My Summer of Magic Moments

by Caroline Roberts

  Copyright

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

  Copyright © Caroline Roberts 2017

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com | Cover design by Stuart Bache

  Caroline Roberts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008236274

  Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008236267

  Version: 2017-04-27

  Dedication

  For Heidi

  ‘There are magical moments in every day. We just have to take the time to see them.’

  Anonymous

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Caroline Roberts

  About the Publisher

  Author Note

  The inspiration for the magic moments idea in this book grew from me wanting the characters, especially Claire who goes through so much, to find joy again in the simple pleasures in life. As the book developed, I had the idea to make this a part of Claire’s journalism work. As I wrote, I realized I didn’t want it to be just my perceived magic moments that Claire might experience on her break away, but other people’s too; these little gems of moments that we can all have, but sometimes forget to appreciate. So I asked friends, family, colleagues, looked at newspaper articles and also googled to find other people’s magic moments to include in the book. The responses were so lovely and often very personal, so thank you to everyone who sent a moment to me; apologies that I couldn’t quite fit them all into the narrative and chapter headings. They really have made the story all the more special.

  I hope this book makes you think about what your magic moments might be, and appreciate them all the more when another comes your way.

  Caroline x

  1

  A cup of tea and a stunning view

  A thin veil of early morning pink-grey light was suspended above the sea. The colours reminded her of the inside of a pearlized shell, subtle and beautiful. She hugged the mug of tea between her hands. Up early again – six a.m. It was a regular occurrence after the nightmare of the past year. Her mind and thoughts veered between tumultuous and exhausted. She’d thought she might as well get up, make her first cup of the day. At least here she could sit and enjoy a calming sea view.

  What a bloody journey it had been yesterday. Not the best start to what was meant to be a relaxing break. Her car had broken down two streets from ‘home’ – she used the word loosely these days – in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. She’d had to get it towed back to a garage, only to find out after much tutting and shaking of heads by men in oil-smeared boiler suits that it was never going to be fixed in an hour, or even a day, and that it was likely to cost a small fortune. So she’d had to take the metro to the main station, a train to Alnmouth, and then spend another bloody fortune – twenty-five quid no less – on a taxi to get to her idyllic cottage by the sea, which was meant to be somewhere near Bamburgh but seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

  The idyllic cottage itself left a lot to be desired. On unlocking the peeling white-painted front door, Claire had discovered a hallway of beige woodchip wallpaper with tell-tale bubbly patches of damp. She’d come to the kitchen next, which sported basic white MDF cabinets and a cooker that looked like it had come out of the ark. She hadn’t dared to try and use it last night, settling for the sandwich she’d bought on the train and never eaten, and an apple she’d had in her bag.

  She’d sat on the dark-brown velour sofa in the lounge area, staring at a clock that had stopped, possibly several years ago, on the mantelpiece over a real fireplace. Looking around at the matching brown armchair, whose seat cushion sagged heavily, a nest of 70s-style wooden tables and a couple of faded prints on the walls, she’d wondered where the hell she’d ended up. This was meant to be a relaxing holiday, a chance to chill-out. And she’d booked for a whole three weeks. It was cheap, admittedly, but she hadn’t expected anything quite this basic.

  She’d tried to cheer herself up. Yes, the place was a bit old-fashioned and in need of some TLC, but maybe she was just tired. She’d had an exasperating day, after all. She decided to have an early night, so she’d tucked herself up under a handmade patchwork quilt in her upstairs double room, and told herself it would all seem better in the morning.

  In the light of a June morning, it still didn’t look that promising! The whole place seemed tired, worn, and all the windows and ledges appeared to be a mass of rotten wood. The house was crumbling at the seams, and to top it all, after a hunt for the boiler and radiators to turn on against the morning chill, she’d realized it had no central heating. A cup of tea had been the only option, and now she thought she might as well head outside and get some fresh air and a sea view. She supposed she should be grateful that the balcony that led out from her upstairs bedroom was holding up.

  Right, Claire Maxwell – enough moaning, you old tart. You’re here to rest and recuperate. Her mind took on a school-marmish voice which sounded very like her mother’s. No, they hadn’t given her nearly a month off work to sit grumbling. This was the start of her new life, and she had no idea where it was going to take her. For now, it was sitting on a rickety wooden balcony on a Friday morning in June watching the sun rise over the North Sea. It was a place of calm, with a solitary gull swooping in the sky and a pair of black-and-white oystercatchers balanced on spindly legs dipping their orange beaks in the shallows.

  A door slammed somewhere nearby, causing her balcony to wobble. She gripped her mug to prevent a spill. There were two
stone cottages here, side by side, which fronted the beach – being isolated had been its appeal. Typical that the other was occupied, but it was the summer season. There was some guy coming out; he was probably here with his wife and a brood of noisy kids. The rest of them would be safely tucked up in bed for now, it being six a.m., but no doubt ready to shatter her peace in another hour or so.

  Claire stared at the man; she had nothing better to do. He walked from his grassy square of garden straight out onto the beach. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy-blond hair – quite handsome, actually – wearing flip-flops, a white T-shirt and red shorts. He looked in his thirties. He began to jog straight for the sea, stopping a couple of metres before he hit the waves to slip off his footwear. Then, in one swift movement, he pulled off his T-shirt, revealing a rather gorgeous toned and lightly tanned torso. Hey, things were looking up! Another swift motion and his shorts were off. Jeez, he wasn’t wearing any Speedos beneath. The peachy whiteness of his firm buttocks and the muscular V of his back entranced her. He bent slightly to drop his clothes. Gulp. Claire leaned forward in her seat, her heart racing.

  He continued his now-naked jog down to the sea. The rear view was gorgeous, athletic. Wow! Was this real? Had she guzzled way too many glasses of wine or something last night? Was this wishful thinking, a hallucinatory dream? She really didn’t want to wake up from it if it was. She squeezed the mug in her hand – it was solid, painted a pukey-looking green colour, and the tea had a cooling milky look to it. This had to be real.

  The guy reached the breaking waves, took a dive straight in, and there he was, bobbing up and down in the surf line. She watched him swim out to the calmer, deeper sea. He seemed a confident swimmer.

  Ooh, then she realized he’d have to come back in, facing her in the buff with nuts and bolts and everything in full view. She should probably go discreetly back indoors, give him a bit of privacy.

  And miss a view like that? Sod it. No! You didn’t get the chance to see a gorgeous body like that often, if ever. Her ex certainly hadn’t had a physique like this guy’s. But what if he saw her? Sitting there gawking like a perv? She’d look a bit odd, wouldn’t she – voyeuristic. But really, when was she going to get the chance to sneak a look at a body like that again? After all, she was here first. He shouldn’t be flaunting himself like that if he didn’t want a normal, warm-blooded woman looking at him.

  She decided to shift her deckchair slightly back into the shadowy area of the balcony – he probably wouldn’t notice her there – and sat back down, watching his head bobbing like a seal out at sea as she smiled to herself. Well then, it wasn’t so quiet here, after all. And what was the harm, after everything she’d been through, allowing herself to watch a strong, healthy, rather handsome male?

  Cancer had a way of doing that to you – putting things in perspective, making you realize just how precious life could be, that you needed to seize every moment – especially little magic moments like seeing a gorgeous man naked. Why not? Why not indeed.

  So, still holding the dregs of her tea, she leaned back in her chair and took it all in: the sea rolling and gently crashing, the smell of salt in the air, the cry of a gull, the golden warmth of June sun breaking into another day. And she watched ‘Adonis’ reappear from the waves. First his shoulders, chest, the definition of his abs, his stomach. Ooh, what was about to be revealed next?… and … Oh blimey, a brown thatch of hair. And yes, it would be cold in the North Sea, but that was still impressive. Not a bad effort at all, Mr Adonis.

  Right, now behave, Claire Maxwell – get a grip on yourself and go on inside.

  But if you move now, he’s bound to see you, her alter ego chipped in cheekily (this voice definitely not sounding like her mother). Her cheeks felt flushed and her heart was pumping. What if he saw her? That would make it very awkward if they met over the coming days and weeks. She could imagine the conversation:

  ‘Hi, I’m Claire, your neighbour for three weeks.’

  ‘Ah yes, I spotted you ogling my naked body … Do you make a habit of voyeurism?’

  She shrank back in the chair. If she got up now, she was pretty sure he would see the movement from the balcony. Best to stay put.

  He strolled towards his pile of clothes – whoa, stare, don’t stare, gulp – slipped on his shorts, the T-shirt, the flip-flops, and shook his hair out, the action reminding her of a wet dog, then jogged back, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

  Claire was left with a big grin creeping across her face.

  2

  ‘I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.’

  J. B. Priestley

  As well as her cottage falling apart, the hot water system left a lot to be desired. She’d gone inside to freshen up for the day, but had been seared, then iced, by a relic of an electric shower that was positioned above an avocado-green bath (more shitty green, she’d thought). The whole experience was like something out of a torture movie. She’d had to spring in and out of the piddling stream of water trying to time it right, and washing her hair had been a joke – half the suds were left in as she gave up and clambered out. At least there wasn’t much hair to bother with at the moment: the curls only just growing back, giving her a pixie crop that her sister, Sally, said suited her – a gamine Audrey Hepburn look, apparently. Claire thought she was just trying to be nice.

  As she towelled herself dry, she carefully dabbed the ridged scar that ran across her left breast. It didn’t hurt much any more; just the odd weird pain now and again. But she didn’t like to look at it. She was still trying to get used to the change in her body.

  She moved to the bedroom. It was slightly better than the bathroom in decor: a pine double bed with blue-and-white patchwork bedding, a cream throw (granny’s crocheted best), and a white-painted dressing table with mirror – an attempt at jaded seaside chic (or plain jaded), which roughly worked. The best part of the room was its French doors, which opened out onto the balcony overlooking the expanse of silver-gold sands and the little stream which wound down beside the two cottages and out to the shoreline.

  Claire sat in her underwear on the dressing-table stool in front of the pine mirror. She had always been petite at five foot three, but was rather skinnier than she’d like to be after her illness. She smoothed on some moisturizer, brushed on mascara above her deep-brown eyes – it was great to have eyelashes again – and applied a slick of pale-pink gloss. She’d never been interested in wearing a lot of make-up, and today she wanted to feel the fresh air and sun on her skin. Then she dressed casually in a pale-pink T-shirt and denim shorts.

  The first day of her holiday awaited her. She didn’t have to go to work, she didn’t have to get to hospital appointments. The world and this crazy run-down cottage were her oyster. She was determined to make the best of this escape time. What was she going to do with it? She decided to go for a walk along the beach to find the village of Bamburgh. It shouldn’t be that far.

  She headed left onto the sands from her beachside garden, a scrubby patch of grass with a battered wooden table and four chairs. As she strolled, she remembered childhood holidays spent in the area with her parents and older sister years ago. It was why she’d chosen this place – happy memories: salt and sand and shivers, warm-towelled hugs and eating yummy-drippy 99 Flake ice-cream cones from the Mr Whippy van that parked in the car park just above the dunes.

  She began to feel that familiar tug in her chest. Her lovely dad wasn’t here any more. He had died five years ago, bless him, a heart attack snatching him from his family at only sixty-two. She missed him so much, even now. How life changed. Her own illness had shaken up her life in ways she could never have imagined. She was close to her sister and mum; they’d been so supportive through her treatment. In fact, both had offered to come and stay during her break to keep her company, but she’d just wanted to be on her own, have a bit of time out, so she’d politely but
firmly refused their well-intentioned offers.

  She slipped off her deck shoes as the sand started creeping in around her ankles, and enjoyed the feel of warm, soft grains beneath her bare feet. The sun was climbing in the sky, sending glints of gold off the lapping waves. Dog walkers passed her, their charges dashing about with glee, tumbling with tennis balls, bounding into the sea, coming out matted and shaggy then shaking arcs of glittering water around them. She’d have liked a dog. They’d had Millie, an affectionate Labrador, when she was a child at home. She’d been part of the family. But Paul, her ex, had never been keen on having a pet, preferring a tidy house and order. Damn it – what was he doing creeping into her thoughts? Push those thoughts aside right now, she told herself. Bury all the hurt he caused in a great big hole in the sand.

  Today was about her. And her life from now on. Onwards and upwards. She was going to have a look in the village, get some nice local provisions, then head back, make a salad or something for lunch, chop some veggies for soup, and later she intended to sit and chill in a chair in the garden in the sunshine, reading her latest book and generally pleasing herself. She hoped the family next door wouldn’t appear noisily at that point. Oh well, she chided herself, she wouldn’t be an old misery of a neighbour. Kids would be kids, and they were on a beach, after all – let them play. Oh yes, that was another thing Paul wasn’t keen on: having children. It had never been ‘the right time’, or maybe, she mused wryly, she was just never the right person. The bastard.