‘Yes, they do,’ said Sarah. It was nice seeing Violet again; she’d missed some of the characters in the village. It was nice being back at Orchard Cottage again for the weekend, too. Being with her children. Chatting to her sister. Last night at dinner she and Meg had continued the conversation they had started on the train. It had flowed easier this time, sitting at the kitchen table; they had laughed; they had hugged again at the bottom of the stairs before they went to bed. It had been lovely. Sarah wished her sister well with Jamie; Meg really deserved happiness, and a fine romance with a thoroughly nice country vet should do it.
‘Did you meet anyone nice up in London?’ Violet asked.
‘Not really.’ Sarah smiled. Well, she had met Clarissa, who had texted Meg this morning and was delighted to find out Sarah had come down for the weekend. She couldn’t model for Meg, unfortunately, she said; she was doing the make-up for her friend’s wedding this weekend. Sarah had also met Felicity – not so nice, but hopefully no more trouble. And lovely Michael – again – and Hamish.
And Dylan.
Sarah placed the final teacup back on the little shelf. There would be no fine or otherwise romance for her. She’d called Dylan from the train, but it had gone to voicemail. Meg had gestured frantically for Sarah to leave a message, a garbled nonsense about Tipperton Mallet and Meg’s launch party and would he like to come, and right at the end, before she’d hung up in fright, Sarah had babbled, ‘I’m sorry I ran away from you – twice! Come down? Please.’ And then she’d pulled a face at Meg and felt an absolute idiot because of course he wouldn’t; the man wasn’t insane!
‘That’s a shame,’ said Violet. Sarah had been so lost in thought she’d almost forgotten she was there. Violet was standing in the doorway now, polishing a pane of glass with her sleeve.
Sarah nodded. She wasn’t sure how she was going to handle Dylan once she got back to London, to be honest; she had to work with the man again, when she wasn’t even sure how she would be able to look at him. How would she cope with the regret? The knowledge that she’d made a terrible mistake in running away from him?
She sighed and walked over to one of the rails of dresses. A waist tie had come undone from one of the dresses, trailing wide, cream ribbon on the floor. Sarah bent to pick it up. When she stood up and turned to remark to Violet how well things had gone tonight, Violet was no longer standing there. A man was.
In a brown suede jacket and a very crumpled shirt.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you can help me, but I appear to be lost.’
‘Hello.’ Sarah’s face flushed; her heart appeared to have turned into a banging bass drum. At the same time, she was frozen, like the music had just stopped in a game of musical statues. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, I seem to have rocked up in the back end of nowhere. There are Morris dancers and bunting. There are shoeless people, dancing. I’ve been on a train for what has seemed like days, and a coach. I’ve had cold bacon sandwiches, even colder cups of tea and a woman talking in my ear for over an hour about the lambing season.’
Sarah couldn’t help but laugh, despite the fact she could barely breathe.
‘Another train strike,’ she said, her voice a rather embarrassing mouse-like squeak. ‘There’s been a lot of them. What is it you’re looking for?’
‘Oh, I found what I was looking for a while ago,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think what I found wanted to be found. Until I heard her message, that was, which to be honest I had to replay about five times before I could understand a single word of it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ squeaked Sarah, ‘I was … nervous when I left that. I’m sorry about everything, Dylan. I’m so glad you came.’
‘Do you mean that?’ asked Dylan. He put his hands in his pockets and leant against the doorframe. He looked different, Sarah realized, without the camera bag swinging from his shoulder. He looked vulnerable, somehow. And utterly gorgeous. ‘I need to know. You see, you’ve run away from me twice now, and a man has his limits. Nice dress, by the way.’
‘I know,’ said Sarah. She knew he wasn’t cross. He was smiling. Teasing her. ‘I mean, I know you need to know. I’m done with running,’ she added. ‘I’ve been doing it for too long and I don’t want to do it any more. I really am very happy that you’re here.’ Meg was right. What did she have to lose by saying so? What did she have to lose by laying her heart on the line?
‘Good,’ said Dylan. ‘Because I wouldn’t schlep it to the country for just anyone.’ He stepped towards her. Slowly. Until they were close; so close. ‘It would only be for you.’
‘Really?’ Her heart didn’t feel like it was laid down, on a line; it felt like it was a runaway train, hurtling down it.
‘Yes, really.’ Sarah could see right into those amazing eyes with the amazing eyelashes. She felt she could drown in them. ‘I think you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,’ he said, his voice all husky.
‘I can’t be,’ she said. Her heart was going to explode; surely it was impossible for it to thump that hard and not do so?
‘You are. Bright, smart, funny, good in a crisis …’
Sarah giggled. ‘The cause of a crisis, more like!’
‘No, good in a crisis.’ He smiled. ‘Good in lots of ways.’ He snaked his arm around her waist. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ he whispered. They’d both spied Violet, bustling from the back of the shop with a bulging bin bag and a look of surprised amusement at the scene before her.
‘I’d love to,’ said Sarah.
*
It was a beautiful night. Sarah and Dylan had spent the past few minutes walking round the village. She’d shown him the pub, Binty’s, the road and the fields that led to Orchard Cottage. She had pointed out her children to him – Connor was enthusiastically talking to one of the WI women about rough puff pastry and Olivia was dancing with her friends to Depeche Mode.
‘Nice kids, and it’s very charming, despite being the back of beyond,’ said Dylan. ‘I particularly like Binty’s, the scary-looking village shop run by Voldemort. Are you cold?’
‘A little.’ They were meandering down Back Lane now, heading towards the village hall.
Dylan took off his jacket – that shabby, brown suede blazer – and placed it over her shoulders. It was unexpectedly cosy and warm.
‘Are you tempted to come back here?’ he asked, taking her hand and making her feel all gooey inside. ‘It’s only a couple of weeks until the end of your swap. What are your plans? About London?’
‘Meg and I talked about this last night.’ Sarah smiled. ‘My plan is to stay in London, and Meg’s going to stay here, for a while. I’ll contact Michael on Monday, see if I can extend my contract, hope those rumours about Verity not coming back are true, or I can always look for something else. I love it in London. I want to stay. Are you pleased?’ She was teasing him, for a change.
‘Yes, I’m pleased,’ he replied. ‘I mean, I might have travelled down to see you … occasionally … although those bacon sandwiches …’ Sarah laughed. ‘I have a few of my own – plans, that is.’
‘Oh?’
‘I met up with an old mate of mine. Newspaper guy. I’m going to start doing some editorial stuff, see where it goes.’
‘Well, that’s fantastic!’
‘Yeah, good, eh?’ They’d reached the village hall. Back Lane was in darkness. Quiet and peaceful. The music from the green was largely indistinct now – something by UB40? – a distant, steady beat. Dylan let go of her hand, stepped closer to her and put both arms round her. She was shaking, suddenly, although she was warm in his jacket. God, she wanted him to kiss her.
‘Sarah,’ he said, and his voice was wonderfully husky again. He leant forward and placed the warmest, softest lips on hers and he kissed her and, as they kissed, Sarah fell in love again – without fear; Dylan’s suede jacket on her shoulders and her heart in a very safe place. When they came up for air, there was a long, loud whistle, one she recognized from a very long t
ime ago.
Meg. She was holding hands with Jamie, further along the lane, outside the phone box library.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Dylan.
‘That’s my sister,’ said Sarah.
They walked over to Meg and Jamie, hand in hand. Cutesy double date, Sarah thought.
‘All right?’ said Meg, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
‘Yeah,’ said Sarah. ‘You?’
‘Never better.’ They grinned at each other.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Jamie to Dylan, shaking his hand. ‘Shall we go and get a pint, mate? These sisters look like they’re desperate to have a catch-up.’
‘Great idea.’
Jamie kissed Meg and Dylan kissed Sarah and they walked off. The sisters, still grinning at each other, went and sat on the little grassy knoll in front of the phone box.
‘I take it that’s Dylan,’ said Meg.
‘Yep! What do you think?’
‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Meg approvingly. ‘And his jacket really suits you.’
Sarah laughed. ‘He is gorgeous. Jamie’s lovely, too. But you know that.’
‘I do.’ Meg nodded, grinning. ‘We’ve done all right.’
‘We have.’
‘After a whole heap of mistakes.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And a whole lot of misery.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sarah. She leant back on the grass and breathed in the night. It really was a gorgeous summer evening. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘Let’s see this – today, tonight – as a whole new start for us. And I don’t just mean the men in our lives.’
Meg nodded. ‘I totally agree. In fact, let’s drink to it. I’ve got some cider. Do you want some?’
‘Yes, please.’
Meg produced two small bottles from her bag and when she handed one of the bottles to her sister, Sarah noticed there was a folded-up piece of paper along with it.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s an IOU,’ said Meg, and Sarah unfolded the paper. IOU a locket, it said, in a mature version of the handwriting Sarah hadn’t seen for so long. ‘I’ll buy you another one,’ added Meg. ‘There are other photos. I’ll do it for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah. ‘But you don’t owe me anything now. In fact, I should be thanking you, for what you’ve done for the twins.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Meg, shaking her head.
‘I disagree,’ said Sarah, with a smile. ‘And we can remember Mum and Dad together now, can’t we? It’s been so hard doing it on my own.’
‘I know,’ said Meg softly. ‘Let’s toast,’ she added. They cracked open the cider, clinked the necks together than drank. ‘Here’s to us!’ declared Meg.
‘To us!’ echoed Sarah. And Meg rested her head on Sarah’s shoulder, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
‘I’ve missed having a sister,’ Sarah sighed, feeling a happiness and contentment she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
‘Me too,’ said Meg. ‘My biggest mistake was losing touch with you. Getting everything so badly wrong.’
‘Me too,’ said Sarah. ‘But it’s not a mistake either of us are going to make again, is it? All those lost years, we can replace them. We can build again what we used to have. I know we can.’
‘You’ll get sick of me,’ teased Meg, her head still on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Phoning you all the time, coming up to London to stay. Sharing, over-sharing, texting you day and night …’
‘I really, really look forward to that,’ said Sarah. ‘And I’ll be down to Tipperton Mallet loads, too. Now I’ve found you again, I’m not going to let you go. I really don’t want to lose my little sister again.’
Tears came to her eyes and Meg laid a hand gently on hers. ‘Me neither. My big sister, I mean,’ said Meg. ‘I couldn’t bear to.’
‘Then let’s make sure it doesn’t happen,’ said Sarah.
‘No more stubborn pride,’ said Meg.
‘No more Keep Calm and Carry On,’ said Sarah.
‘Do you think we can get back to how we used to be?’ asked Meg earnestly. She lifted her head and turned to face Sarah. ‘When I was small, and you were bigger, and we just loved each other?’
Sarah smiled and felt her heart fill with the love that had been missing for so long. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I really think we can. We can get back to how we used to be.’ And she grinned at Meg, and Meg grinned back, and they clinked cider bottles again, to the muffled strains of Nik Kershaw’s ‘Wouldn’t It Be Good’ and a tractor chugging away in a far-off field, bringing in the harvest.
‘Sisters!’ said Meg.
‘Sisters!’ agreed Sarah and they each took a slug of cider.
‘To the swap!’ added Meg.
‘Oh, definitely to the swap!’ echoed Sarah. ‘I’m so glad we did it.’
Acknowledgements
Thanks go once again to my fantastic editor, Charlotte Mursell, for bringing out the best in me.
And to my writer friend, reader and cheerleader, Mary Torjussen.
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from A Year of Being Single, the bestselling feel-good
romantic comedy from Fiona Collins…
Prologue
They had a charter. An unofficial one. It wasn’t written on parchment scroll in swirly feather quill or drawn up on foolscap by a portly, provincial solicitor or even scrawled in biro on the back of a magazine. It wasn’t written down anywhere. But it was a charter, nonetheless, and it went something like this:
They were independent women – self-sufficient, autonomous. They could change their own light bulbs and the batteries in their smoke alarms, refill their own windscreen wash bottles in their cars, put out their own bins, carry their own suitcases, take their own cars through the carwash and unscrew the lids on their own jars. If they didn’t know how to do something they would ask each other, as one of them probably would. Or they would ask Google and work it out.
They would provide each other with emotional support and babysit each other’s children. If one needed another, they would come over.
They had freedom, they had power; they could please themselves and would make sure they did.
None of them had a man. None of them wanted a man. None of them needed a man.
And they would be single for one year to prove it.
Chapter One
Imogen
If Imogen had screamed out loud, no one would have heard her. If she’d screamed, it would have been swallowed by the unconcerned Paris traffic roaring below. If she’d screamed, nobody would have given a monkey’s. Least of all, the giant male ape inside her sumptuous hotel room.
She was standing on the tiny balcony of a massive hotel room, on the top floor of an enormous hotel. A room that she was paying for. The Ape’s contribution was zilch. He thought it enough to enjoy the room and the balcony and the whole posh Paris hotel experience as fully and as enthusiastically as possible. Especially the bar, the breakfast buffet, the three gorgeous restaurants and the extensive room-service menu. He’d enjoyed the whole trip. He’d larked about photo-bombing people at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, stuffed his face with madeleines at Blé Sucré – whilst attempting a French accent that made him sound like a crumb-spitting Pepé le Pew – and danced up the escalator to the Louvre with a silly grin on his face… Oh, he’d had a great time.
He was enjoying himself at this very moment. As Imogen grabbed the balcony’s railing and flung her head up to the heavens and the grey Paris sky – to ask, Why? Why another bloody loser? – he was stuffed into a Chesterfield armchair and tucking into another sodding triple-deck club sandwich, irritatingly picking up each triangular section by the cocktail stick that held it together, and nibbling round the stick like an appreciative beaver. It was his fifth that weekend.
When he was done, he’d probably sniff, scratch his balls, burp and top it all off with a long and loud fart. This man couldn’t possibly be The One! He shouldn’t even have been a vague
someone in her life.
He was a waste of space; he was lazy, greedy, and quite repulsive. She’d been really stupid with this one. She wanted to get away from him as soon as possible. Their train home couldn’t come quick enough.
Imogen’s perfect nails dug into the palms of her Shea Butter-moisturized hands, and she silent-screamed again.
Thirty minutes before, she had arranged her legs into an attractive position on the bed. She had adjusted the long tulle skirt of her dress. Fanned her hair out on the pillow. The pillowcase alone probably cost two hundred euros. The suite was how much? Eight hundred and ninety-five euros, for one night. Imogen had thought it would be worth it. To stay in the same suite as Carrie Bradshaw in the last episode of Sex and the City. She had thought it would be romantic. It had turned out to be anything but.
Like Carrie, Imogen had been waiting, but not for Aleksandr Petrovsky, fiddling with a trendy light installation in a gallery somewhere across the city, but for Dave Holgate, who had been locked in the bathroom for absolutely ages and was showing no signs of coming out.
What the hell is he doing in there? she’d thought, picking a down feather off the bed and tucking it under the coverlet. He’s been at it for over twenty minutes!
She’d sat up and sighed. She was bored, and uncomfortable, and beginning to feel ridiculous with her hair fanned out like that. She wasn’t bloody Rapunzel. She wasn’t even some young, hopeful ingénue – she was a forty-year-old woman who had been there, done tha,t and got several disappointment-stained T-shirts. She should be well beyond hair-fanning. She should be well beyond pinning any kind of hopes on any kind of pathetic man.
At last Imogen had heard the toilet flush and Dave had come out of the bathroom, in his boxers. He’d looked dishearteningly tubby. He’d put on a fair bit of timber since she’d met him, three months ago. As he stood by the window to the balcony and scratched his large bottom, Imogen sighed again. Oh dear. It appeared she had turned him into this chubby monstrosity. It was all those meals out they’d had, wasn’t it? All those dates. Dates she’d embarked on with a hope that gradually went the way of Dave’s greedily guzzled food: down the pan.
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