About the Author

Victoria Cooke grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.

Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!

‘An unputdownable read’

Rachel Burton

‘A true love story’

Amazon Reviewer

‘I couldn’t put it down’

Jessica Bell

‘Delightful contemporary romance’

Amazon Reviewer

Also by Victoria Cooke:

The Secret to Falling in Love

The Holiday Cruise

Who Needs Men Anyway?

It Started with a Note

A Summer to Remember
VICTORIA COOKE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2019

Victoria Cooke 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.

E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008310264

Version: 2019-06-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!

Also by Victoria Cooke

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my nanna, Lillian.

For your sense of humour, strength and determination.

xxx

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 1
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.’

‘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 2
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.

‘We should find our table,’ Viv says, moving us on.

The tables are not numbered or named like usual. Instead, we have to find ours by working out the punchline of a joke. ‘Well, Mrs Killjoy, you’ll never find your table,’ I whisper to Sarah, who gives me a tight smile and shakes her head. The joke for our table reads: ‘What happens when Iron Man takes off his suit?’ Viv and Sarah exchange confused glances.

‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Seriously?’

They both shake their heads. I look to John and Mark, their husbands, who are wearing equally blank expressions.

‘He’s Stark naked! Tony Stark?’ I say, chuckling in response to a few groans. I remember Bridget running that one past me and I thought it was hilarious.

We find our table, and sure enough, the centre plaque reads ‘He’s Stark naked’. As we sit down we watch several bewildered guests wandering around in confusion.

‘Are you struggling?’ I say to an elderly gentleman hovering by our table.

‘Just a little.’

‘What’s your clue?’

‘RIP water.’ Puzzlement is etched into his brow. ‘It doesn’t even sound like a joke.’

I stifle a smirk. ‘You will be mist,’ I say, gesturing to the table to my right. I turn to the others. ‘I think this is more fun than the actual wedding.’

‘I’m just glad Bridget and Alex found one another, because they’re the only two people who get these jokes.’ Sarah takes the wine from the centre of the table and fills us up.

‘So, I’m allowed to drink now?’ I say sarcastically.

Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘I was just looking out for you.’

I’m about to retort when Viv’s husband, John, interrupts me.

‘So, Sam, no handsome prince on the horizon yet?’

‘Nope.’ I take a long sip of wine in place of a groan.

He tilts his head to the side. ‘You’ll meet someone soon.’ And there it is. I notice Viv giving him ‘a look’, which I’m grateful for. Maybe Bridget has had a word.

A loud gong interrupts the slightly awkward silence which ensues. ‘All rise, for the bride and groom.’

There’s a loud cheer and a round of applause as Bridget and Alex enter and take their seats at the top table. The happiness radiates from the pair of them and whilst I’m finding this whole day a little difficult, the smiles they wear are infectious. Not all romances are doomed and the love they have for one another is real, it only takes a quick glance in their direction to see that. They look beautiful together and the solid block of ice in my chest starts to thaw with the warmth that breaks through from just looking at them. I genuinely wish them a long lifetime of happiness.

Chapter 3

Pick up, pick up, pick up. I can’t contain my excitement and Bridget, who always answers her phone on the first ring, is taking an age to answer today.

‘Sam, hi.’ She sounds breathless when she does pick up.

‘Sorry, I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’ It’s early evening and her honeymoon was weeks ago so I hope not, but they are still technically newlyweds (eurgh).

‘No, not at all. Just had to run downstairs to get my phone. What’s up?’

‘I did it! I’ve finally been selected to go to Boston.’ I actually dance a little as I say the words.

‘Oh my god, Sam, that’s great. You’ve wanted this for so long!’ She squeals so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

‘I know! Finally, my boss has seen that I’m capable of bigger things.’ God, for the first few years I didn’t think I’d get any further than just making coffee and shredding crappy marketing campaigns. But then I got more responsibility, working on my own campaigns for local businesses which went down really well and that led to being part of a team, working on some national campaigns but after that, I got wedged in a giant rut, which I’ve been trying to claw my way out of for the past two years.

‘Oh, Sam, congratulations. I’m so happy for you. When do you go?’

‘A week on Sunday.’ My insides squeeze with excitement.

‘That’s too soon! We need to throw you a going away party.’

‘It’s only three months. It doesn’t warrant a leaving party.’

‘Drinks then?’

If I’m honest, drinks in my honour does sound good. Aside from my wedding, I’m not sure it’s ever happened before. ‘Okay, drinks. Does Saturday night work?’

***

On my way into the bar, my phone begins to vibrate in my bag. Thinking it’s one of the girls ringing to say they’re running late, I stand to the side of the door and take it out. The name on the screen knocks the wind out of my sails.

Mum mobile

I watch the screen, willing it to stop. The red and green circles seem to brighten; accept or reject? The name grows bigger on the screen and the vibration becomes more intense.

Then it stops. I exhale and slump against the wall. Why would she ring? I’d sent my dad a birthday card about a week ago and I mentioned the job in Boston. It could be about that. But why would she ring? I stuff my phone back in my bag and head inside.

‘Congratulations,’ Viv says as the waitress places four mojitos on the table of our booth. ‘You finally made the US team!’

Excited butterflies flutter in my stomach. ‘I know, I’m hoping to make a good impression so I’ll be on future projects. Three months in Boston each summer – yes please!’

After my third cocktail, I turn to my friends. ‘So, which one of you is going to look after Coco while I’m away?’ I say, feeling a little tipsy.

There are some animated glances around the room, and I swear I see tumbleweed roll past.

‘Oh, come on. She’s adorable.’

‘It’s not that, it’s the fact you’re leaving tomorrow and haven’t found somewhere for her yet,’ Viv says.

‘Oh, come on. You lot convinced me to get a cat, I knew one of you would mind her.’

‘She’s the Devil incarnate,’ Sarah says, to murmurs of agreement.

‘You guys told me to get a pet, so she’s partly your responsibility.’ I put on a mocking voice. ‘Get a pet, Sam, so you never have to go home to an empty flat, Sam.’

Bridget rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. But if she so much as unsheathes a claw in my general direction, she’s going straight to the cattery.’

‘Deal.’ I raise my glass. Coco will scratch the hell out of her furniture, but Bridget is far too soft to send her away.

‘Okay, now that awkwardness is over,’ Bridget says, ‘I’d like to say a few words.’

‘God, she’s drunk,’ Sarah stage-whispers, earning herself a sideways glance from Bridget, who has actually stood up in readiness for the moment.

‘Sam, I know we’ve given you a hard time about being single, but I want you to know that we’ve always just wanted the best for you. Getting married is what’s expected, but I’ve come to realise that you are stronger than us.’ Her voice wobbles a little, and she takes a sip of her cocktail in what I assume is an attempt to disguise it. ‘I guess I thought you were just saying you wanted to be single because it was easier than admitting you wanted a partner but couldn’t find one, but now I realise that you really are fine on your own. Look at what you’ve achieved. You’re going on a new adventure, and we know you’ll be fine. Sam, we love you so much.’ She raises her glass. ‘To Sam.’

‘To Sam,’ Viv and Sarah chorus.

‘Thank you.’ I look at each of them one by one. ‘I’m going to miss you, ladies,’ I say, suddenly overwhelmed by a stab of emotion. ‘I love you three.’ Friendships haven’t always come easy to me, so the emotion probably chokes me a little more than it would someone else.

‘Group hug!’ Sarah shouts, wrapping her arms around us all, and we collapse into fits of laughter.

Chapter 4

The sky is the most intense blue I’ve ever seen. Shimmering light bounces off the windows of passing boats and hits the top of the water as I sit looking out across Boston Harbor. The horn of a departing ferry blasts. This place is insane, and I’ve only been here a few hours. I’m alone, outside a bar watching the boats come and go. The other four members of the team went straight to the company apartment we’re staying in, saying they wanted to go to bed, but they’ve all been here before. It’s my first visit, so I’m determined to take everything in and enjoy each second that I’m not in the office. I flick through the pictures I’ve taken on my phone since I arrived. There’s one of the Cheers bar. My dad used to watch the TV show religiously when I was a kid, and before I can talk myself out of it, I send the picture to him and my mum with a brief message.

Arrived safely

I feel guilty that I can’t write any more but hope they’ll see it as me reaching out.

Once I’ve finished my drink, I walk to the harbour wall and hold my phone up high to try and take a decent selfie to send to the girls. The sun is starting to sink close to the horizon, casting beautiful swaths of pink and orange across the sky which are reflected in the water. It’s no use; I’d need Inspector Gadget’s arms to be able to capture the beauty and not just a close-up mugshot of myself. As I stretch and twist, I notice a man a few feet away, staring out across the water. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, flashing my most charming smile. He turns to me with a look of disdain, as though I’d just insulted his dear granny’s baking or something. He doesn’t reply but he stands there, continuing to look at me with increased impatience.

‘I …’ His thunderous face causes me to falter. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking a quick picture of me, please?’

His eyes flick over me then he turns back to the water. I pause, momentarily unsure of what to do next. I could walk on and pretend I’d not asked, but then I wouldn’t get the picture and I’m sure he probably just hadn’t heard me. Perhaps he thought I was talking on my phone or something.

‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d mind taking a picture of me with the harbour in the background? It’s so beautiful.’

‘No,’ he says, turning away.

‘No?’ I blurt. I mean, he’s well within his rights to say no but it’s just a two-second snap and click. Why won’t he just do it? ‘No, you don’t mind?’ I ask, hoping some English charm works on him.

‘Yes, I mind, and no, I’m not taking the picture.’ His words are made harsher by his Boston twang.

He starts to walk away. I stand there embarrassed and dumbfounded for a moment, but his rudeness rubs at me like sandpaper in the seconds that pass and I can’t let it go. I call after him before I’ve taken time to think it through. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Go away!’ He doesn’t even turn to look at me.

‘No! I shan’t. Where I’m from, we don’t speak to people like that.’ That isn’t strictly true, you only have to be out of change when you’re passing a panhandler or caught standing on the left-hand side of an escalator at any tube station to encounter much worse in London. Perhaps I’m jet-lagged or something but I’m so flabbergasted by his attitude over something so small that I can’t let it go.

‘I don’t care.’ He makes a flappy shooing gesture with his hand.

Heat intensifies in my chest. I jog after him until I’m beside him, matching his pace. ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I’m a visitor to the States. Do you know how much money tourism brings in to your country each year?’ I really am clutching at straws, but I’m in such complete disbelief, it’s lucky I can construct a sentence at all. Why are my legs still moving?

‘Go away, lady.’ He continues to walk. I’m incensed.

‘What exactly is your problem?’ I prod his shoulder – I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens, but finally, he stops walking. He turns to face me, and I’m knocked sideways. I hadn’t noticed before because I was so taken aback by his attitude but he has the most compelling sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen and I’m not prepared for them when they bore into me.

‘It’s not really any of your business.’ He clenches his jaw and the muscles twitch beneath his skin. ‘And you won’t leave me alone.’ He runs his fingers through his brown hair, and I try to ignore the fact he’s incredibly attractive, because beauty comes from within, and there’s a gargoyle residing inside him.

‘I … I just wanted you to take a quick photo of me, I’m here alone and … Do you know what? You’re not a nice person.’

‘And do you know what? I don’t really care. I’m sure with your pretty doe-eyed routine you’re used to guys running around after you, but today, you picked the wrong guy.’

My eyes feel hot and damp. That hurt because he couldn’t be further from the truth. I take a breath to steady my voice. He will not see me cry. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m sorry I asked you.’ He shakes his head and walks off.

‘I hope you’re the only arsehole in Boston,’ I yell after him. He flips me the middle finger without so much as a backwards glance, and I’m left to simmer. I drag myself back to the idyllic photo spot, but the sun has dipped below the horizon and the sky has gone all murky grey. I’ve missed my chance, so instead, I key a message to the girls’ WhatsApp group telling them about my first encounter with a local. Despite the fact it’s midnight at home, they all reply within minutes.

Viv: Americans are just more direct than us. Don’t let him get to you hon xx

Sarah: Viv is right. You’re in Boston, baby! Enjoy xxx

Bridget: Get a lobster dinner and move on, my love xx

I smile. They’re right. I’m tired. Things will look better after a good night’s sleep.

***

The next morning, I hit the ground running. Yesterday’s arsehole is today’s motivation to be professional and great at my job. Oh, who am I kidding? Ninety-nine per cent of my confidence was bought from Hobbs in the form of the smart black skirt and burgundy blouse I’m currently wearing. For added oomph, I’m carrying my ‘special occasion only’ black Marc Jacobs handbag in an attempt to feel every bit the city girl.

As I negotiate the revolving door to the office, my insides are jelly. The receptionist takes me up to the boardroom where I’ll meet the team. Four of them are my English colleagues, who left the apartment earlier than me because they wanted to go to Starbucks, and I wasn’t ready. They, being mostly bald men, had considerably less hair to dry than I did.

As we approach the glass-walled boardroom, I glance at them all sat around the table. My inner fire dies a little when it registers that they’re all dressed casually. The receptionist is smart in her cropped hound’s-tooth pants and purple sweater, so it makes no sense, unless we’re kicking off with some practical hands-on work.

‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a little sick. ‘So, do you do casual Friday on a Monday here?’ I mean it as a joke to laugh off my blunder but soon realise that my British accent and power dressing probably made it sound like more of an underhand dig, a notion affirmed by a few raised eyebrows and a bit of uncomfortable throat clearing.

‘We always dress like this. Do you have a problem with that, ma’am?’ the man at the top of the table asks. I’m assuming he’s Patrick, the boss.

‘Er, no. No problem at all. I was j—’

‘Good,’ he says, before turning back to the rest of the table. I slip into a chair and take out my file. That wasn’t a great start, but I’m determined to make a good impression.

‘As I was saying before Victoria Beckham over here interrupted—’ he jabs his thumb in my direction, as if anyone was in any doubt, and heat rises up the back of my neck ‘—Rocks need an international campaign for their sneakers, so we really need to get our heads in the game. This isn’t a rebrand, this is a new brand so we have to get it just right.’

I glance at my watch and it’s only 8.55 a.m. My chest tightens. I can’t believe they started without me. How rude! I look around the table. Tony, Dave, Carl and Steve – my British colleagues – are all dressed down and look completely mortified by my intrusion. The other four men are the Americans; I’ve yet to learn names but they’re all equally unimpressed. But they started without me.

I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s first day nerves or perhaps I’m still knocked by that awful man I met yesterday but I can’t seem to unravel the knot in my stomach. When the clock strikes five, I almost race out of the door. Tony catches me up. ‘Sorry, Sam, I thought you knew it was a casual office – I’d have said this morning if I saw you.’ He looks genuinely sorry.

‘It’s fine.’ I brush my hand through the air. ‘Nobody mentioned it, that’s all.’

‘It was in the itinerary email.’ He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through.

‘Really, it’s fine.’ I don’t need him to prove it, I need him to drop it. I’m mortified enough as it is.

He looks up. ‘Here it is. “And remember, the Boston office is CW.” Casualwear.’

‘What? Give me that.’ I take the phone from his hand and read it for myself. ‘I had this email, but how was I supposed to know CW meant casualwear? I thought it was a direction, like “central west” or something.’

He furrows his brow. ‘I’m sorry. We all knew. At least you do now, and tomorrow is a new day. We’re going for beers; do you want to join us?’

‘No, thanks. I have some shopping to do.’

***

The next day, I turn up in my new casual office wear, courtesy of Abercrombie & Fitch: a bright-green logo-emblazoned T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans that both smell amazing, like the shop. Fortunately, my parting gift when I left the office last night was a pair of Rocks trainers. We were all issued a pair to wear and try and connect with the brand. Mine have a purple and pink graffiti design down the sides and glittery silver laces. I feel like a twelve-year-old again, but at least today I’ll fit in. And they are bloomin’ comfy.

When I enter the boardroom, everyone is already sitting down drinking coffee. ‘Morning,’ I say with as much cheer as I can muster. I repeat Tony’s mantra: Today is a new day. There are a few sullen nods, but nobody calls me Victoria Beckham, so I assume I’m already making a better impression. No offence to Victoria, of course – I love her. It just didn’t take Uri Geller to read Patrick’s mind and determine the remark was intended to be derogatory.

I withhold anything that could be construed as over-zealous and recognise the need for measured, calm and quality input. It’s hard because I’m bursting with ideas, and nobody seems to be getting it; they basically just want to rip off the well-known and well-bejazzled little girls’ favourite Strides brand which I don’t think Rocks will go for. The owners are two rapping megastars who I’d never come across before, but I did my research and apparently they’re triple platinum and something of a big deal.

‘I think Rocks have more edge than that,’ I say as everyone discusses tweens wearing denim skirts with colourful, sparkly ribbons in their pigtailed hair.

Nobody listens. It’s the second, no, third most frustrating thing that’s happened since I arrived. I speak up and repeat myself and Patrick raises his eyes wearily.

‘Is that so?’

I clear my throat. ‘I think Rocks are wanting something a little cooler. Perhaps something aimed at older teens too. I don’t think they’re going to see Strides as their main competitor.’

‘What’s your name, Beckham?’

My stomach is on a spin-cycle, but I manage to reply. ‘Er, Sam.’

‘Sam, with all due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.’ He laughs at his own joke and glances around to rouse a few laughs from around the table. I want to say something, but after that encounter by the harbour the other day, I just can’t bring myself to. I hate to admit it, but I’m two days into my dream gig and I already want to go home.

Chapter 5

On Thursday, Patrick presents us with some rough visuals based on our discussions from the first few days. They’re exactly how I imagined they’d be. They look great, but they have gone with a young girl, aged about ten or eleven, with pigtailed hair and pink ribbons, riding a scooter. I get that a girl like that would love these shoes, but I just can’t see Rocks going for this. I look around the table and see nods of approval. Is it really just me that disagrees with this campaign? I can’t just sit back and watch them go down this rabbit-hole of failure.

I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Patrick. I respect the work your team has put in here, it looks fantastic, but I still don’t think we’re pitching the brand to the right market.’

He looks at me with bemusement but gives a tired, one-handed gesture for me to continue.

‘I think we need to go older, we need diversity. We’re not selling JoJo Siwa bows here, or Strides to little girls. We’re selling a rappers’ brand to young people. This girl—’ I point to the poster mock-up ‘—will buy the shoes regardless. But boys won’t, teens won’t, and people who like the rappers won’t. We can come up with something different, fresh and powerful if we just think outside the box a little.’ I realise I’ve half risen from my seat with boldness and slide back down into it now I’m finished, my Erin Brockovich confidence draining away.

Patrick raises his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for your input, Sam. I appreciate that you’re new here, and you’re off your leash and it’s all very exciting and whatnot—’ did he just wave his arms around at me? ‘—but if you just pipe down a little and let those of us with experience nail this campaign down, we can all knock this ball out of the water and go home on time.’

Knock the ball out of the water? Does he mean ballpark? Or like a fish out of water? I don’t get it. I glance around the room for other signs of confusion but instead just see several disgruntled faces looking my way. The back of my neck starts to burn and the heat creeps around and up to my cheeks. With nothing left to offer, I nod.

‘Why don’t you go get us some coffees to see us through the morning, and when you’re back we can look at putting you to work with Tony and Dave?’

When I catch Tony’s eye, he gives me a sympathetic smile whilst Dave rolls his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. Great.

When I leave the office that evening, Tony catches me up. ‘Fancy going for a drink tonight?’

‘Who with?’ I ask suspiciously. I can’t cope with seeing Patrick or Dave, or anyone else from the office for that matter.

‘Just me,’ Tony says with a smile.

‘In that case, yes. I could really do with a drink.’

We find a little bar a few blocks down from the office. It’s dingy inside but quiet aside from a few lone drinkers who look like they’ve been here a while.

‘What are you drinking?’ Tony asks as we take a seat at the bar.

‘Just a beer for me.’

While the bartender gets our drinks, I ask Tony about his wife. ‘Pregnant with number three, grumpy as hell. It’s one of the reasons I came away when I got the chance.’

‘What a catch you are,’ I say dryly. ‘Husband of the year right here, folks.’ I point at him and look animatedly around the bar. The other drinkers look to have fallen asleep.

‘She’s only in her first trimester so I won’t miss anything bar the first scan, and her mother is helping with the boys. I wanted to keep my hand in with the Boston office even though the timing isn’t great.’

‘Well, if she’s okay with it …’ I shrug.

Tony turns on his stool to face me. ‘You were brave standing up to Patrick today.’

‘Well, I don’t feel very brave. I feel very stupid.’

The bartender places two beers down and slides a paper receipt over to Tony. I snatch it before he has time to respond. ‘I’ll get these.’

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you were stupid today. I think you were sticking up for your vision for the project, and that isn’t an easy thing to do.’

‘Especially when nobody shares that vision.’ I lean on the bar to look him properly in the eye. ‘Do you really think Rocks are going to go for the campaign as it stands?’

Tony shrugs. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Just because Rocks is owned by two rappers, doesn’t mean their target audience for these shoes have to reflect that. The Barbie doll was designed by a former missile engineer, but his target market wasn’t crazed despots.’

‘I thought it was invented by an American businesswoman?’

‘Ruth Handler invented Barbie using a doll that already existed. The one the engineer designed. Anyway, with regards to our current campaign, it’s what the majority believe will work and I’m happy to go along with it.’

‘So, you’re a yes man?’ Oh god. If I’d have just kept my mouth shut a bit longer, perhaps I wouldn’t be the office equivalent of a trolley dolly.

‘No, well, sort of. I’m talking about choosing your battles. I don’t know if the team got this campaign right, but I do know that the others believe they have. So, if Rocks love it, I share in that glory, and if Rocks hate it, we’re all in it together.’

‘How the hell did you make the team?’ I blurt the words out before I have time to smother them with tact.

Fortunately, he laughs. ‘Because I’m bloody good at design.’

‘But you agree with me?’ I press him.

‘I’m saying I don’t know, but you didn’t exactly have solid counter-ideas. Perhaps if you weren’t so vague, Patrick would listen.’

‘Or perhaps if I was a man? Maybe you could be my voice in future.’ I bat my eyelids acrimoniously before rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of this truth.

‘I’m not saying that. C’mon, you pooh-poohed his idea without anything real to offer in return. I mean, look at the shoes.’ He sticks out his right foot and twists it from left to right. ‘They aren’t your usual teen-buy despite what two rappers think.’

I don’t believe for a second that Tony thinks this campaign will work. He’s always been so sharp and in tune with clients in the past and Pink Apple are renowned for thinking outside of the box – the current proposal is too easy. We don’t change our clients’ minds, we change their customers’ minds. ‘What ideas do you think would work?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. All my ideas have gone into the current proposal—’

‘That you hate?’ I interject.

‘Well come on, have you seen the state of the shoes?’ We both look down at our feet again, as if to clarify they haven’t miraculously morphed into something fabulous in the space of a few seconds.

‘True.’

‘But just because I hate it, doesn’t mean it won’t work.’

I drain the last of my beer and Tony orders two more.

‘Fair enough.’

‘I’ll get these,’ Tony says when the second round arrives.

‘Damn right you will. It’s your turn.’

When Tony pulls his wallet out, he glances at his phone and groans.

‘What is it?’

‘Carl, Dave and Steve have decided to join us.’

I can only stomach Tony. The conversation will spiral into a pit of misogynistic crap in no time. ‘Great. How long have I got to drink my beer before I need to leave?’

‘I missed their call so about—’

‘Alright, fella,’ Dave says, patting Tony on the back.

‘Here she is, black-sheep-Beckham,’ Steve says, winking at me like he’s made a hilarious in-joke.

‘You grab a great coffee, Sam, love,’ Carl says. I’m sure it’s all just banter and everything, but they’re already pissing me off, and it’s because I know I’m right about the campaign.

‘Yours was the one with the extra-special present?’ I wink back and Carl’s face pales. ‘Oh, come on, I’m joking.’ I wink again. ‘Or am I?’

The three men take the remaining stools along the bar, engulfing Tony and me. We talk about the campaign, and the main theme of the conversation seems to be that Patrick knows what he’s doing, and if we all nod along, we get out of the boardroom earlier. I don’t even protest. If Tony couldn’t see where I was coming from, they never will. We have a few more beers, and talk soon revolves around sport, ‘her indoors’ and some baseball game they’re going to.

‘I’m going to crash,’ I say.

‘Want me to walk you back?’ Tony asks.

I need some space and being around these guys is giving me a headache. ‘No, I’m fine. It isn’t far.’

Chapter 6

My second week in Boston is no better. By Wednesday I’m ready to book a flight home. When I get back to the apartment after a day of being practically invisible, I slump on the sofa to ponder my defeat. If nobody is going to pay attention to anything I say, what is the point of me being here? I may as well go back to London and be ignored to a slightly lesser extent there. At least I’d see my friends at the weekend.

Needing to vent, I dial Bridget.

‘Sam!’ she screams, so loud my ears ring.

‘Oh, Bridget.’ My voice is filled with desperation.

‘That’s not the tone of a happy camper. What’s up?’ Her voice vibrates.

‘Are you on the cross trainer?’

‘Yes,’ she puffs. ‘In the words of the great and mighty Elphaba, I want to have my arse defying gravity before I go on holiday.’

‘Can you get off? I can’t talk to you when you’re all breathy. It sounds like you’re having sex. And I don’t think those are quite the right words to the song.’

She giggles. ‘Okay, I’m losing the battle against my saggy arse anyway. So, tell me, what’s up?’

I decide to get straight to the point. ‘I don’t fit in and everyone here is horrible.’

‘Oh, Sam. It can’t be that bad. It’s just settling-in nerves. By next week you’ll be fine.’

I shake my head even though she can’t see me. ‘It’s different here. It’s so male-dominated. They don’t listen to a word I say and they even sent me out for doughnuts. Maybe it’s just the men here. They’re so arrogant, and the UK team seem to lap it up like it’s something to aspire to.’

‘Listen to me, Sam.’ Bridget adopts a stern tone. ‘You’ve waited so long for this opportunity, and you deserve to be there as much as any one of those men. Don’t you dare give up so soon.’

‘I know, you’re right but …’

‘There are no buts about it. You’re going to see the three months through, and you’re going to make yourself heard. Okay?’ I know she’ll have one hand on her hip and her eyebrows raised.

‘Okay.’ I sigh.

‘I know it’s hard.’ She softens her tone. ‘Why don’t you escape the apartment for the weekend and have some you time? You’re near the coast – pick a beach and stay a night or two in a hotel.’

Being near the coast hadn’t really registered with me. Apart from seeing Boston Harbor on my first day and that wasn’t exactly enjoyable. I’ve not thought about anything other than work since but there isn’t really anything to stop me. ‘Do you know, that’s actually a great idea.’

‘I know.’ She laughs.

We say our goodbyes and the idea of going away and having some ‘me’ time makes me feel lighter. Not having to see the four, okay three, buffoons (if I exonerate Tony for being half-alright) from work over the weekend is an added bonus too. When I first arrived, I saw an advertisement for ferries to Provincetown down at the harbour. I don’t really know anything about the place, but if there are enough people wanting to go to justify a big ferry, it must be alright. A quick Google search confirms that it’s perfect. A beachy little town at the tip of Cape Cod, renowned for its artists, tourism and for being a popular holiday spot for the LGBTQ community, which I’m hoping means there’s less room for the Carl, Dave and Steve community. It sounds like the perfect getaway.

I book the ferry for Friday evening.

Chapter 7

Boston looks stunning as we sail away from it. The sun glints off the skyscrapers, making the whole city twinkle. There’s no sign of the ugliness that lurks there, crawling the streets and seeping into the offices.

Ninety minutes later, we pull into the little harbour of Provincetown, framed by low-rise, wooden-cladded buildings and tree-lined hills beyond. Golden sandy beaches run either side of the pier, and the Pilgrim Monument stands tall and proud above everything else. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of its book and on Monday, march into the office tall and proud and demand to be acknowledged. Or something to that effect.

We disembark onto the pier. A small souvenir shop with a colourful wooden pirate outside catches my eye. Huh, just when I thought I’d escaped all the dreadful blokes of Boston. I drag my case down the pier, which throws me straight into the small yet busy heart of the town. The atmosphere is light and airy; people aren’t walking at fifty miles per hour and nobody is grimacing like in the city. My stomach dances a little with excitement. I already know coming here was a great decision.

The no-frills hotel I’d booked is a pleasant surprise. I’d suspected they were over-egging the listing a little when they said all rooms had beach views as standard, but the double doors onto my balcony do, in actual fact, overlook a beautiful sandy beach. I dump my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and step outside, taking a deep breath of the deliciously salty air. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

The air is starting to cool, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, so I take a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a strappy vest top before heading back into the town. There’s a festival feel to the place which I hadn’t expected. Rainbow flags billow outside many of the buildings, and a cacophony of laughter spills from the numerous bars and restaurants. A man ambles past in a gorgeous sarong. He flashes me a smile and it gives me a warm buzz. I feel like I’ve found the home I never knew I wanted. My eye is caught by two men who are offering body painting by a beautiful church. One of the men, a dark-haired, rotund, cheerful-looking fellow in a crazy patterned linen shirt, beckons me over.

‘Come on over and choose a design.’ He gestures to a photo board of colourful tattoos in such an animated way it’s hard to refuse, even though I want to because I’m far too old for glittery body art. Though I’d estimate him to be about forty so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.

‘Oh, okay,’ I say, hopping into the chair.

I choose a sparkly butterfly that he starts to paint on my right shoulder blade. I’ve no idea how it will turn out, but I figure it will wash off, and he is just trying to earn a living.

‘So, how long have you been doing this for?’ I ask to relieve the relative awkwardness of a complete stranger touching me.

‘Oh my god, you’re English,’ he gushes. ‘Harry, listen to her. Go on, doll, say it again.’ He places both hands on my shoulders and forcibly turns me to face a slimmer, blond man in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt who seems distinctly less impressed.

‘I, er, I was just asking how long you’d been doing this for?’ I ask again. Somehow, the more I speak, the more I seem to sound like my surname should be Windsor.

‘Oh my god, your accent is just darling,’ Harry says before turning back to his client, a little curly-haired girl who makes me feel more ridiculous.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile.

‘And yes, we’ve been here seven years. We came on vacation from New York and just fell in love with this place. Gave up our big careers to paint people each evening after lying on the beach all day,’ the cuddly one says, gesticulating with his paintbrush.

Wow, I can’t imagine just walking away from a career I’d worked hard for. ‘So, you escaped the rat race?’

‘We sure did. How about you? What do you do?’ he asks.

‘I’m still fighting my way through the rat race, but I enjoy it.’ It’s currently a bit of a fib of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘So, are you here alone?’ He must be working closely because I can feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my back.

‘Yes. I’m in Boston with some colleagues working for a marketing company, but I needed to get away, so I came here for a weekend of R&R.’

‘I hear ya,’ he says. ‘Actually, I’d love to pick your brain a little, if you wouldn’t mind catching up when you’re free? We have a great trade here through summer but then autumn comes and we’re twiddling our thumbs. We could quite easily do Halloween face painting and things like that but need to reach a wider audience.’

I’m not one for meeting strange men but I’m getting a good vibe from this one, and besides, you don’t really hear of many horror stories involving body-paint-slash-glitter artists. ‘Of course, I’m here until Sunday so I could come back when you’re quieter.’

‘That would be wonderful.’ He rubs a tiny section of my shoulder blade with his finger. ‘You, my dear, are almost done.’ He proceeds to spray something cool over the top of the tattoo.

‘I’m finished,’ he sings, adding vibrato on the last syllable. ‘Here, take a look.’ He angles a mirror so I can catch a glimpse. I gasp. It’s beautifully done, in hues of pink, green, purple and blue. Strategically placed silver glitter adds emphasis to the wings, and shading underneath casts a shadow, making it look like it’s floating an inch above my skin.

‘I love it. It will be a shame to wash it off,’ I say honestly.

‘Just come back tomorrow and I’ll paint you a new one.’ He winks. ‘That’ll be twenty dollars.’

Twenty dollars? No wonder he could give up the rat race to paint people. I take out a green note and hand it over, and he grasps my hand. ‘Actually, if you’re here all alone, you should come to dinner with us tonight, we can talk about all the marketing stuff then.’

That’s a bit forward, isn’t it? But I am starving, and it might be nice to speak to someone this side of the Atlantic who doesn’t just see me as the doughnut fetcher. Plus, I don’t know much about what’s available round here and some company would be nice.

‘Oh, Barney, you’re a plangonologist of living dolls.’ Harry glances up from the child’s arm he’s painting a dolphin on, the curly-haired girl from earlier has gone.

‘I am not a people collector, Harry; I’m just friendly.’ He turns to me. ‘Honestly, he learns a new word and has to toss it into every conversation.’

I smile and look down at the floor, unsure as to whether or not the invitation still applies.

‘Come with us?’ Barney asks again. ‘I could listen to that English accent all day, and Harry over here can sit wallowing in his grumpy pants.’

I look at Harry who gives a casual nod. Barney wraps his arms around Harry and kisses his head. Neither of them look like axe murderers, and I don’t think there’s an ulterior motive aside from the bit of marketing advice Barney is wanting.

‘Okay, I’d love to.’

Chapter 8

Double checking the address Barney wrote down, I hover outside what looks like someone’s house. There is no indication anywhere that this is even a restaurant, no neon sign or A-frame outside, but I do spot a few people coming and going. How odd. I decide to wait five more minutes. It’s already eight and that’s what time they said to meet.

I start to feel ridiculous standing here waiting for two strangers. There was a fish restaurant near the pier. I’ll go there. As I turn to leave, I spot Harry and Barney walking towards me. Harry takes long casual strides as Barney seems to use all his limbs for propulsion. Relief dilutes the weird cocktail of apprehension in my stomach.

‘You’re in for a treat,’ Barney says, linking my arm like an old friend and frog-marching me up the wooden steps to the veranda. He knocks on the door, and a kindly young woman opens it and gestures him in.

‘Your usual table is ready, guys.’ Her smile fades as she takes me in. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s only set for two.’ She looks mortified.

‘Just pull another chair over and we’ll cosy up. We’re all friends here,’ he says in what I’m coming to realise is his actual voice and not just his ‘cheerful’ tone.

Once we’re seated, I’m handed a paper menu. I’m no expert on the Cape Cod cuisine scene, or any cuisine scene to be precise, but this is the most unusual place I’ve ever been to. ‘There’s only one choice per course here,’ I say, tapping the sheet of paper.

‘Oh, honey, this is a secret restaurant. It’s a surprise menu each day, though we come so often, we know the rotation. Tonight is Harry’s favourite.’

‘He’s right. Butter-poached lobster and wild shrimp.’ Harry pats his stomach. The food does sound amazing.

‘If it’s a secret, why did you bring me here? I’ve not come across a secret restaurant before but I bet it adds to the exclusivity.’

‘It’s the worst-kept secret in town but to some extent it keeps the tourists out. No offence.’ He pats my hand. ‘It just keeps it special for the locals. And as you can see – it’s always busy.’

‘Well, it’s utterly charming,’ I say, running a hand over the simple wooden table.

The waitress places some mismatched crockery and a platter of something deep-fried on the table. I’m so hungry I don’t care what lies beneath the batter.

‘Fried oysters.’ Barney hands me the plate. ‘Try one, they’re to die for.’

I take a bite, and he’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever had an oyster before. The thought of them has always made me a bit squeamish. Kev wasn’t an adventurous eater and he used to say they were like swallowing a ball of phlegm. The thought makes me heave.

‘You don’t like them?’ Harry says.

‘Oh, I do. They’re better than I was expecting. I was just … remembering something.’

‘Try the hot sauce,’ Barney says and I dip one dutifully. It tastes a bit like Dijon mustard and lemon.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ I say as the flavours and texture alight my senses.

‘We think everyone should come here at least once,’ says Harry.

‘Thank you for inviting me. I don’t know where I’d have ended up otherwise.’ I dunk another oyster.

‘Barney picks up all the waifs and strays,’ Harry says. I instantly feel awkward as his tone is more matter-of-fact than Barney who seems to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but when I look at him, the corner of his mouth is lifted. ‘I’m just teasing. We both love to meet new people.’

‘So, I know you’re in Boston for work, but why is a pretty girl like you in P-Town alone?’ Barney asks as he wipes the last oyster round the dip bowl.

It’s a strange feeling to want to spill all to two people you don’t know from Adam, but a compelling one, nonetheless. Perhaps it’s because they’re the first people I’ve connected with since I arrived in the US, perhaps it’s desperation but whatever the reason, I proceed to fill them in.

‘Nobody listens to me or values my opinion,’ I finish. ‘I don’t agree with the way the campaign is going and I think the company who hired us will hate it, but apparently, I should just shut up and put up. I guess I just don’t fit in with the team.’

Harry points his fork at me. ‘You will. You just need to find your place. All groups have roles for people to fill. You’ll get there. Like my Barney here is the people collector—’

‘I’m intuitive and sociable,’ Barney interrupts.

‘I’m the pragmatic one, my role in a group is the voice of reason. Martha, who owns this place, is the chef. We know most of the people in this town, and they all have their place.’

Barney laughs. ‘You are so not the voice of reason.’

‘Okay, humour me – what am I then?’ Harry shakes his head and gives me a ‘can you believe this guy?’ look.

‘The fussy one.’ Barney cocks his head to the side as if it proves his point.

Harry looks at me. ‘I just like things in order, which in my opinion makes me practical.’ He shrugs his shoulders like that proves his point.

‘Well, my place at present seems to be chief doughnut-getter,’ I say, breaking up their affectionate bickering.

‘Well, there you go – you have a place. But if you want a better one, you need to play a little game of Snakes and Ladders: work your way up without getting knocked all the way back down. You’ll figure it out.’ Harry says this so casually. If he’s fussy and still thinks it’s all just a simple game, then maybe I should too.

The waitress clears our table and I take the opportunity to sip my water then we talk a little more about Harry and Barney’s life in New York and how they met. Barney explains how he’d just arrived from New Jersey and got lost in SoHo looking for the library. Harry was passing, and Barney asked him for help. They chatted a little bit and hit it off then Harry drew him a map, only the map led to an Italian restaurant where Harry was sitting outside with champagne and a bow-tie. Barney never did get to the library, and the rest is history. I sometimes forget that my meeting Kev isn’t the only romantic story out there, and hearing someone else’s makes a surprisingly refreshing change from replaying my own story over in my head.

‘What about at home?’ Barney asks. ‘Is there a Mr or Mrs Sam?’

I knew this was coming, I was braced for it. It isn’t Barney’s fault – it’s never anyone’s fault – but I wish a single person could just be so without people questioning it. Is it really so weird to be on your own?

I suck in as much air as I can take and give him the lowdown: I married my true love, he was killed in an accident and nobody else will ever compare. I’ve made my peace and I’m happy to die alone knowing I was lucky enough to meet my soulmate. Blah, blah, blah.

‘Oh, honey.’

I hold my hand up to shush Barney. ‘I don’t need sympathy. I’ve moved on.’

‘But—’

‘Anyway, you wanted to know about marketing?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘I’ve told him to use social media but he won’t listen. I think he has grand plans of plastering billboards everywhere and going on Oprah,’ Harry says dryly.

I look at Barney. ‘For what you want, Harry is right. Get a Facebook page and start using Instagram to promote your work. A bit of hashtagging and some great photographs should work. If you still need a boost you could have some fliers printed up and do a local door drop.’

‘Consider it done,’ Barney says, raising his glass.

‘I’ve been telling him this for weeks,’ Harry says with a sigh.

The main course is equally delicious, and raspberry-meringue ice cream finishes the meal perfectly. I devour every last bit and I swear my stomach creaks at bursting point.

‘How about we go for a cocktail? Sam, you’ll come for a bit of Sex on the Beach action, won’t you?’

I splutter my water and giggle. ‘Maybe another time,’ I say before realising how presumptuous I sound. I’ve had such a good time tonight but it’s unlikely I’ll ever see these guys again.

‘Tomorrow night then? You’re still here tomorrow, aren’t you, Sam?’ Barney reminds me of an excited puppy. This has been the easiest conversation and the most comfortable I’ve felt since arriving here. Even with Kev cropping up, I’ve really enjoyed myself.

‘I’d love to.’

‘What are your plans for tomorrow during the day? We’re working until six-ish, but we can give you some pointers for things to do.’ Harry talks at a more normal speed compared to Barney’s ultrasonic waffle.

‘I thought I’d sit by the pool and read for a few hours, then maybe walk down to the beach and perhaps rent a bike in the afternoon.’

‘Ahh, we have a bike guy,’ Harry says.

‘A bike guy?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Ethan. The bike guy. Go see him, tell him Harry and Barney sent you, and he’ll give you a good deal.’ Harry is already scribbling the address on the back of the menu. Fortunately, it’s just a printed-off piece of A4 and not some leather-bound affair but I get the distinct impression it wouldn’t have mattered to him if it were.

Chapter 9

After a morning reading by the pool, I’ve actually made it down to the beach. There was a bustling little sandwich shop in the centre of town where I picked up lunch – a chicken and pastrami sandwich the size of my arm – and now I’m sitting on the sand eating it whilst watching some kayakers and trying not to ooze sauce all over myself. This is the life. It’s such a cliché even to say in my own head, but there isn’t a phrase more fitting. The sky is blue, punctuated with the odd fluffy white cloud – sky pillows, I used to call clouds like this when I was little. It’s such a far cry from my real life, my London life, where I thought lunch in the park or by the docks warranted the phrase ‘This is the life’. I think I posted an Instagram picture to that effect once, but here, I can’t even be bothered taking out my phone. I just want to enjoy the moment.

And so I realise that being here, despite the woes of work, certainly beats being in the mad rush of London. I can blow my nose and black stuff doesn’t come out, for a start. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about London – my friends, the parks, the continuous stream of new places to eat and, of course, the shops, but Boston has plenty of those anyway. I pull the menu from last night out of my bag and look over the address that Harry wrote out. I should be able to find the place easy enough, and a friend of Harry and Barney will likely be as kind and helpful as they are. There were some fliers in the hotel showing a local bike trail which looks great.

I’m pretty sure I can still ride a bike. You never forget how, apparently.

***

The little clapboard shop is only a five-minute walk away from where I sat on the beach. It’s painted blue and white, and bikes in their abundance are racked up outside. I feel a little nervous as I walk in and see even more. What if I can’t ride? It’s been a while. I wonder if they offer incompetence discounts or stabilisers for adults. The place is shockingly quiet, and not a CCTV camera in sight. If this was central London, teenagers would have ransacked the place by now, and these bikes would be accessories to crime as yobs swarmed the city on them, snatching the Rolexes off unsuspecting rich folk. Or at least that’s what the press would have you believe. I run my hand along the smooth frame of a red and silver mountain bike.

‘Can I help you?’ A smooth, deep voice startles me, making me feel like some weird bike voyeur.

‘Er … I …’ I turn in the direction of the speaker and the familiarity of his face has the Medusa effect on me. ‘You!’ is all I manage to say.

‘I beg your pardon?’ He narrows those sapphire eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly in a cocky, arrogant way. He doesn’t recognise me, but then again, why would he?

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ But I certainly remember him, because other than Barney and Harry, a bubbly young lady in Abercrombie and, to some extent, my work colleagues, he’s the only person I’ve spoken to since arriving in the States.

‘I’m sorry, should I?’ His tone isn’t completely awful, but considering I’m a potential customer, it isn’t great. His eyes make small movements from left to right, searching mine for an answer but still, his face is blank.

‘I asked you to take a photo of me in Boston Harbor a fortnight or so ago.’ I cross my arms in front of my body defensively.

‘Oh, you’re that person.’ He allows his features to drop and begins polishing some bike part.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ My arms are still folded. I’m not quite sure why I’m pressing the issue, but I am, and I’m hoping the arm-folding strengthens my stance.

‘Well, are you here for a bike?’ His cocky nonchalance is infuriating.

‘Actually, yes. Harry and Barney sent me. They recommended you, but obviously you’ve hidden your arsey side from them, like some weird little anti-hero or something.’ I notice the corner of his mouth twitch a little. I can’t believe he finds this funny.

‘Are all you Brits this uptight?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Okay, admittedly, that didn’t help my cause.

‘Well, you’re on another continent, on the sleepy peninsula of Cape Cod, surrounded by beautiful beaches with whales breaching on the horizon, and you’re standing there like Mary damn Poppins wanting to correct my behaviour.’

‘I’m not uptight, I’m cross. There’s a difference.’

‘Fine. Do you want a bike or not?’

‘Well, of course I do! I didn’t hunt you down and come here for the pleasure of your company.’ God, I hope he doesn’t think that’s why I came. Now I’ve said it, he’s definitely going to think that.

‘Okay, good.’ He exhales noisily and it’s irritating. ‘Let’s get you hooked up with a bike then.’

He looks me up and down. I know it’s to size me up for a bike, but I’m still squirming with discomfort. I can feel his eyes on me, and it sends weird tingles down the back of my neck. I can’t ever remember being looked up and down before. Suddenly my fairly modest denim shorts feel shorter and my T-shirt much, much tighter.

‘I’ll get you a medium frame and put the seat up a bit.’ He doesn’t meet my eyes when he speaks, and it feels more like he’s talking to himself or thinking aloud. He disappears outside. The aircon is so cold I have to rub the goose pimples on my arms as I wait.

After a few minutes, he pops his head in. ‘You’re all set.’

I step outside, and it takes a moment for the warmth of the sun to penetrate my icy skin. He’s holding a silver mountain bike out for me, a black helmet hanging from the bars. I take the bike and thank him.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ he asks as I fasten the clasp on the helmet.

Nope. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, it is!’ I give him a pointed look and push the pedal hard to make my dramatic departure. I wobble a little but correct it instantly. I’m one part smug and two parts relieved.

‘If it’s the bike trail you’re heading for, you’re going the wrong way,’ he calls after me.

Great.

‘I know!’ I didn’t. ‘I need a bottle of water first. Leave me alone!’

‘Okay. There’s a map in the front basket, you know, for after you’ve got your water,’ he says. I wave him off, and away I ride.

God, I hate that guy.

I keep riding until I hit the safety of the beach where I can sit for a minute and study the map without arrogant arseface nit-picking. What are the odds of him being the bike guy? Of all the people in Boston and all the bike rental places in Cape Cod, it’s just my luck he is ‘the guy’. Bridget is going to love this story.

I figure out the route and set off. The breeze blows against me as I ride, taking my frustrations with it, and soon I’ve forgotten all about work, homesickness and unpleasant bike-rental people. The tarmacadam pathway is a biker’s dream. A yellow line down the middle separates the traffic, like a road. I swerve out of the way of an oncoming bicycle and shout ‘Sorry’ before realising I’m cycling on the left. The lady giggles and cycles on. Everyone seems so friendly here.

Soon, I find my groove. I take in the grassy dunes that line the trail and enjoy the feeling of the sun beating down on my skin. After a while, I find a deserted spot with sea views that is perfect for a rest. I lay the bike down and sit on the sand with my legs stretched out and inhale the briny smell of the air. Kev would have loved it here.

Without fail, if we were ever on a beach somewhere, he’d say we should give up our jobs, move away to the seaside and rent out pedalos for a living. I smile at the memory before sadness frays its edges. Perhaps if we had, he’d still be here today. ‘Oh Kev,’ I say aloud. I can remember the happy times now, and I no longer have the questions of Why him? Why us? circling my head, but every now and then a memory bats the wind out of my sails.

A zephyr whips up the sand, and a few grains fly into my watery eyes. I giggle. If we ever watched a sad film and Kev got a bit upset, he’d say, ‘I’ve got a bit of sand in my eye.’ This right now is what people don’t understand. They don’t understand the warmth of my memories and how I don’t need to meet someone else because the memories and feelings I have in my head and heart are enough. Some people spend decades in loveless marriages. How on earth can that be better than what I had … what I still have?

2007

‘I could get used to this.’ I’m lounging lazily on a swinging chair under the straw canopy of the hotel’s pool bar as Kev hands me a cocktail. Kev had surprised me with a last-minute trip to Mexico. My parents had thought we were mad as we’re supposed to be saving up to decorate and I hadn’t even had time to get my legs waxed but sitting here now, I know that Kev got it right. It’s a beautiful place.

‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s happy hour and you’re going up for the next round.’ He grins and I throw an ice cube at his bare chest.

‘Well, that was just uncalled for.’ He puts his drink underneath his chair and gives me a look filled with mischief.

‘Kev?’ I ask, nervously. I know something is coming, but I’m not sure what.

‘Sam?’ He mocks before straddling me on the swinging chair. ‘I wouldn’t do anything mean to you,’ he says. Slowly kissing my neck, he prises my drink out of my hand and puts it down on the floor.

Then, all of a sudden, he thrusts an ice cube down the front of my kaftan.

I scream and nearby sunbathers look up from their buy-one-get-one-half-price airport paperbacks and I feel ridiculous.

An almighty roar of thunder rips through the sky. Seconds later, the heavens open and torrential rain pounds the terrace. People scream and dart indoors or under the cover of the bar where we are.

Kev sips his drink and flashes me a mischievous grin.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Nothing!’ He mimics my higher pitched tone. Gently, he scoops me up and lifts me off the safety of my seat.

The rain is like stair rods and I know his plan.

‘Fine, take me out in the rain. See if I care,’ I say, hoping to suck the fun out of his wicked plan.

He laughs. ‘You can try working your little mind game on me, Sam. It’s cute, really it is.’ He edges towards where the rain sloshes inside the open bar. ‘But we both know that today is not a hair wash day and you only have a drizzle of that anti-frizz serum left – you can’t afford an unscheduled hair wash.’

Damn! I’m torn between laughing at how well he knows me and the sheer fear of him seeing his plan through. He pretends to swoosh me out in the rain and I scream again, digging my fingers into his back.

‘It’s so warm,’ he says, inching closer to the rain. ‘I think I need to cool off.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ As I say it, he runs from under the canopy of the bar and out into the torrential rain. Within seconds we’re both drenched through.

I’m furious. ‘I hate you!’ I shout over the lashing rain, but he just gives me that lopsided grin that melts my insides. Slowly, he slides me down to my feet and pulls me into his body and kisses me as the cool rain beats down on our hot bodies.

Almost as soon as it started, the rain stops and the sun comes back out, burning through my wet kaftan.

‘You’re an idiot!’ I say, whacking him on the arm.

‘Sam, it was a joke.’

‘You knew I didn’t want to wash my hair,’ I say, squeezing out the excess water from my ponytail.

‘Let me show you something.’ He takes my hand and leads me up to our room.

‘You’re such an oddball, why are we going inside now the sun’s out?’

He doesn’t answer, instead, he opens the door and puts his hands on my shoulders, positioning me in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.

Slowly, he peels off my kaftan. ‘Look,’ is all he says.

‘Frizzy hair, bloated all-inclusive belly, red, sunburned chest and freckles.’ I fold my arms.

‘Gorgeous, natural hair, a beautiful body and cute freckles.’ He kisses my neck and my insides flutter, it’s amazing he can still do that to me after all this time. ‘I’m with you on the sunburn though, but that’s your own fault, I told you to wear a higher factor.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ I bash him playfully.

‘My point is; you don’t need that hair-frizz gunk. Your hair is stunning as it is, just like the rest of you.’

I turn to face him, and my lips find his. His body feels hot against mine, which is still cold from my soggy kaftan.

‘What do you say we have a little siesta?’ he says cheekily.

Chapter 10

When I arrive back at the bike rental place, the Grinch is messing with the wheel of a large black and red mountain bike outside. The anger I felt towards him earlier has dissipated a little, in light of such a wonderful afternoon. I’m ready to return the bike and go back to my hotel, freshen up and perhaps find a new bike rental place should I ever need one.

He gives the wheel a little shake to make sure it’s fastened on tightly and then glances up at me, his hair falling into his eyes. ‘You found your way back then?’

‘Oh, ha-ha.’ I sound very British, like the British people in American films do. It’s odd to hear myself this way and it isn’t as though I’m speaking any differently; I just sound different because of the thick American accents around me.

He stands up, wiping a streak of black grease on his jeans. He’s intimidatingly close, almost a full head-height taller than me and a good six inches too close. Scratch that, he’s six feet too close. I swallow hard, unsure as to whether I’m going to get another earful. I’m braced and ready. He’s only a foot away, and I can feel something between us. An energy of some sort which binds itself into a hard knot in my chest. I don’t step back. I put my hands on my hips and stand my ground.

‘Do you want to pay cash or card?’ he says eventually, slicing through the tension. The breath I was holding escapes. Was that it?

‘Er, cash … no, card.’

‘Do you need a moment to think about it?’ There’s a frustrating sarcasm in his tone.

‘You do know there are customer service courses available, don’t you? I bet repeat custom isn’t the foundation of your business model.’ I jab the air in front of his chest. ‘It’s a good job you’re based in a tourist town where you have a constant flow of new and unsuspecting victims to rent bikes to. You could be the Bates Motel of the bike rental world.’ Too far?

The corner of his mouth curls up in a bemused smirk that makes me all the more cross. ‘If you’re finished, and I really hope you are, closing time was fifteen minutes ago and I’m starving so I’d like to wrap this up. I open up again at 9 a.m. tomorrow though, if you’d like to carry on.’

‘Oh.’ Okay, so maybe I’m in the wrong this time but that just makes us even. ‘Well, here.’ I hand over my card, and he heads inside without a word. I follow because, well, he has my card.

‘You could have just said you were closing,’ I say when I reach the counter.

‘Well, you know … customer service.’

Touché.

He runs off a piece of paper and presents a slip for me to sign. I haven’t paid this way in ages. I look at him to check it’s right, and he gives me an impatient look, so I scribble my signature and slide the paper back across the counter.

‘All done then?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘Okay, well thank you and goodbye.’ Eurgh, why did I thank him? I just can’t help myself. He raises a hand, and I walk out with the strange feeling of unfinished business.

Chapter 11

‘There you are!’ I spot Barney and Harry at a long wooden table in the outdoor bar. The decking offers views across the bay and the calm ocean, which appears to be resting after a busy day of throwing kayakers from their vessels. The bar is bustling, and I had to fight my way over to their corner. I plonk my handbag on the table and slump down on the bench.

‘Well, you’re not a happy camper,’ Barney says.

‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask dryly.

‘What happened to the perfect day you had planned out?’ Harry said. ‘Actually, hold that. You need a drink first.’ He holds three fingers in the air. The bartender nods and I assume three ‘somethings’ will arrive soon.

I give a wistful sigh. ‘It was perfect – I read by the pool and had lunch on the beach. Then I found the bike hire place—’

Barney gushes. ‘So, you met Ethan?’

I frown, unsure why anyone would react that way. ‘Yes. And why on earth are you friends with such an arrogant—’

Barney gasps, clutching both hands to his face. I glare at him.

‘If you keep reacting so dramatically, I’m not telling the story.’

‘Sorry, but I’ve never met anyone who hates Ethan before. We adore him and thought you would too. All the women in this town are head-over-heels besotted with him. I don’t know how he manages to stay single.’ The barman places three elaborately adorned cocktails down, breaking Barney’s trail of thought, so I seize the opportunity to fill them in on our encounter in Boston and his lack of regret today.

‘That doesn’t sound like Ethan at all,’ Barney says.

‘I don’t know; he can be a bit of a brooder,’ Harry adds.

‘I kinda like that,’ Barney says.

‘When was it you say it happened?’ Harry says, ignoring Barney.

‘A few weeks ago.’

Harry and Barney exchange glances and when they don’t elaborate, I sit confused for a minute. Then it hits me. All that talk about head-over-heels women and whatnot. They’re matchmakers, I bet he’d had a bad date that day and took his hatred of womankind out on me.

‘I do hope you only sent me there for the bikes.’ I give them a warning look.

‘Well, of course,’ Barney says, and in fairness he does look quite horrified at the thought.

Harry shakes his head. ‘Ethan is a great guy. You just have to get to know him.’

Barney rests his chin on his hands and smiles. ‘It’s as though his mother went to the gene-pool buffet when she was making him and had first dibs on all the good stuff.’ He puts on what I assume is supposed to be a female voice. ‘I’ll have a couple o’ those blue eyes, some sun-kissed skin and a chiselled jaw for this one.’ Harry giggles at Barney’s impression and it shows a side to him I hadn’t witnessed before. I swear, if these two were emojis, they’d have hearty eyes.

‘Looks aren’t everything.’

‘Well, I’ve never met a woman, or a man of that inclination, who didn’t swoon over Ethan before. You, Sam, are a tough nut to crack.’

‘I swear, if you were trying to play matchmaker …’ The thought still horrifies me.

Barney and Harry shake their heads a little too quickly and I resist the urge to discreetly check my breath doesn’t smell.

‘Good. I would hate for our friendship to be over before it’s even started.’ I punctuate my stern words with a sip of my cocktail. ‘Mmm. This is nice. What is it?’

‘It’s a ginger Cosmo. Aren’t they yummy?’ Barney sounds excited. Like Dory the fish, it seems he’s already forgotten about my warning.

‘Sam …’ Barney suddenly sounds serious, and he glances at Harry warily. Harry shakes his head and tries to brush away whatever it is Barney wants to say.

‘What?’ I ask.

Harry looks at Barney. ‘Do we need more drinks? I think we need more drinks.’ He stands up to walk to the bar.

‘What on earth is going on?’

If the ocean was guilt, a huge wave has just slapped Barney in the face and drenched him. ‘We’ve invited some friends to join us tonight, that’s all.’ He sips his drink, but the slight rise to his eyebrows suggests it’s not a simple case of friends getting together.

‘Oh, okay. What friends?’ I hadn’t anticipated there would be people joining us and try my best to avoid giving any hint of the disappointment I feel at having to share company and make small talk with strangers.

‘There’s, Susie the cake girl, Blair the gift-store owner, Marty the coffee-shop guy, who we just invited because he overheard us talking about drinks, and then … Ethan the bike guy.’ He says the last bit even quicker than usual.

‘What?’ I groan. This is all I need. I suppose I could always talk to the others. I don’t have to speak to him.

Harry returns with three more cocktails, different this time, and catches the disappointment on my face. ‘Ahh good, you told her Blair and Susie can’t make it. Don’t worry about being the only girl in our gang.’ Barney makes a cut-throat gesture at Harry to shut him up.

I guess I can talk to Marty.

He looks at Barney. ‘Oh, and I already told you Marty couldn’t make it.’ Barney’s face is a picture. ‘Oh, I didn’t.’

‘You know what, Ethan is your friend, and I am someone you’ve just met and kindly invited out. You’ve every right to invite your friend for drinks.’ I can be civilised.

Barney seems to get a sudden whoosh of positive energy and sits upright. ‘Oh good, because he’s here.’

My insides wither as he approaches our table. He’s smiling at Barney. It makes his face look weird, completely different in fact, like a light has come on. When he catches sight of me the light goes out. ‘You again,’ he says with disbelief.

‘Nice to see you too,’ I retort as he slides on to the bench opposite me.

‘Ethan, I got you a cocktail.’ Harry pushes his own glass over to Ethan, but Ethan’s eyes remain fixed on mine, even as he moves his hand to the drink and takes a sip. The golden light of the setting sun casts a glow across his face, illuminating him like an exhibit in a museum and his eyes shine like jewels.

‘Phew-ee, you could cut this tension with a knife,’ says Barney, flapping his hands around wildly. Ethan looks away, but his jaw is tense and the muscles twitch beneath his skin. My insides turn to lead. If he’s purposely trying to make me feel uncomfortable, it’s working and I can’t bear it. I’ll finish my drink and go.

‘Sorry, guys.’ Ethan’s face relaxes again. ‘I’ve just suffered an earful from her today.’ He nods at me as Barney and Harry, who are now flanking Ethan, each place a consoling hand on his shoulder and give him ‘there, there’ looks. Ethan’s solid frame doesn’t flinch, even though I suspect Harry and Barney (but mostly Barney) are enjoying the contact more than they should be.

‘Why don’t we clear the air?’ Harry suggests. I tilt my head to the side expectantly and Ethan sips his drink like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He’s infuriating.

‘For the sake of enjoying a few drinks in peace, I’m sorry,’ Ethan says, but there’s no feeling in it. He’s doing it purely for the benefit of his friends, and since I’m an outsider, I’m hardly going to make a big deal out of it. I’m going back to Boston tomorrow anyway.

‘For the sake of enjoying the rest of the evening, I accept.’ I hold out my glass and he clinks it.

‘Great,’ says Barney with an excited clap. ‘We just knew you two would get along.’ For someone who professes to be intuitive, he really isn’t.

The next few hours pass amicably. Harry and Barney flirt ostentatiously and without shame, both with each other and with Ethan. I pretend not to notice, but I get the feeling that Ethan actually doesn’t notice at all. He’s so sure of himself.

Harry slurps the last dregs of his cocktail and frowns, realising it’s all gone. ‘So, are you heading back to Boston tomorrow?’

‘Yes, let’s see if I can find my place.’ I wink.

‘You will. Think Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada,’ he says with a wink.

‘At this point, I’d settle for Anne Hathaway’s role. I’ll just be happy if someone acknowledges my presence,’ I say.

Ethan snorts. ‘Huh! You’re definitely more of a Streep.’

‘Excuse me?’ I ask. He hasn’t spoken to me directly in over an hour, and when he does, he basically calls me a bitch.

‘Oh, come on. I was joking. That’s what we do, isn’t it?’

I’m a little bit lost for words. I wouldn’t exactly call it joking, it’s more of a strange bitterness between us. Whatever it is, it feels weird to address it, we don’t even know one another.

Ethan drains the last of his cocktail. ‘Anyway, Hathaway, tell me what’s happened?’ I look at him, shocked he even cares enough to ask and also slightly surprised he knows so much about the film. I assume he’s just making polite conversation for Barney and Harry’s benefit but explain regardless.

‘Well, that sucks. If you’ve been sent here, your boss back in England must think you’re up to the job.’

‘My thoughts exactly. You know, my impression of American men hasn’t been great. Present company excluded.’ I gesture to Barney and Harry. ‘You’re not excluded,’ I say to Ethan, but light-heartedly, since he’s making an effort and all.

‘Okay, okay. Look, I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did back in Boston. I was … having a bad day.’ The alcohol has obviously infused his system because he’s more relaxed now. He’s speaking to me like a human being, which I believe is progress.

‘It’s fine. It really doesn’t matter. I was perhaps a tad sensitive because I’d just arrived in the city all excited and you smothered my excitement with a huge wet blanket.’

‘Well. On that note …’ He claps his hands together. ‘I’m going to call it a night. Some of us need our beauty sleep.’ Ethan stands with one hand on Barney’s shoulder and the other on Harry’s. They both look delighted. On the other hand, I’m left feeling a little deflated. I opened up to Ethan to try and move on from our little spat and he basically ignored me. Just when I thought he might be decent too.

‘We’ll see you soon, honey,’ Barney says as Ethan walks off, taking away a strange feeling of tension with him. Now I can relax.

‘So how do you know Ethan?’ I ask, interested by the strange dynamic. I wonder if Ethan knows that these two fancy the pants off him. Maybe he’s gay, and he thought I was trying to flirt with him when I asked him to take the photo. Maybe he’s sick of women trying to come on to him. Not that I was, but he’s definitely cock-sure enough to have assumed so.

Barney wiggles into position to fill me in. ‘Ethan was one of the first people we met when we came here. His family own a lot of the local businesses, and he’s such a nice guy, he made us feel right at home.’

Really? ‘He doesn’t strike me as much of a talker.’

‘Granted, he’s a man of few words, but what he does say is kind and generous.’ Barney presses his palms to his cheeks. ‘He’s a manly man. A real alpha-male.’

I stifle a giggle.

‘He’s the best of the best.’ Harry smiles with warmth.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I drain the last of my drink. ‘I suppose I’d better go to bed too.’

Harry’s and Barney’s faces drop. ‘Oh, Sam, are you going to come back? We’re not going to lose you forever, are we?’ I giggle at Barney’s theatrics.

I’m sure Boston is great, but it’s lonely and I haven’t really felt at home there. Provincetown is beautiful, and even when I’ve been alone here, I haven’t felt lonely. The sound of the ocean, the friendly hellos from passers-by and the feeling of the warm sun together make for one big snuggly blanket of comfort. I would like to come back.

‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ I lie.

‘You must come back next weekend. We’re having a cookout on the beach, and everyone is invited,’ Barney says.

Next week will probably be as horrendous as the last and escaping to this beautiful, quaint little town will be a healthier equivalent of taking a few Xanax. Plus, these two let me vent.

‘That sounds fabulous. Are you sure I wouldn’t be imposing?’ I chew the side of my lip self-consciously.

‘Not at all. We’d love you to come,’ says Harry with sincerity.

Chapter 12

The following week is just as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. I’m sent for coffee on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and not one of my English colleagues speaks up or offers to go on my behalf, though I did think I caught a very subtle flash of sympathy from Tony. This lunchtime, I was sent on a sandwich run while the men were actually fleshing out key components of the media campaign. It was almost the final straw. I was going to stand up for myself and say something – part of me is still reeling that I didn’t – but throwing away the seven years of hard work it took to get here seemed too big a trade-off. Harry was right: I’ve got my place, but I need to work on getting a better one. I’ll bide my time and be smart about it.

When I’m tucked away in my room away from the others, I call Bridget for a catch-up.

She answers on the third ring. ‘Hello, you.’

‘Hello,’ I say, exhaling loudly for effect.

‘Oh no. Are things still terrible?’

‘Yes! When I speak it’s like nobody at all has heard me. Honestly, I’m not exaggerating. It’s bizarre. There are moments where I sit there wondering if I’ve actually spoken at all, or if I just thought the words in my head. I honestly think I could strip naked in the centre of the boardroom and nobody would notice.’

‘Oh, honey. Please don’t strip naked in the boardroom. Have you spoken to any of the UK team about it?’

‘I tried to after the first couple of days. It just sounded so petty and whiney when I said it aloud. I asked Tony if he’d heard my idea today, and he just paused for a moment until I reminded him what it was, then he said, “Oh yeah, I think so” but that was it. Nobody is interested in what I have to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were interested enough to say, “Your ideas are rubbish”, but they don’t even do that. I might as well be invisible.’ My voice falters on the last word as emotion hits me from nowhere. Even my own body is choosing to ignore me. I’m not even emotional, I’m angry.

‘Oh, Sam,’ she says. ‘Keep at it, hon.’

‘I know. I’ve just never felt so small and insignificant before.’ Or at least not in a very long time. I suck up a lungful of air. ‘At least I’m in a wonderful place and I can go to the beach at the weekends.’

‘Definitely. How was Cape Cod?’

‘Amazing.’ I fill her in on my escapades and Harry and Barney and Ethan.

‘So, let me get this straight; Ethan is the arse from Boston? And he was there?’

‘Yes, and yes. What are the odds of that? He has now apologised, at least. He was having a bad day apparently.’

‘Well, we all have those but jeez. At least you can put it behind you now.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. Except I can’t. Not the incident as such, but Ethan. Over the past few days, I’ve caught myself randomly thinking of him. When I’m walking to the office, eating lunch, even brushing my teeth, for goodness’ sake, I see his face and hear his voice. He’s got under my skin and I don’t know why. I’ve encountered rude people before, but something about the dark look in his eyes that day, the tense muscles in his face, were different to how he was on Saturday night at the bar. Even when he was being all cocky in the bike place, the vacant, disengaged look I saw at the harbour was nowhere to be seen. I can’t shake the feeling that he was having more than just a bad day.

‘I’m going back to Provincetown at the weekend for a cookout – a barbecue, as far as I can tell – with Harry and Barney.’

‘Ooh, lovely. Don’t forget your real friends here in miserable and grey London, will you?’

I giggle. ‘As much as I love the sunshine and gorgeous beaches of Massachusetts, you can’t beat a bit of drizzle and a bitch-fest with you lot.’

‘My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I have to go. I need to be in bed before midnight at least one day this week.’

‘Oops. I’d forgotten about the time difference,’ I say, feeling bad for calling so late.

‘It’s fine, I’ll catch a few mid-morning zeds when I’m at my desk tomorrow.’

‘I hope you’re joking, I can never tell.’

‘Unfortunately, the truth is in the eyebags,’ she cackles.

‘Okay, give the others my love.’ We exchange goodbyes, and I hang up feeling a little lighter. Just one more day of work to survive before I’m back in my happy place.

***

The ferry journey to Provincetown passes pleasantly. It’s a great way to blow away the office cobwebs on a Friday afternoon. I shall definitely be making it a thing. I while away the time switching between reading and looking out across the ocean, watching the city fade away until it’s clouded by the rugged little islands that surround it and the deep blue of the water and sky all around.

I get a warm welcome back at the hotel as the lady on reception recognises me, and once I’ve dumped my bags, I head to the main street to find Barney and Harry, who are just packing away their body paints.

‘Knocking off early?’ I say.

‘I need to go and see my meat guy for the cookout tomorrow.’

‘Your meat guy?’ I ask.

‘He means the butcher,’ Barney says. ‘Everyone has to be “a guy”.’

‘Oh, okay,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat at the discovery of my being at a loose end.

‘You should come,’ Barney says. ‘We’re going to cocktail afterwards.’ He does a little wiggly finger dance, whilst I amuse myself, imagining the Collins Dictionary entry for his new use of cocktail:

Cocktail (verb)

Kok-teyl

to sip mixed alcoholic drinks in the company of friends.

Unless to cocktail is like the US version of peacocking or something. I hope it isn’t. I hate drawing attention to myself, and besides, I don’t have my good shoes. ‘That sounds great. Are you sure you don’t mind me tagging along?’

‘We invited you. Of course not.’

I relax a little. ‘Okay, but this time, cocktails are on me.’

Harry winks. ‘I knew we liked you.’

***

‘So, have you climbed a rung of the ladder yet?’ Harry leans on the wooden table, sipping a blue cocktail which he says is called ‘The Harry’. It tastes like a Blue Lagoon to me, with perhaps a hint of something cherry-flavoured if I’m being optimistic. Barney has gone to back to their apartment to put the meat in the fridge and said he’ll catch us up.

I shake my head. ‘I almost gave a big Jerry-Maguire-cum-Erin-Brockovich speech, but I didn’t think it would get me anywhere.’

‘Good. It wouldn’t have. What you need to do is show, not tell.’ Harry’s tongue is blue. It’s hard to take serious advice from him when he looks like he’s eaten a Smurf.

‘How do I do that then?’

‘Well, you’ve said their campaign ideas are unoriginal and that you’ve tried telling them how to be different, yes?’

I nod. ‘The problem is, I’m dealing with an international company who’ve been running campaigns for some of the biggest global brands for years. What if I’m wrong? All my other projects have been for much smaller, local businesses in London.’

‘Are those things on your feet the trainers you’re marketing?’

‘Uhm, yes.’ I’d forgotten I was wearing them. As hideous as Rocks are on a woman of my age, they are bloody comfortable.

‘Okay, so I’m assuming your target market is tweens to teens?’ he says.

‘How did you guess?’ I say dryly. ‘They don’t seem to have the target audience in mind, though. They’ve gone too young with the pitch, and I think that kind of campaign will alienate the older kids. Young kids will want them anyway if the older ones are wearing them, so targeting them seems redundant.’

‘I agree with you, not that I know anything about the field of marketing, but I definitely think the image needs to be cool.’

‘I think they’re trying to go head to head with Strides, and to me that seems like a bit of a cop-out. They can piggyback off the brand strength of Strides and undercut the prices or throw in some tacky gimmick like a free keyring or something, but that won’t build the Rocks brand, which is I’m sure what the client will want.’

Harry nods. ‘Agreed.’

I sigh. ‘So, what are teens into? I could sell sand to a desert-dweller normally, but when it comes to kids, I’m not really au fait.’

‘Pop concerts, smartphones, skateboarding …’ Harry tails off.

‘They have a pigtailed girl holding a doll at the centre of their campaign idea. Rocks are going to hate it. I just don’t know how to get them to listen to me so we can actually work on something worthwhile.’

‘You can’t. But you can show them. Put a mood board together or something, and you can storm in there on Monday with something real to show them.’

Could I do that? Usually, we discuss our ideas first and then put the concepts down on paper, but I don’t want to bore Harry with that fact. I’m not sure how I’ll be perceived if I go rogue. Still, I can’t exactly sink any lower in any of their estimations and there’s no obvious Spice Girl Patrick could call me in that scenario, so what do I have to lose?

‘I’ll have a think,’ I say. ‘You’re good at this. Why on earth did Barney want advertising advice from me when he already has you?’

‘He doesn’t think I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Well, he’s wrong.’

‘It was Barney’s way of befriending you. I don’t like to massage his ego too much, but he is intuitive. He just has this knack for knowing when he meets a great person.’

Heat floods my cheeks. ‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’

‘You know, maybe tomorrow night I can help you out a little with your project.’

That sounds promising. Before I can reply, Barney comes bounding over. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst.’ He presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. Harry moves a blue cocktail over, and Barney takes a huge gulp.

***

The next day, the cookout starts at six, and Harry and Barney have refused my offer of help – despite getting all frazzled when discussing the planning – so I’ve decided to rent a car for the day and explore a little. They recommend a ‘car rental guy’ just off the main street. When I arrive, I see a few different types of cars on the small forecourt, but it’s the shiny red soft-top Jeep on the road outside that catches my eye.

I go inside and ring the bell on the counter as instructed by a little pink sticky note beside it. The small office smells of oil and rubber, and a sports car calendar hangs on the grubby wall behind the desk.

‘Hello there, what can I do you for?’ a cheerful older man asks as he comes in from a side room marked ‘Private’.

‘I’d like to rent a car for a few hours, please.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ He laughs and then coughs with the dryness of it.

I choose one of the very cool Wrangler Jeeps and ask for the top off. I can’t wait to go beach-hopping. While we’re sorting out paperwork, the old man calls out ‘Son!’ to someone in the back and asks them to prepare the car. I get a little rush of excitement at the thought of driving down some beautiful American roads with my hair blowing in the wind like Thelma or Louise.

‘You—’ a male voice travels from the entrance behind me ‘—are all set.’

‘Fantast—’

‘You have got to be kidding me.’ As I turn, the recognition hits us both at the same time.

‘Is there a problem?’ The kindly man’s tone has become much more formal.

‘No!’ Ethan and I say in unison.

‘Good,’ says the older man, but his single, raised eyebrow suggests he’s humouring us. ‘Then Ethan can show you the controls,’ he says before heading into the private room.

‘Why are you everywhere?’ I whisper bitterly as we walk outside.

‘Why are you everywhere?’ he repeats childishly. ‘I thought you worked in Boston.’

‘You were in Boston when I first met you, so what does that matter?’

‘I was there for the day. You’re here all the time.’

‘It’s my second weekend here. That’s not all the time.’ I realise I’m pouting, but I keep it going because I’m committed to it now. ‘Anyway, I thought you were the bike guy, not the car hire guy.’

‘I am the bike guy. My father owns most of the rental places in Provincetown, and occasionally I move around when we’re short-staffed. Your turn – why are you here?’

‘Barney and Harry invited me to the beach later for the cookout, so I have today free to explore.’

Ethan groans. ‘So you’ll be there too?’

‘Yes, but apparently everyone from the town is invited, so I’m sure we can keep our distance.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes. Brilliant,’ I huff. ‘So, are you going to show me the controls so I can leave or what?’

He explains how it all works, which is pretty much how any car works, but I do listen carefully to how to put the hood on, just in case. I adjust the seat and get ready to drive off. ‘So, is there anywhere else I should avoid if I don’t want to see you?’

‘I wouldn’t rent a kayak,’ he says. ‘And I go over to Boston Harbor once a month to take our promotional fliers to the tourist information booth.’

‘Noted,’ I say.

‘Would you like any maps or anything?’ he asks.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Here you go.’ He hands me a thick pile of folded maps.

‘Why are you being so civil all of a sudden?’ I ask, taking them. It’s unnerving, like dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde.

‘It’s my job,’ he says dryly. ‘And I’d like you to try and find your way back before closing time.’

‘Oh.’ I should have known.

Once I’m on the open road, I forget all about Ethan and enjoy driving down the beachfront road. It’s not like the beachfront drives in the UK, all built up and busy with fried doughnut stalls and amusement arcades; it’s largely natural and unspoilt. There are some clapboard beach houses and small motels dotted around, but mostly it’s sand and grassy dunes stretching out into blue water and salty air. I find myself in North Truro, looking up at the tall white Highland Light lighthouse and park up. A few summer tourists have already begun to gather in a queue, and with nothing better to do, I join them.

I climb the winding steps of the red brick cylinder until I reach the top. It’s not as high as I imagined, but the view still reaches far across the grasslands and ocean. I walk around the large bulb in the centre, moving aside so that a couple can pass me. Then I rest my hands on the rusted sills and just gaze, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

The reality of where I am hits me, and I pinch myself discreetly, making sure the couple don’t see. I’m in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and no amount of arrogant men will take that away from me.

Chapter 13

‘So, where did you get to today?’ Harry asks me. It’s 6 p.m. and the sun sits low in the sky, casting a pinky-orange filter across the wide, sandy Herring Cove beach, as though it wasn’t already beautiful enough.

‘After the lighthouse, I walked down the beach and just sat for a while. Drove a little more and then spent two hours back at the hotel detangling my hair. Convertibles, sea breezes and long hair do not mixeth well.’

Harry is busy building a fire but acknowledges me with a smile. I realised before I got here that by turning up on time, I’d probably be one of the first people to arrive, but I wanted to offer a helping hand. Everything seems to be under control, though, and Harry won’t hear of me helping when I offer.

I notice Ethan walking through the sand and with nowhere to turn or task to busy myself with, my stomach sinks. He’s wearing cargo shorts, and he’s shirtless, his T-shirt tucked into the back of the shorts, flapping behind him. I try not to look at his tanned, toned chest, whilst Barney, even from a good fifteen metres away, is less discreet. His jaw is practically in the sand.

‘I come bearing gifts.’ Ethan places a cooler in the sand with a thump. ‘Steaks and beers,’ he says when we glance at it quizzically.

‘Hi. Again.’ He runs his hand through his hair, and the few golden strands mixed in with the brown ones reflect the sunlight. His eyes catch mine and I realise he’s talking to me.

‘Hi,’ I say back. Other than Harry and Barney, we’re the only two people here.

‘I’m just going to double check Barney got a beach-fire permit before I light this thing.’ Harry stands up and makes a beeline for Barney, who is setting up a foldaway table and some deckchairs and my heart starts to beat rapidly. I’ve never been in Ethan’s company and lacked a snarky comment before, but he’s brought steaks and beers, what could I possibly snipe about? He’s a delightful guest.

‘How was your drive out?’ Ethan asks after a few moments of uncomfortable silent shuffling. This new dynamic between us feels weird.

‘Fine,’ I say, not wanting to speak any more than I have to, but the silence is so awkward that I add, ‘I loved the car.’

He takes his T-shirt from the back of his shorts and lays it out on the sand and sits on it, his movement casting a fresh, lemony scent. ‘They’re fun in the summer.’

I nod and glance over to Harry and Barney for a reason to go over. They’re having a heated discussion about napkin positioning that I’m ill-equipped to get involved with. I’ll have to wait.

‘Your customer service has improved,’ I say and add a smile so he knows I’m teasing. To my surprise, he smiles back.

‘I figured I should work on it if I want to keep taking your money.’

Hesitantly, I untie my hoodie from around my waist and look at Ethan, who gestures for me to sit. I lay it down a couple of feet away from him before sitting down on it. ‘So, it seems that you like to be on time for a party too.’ I’m scrambling for conversation.

‘I thought these guys could use a hand, but they’ve got it under control.’ He leans back to rest on his hands. ‘Actually, that’s a lie, I thought they said five-thirty, so technically, I’m an hour late.’

I laugh softly, though I can’t tell if he is late or he really did want to help. Something inside of me thinks it’s the latter.

‘Do you want a beer?’

I’m a little taken aback, small talk is one thing but having a drink together is another. Some alcohol would be brilliant though.

‘I’d love one.’ I feel guilty when I catch how full Ethan’s cool box is. All I’d brought along was a bag of giant marshmallows, and that was only because I’d never seen them before and got excited by them in the shop.

There’s a hiss as Ethan pops the lid off the cold bottle before handing it to me.

He tilts his head to take a sip of his beer, and his Adam’s apple glides up and down. ‘This has got to be one of my favourite places to sit and enjoy a beer.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I agree, without taking my eyes off Ethan, who is staring out across the water. Whilst he has a near perfect record of driving me mad, something about him is so compelling. I can’t put my finger on what it is and it’s hard not to look at him when I know I won’t get caught. He almost seems lost.

‘So where do you live when you’re in England?’ he asks, and I’m grateful for his help with the conversation. A woman arrives with two children, a girl and a boy, who both look around twelve. Ethan waves, and she shouts ‘Hey Ethan’ before heading to place a bag by the table which Barney has almost finished setting up. When Ethan doesn’t move to go and talk to her, I fill him in briefly on my past seven years in London.

‘Where did you live before London?’

I swallow a lump in my throat. ‘The Cotswolds.’

‘The Cotswolds?’ The words sound funny in his gravelly American voice. ‘Sounds quaint.’ He smiles before taking a pull of his beer.

‘How about you? Have you always lived here in Provincetown?’ I ask, mostly to make polite conversation but also because I find myself intrigued, both by Ethan, and by growing up in such a place.

‘I was born here, but I went to the University of Massachusetts Boston and ended up living over there for about ten years …’ He trails off and stares out across the ocean.

‘What did you study at university?’

‘Environmental Sciences. I was on the marine science track there. I’ve always been interested in marine ecology – living here it’s hard not to be.’ He lets out a small laugh.

Marine ecology to bike rental? I sense there’s much more to his story, but I don’t probe any further. I know only too well how an innocent question, intended to scratch the surface, can open quite a deep wound.

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