It Started With A Tweet

by Anna Bell

  I slip the handbag off my shoulder and I find a stray receipt and a pen.

  Dear Jack,

  I am an idiot. I do listen too much to other people. I do rely on the Internet when really I should learn to find out about people in real life. I need to trust my instincts not my Facebook.

  This digital detox was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. Not only because I’ve learnt to be free of my phone, which was controlling my life and stopping me from living it properly, but also because it meant I got to meet you.

  I wanted to tell you in person what I’ve realised, and I wanted to tell you that I’m staying. I’m not going back to London and Rosie’s going to let me run digital detox retreats at Upper Gables. With a little help with some people in the village running workshops, and – ahem – you, if you’ll do them too. I think it could be a great little business.

  Anyway, I’m sort of in limbo as I can’t go home because I’m guessing Rosie and Rupert are ‘making up’ after their big fight, so I’m at a loose end. I thought I’d go up to that hill where I first met you. Last time I was far too distracted looking for a mobile signal to notice the views, which I’ve been told are incredible. I’m sure I’ll not need a knight in shining armour this time, but if you fancy a stroll, I’ll be up there for a bit.

  Love

  Daisy xxx

  I start to debate if three kisses is a bit much, but then I get a grip of myself. That’s probably the least of my worries, bearing in mind that I practically confessed my undying love for him.

  I wedge it into the door handle so that he sees it when he gets home and I start off on my walk, telling myself that he’ll catch up any minute as he wouldn’t have left Buster at home if he was going far.

  I start walking through the muddy field where I fell over all those weeks ago. Good job I’ve got my wellies on, or else I’d be slipping all over the place. Only, what they make up for in grip, they lack in flexibility, and I have to yank them out as my feet get well and truly stuck. Once free, I attempt to jump over to a grassy patch to the right, only my left boot gets stuck again and instead of landing on the grass, I land in a patch of mud. I desperately try to keep myself upright, as I don’t want to put my welly-less foot down. I place my socked foot onto my leg flamingo style and attempt to keep my balance. I’m wobbling about, desperately trying not to fall over headfirst.

  I’m starting to ache in flamingo pose, and I’m just about to brave putting my welly-less foot in the mud, when Buster leaps up at me. I windmill my arms, trying my best not to fall, but he keeps jumping up, covering me in muddy paw prints and licks.

  ‘Buster, Buster get down,’ I hear Jack yell, but it’s too late. Buster gives me one last jump before he goes off in search of his owner, and it’s enough to send me tumbling into the mud, bum first.

  Jack’s laughter carries on the wind, and I can’t help but join in.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he asks as he gets closer.

  ‘I’m fine here,’ I say, looking up at him, my breath catching in my mouth as he’s shaved off his beard, and let’s just say he’s looks hot.

  ‘Right you are. And I guess you were just standing around out here on one leg doing . . .?’

  ‘Yoga. Clearly.’

  ‘Clearly. So what’s this? Sitting-down pig pose?’

  ‘Oi,’ I say, batting at his legs. ‘Who are you calling a pig?’

  ‘Sorry, er, that came out wrong. Here.’

  He reaches over and retrieves my lost welly. Not that it matters. I’m caked in mud from the waist down now. He slips it on anyway, in such a gentle way, as if he were Prince Charming slipping on my glass slipper, but then he pulls me up to standing with such a force that my body crashes into him.

  ‘About the other night.’

  I shake my head. ‘We don’t have to –’

  ‘Yes, we do. Or at least, I do. I’m sorry for what I said. You were right; I shouldn’t have judged you by your Twitter feed. It’s just, I started to . . . you know . . .’

  He tries to brush a bit of mud off my leg as if to take my attention away from what he’s trying to say.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know,’ I say, finding it amusing how his cheeks are flushed and he can’t look me in the eye. ‘For a psychologist you’re not very good at expressing your own emotions.’

  The poor guy must be dying inside, and I’m going to rescue him any second.

  ‘I’m used to listening to other people baring their souls, not the other way round.’ He takes a deep breath before exhaling loudly. ‘I like you, OK? And then when I saw the article and that postcard about a fling, and I didn’t want to be just another holiday romance.’

  I think back to what Rodney said about the tourist who broke his heart and I take hold of his hand.

  ‘I want it to be more than that too,’ I say. ‘And I’m not going anywhere.’

  Finally, he looks up at me, and as he looks into my eyes my stomach flips.

  And then he kisses me.

  It’s one of those kisses that makes you weak at the knees, and I’m grateful that the wellies are stuck in the mud again as they’re stopping me from collapsing. Although, Jack’s doing his best to help with that too; his hand is creeping down my back and grabbing my bum.

  ‘Yuck,’ he says, pulling away and looking at his hand, which is now muddy. ‘I think it’s time we got you home and changed.’

  ‘I might need a hand. Fancy carrying me?’ I say, imagining him scooping me up into his arms and carrying me like a true damsel in distress.

  ‘Um, it’s a pretty long way to carry you, unless you want a fireman’s lift or a piggyback?’

  ‘A piggyback?’ I say in disbelief. It’s not really worthy of a Hollywood swoon.

  ‘Or you could walk . . .’

  I practically leap on his back.

  ‘It looks like I’ve got you all muddy,’ I say, as I wrap my legs around his waist and cling onto his shoulders.

  ‘It does indeed.’

  ‘We’ll have to get you out of your clothes too . . .’ I purr into his ear.

  Jack bolts like an untamed horse and practically trots across the field, and I let out a scream.

  ‘You’re going to drop me,’ I say, laughing uncontrollably as he jumps over tufts of grass and squelches through the mud.

  I can’t remember a time when I laughed like this or felt happier. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel no desire to share what’s going on with anyone. I might be feeling #blessed and #excited, and slightly #NervousThatIHaven’tShavedMyLegs, but I don’t need anyone to know or validate it. I know how happy I am, and that’s all that matters.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Blimey, another book written! As always, it’s a huge team effort, and I’m so grateful for everyone’s help. From readers tweeting me with lovely praise that spurs me on, to my friends and family who act as my loyal fan club trying to peddle my book to anyone that will listen. There are almost too many people to thank, but a few that deserve a special mention.

  Thank you firstly to Christie and Simon, for sharing their beautiful part of the world with me (and my readers). Your local knowledge and photos have been super helpful. I only wish we’d all been in better health during the research - but we will be back and we’ll make up for it, PIGO!

  Thank you to my long suffering agent Hannah, and the rest of the team at Hardman and Swainson, for everything you do behind the scenes. The team at Bonnier Zaffre - Sophie, Bec and (much missed) Joel - as always your editing notes are spot on and my books are all the better for your collective input. Thank you to Alex Allden for my beautiful cover. Also, to my German editor Julia at Droemer - I really do hope we can meet one day in person to talk books, travel and babies.

  *

  To my wonderful family and friends: thanks for babysitting, cheerleading and your general enthusiasm and interest in my books. Especially Mum, Jane, Heather and Harold, Laura, Hannah, Kaf, Debs and Julie. Also, to old school and college frien
ds, work colleagues, and friends of friends that read my books - I’m always humbled how many of you support me. And, not forgetting the other Agent Fergie authors, I am so lucky to be part of such a supportive bunch of writers.

  A mahousive thank you to all the book bloggers and reviewers who not only take the time to read my book but write lovely reviews too. Thanks especially to Victoria (Victoria Loves Books), Ananda, Becky Gulc, Chloe Spooner, Agi, Simona Elena, Kaisha, Isabelle Broom, Amy Lysette, Natasha Harding, Natasha (The Books Geek wears Pajamas), Aimee and Rachel Gilby.

  I definitely couldn’t have written this book without my husband feeding me, tidying the house and doing daddy daycare – thank you, Steve for everything you do for us! To Rex the dog, for letting me take him for a walk to iron out those plot holes, and to Evan and Jess for taking those all important strategic naps.

  Lastly, thank you to you for reading my book! Do come say hello on Twitter – @annabell_writes, I do love to hear from readers, and do sign up to my reader’s club for news and exclusive content.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Anna Bell lives in the South of France with her young family and energetic labrador. You can find our more about Anna on her website, www.annabellwrites.com or follow her on Twitter @annabell_writes.

  Also by Anna Bell

  The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

  Don’t Tell the Groom

  Don’t Tell the Boss

  Don’t Tell the Brides-To-Be

  The Good Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Even

  Read on for a letter from Anna Bell, and an exciting chapter from her hilarious romantic comedy

  THE GOOD GIRLFRIEND’S GUIDE TO GETTING EVEN . . .

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for choosing to read IT STARTED WITH A TWEET! I do hope you enjoyed it. It was a lot of fun to write – even if it has made me paranoid that I use my phone too much!

  When my family and I moved to rural France a few years ago, I felt a lot like Daisy – totally lost without the internet. I too climbed up hills to get that little bit of mobile internet signal. I also used to drive a forty-minute round trip just to go to McDonalds to have a coffee and use their WiFi! When our fixed line was installed a few weeks later, I actually wept at being back in touch with the real world.

  I’d love to say that I’m above digital addiction, but scrolling through Twitter and watching Instagram stories are my guilty pleasures! I’m planning to do a digital detox with my little kids – I think it’ll be as good for them as it will be for me. I’m a little nervous about how we’ll cope with no screens – no Peppa Pig for those 6 a.m. wake-ups! – but I’m actually really excited about it. It’ll be an adventure . . . famous last words, I’m sure!

  At the moment, I’m working on my next novel called THE BACK UP PLAN. It’s about two friends who once had one of those ‘if we’re not married by the time we’re 30. . .’ pacts. After a holiday romance, they impulsively decide to put the pact into action. They discover they have to wait twenty-eight days before they can legally wed, but as they begin to get to know each other again, doubt starts to creep in. It’s a real will-they-won’t-they novel, with a lot of humour and a lot of soul searching going on.

  If you can’t wait for the next book, why not read one of my earlier novels, THE BUCKET LIST TO MEND A BROKEN HEART or THE GOOD GIRLFRIEND’S GUIDE TO GETTING EVEN. Both are – in my opinion! – funny and heartwarming stories.

  If you’d like to hear more about my next book, or any future books beyond that, you can visit www.bit.ly/AnnaBellClub where you can join the Anna Bell Reader’s Club. It only takes a few moments to sign up and there are no catches or costs. Your data will be kept totally private and confidential, and will never be passed on to a third party. I won’t spam you with loads of emails, but will get in touch now and again with book news, and you can unsubscribe any time you want.

  Also, do stop by and say hello on Twitter (@annabell_writes) or find me on Facebook – it’s so lovely to hear from readers! I’d also be absolutely thrilled if you’d take the time to review my books too – on Amazon, Goodreads, on your blog or any other e-store. What better way to tell us what you thought of the book!

  Thanks once again for reading IT STARTED WITH A TWEET, and I do hope you enjoy reading more of my books in the future!

  Best wishes,

  Anna

  If you enjoyed It Started With A Tweet, why not try

  Anna Bell’s hilarious romantic comedy . . .

  When Lexi’s sport-mad boyfriend Will skips her friend’s wedding to watch football – after pretending to have food poisoning – it might just be the final whistle for their relationship.

  But fed up of just getting mad, Lexi decides to even the score. And, when a couple of lost tickets and an ‘accidentally’ broken television lead to them spending extra time together, she’s delighted to realise that revenge might be the best thing that’s happened to their relationship.

  And if her clever acts of sabotage prove to be a popular subject for her blog, what harm can that do? It’s not as if he’ll ever find out . . .

  AVAILABLE NOW IN EBOOK AND PAPERBACK

  Read on for an exciting extract . . .

  1

  ‘Ouch!’ I shout as my elbow whacks into the cubicle wall for the zillionth time, and I start muttering swear words like I’m Gordon Ramsay. Hiding in a cubicle in my work toilets and squeezing myself into a tight dress requires the acrobatic skills of a ninja. There seems to be an obstacle at every turn. One wrong hop when I’m putting my tights on and I’ll be plunging my foot into somewhere only a bath in Dettol would fix, but hop too far the other way and I risk poking an eye out on the door hook.

  It’s a tricky minefield, and something I wouldn’t be doing if this wasn’t a true emergency, but my boyfriend Will and I are meeting my parents for dinner and I’m running late. I’d intended to nip to the gym en route to dinner to have a proper shower and change, but I’ve been swamped at work and left it too late.

  I tried to tell my parents that a six o’clock dinner reservation midweek was a bad idea, but it’s my dad’s birthday and it was at his insistence. Knowing him, and his frugal ways, there will be some special offer for eating early.

  I finally wrestle the zip up my back and make a break for freedom out of the cubicle to pop some make-up on, only to find a woman standing at the sink washing her hands. No need for the extra blusher I’m about to apply; my cheeks automatically pink up in embarrassment at my swearing.

  ‘Going somewhere nice, Lexi?’ she asks, clearly trying not to laugh. She’s one of the serious women who works in finance and I can never remember her name. She’s probably my mum’s age, all twin-set and pearls, and I’m guessing she’s never had to do a quick change in the toilet. It’s practically an impossible task worthy of The Cube.

  ‘I’m off to dinner at Le Bistro.’

  ‘Nice. Special occasion?’

  ‘My dad’s birthday.’

  ‘Well, have a nice time,’ she says, looking at me again and hiding what looks like a smirk.

  I quickly glance down at myself, and can’t see what she’s smirking at. I think I’ve scrubbed up pretty well. I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m alone once more, and I focus on my face, slapping on my foundation defiantly.

  I’ve discovered on many occasions that the fluorescent lighting in the toilets is not conducive to make-up application. When they designed the 1960s-style council building, with its minimal windows and abundance of strip lighting, they hadn’t thought what that would mean for any girl trying to get ready in the windowless toilets. The lights are so bright it’s like being on the telly, and it’s very easy to overcompensate, which means that when you go back out into the real world, your office colleagues either mistake you for some type of hooker, or you look like your five-year-old niece applied your blusher.

  Make-up done, I give myself a quick look in the mirror. I’m wearing a tight-fitting dress with a floaty lace overlay. I bought
it in the sale last year and have been dying to find a reason to wear it ever since. I’ve perhaps put on a couple of pounds since I bought it, and while it might be a little snug, I think it still looks pretty good – no matter what the finance lady thinks.

  At least my mum will be impressed that I’m wearing an actual dress and tights. If I’d turned up in what I wore to work this morning (frumpy black palazzo pants and a baggy, misshapen grey cardie), she probably would have sent me back home to change. The last time she met me from work she looked at my outfit and told me that it was no wonder I was thirty-one and unmarried if that’s how I dressed.

  I put a final coat of lippy on and rush out of the toilets. The only thing worse than having a dressing-down from my mum about my clothes, is her telling me off for being late.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ I say as I turn a corner and bash straight into someone.

  ‘Woah, there,’ says Mike, a colleague who I sit next to. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  I’m tempted to stop and talk to him as he’s with the fit guy from the top, better known as the guy that works in the executives’ department at the top our building. He’s all pin-striped suit and perfect hair, and every time I see him he has a strange effect on me.

  I’ve never actually been this close to him, and I try to force myself to keep moving before I fall under the spell of his hypnotic eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Mike. I’m off to dinner at Le Bistro,’ I say, fluttering my eyelids at the fit guy from the top while trying to show him how sophisticated I am – like I’m the type of girl who goes to posh restaurants all the time.

  ‘Uh, before you go . . .’ he calls.