An Impossible Thing Called Love

by Belinda Missen

  About the Author

  BELINDA MISSEN is a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

  Also by Belinda Missen

  A Recipe for Disaster

  An Impossible Thing Called love

  BELINDA MISSEN

  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.

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  1

  First published in Great Britain by

  HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Copyright © Belinda Missen 2018

  Belinda Missen 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.

  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,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

  or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

  the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

  that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Source ISBN: 9780008323028

  E-book Edition ISBN: 9780008296902

  Version: 2018-11-07

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Belinda Missen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For Belinda.

  That’s me, btw.

  Twelve-year-old you is thrilled.

  Chapter 1

  Hogmanay, 2010

  Flames danced towards the night sky, slowly snaking their way along the cobblestoned street like a slow-moving river of fire. At the front of the procession, Viking warriors chanted to the steady rhythm of a beating drum, blending with the sound of bagpipes.

  It all sounded so medieval, but it wasn’t anything like that – not by half. Positioned near St Giles Cathedral on Edinburgh’s famous Royal Mile, our tour group huddled tightly near the end of the spiralling mass of people taking part in the traditional Torchlight Procession.

  Tonight officially kicked off Hogmanay, one of the most spectacular – and exciting – ways to ring in the New Year. And I was there to experience it all.

  An icy wind sprang up, causing the flames of our torches to wobble excitedly. I tugged my jacket tighter, warding off the chill that blasted my face, and pulled my beanie further over my dark brown hair. Somewhere nearby, a bagpipe started another frenzied rendition of a Proclaimers song. This wouldn’t have been a problem normally, but it felt like the same song had been on repeat for the last two days while we’d wound our way up from London, after already hitting a dozen European cities. Hearing the song again caused raucous groans and laughter from our group.

  ‘You know what this reminds me of?’ My best friend Heather leaned in. ‘It reminds me of that time in primary school where we had to practice those Beatles songs over and over.’

  For months, our class of ten-year-olds spent day after day rehearsing the same four songs, all from the Yellow Submarine album, the culmination of which was being crammed on a tiny stage in the town hall to sing for the masses – mostly other schools and mums, but it was our five minutes of fame. One misplaced step saw Heather, the periscope of the submarine, fall off the edge of the stage.

  I smiled at the memory. ‘I was a bright pink octopus.’

  A crackly loudspeaker and the shuffle of feet announced the beginning of the procession and, just like the song, we were on our way. My breath formed small cloudy bursts in front of me and, not for the first time this trip, I was thankful that I’d packed another layer of clothing. Even though we’d been in Europe almost three weeks already, the cold took some getting used to, especially as we were more acclimatised to roasting under the Australian sun at this time of year.

  ‘Josh was seaweed,’ I said, the memories of our gone too soon childhood flashing before my eyes. A small child bounced off my leg and collapsed onto the muddy ground, before getting up and running off again. Her exasperated mother was hot on her heels, a puff of fringe and muttered words under her breath.

  ‘Actually…’ Heather looked around. ‘Where is he?’

  Along with half of our tour group, Josh had dispersed as soon as the procession began, blending in with the hundreds of other people joining us for the traditional Scottish event. He was weaving in and out, looking for new, unsuspecting girls to charm with stories of Australian urban legends. Lanky and a little bit standout-ish, I managed to identify him by his Where’s Wally beanie over by a group of girls. One on each arm, he looked more than happy with how his night was progressing. He turned the corner with the crowd and disappeared towards Princes Street.

  Wet roads glistened under street lights, and grass glowed an iridescent shade of green. Everything here just seemed so … vibrant. From the architecture, to the history, the people, and the fiery shade of red hair over by a first aid station. I couldn’t help the small smile that spread across my face as I realised that I was finally here.

  For almost eighteen months, Edinburgh had been circled on our calendars as the pinnacle of our trip. Heather, Josh and I – friends for most of our remembered lives – had decided we would embark on a European bus tour at the end of our gap year. When one year became two, it only afforded us more time to save, adding more destinations to our trip.

  We worked jobs we hated, took late-night shifts, skipped parties, felt soggy food floating in filthy dishwater, and I’d forgone volunteer shifts at our local hospital (the plan was medicine, if they ever let me into university) in favour of forcing smiles at retail customers in the Christmas rush. It was all in the pursuit of adventure. It had paid off.

  So far, our trip had been a whirlwind experience in the best of ways. In just ten s
hort days, we’d had a Christmas feast of buttery pastries underneath the Eiffel Tower and battled cheesy woodfired pizza after tossing coins in the Trevi Fountain. Salzburg revived our senses with sweet cinnamon-y apple strudel after shopping the Getreidegasse, and hoppy beer in Berlin kept us warm against biting temperatures. I ran my fingers along all the old stone buildings and dunked my toes in all the freezing waters. I wanted to feel it all. The moment we arrived back in London, we boarded another bus for Edinburgh, ready for the biggest street party and New Year’s celebration this side of the Atlantic.

  The procession came to a quick stop along Princes Street, a neat mixture of Georgian and Renaissance architecture. I wouldn’t have known that fact if I hadn’t spent three hours battling drizzling rain in a thin plastic poncho on a walking tour this morning. Ornate windows from tall buildings looked down on the street and, while I was busy marvelling at that, a scuffle broke my train of thought and drew my attention back to the here and now.

  Josh jogged towards us, nattering nervously about something happening further up the road. Despite the cold, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His brown eyes were wide with … was that fear?

  ‘This dude thinks I grabbed his girlfriend. He’s looking for me.’ A jittery hand rested over his mouth as he surveyed the scene before us. Heads turned towards him. Everyone could see what was coming before he could.

  ‘What?’ Now my eyes widened. ‘What have you done?’

  Heather did what she does best and gave him a shove. ‘You idiot.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not like that. I thought she was single.’

  He always thought they were single.

  A scowling boyfriend emerged from the crowd, his own Moses parting the sea moment, complete with hot-pink beanie and clenched fists. He glared at me only briefly, long enough to acknowledge that I was there, before reaching around me for Josh, who was swearing like a stand-up comedian combating a heckler. My pulse began racing.

  Heather pulled me out of the way but, I wasn’t prepared to spend the night tending to Josh’s wounds. I was on holiday, not working, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin all our fun. I handed her my torch and made a beeline for the scrum. Both he and Burly Man were very shouty, shoving each other in the tiny boxing ring that had formed around them.

  ‘Josh!’ I shouted.

  He held a palm out to stop. ‘It’s alright, Em, just don’t worry about it, okay?’

  ‘That’s your girlfriend is it?’ Burly Man tipped an oversized chin in my direction. ‘Some boyfriend you are.’

  Grabbing Josh, I muttered something about men and women still being able to be friends in this day and age without having to get naked with each other. I think I might have been louder than expected because, before I could so much as clutch at Josh’s jacket, they were jostling again. A rustle of fabric, a flash of dancing footsteps, and I felt a blunt sting across my face. All at once, everything was dark and far too bright, like a child was flickering a light switch. My sinuses were connected to a trip switch in my heart, and each beat offered a sulphuric burn. I was disoriented and, as my eyes watered, I took a wobbly seat on the ground. It may have been cold and wet, but it was better than swaying about.

  I knew how these moments played out, I’d seen it a million times before when volunteering with the ambulance. Music concerts were especially healthy for face to fist experiences. Heather was screaming at someone, probably Josh, who was apologising profusely. Her voice was soon joined by the polyester swish of a hi-vis bomber jacket. I blinked away tears, hoping to get a proper look at the face that swam in my vision.

  Touching my nose only made my face burn and eyes water all over again. Through damp eyes, he looked like a watercolour painting. Street lights shimmered in one corner, and his hair a wispy flame-red cloud with sideburns that reached down and hugged his face. His blurred lopsided smile was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all night. As he came into focus, so did Josh over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Em, I am … fuck … so sorry. Are you okay?’

  Heather slapped at him again. ‘What do you think, idiot?’

  She barely touched five-feet-tall in a line-up. Despite that, she was full of energy and, right now, looked like a mother about to grab at naughty earlobes. Josh inched away from her and, in all this, it occurred to me just how many people were happy to watch what was happening, to whisper among themselves instead of help. I lolled about, steadying myself with a palm on the cold wet asphalt. Dropping on his haunches, the first-aider snapped his fingers in front of me.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘Is there any blood?’

  I frowned, confused. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Are you bleeding?’ He flashed a torchlight across my eyes and offered a fistful of tissues.

  Squinting away from the brightness, I dabbed at my eyes. Anything near my nose made me want to vomit, but there was a small trickle of blood. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘At least it’s not broken,’ we said in unison.

  His mouth twitched, a smile that threatened to widen as he offered me a cold pack. Under the light, his eyes were, in one moment, bottle-green. The next, they were ocean blue. ‘What makes you say that?’

  It’s not all bent up and I can still breathe.’ Through squinting eyes, I waggled a finger at his jacket, complete with reflective patches and a blank space for a name badge. ‘It looks just as good on you as it does on me.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  My nose burned, and I rolled forward, tissue to my nose. ‘At least it’s warm, right?’

  ‘You do a bit of first aid, too?’

  I nodded, looking about for my friends. Burly Man had disappeared, and Josh was still being reprimanded by Heather. He looked like a small child, hands up around his chest as if he’d physically shrunk against her anger, which was par for their friendship.

  Heather and I met in Grade Two, when my family moved to the area. On the first day of school, while I stood the back of the crowd waiting for something to happen, she strode across the quadrangle, shook my hand, and introduced herself as my new best friend. Who could possibly argue with that?

  We met Josh a few months later when he started at the school. He came prepacked with a face full of freckles, crooked teeth, and milk bottle glasses. When the other boys picked on him, Heather went into battle for him, and he’s never forgotten it. Since then, it had been the three of us. Josh slotted into our lives as if he’d always been there and, when I got my first period in the middle of gym class, he whipped out a small make-up bag from his backpack. Inside: pads, tampons, and Panadol. His mum had given it to him, so he could, ‘be a good friend’.

  He still carried that make-up bag but, now, it also contained condoms, Berocca, and anything else needed for a quick hangover fix. That was essentially our friendship.

  I dabbed at my nose again, resisting the urge to vomit. ‘A little. Mostly concerts.’

  ‘Why don’t you come across to the first aid station and tell me more about that.’ He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet. Did I mention he had wonderfully strong hands? ‘My name is William.’

  I brushed myself down – anything to avoid touching my face. ‘Emmy.’

  I followed his jacket through the crowd, the state of my face more of a bemusement and free sideshow attraction to anyone who walked past.

  ‘So, first aid?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I did get a call up for the tennis in Melbourne last year.’ I followed along with pointed finger and stories at the ready. As often as I could explain the goings on to friends, they didn’t quite get it. This guy? He spoke my language.

  ‘I am so jealous of you right now.’ William ushered me into the first aid station. ‘I’ve often thought of packing up for a summer and heading down for the tennis.’

  The first aid station, which probably doubled as a marquee at family barbecues and sports club days, wasn’t much warmer than the street, but an industrial heater in the corner at least took the chill off the air. That’s more than I could say for the wet
patch on my backside. My friends lingered outside, like students waiting outside a principal’s office. Our torches had been handed off to others in the heat of the moment. Occasionally, Heather peered inside, her face wrought with concern.

  ‘Jealous of me?’ I said with a disbelieving laugh. ‘Please, I’ve just taken a fist to the face.’

  ‘Well—’ he shrugged ‘—besides that.’

  ‘How about you?’ I asked, sitting on a chair by the entrance.

  He took the seat next to me, bringing water bottles and paracetamol. ‘I did Wimbledon last year. Roland Garros the year before.’

  ‘You did not.’ Speaking of jealousy.

  ‘Okay, so, Roland Garros was as a spectator but, you know, always on duty.’ He swung about in his seat and looked at me. ‘Any drugs tonight, Emmy?’

  A bright light flashed into my eyes again. God, he was checking my pupils. ‘What? No.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Too broke for that,’ I said.

  William gave me a hard stare, eyebrows reaching for the sky. He was having none of my shit tonight.

  ‘Alright, maybe a swig of vodka and a schooner from the cheap bar at the hostel, but nothing to get drunk on.’

  He scoffed. ‘You and me both. Tonight has been a bottle of raspberry cordial and far too much water.’

  ‘Doesn’t pay well, does it?’

  ‘Can’t say it does, but I do love it.’ For a second, it looked like he’d folded in on himself. He popped a blister pack of painkillers. ‘No allergies?’

  I shook my head. His fingers grazed my palm as he dropped the tablets in my hand. My toes curled, and breath hitched. ‘No, and thank you.’