About the author
Alexandra Potter is an award-winning author who previously worked as a features writer and sub-editor for women’s glossies in both the UK and Australia. In 2007 she won the prize for Best New Fiction at the Jane Austen Regency World Awards for her bestselling novel, Me and Mr Darcy. Her novels have been translated into seventeen languages and You’re The One That I Don’t Want is being adapted into a film. She now lives between London and Los Angeles and writes full-time.
You can find out more at www.alexandrapotter.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/Alexandra.Potter. Author or follow her on Twitter @AlexPotterBooks.
Also by Alexandra Potter
Don’t You Forget About Me
You’re the One That I Don’t Want
Who’s That Girl?
Me and Mr Darcy
Be Careful What You Wish For
Do You Come Here Often?
Calling Romeo
What’s New, Pussycat?
Going La La
The Love Detective
Alexandra Potter
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Alexandra Potter 2014
The right of Alexandra Potter to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 71215 5
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For AC
Who holds my hand to walk down the street,
and makes every side feel like the sunny side
Contents
Acknowledgements
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
Acknowledgements
I want to say a big thank you to my editor Francesca Best, and the fantastic team at Hodder for all their hard work and enthusiasm on this new book. As always, huge thanks to my wonderful agent Stephanie Cabot for her wise words, unfailing support and belief in me as writer. Also, to everyone at The Gernert Company for working so hard behind the scenes.
To all my friends who live through each book with me (and there are now ten books!) thanks for always being so kind and encouraging. To Dana, a big hug for all the brainstorming and the pep-talks. Cheers also to Sara, a great friend and travel buddy, with whom I went on a truly memorable road trip across India, and from which this book was inspired. We must do it again!
As always, I couldn't do this without my beloved mum, Anita and big sister Kelly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your endless love and support. The same goes to my dad, Ray, who left this party called life way too early, but is forever in our thoughts and hearts.
And to Aaron, who only went for a pint and ended up changing my life in so many wonderful ways, I want to give the biggest thanks of all. I'm so lucky to have you by my side; Te amo.
Finally, I want to give special mention to India, and all the wonderful people I met and friends I made there. I will never forget all the laughter, the joy, the kindness and the smiles. Thank you.
Chapter 1
His dark hair glinted in the sunshine as he turned and reached for her hand.
‘I love you, Suzie, I’ve loved you since the first moment I met you. Will you marry me?’
Suzie gazed at Rich’s handsome face. Her breath caught inside her.
‘Suzie?’ he whispered, slipping a stunning diamond ring onto her finger. ‘What do you say?’
For a moment she couldn’t find the words to reply.
Then suddenly she found them.
‘I say you’re a lying, cheating bastard who’s been sleeping with Miriam from Marketing!’ and, tugging off the ring, she threw it so hard it bounced off his forehead. ‘Go to hell!’
Argh, no!
That’s not what she’s supposed to say at all!
Staring in horror at my computer screen, I hit DELETE. Holding down my finger I watch my cursor race backwards, eating up the words like Pac-Man, until they’ve all gone.
And I’m looking at a blank page again.
Shit.
Still dressed in my flannel pyjamas, I’m sitting at my desk in my office. My office being a corner of my living room, which consists of a rickety IKEA bookcase, a printer which never has any ink (it’s forever running out and have you seen the price of ink cartridges? Seriously, you’d think they were gold-plated) and an orchid, which was my attempt at designer chic but has now lost all its blooms and is just a bare twig in a pot.
Funny, but I never see them looking like that in Elle Decor.
Hugging my hot-water bottle to my chest (the central heating has gone on the blink again), I look at the flashing cursor for a few moments, hoping for inspiration to strike. Then give up and log into online banking to check my overdraft.
And to think most people believe being a writer is glamorous.
But then, so did I.
For years I worked in an office and dreamed of writing a novel. Of being a novelist. How exciting would that be? From the dreary confines of my local council’s town-planning department, I imagined a glamorous jet-set lifestyle that would consist of penning bestsellers whilst wafting around in designer clothes. Of attending glitzy literary parties filled with scintillating conversation and free-flowing champagne.
Until one day I wrote that book I was always talking about, got a publishing deal, moved to London and my dream came true!
And I realised that in actual fact being a writer means rarely getting changed out of your pyjamas, buying a lot of things you don’t need on eBay, and talking to yourself a lot.
‘Woof . . .’
Or to Heathcliff, my sausage dog.
Another high-pitched bark interrupts my thoughts and I look across to see Heathcliff, his nose pressed up against the window, furiously yapping at my neighbour’s cat, his arch nemesis. Heathcliff has a type of body dysmorphia in which he s
eems to think he looks like a scary German shepherd. In real life he looks more like a comedy draught excluder and is forever taking on animals twice his size. Even next-door’s tabby is bigger than he is.
‘Hey buddy, just ignore her, she’s only teasing you.’
Scooping up his little sausage body, I tickle him under his belly and he licks my face appreciatively. I rescued him from Battersea Dog’s Home, though, to be honest, after the events of the past year, I’m beginning to wonder who rescued whom . . .
Leaving Heathcliff to declare war on Mrs Flannegan’s tabby, who’s now parading up and down the garden in a feline equivalent of sticking her thumb on her nose and twiddling her fingers, I turn back to my computer. Absently I reach for my morning coffee and take a swig.
And spit it out again. Ugh, it’s stone cold!
Grimacing, I pad into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and tug open the fridge, which is papered with a mishmash of takeaway menus, ‘to-do’ lists and photos. As I reach for the milk, one of the pictures catches my eye – it’s me and the gang, arms round each other, grinning drunkenly at the camera.
That photograph always makes me smile. It’s not often we get together these days, what with everyone having busy lives and living in far-flung corners of the globe, but this was taken on my birthday last year when we all managed to convene on a pub in London. I pause to look at it for the millionth time.
On the far left, inadvertently showing off a little too much of her famous cleavage, is Harriet, who recently relocated to Paris for work and has embraced all things French, including a diet of red wine, cheese and anything that’s full-fat.
However, it seems she might have embraced things a little too heartily, judging by the email I received from her yesterday complaining: So it’s true, French women don’t get fat. Alas, I am not French. Merde! As evidence she attached a photograph of her wearing baggy jogging bottoms along with the caption: I’m now having to wear elasticated waists.
As someone who wears baggy yoga trousers to do everything but yoga, I’d replied telling her not to worry. To which she’d fired back: You don’t understand! This is Paris! Style Capital of the World! I’m like a pariah!
Mental note to self: never move to Paris.
Next to her, with the kind of arms that make me want to lunge for a long-sleeved cardi, is Milly. Milly’s a Pilates teacher and now lives in Los Angeles, but she used to teach a course in London that promised to ‘Invigorate, Transform and Empower’. Personally for me it was more along the lines of ‘Exhaust, Ache and Give Up’, but that’s got nothing to do with Milly. She’s a brilliant teacher, and now a brilliant friend. Even if every time she sees me the first thing she does is nag me about my core strength. Or rather, lack of, I muse, feeling that little roll hanging over my waistband and automatically sucking it in.
Then there’s Rachel. Squinting myopically into the camera, as she hates being photographed wearing her glasses, she’s still in her work suit as she’s come straight from the office. She’s a lawyer for a big firm in the City and always working on some case or other. Personally, I think she works too hard. She’s constantly stressed and travelling for work and never takes a holiday. Apparently she has so much annual leave due from work, Human Resources recently banned her from the office for a week. So she worked from home and put in even longer hours.
On the right is my little sister Amy, though you’d never know we were sisters. Whereas I’m a brown-eyed brunette, she’s blonde and blue-eyed. She’s also a whole ten years younger. She was what my parents call, ‘a happy accident’. Which describes Amy pretty well, as she can be a bit ditzy and is forever having accidents. As her big sister, I’ve always been responsible for her. From the day she was born I was told ‘look after your little sister’, and I’ve spent my whole life taking care of her and getting her out of trouble.
However, what she might lack in common sense, she makes up for in brains. Academically, Amy’s super-bright. She wants to be an archaeologist but, despite graduating with a first-class honours degree, she can’t get a job and has spent the past year sending out CVs whilst lurching from one temp job to another. She’s been a bicycle courier (she was terrible, she has no sense of direction), a waitress (terrible again, she can barely balance her mug of tea on her plate of toast, let alone carry four main courses and a side-salad) and dog-walker (worse than terrible, she ending up losing two dogs; thankfully they later found their own way home).
Then, six months ago, she decided she’d had enough of job-hunting and sleeping on friends’ sofas and opted to go off travelling, much to my parents’ consternation. If they didn’t have enough sleepless nights about her before she went, ever since she put on her rucksack and cheerfully waved goodbye at Heathrow, they’ve done nothing but worry themselves sick about her. I keep trying to reassure them – after all, she’s twenty-two now; she’s big enough to look after herself.
Plus, judging by her Facebook page, she seems to be having a great time. I mean, how much trouble can you get up to lying around on a beach all day in Goa?
Actually, on second thoughts, I don’t think I want to know the answer to that question.
Anyway, the good news is that one of the museums she sent her CV to has been in touch offering her a place on one of their research programmes. Not only that, but it’s the most prestigious archaeological research and archive centre in London and it starts in two weeks! So she’s coming home. I don’t know who’s more thrilled. Amy. Or my parents.
Which leaves me, Ruby Miller, squished up in the middle of the photo, arms draped around everyone. To be honest it’s not the most flattering picture of me. I’d bought some of that face illuminator after being convinced by the sales assistant in Boots that it was the only thing standing between me and the kind of dewy, shiny model skin you see on the front cover of Vogue.
Except when I got home and read the instructions, it said to just dab it on your cheekbones. Easy for them to say. I don’t have any cheekbones. So instead I rubbed it all over and ended up with a big shiny moon face. I’m not kidding. The flash is actually reflecting.
Single and thirty-something, I live with Heathcliff in a basement flat in a converted Victorian townhouse in West London. It’s not the biggest flat, or the brightest, but it has the cutest garden, with a real-life apple tree and a camellia bush that blooms all summer. Though in England, ‘all summer’ seems to amount to a week at the end of May. Still, Heathcliff likes to sniff around it even in the rain, and I like to look out onto it when I’m working.
Saying that, writing never really feels like work. Not just because I get to do it in my pyjamas, but because it’s more than just a job, it’s like stepping outside my world and into another. I get to meet all these new people, I get to laugh with them when they’re happy and cry with them when they’re sad. I get to make best friends with my heroine.
And – this is the best bit – I get to fall in love with my hero.
People always ask me what kind of books I write and I guess you’d call them love stories (unless you’re the evil journalist from the Weekly Telegraph who called them something unrepeatable), but I also think of them as mysteries.
After all, what makes two people fall in love? It’s a question people ask all over the world, in a million different languages. Last year, What is love? was the most searched query on Google. And yet no one seems to know. Even experts can’t agree. Scientists offer complicated chemical theories about pheromones and neurotransmitters, philosophers eulogise and psychotherapists analyse. But it’s impossible to define.
Like George Harrison said, it’s ‘something’. An elusive feeling that knows no rhyme or reason. No rules. No boundaries. It can be different for every person and yet for every person it feels the same. You can’t explain it. It’s like faith, or hope . . .
Or magic.
I’ve written three novels on the topic and I’m still looking for the answers. I guess, in a way, I’m a bit of a love detective. Not in a Sherlock-Holmes-in-a-deerstalke
r type of way. I’m not out searching for clues to solve crimes, though I did once spend hours with my friend Rachel, trying to discover why her online date never called her again. Which is a sort of a crime.
As, trust me, she was a million times nicer than him.
My friends are always telling me about their love lives and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve spent with them dissecting an opaque text message from a guy or Googling someone to see if he really was divorced (and no, he wasn’t, there were photos of him with his wife all over his firm’s website; poor Harriet was devastated).
But it’s not just about being good at Google. When it comes to love I’m a bit of a detective because I’m fascinated by people’s stories of love and romance. I love discovering how they met and what brought them together, listening to how they talk about chemistry, whilst trying to figure out exactly what chemistry is, marvelling at how – by some incredible stroke of luck, timing, fate, or all three – two people fall in love.
And because detectives are always exploring mysteries, and what is love, if not the greatest mystery of all?
Seriously, just look at Charles and Camilla!
Or me and Sam.
At the memory of him, I feel a familiar knot in my stomach. Because that’s the irony. Whilst my heroines always fall in love and get a happy-ever-after, the same couldn’t be said for me. They say you should always write about what you know, but if that’s the case, I should be writing a horror story.
Well, how else do you describe walking in on your fiancé having sex with another woman, a week before your wedding?
I know. It sounds like such a cliché, and it was. But just because something is a cliché, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. It just means you’re humiliated and heartbroken.
But anyway, that’s all in the past now.
Grabbing the carton of milk, I close the fridge and turn back to the kettle. It’s doing its usual thing of boiling away merrily and refusing to switch off, filling the kitchen with clouds of steam that are rapidly turning to condensation on the cold window panes. Which reminds me, that’s another thing I need to add to my to-do list.
The Love Detective Page 1