‘Oi oi.’ A loud, brash, baritone voice comes from near the hotel.
‘Who would spoil this moment?’ I say under my breath.
I can make out someone, or maybe two someones, stomping through the sand in our direction. Great, some British nobs are coming to take the piss.
Jay jumps up and springs towards them. For a second, I think he’s going to have a go at them but he wraps his arms around the first dark figure.
‘Marcus!’ he shouts.
Marcus? My mouth goes dry. Marcus? I scream and leap up too, and when I get beyond the voile I can just about make out his moonlit face. ‘Marcus!’ I wrap him in my arms and he squeezes me back tightly.
‘Hi, Kat.’ The other figure steps out of the shadows.
‘Sammy!’ I hug him too.
‘The others got your text message and are on their way,’ Marcus says.
‘What are you all doing here?’
‘We couldn’t miss the proposal of the century!’ he says.
‘Well, you sort of already did!’ I hold up my hand to show off my ring, which sparkles under the moonlight.
‘The boy done good,’ Marcus says as three more figures emerge from the hotel’s gate.
‘Ant, Paul, Phil!’
‘And Hugo is on his way!’ I recognise Paul’s voice.
‘Did you do all of this?’ I turn to Jay who nods sheepishly.
‘That’s not all, Kat,’ Marcus says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve arranged with Gaël to do a one-night only show, tonight. It’s a sell-out so I hope you’ve still got your chicken fillets.’ He winks.
‘Oh my God, Jenny isn’t here?’
‘Jenny isn’t a patch on you,’ Ant says. ‘You’re our Tenerife compère and always will be!’
‘Was this you too, Jay?’ I ask and he nods.
‘Oh my God. I love you. I love you so …’ I can’t even finish because tears are streaming down my face. Jay takes me in his arms and squeezes me tight. ‘I love all of you,’ I manage. I can’t believe I get to go on stage with the Hunks again. I don’t even care that I’m just dressed as me and not ‘stage me’.
For this moment, under the moonlight, I have everyone I ever wanted, together in one place. I know now that Jay will always have my best interests at heart. I know that he loves me for who I am and I know I’ve found my happy ever after.
*
Swept away by Kat’s whirlwind romance in Sun, Sea and Sangria? Why not escape to another idyllic beach in Cape Cod, and meet Sam in A Summer to Remember, another unputdownable romance from Victoria Cooke. Available now!
Click here if you’re in the US
Click here if you’re in the UK
Acknowledgements
As always, this book would not have been possible without many people. Firstly, I’d like to thank Abigail Fenton, Cara Chimirri and all at HQ Digital, for commissioning this book. A few years ago, publishing a book was beyond my wildest dreams; now I’ve published six with a seventh on its way and I’m forever grateful for the opportunity. I’d also like to thank my wonderful editor, Belinda Toor, for her honest and supportive feedback and for spotting all the random errors that I missed. On that note, I’d like to express huge thanks to Helena Newton for her eagle-eyed proofreading and lovely comments and for providing me with solid proof that I should never be in a position of trust whereby I’d have to look after several people. Thank you for making sure I didn’t forget any of the Hunks! Thank you also to Kia Thomson for your much-needed help and support with my first draft.
The writing community is so supportive and I’d like to say a massive thanks to the Yorkshire Writer’s group, Rachel Burton, Rachel Dove, Rachael Stewart, Lisa Swift and Katey Lovell, for always being there to lift spirits, give advice and tell funny stories about loo roll. One day we’ll get that champagne afternoon tea and it will be epic.
Huge thanks to Lucy Knott, Maxine Morrey, Belinda Missen, Lynsey James and Sarah Bennett for social media inspiration, support and laughs. In addition, all the HQ Digital writers are incredibly supportive – there are too many to name but thank you all.
Rachel Gilby at Rachel’s Random Resources, thank you so much for all your support with marketing and blog tours over the past few years and for your own wonderful reviews. They mean the world to me.
The Chicklit and Prosecco chat group is a great place for readers and writers who love this genre to connect. Anita Faulkner deserves a huge thank you for setting the group up. On a similar vein, ChicklitChatHQ on Facebook is a wonderful place full of supportive authors and bloggers, and has given me so much support over the years.
Last but not least, thank you Vicky Rayner for coming to London with me on our very important ‘research trip’.
Want more?
To be the first to hear about new releases, competitions, 99p eBooks and promotions, sign up to our monthly email newsletter.
Click here to sign up!
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Summer to Remember …
Prologue
2010
The black and white chequered floor whizzes past. Like a psychedelic trip, it isn’t real. I know that I’m running. I can’t feel my limbs moving, just the vague sensation of the air resistance caused by the motion. I’m on autopilot, and the only thing tying me to the reality of where I am, is the pungent smell of disinfectant that’s been with me at every turn.
I stop abruptly, almost colliding with a person dressed head-to-toe in baggy green scrubs. My heart pounds in my chest. I look down at my hand, the knuckles white, still clutching my phone from when I got the call. It can only have been twenty minutes ago. It’s hard to tell because it feels like a lifetime has passed. The surgeon seems to understand that I can’t speak; his features are barely displaced, neutral, but there’s something lurking in his earthy eyes. Sympathy? ‘Mrs Butterfield?’ he asks. I nod, my mouth like Velcro, my brain too disengaged to speak.
‘Mrs Butterfield, I’m sorry. We did everything we could.’
Did?
You can’t have.
The blood pumping in my ears is deafening. Barbed wire is wrenched from the pit of my stomach, right up through my oesophagus. I’ve never felt pain like it. My legs give way, unable to bear the weight of the surgeon’s words and my knees crash to the floor.
I’m vaguely aware of a low, drawn-out wail. It’s me. The surgeon crouches down and looks me directly in the eyes. The warmth of his chestnut-brown gaze anchors me, and I’m able to gather tendrils of composure. I take a breath.
‘Mrs Butterfield, is there anyone we can call for you?’
I shake my head. I only have one person, and now he’s dead.
Chapter One
2018
‘Eurgh.’ I slam the pearlescent invite down by the kettle. ‘Plus one,’ I say in a mocking tone. Coco cocks her head to the side like she’s trying to understand me, and I cup her fluffy face.
‘I know, I don’t get it either.’ My cat’s emerald eyes are still intent on me so, glad of an audience, I carry on.
‘Why Bridget has to assume I need someone by my side is beyond me. As if I’m not capable of going to a wedding without a plus one. It’s not nineteen blooming twenty. I don’t need a chaperone. Perhaps I’ll take you, Coco. That’ll teach her.’ I tickle her under her chin and she stretches out lazily. I’m only half joking.
As I pour my first coffee of the day, my phone rings. ‘Someone’s ears are burning,’ I say on answering.
‘Really?’ Bridget also ignores the need for pleasantries.
‘I got your wedding invite,’ I say dryly.
‘Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic about the happiest day of your best friend’s life,’ she retorts.
‘Aren’t we a bit old for best friends?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
I rub my temples with my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sorry, Bridge. I just, well … I’d specifically told you I didn’t need a plus one.’
&n
bsp; ‘It’s just a formality, Sam. Don’t be so sensitive. I just wanted you to know the option is there if you did want to bring someone.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I say, before feeling a little guilty. ‘It just seems so old-fashioned, like, the lil lady needs a gentleman to escort her.’ I put on my best ‘Southern Belle’ accent, and Bridget giggles.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t meant to offend you.’
‘I did warn you,’ I scold. ‘Look, I’m not on the lookout for a man, nor am I resigned to being alone – I’m happy with it. People need to stop assuming I need someone. I got the bloody cat everyone thought I should get, okay!’
‘I know, I’m sorry. Everyone else will be coupled up, so I just thought if you wanted to bring a friend, then you could, that’s all.’
‘All of my friends will already be there.’ I’m aware of my exasperated tone so I soften it a little. ‘I was just telling Coco that she could be my plus one.’
‘You’d better bloody well not.’ Bridget’s stern tone amuses me. I sense that she wouldn’t put it past me.
‘Oh, now you’ve made her sad.’ Coco looks far from sad as she rubs her face on my balled-up fist. ‘I’ve seen some gorgeous cat dresses on eBay.’
‘Bring her and I’ll have you both escorted out,’ Bridget replies.
‘Then stop assuming I can’t be single and happy.’
‘Fine!’ she sighs. ‘But send me a picture of one of those cat dresses, it’s been a miserable week.’
I’m happy it’s time to drop the subject. It may seem like an overreaction, but Bridget knows as well as my other friends do that my frustrations are the result of a good seven years’ worth of do-gooders trying to set me up with brothers, colleagues, friends of friends, and even a sister at one point. I’m happy on my own. It’s like the saying goes, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.’ All I need are my memories and my cat.
‘How’s work?’ she asks.
I groan, wondering where to start. ‘I’m still working my backside off to make the US team. Seventh time lucky, hey?’ Every year five people from our offices are chosen to go to Boston for three months to work on a global marketing project with the American head office team. I’ve tried for seven years – yes, seven years – to make the cut. It’s become my obsession.
‘Oh Sam, this year has to be your year,’ she says sympathetically.
‘It’s like no matter how hard I try, someone else shines brighter. This year I’ve worked my backside off and if I’m not chosen, I might start looking somewhere else.’ It sounds like I’m being a drama queen, but I’ve given everything to Pink Apple Advertising and I’ve been pretty open about wanting to go to Boston. If they don’t choose me this year, I don’t think they ever will, and that Boston trip is the only real catalyst to a promotion.
‘Well, if they don’t pick you this time, they don’t deserve you.’ Bridget sounds distracted, like most people do when I talk about work.
I stifle a sigh. My friends will never understand how much it means to me. ‘The invites are gorgeous, by the way,’ I say, stroking the silver ribbon running down the thick, shimmery cream card with embossed dusky pink lettering. She was right when she said it will be the best day of her life.
2003
My breath catches in my throat. There he is, chewing the corner of his thumbnail nervously. He looks so vulnerable standing there in his navy suit and tie. When his eyes set upon mine, I can feel their warmth envelop me. His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side and his watery eyes crinkle when he smiles. I glance down at my simple ivory dress, self-consciously smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. My mum had steamed the thing to death, fussing about invisible creases and generally adding to my overall nervousness.
The music starts, a piano instrumental of Canon in D, and butterflies beat venomously in my stomach when the expectant faces turn towards me. My mum is there, at the front with her new olive-coloured organza hat on. She’s clutching a tissue to her face.
‘Are you ready, pumpkin?’ my dad whispers in my ear. Normally, I’d tell him not to call me that, but today I’m too nervous to care.
I grip my dad’s arm tighter in mine, clutch my bouquet of white lilies with the other and take a deep breath before setting off. It’s a blur as we walk down the small aisle, past a handful of close friends and family, to where Kev is waiting. When I join him, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze and leans in close and breathes into my ear.
‘You … are … beautiful.’
I feel his words.
Suddenly the room is ours and ours alone.
Chapter Two
2018
I smooth down the skirt of my Ted Baker dress as I walk into the church, smiling as I take in the beautiful flower displays. Bridget has chosen pageboys and flower girls instead of bridesmaids so that she didn’t have to choose between her closest friends or fork out for a bazillion extortionately priced dresses. To be honest, I was quite relieved when she told me. Being plucked, waxed and spray-tanned within an inch of my life didn’t really appeal, though I have shaved my legs for the occasion. I’ve worn this dress to three recent weddings because it fits my slender five-foot-five frame perfectly. It has a pencil skirt in shades of metallic pink and rose gold, with a plain white chiffon top. My make-up is minimal, and my dark hair hangs in loose waves which look like they dried that way after my morning surf but in actual fact took the hairdresser thirty minutes of wanding, teasing and praying to the hair gods for. I’ve never surfed in my life. I don’t go in the sea ever – too much uncertainty lurking under that strange foamy stuff which floats on the surface.
Viv, Sarah and their husbands are easy to spot as I make my way down the aisle. I slide into the spot they’ve saved for me next to Viv.
‘It could be you next,’ Viv gushes as I place my bag on the floor. Seriously, I’ve just sat down. It’s as if she doesn’t know better, except for the fact that she bloody well does. I’m about to say something about hell freezing over first but second guess myself. Can you say the word ‘hell’ in church? The last time I paid any attention to religion was the Harvest festival in 1996, and that was only because the vicar looked a little bit like Mark Owen. Am I about to be struck down by lightning? Maybe I should cross myself.
‘So, you didn’t bring anyone then?’ Sarah leans across to ask. She kind of purses her lips in a sympathetic way. I don’t reply, but seriously, it’s okay to go to a wedding alone. It’s like these people don’t even know me, despite the fact we’ve been friends since Bridget introduced us over seven years ago.
When I first met these women, I’d just moved to London. I couldn’t bear to stay in our village after losing Kev. I needed a clean slate. My old life had finished, and I needed something completely different. It was almost a year to the day I’d lost Kev when I bumped into Bridget in the foyer at work. And I mean literally bumped into her, knocking her espresso out of her hand so hard that it flew over her shoulder, luckily without spilling so much as a drop on her cream suit. She worked for a different company in the same building, and being new to London, I was hugely intimidated by her. She laughed off the faux pas and said I looked like I needed a stiff drink. We met up after work, I told her my story, and the rest is history.
Viv and Sarah are Bridget’s close friends, but soon became mine too. At first, they took pity on me, listened to my endless stories about Kev and offered sympathy whilst I revelled in my new friendship group. But before long, they started to talk about me ‘putting myself back out there’. I’ve been defending my singlehood ever since.
I give her a tight smile and nod. It’s the same old story. Sympathetic glances when people learn you’re single in your mid (okay, late) thirties, and the comments are always along the lines of ‘you’ll meet someone soon.’ In some ways, I feel sorry for them, thinking you need a man to make your life better. A man can’t make your life better. Only a soulmate can even come close to doing that, and I’d already found mine.
The organ starts to play. The dull sound of pressurised air being forced through the pipes reminds me of death. Why they play this instrument at weddings is beyond me. Everyone turns to catch the first glimpse of the bride. Bridget looks stunning in a simple silk gown with capped lace sleeves and a diamanté-encrusted waistband. Her blonde hair is in a neat chignon with some loose curls framing her face. She smiles at us as she walks past, her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes radiating happiness. I remember that feeling too, and I cherish it.
***
Thank god. I swipe a welcome Pimm’s on arrival at the hotel reception, and it goes down rather too easily. Churches are tinged with the memory of Kev’s funeral. Whilst the funeral itself is a blur, I’ve never felt comfortable in one since.
‘Slow down, Sam, it’s only noon,’ Sarah says, taking mouse-like sips from her own.
‘You do you, okay?’ I say, before realising I sound harsh. ‘Sorry. I love weddings and I love seeing my friends happy, but they do bring back memories.’
Sarah strokes my arm. ‘We get it, hon, but if you get sloshed and make a prized tit out of yourself, you’ll regret it.’
‘That happened one time,’ I say with an eye-roll.
‘Yes, and I forgave you because everything was still raw and because I wasn’t letting anything spoil my big day. You need to be here for Bridget today.’ Her eyes bore into me, but their intensity is broken by the waiter offering more Pimm’s. I decline and look pointedly at Sarah, who wears a smug expression.
Across the foyer of the hotel, Bridget and her new husband Alex are posing for photographs. The photographer is shepherding miniature humans into a line. It’s like a comedy sketch: just as he manages to get one end of the line straight, he loses a child from the other end. His face is starting to redden.
Sun, Sea and Sangria Page 27