I had my independence. This was my investment for the future and enough of a project that there would be a handsome profit at the end of it. With the messy building work out of the way, yes, I do rattle around in it, but one day I hope to share it with someone special. And a couple of kids… if I’m lucky. Or sell it and have the sort of financial freedom only a big chunk of cash in the bank can give you.
Then, a little over a year ago, I met the gorgeous Paul Turner, bass guitarist with Haphazard. He swept me off my feet, literally, and I was admittedly flattered. As a writer my life is governed by deadlines, interspersed with prolonged periods spent in the company of people I’ve made up. Add in a few book signings, a handful of literary dinners and the odd awards ceremony, and it’s not a glamorous lifestyle by any means. On balance, most of the time it’s a rather solitary existence. The truth is that I bumped into him at a point when I was beginning to feel that something was missing from my life.
When another batch of those glossy magazines had arrived with the shopping and I found myself flicking through them, I began to feel a tad lacklustre. My life was whizzing by – what exactly was I waiting for to kick start it? Would I wake up one day to find that my best years had passed me by while I was otherwise occupied? Doing more of the same, which is working, because it is an amazingly satisfying substitute and I will admit that, quite freely.
My sedentary lifestyle has meant that over the last couple of years I’ve piled on a few extra pounds. I don’t have a problem with that, as I was never designed to be straight up and down, but… there’s always a but, isn’t there? It had become increasingly apparent that my eating was getting just a little out of control. Doctor Carter, who guided me through my difficult teen years, hasn’t been happy with me for a while. After my last MOT, he didn’t mince his words.
‘Your blood sugar levels indicate you have a pre-diabetic condition, Brie. It’s your body giving you a warning signal loud and clear. If you don’t lose at least a stone and a half by reviewing your diet and getting active, you are storing up problems for the future. The solution is in your hands, my dear.’
I remember walking home from the surgery that day knowing that something had to change, but it’s easy to think that and hard to make it happen. Then I met Paul.
The first time I saw the face I knew so well from MTV up close, my jaw dropped. I was rooted to the spot, so much so that he nearly knocked me over as he swept through the lobby at The Protocol with his entourage that night. It was a smart new restaurant in Bristol that Mel had convinced me was a must, and she kept on and on about it until I gave in.
We were waiting in the queue when this mass of people suddenly descended and it was like a whirlwind had touched down. Two beefy security guards made their presence very obvious and there was an exciting buzz in the air. As one of the guys backed into me and I started to fall, Mel shrieked. Suddenly, Paul span around and within an instant he was there and I found myself in his arms. It was a moment from one of my novels, re-enacted, I swear. After apologising profusely, he asked me – well, us – to join him for dinner.
I remember so clearly, gazing into his eyes and saying yes. Later in the evening he asked me out on a real date. Could I be the life and soul of the party, dancing until dawn, I wondered? Well, I wasn’t convinced, but I wanted to find out. And the way Paul looked at me that night fooled me, for a while, into thinking I could be that person. I was excited and exhilarated by the thought of what was to come. Being with him changed me in ways that felt good at the time. I was caught up in the permanent high that existed around him. I felt alive, really alive, for the first time in ages.
Mel was delighted for me, of course. She genuinely felt she had achieved something by prising me, after a few moans and groans, out of my cosy little cottage that night to socialise. And when date one’s intimate little dinner for two turned out to be a resounding success, she was ecstatic. I looked at myself in the mirror and decided it was time. I cleared out the shameful piles of high sugar, high fat comfort foods that had become my daily snacks. Then, I pulled out my running gear and started jogging each morning.
My skin started to glow again and my hair was shinier. I had more energy and I was sleeping so much better. Mel was relieved, as she had tried to intervene when she saw I was becoming a hermit and always seemed to have a packet of biscuits within easy reach.
‘It’s fate,’ she’d said to me, with a huge grin. ‘You needed somet
hing to motivate you and I’m so happy for you, Brie. You look like you’re enjoying life again.’ And I was.
Just being around Paul was intoxicating at first because he was so attentive and it made me feel special. Until the paparazzi started snapping less than flattering photos, which seemed to prove I didn’t have one single good angle on me. Or a way of getting out of a car elegantly, even though by then I was a whole stone lighter. Slowly it began to erode my confidence whenever I was out and about with him.
Then, to my shame, the press started comparing me to Paul’s former girlfriends. They even congratulated him on the fact that the size of a woman’s thighs clearly didn’t bother him. I mean, how dare they? Amply proportioned was one of the terms used and that was only the start of the fat-shaming. But I wasn’t fat. I was a size twelve for goodness’ sake, and I’m never going to be stick thin. Nor do I want to be. But freedom of speech is a dangerous thing and it was impossible to stem the flow, or even correct the lies.
Worse was to come and that’s when I began reaching for the family size chocolate bars. For the first time in my life I regretted not writing under a pen name. As soon as Paul introduced me to someone and they heard the name Brianna Middleton, I swear their eyes would open wide in surprise.
‘Not the author?’ They’d query. Or, ‘Really?’ with that little lift in their voice implying I wasn’t what they were expecting at all.
If I thought that was bad, what happened next was a disaster. The name calling and trolling on Twitter sent me into panic mode. The whole world could see these very personal attacks and virtually all of them were about my appearance.
‘Have you seen the latest?’ I’d screeched down the phone at Mel one morning in a traumatised state.
‘No. But it’s only jealousy, Brie, anyway. They’re the ones who look pathetic and you shouldn’t take it to heart.’ Her empathy had been real, but her grasp of the situation was tenuous.