Книга - Almost Forever: An emotional debut perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes

Almost Forever: An emotional debut perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes
Laura Danks


Perfect for fans of Nicholas Sparks, Cecelia Ahern and Jojo MoyesCan love truly conquer all?When a vicious attack leaves Paul in a coma on his wedding day, the doctors fear he will never wake up. But his fiancée Fran will never give up hope.Fran has always known Paul is the only man for her, from the first moment they locked eyes as children to the day he finally told her he loved her. Paul can’t leave her, not now their lives are just about to begin.Love will always find a way… won’t it?What readers are saying about Almost Forever:‘A wonderful love story that had me laughing, crying, getting frustrated with the characters and smiling too.’ NovelKicks‘Definitely had me crying at points’ FNM‘Much more than just a love story. It is a tale of hope, perseverance and about life after the worst case scenario.’ Cheryl M-M’s Book Blog‘An intelligent and sophisticated romance, I’ll be adding Laura Danks to my list of authors to look out for in the future.’ Cosy Books‘I couldn’t put it down!’ Amazon Reader‘Emotional, thought provoking and endlessly romantic!’ Amazon Reader‘It's about growing up, it's about love, loss, and having the courage to take action and be who you want to be. Loved it.’ Amazon Reader‘A love story with a twist that will have your emotions in turmoil’ Amazon Reader‘Thoroughly enjoyed the book. very moving, could not put the book down.’ Amazon Reader







Can love truly conquer all?

When a vicious attack leaves Paul in a coma on his wedding day, the doctors fear he will never wake up. But his fiancée Fran will never give up hope.

Fran has always known Paul is the only man for her, from the first moment they locked eyes as children to the day he finally told her he loved her. Paul can’t leave her, not now their lives are just about to begin.

Love will always find a way … won’t it?


Almost Forever

Laura Danks






ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES


Contents

Cover (#ue7f837a7-6daf-57ab-8a99-44702252e5ee)

Blurb (#uddfd1445-37db-5a59-a2ef-b6f9fd847a0e)

Title Page (#u294547bb-ed59-5bcd-b60b-e92019cdec59)

Author Bio (#u0fec97df-7bfd-52f8-ac59-aa1f66d5a930)

Acknowledgements (#ulink_baaba5a1-340c-560f-b6ea-17c4e94c28e8)

Dedication (#ulink_39c81f5a-5632-5eeb-ad3a-2d612842d28a)

Quote (#ub026acde-f1cf-5f4f-9258-dc8f54fd23d0)

Prologue (#ulink_75cb9db8-d528-5e7b-a4fb-e589cf0907da)

Chapter One (#ulink_67994b09-025d-596b-a480-0e8ff27bfd26)

Chapter Two (#ulink_9643e98f-8870-5d73-8026-7cc4055fa3a3)

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Endpages (#u6d3736c9-4ef0-595a-b220-2bd8337e6fa9)

Copyright


LAURA DANKS

was born and raised in Italy and studied Classics in Milan, hoping to follow in the footsteps of Indiana Jones, her childhood hero. Instead of treasure hunting, in 2001 she moved to London and worked in Online Advertising, a fifteen-year career she decided to give up to write full-time.

She now lives in a two-hundred-year-old cottage near Cambridge with her husband, her two kids, Hugo the cat and a typewriter.


Author’s Note

Born as a homage to the tragic love between Paolo Malatesta and Francesca da Rimini from Dante’s Divina Commedia – Inferno, Canto V, this story has taken a deeper and more personal significance when my father suffered a stroke and suddenly the emotions I committed to paper were actually very real and familiar.

My dad is recovering well, but 15 million people around the world suffer a stroke every year and many are not quite as fortunate. So I decided to dedicate this book to them and their families, and donate part of my royalties to the Stroke Association (www.stroke.org.uk (http://www.stroke.org.uk)) to support their tireless work and research.

A special mention also goes to an amazing young writer, Jemima Layzell, who died of a ruptured giant aneurysm and donated her organs to eight people. Her poignant quote beautifully introduces Paul and Francesca’s story. For more information about Jemima, her book The Draft and her charity please visit: www.jemimalayzell.com (http://www.jemimalayzell.com).


Acknowledgements (#ulink_0e5128f8-efe6-5240-a826-6391ce4a0767)

Firstly, to everyone who bought a copy of this book, thank you for supporting my fundraising effort, it’s an extremely worthy cause.

Thank you also to Pete, for his unshakable support, I couldn’t have done it without you.

To Suzanne and Debbie, thank you for your patience with my ‘first draft’ and its many iterations.

To my family in Milan, grazie for cheering me on, even if my work may never be translated into Italian.

Thank you to all the caring and kind friends, who forgave me for disappearing into the world of editing for months on end.

And last, but not least, a sincere thank you to my editor, Hannah Smith, and the team at HarperCollins, who helped shape my manuscript into a heart-warming tale of love, hope and courage.


Dedication (#ulink_de45344e-6b1d-5a43-8e75-9fc2a3e78ceb)

To Dad and Zio Roby – two very brave men.


Anyway I need to write what I think and feel.

Not all that you see here actually ‘happened’ but it’s still very real to me.

I don’t care if I let my imagination run away with me!

Plenty of brilliant artists and writers were mad! …

People still loved them and their work just the same.

And I want to be loved too.

I almost feel as though I will never live long enough

to become an author, to be married and have a family.

The Draft, Jemima Layzell


Prologue (#ulink_bb56b739-da8b-5267-8b49-20c52466098e)

29th of February

It’s morning. I can see the sun glowing outside the window, even if its brightness is dimmed by the still-drawn curtains. The bedroom is too dark to put every little detail into focus, but when I lift my hand in front of my nose, the ring on my finger shines in all its beauty, just for me.

I sigh in the quiet of the morning light, and then turn to Paul, planning to snuggle up with him until the alarm goes off, and the frenzy of the day commences.

‘Paul?’ I call out for him when I realise he isn’t there. I stretch my hand to his empty side of the bed and feel the warmth of his body that’s still lingering under the covers.

‘Paul?!’ I call again, propping myself up with a frown. No answer.

An unexpected anxiety fills my chest so I turn my lamp on and look around the room. Paul is nowhere to be seen. ‘The shower …’ I whisper when I hear the water running and exhale the worry that so quickly took hold of my heart. ‘You need to calm down,’ I tell myself, staring at the closed door, longing for the man behind it.

Maybe, I should just join him under the hot steamy shower, I think with a long, dreamy sigh before leaning back against my pillow, my movements lazy and slow. Unfortunately, there is no time for that, I remind myself, thinking of the self-imposed, manic schedule for the day ahead.

‘Today is my wedding day,’ I say out loud as the reality of it becomes suddenly, incredibly real. ‘Oh my!’ I squeal, pressing my face into the pillow, but even that isn’t enough to smother the giggles that are bursting out of my throat in little fits of joy.

My heart is thumping inside my chest and an exhilarating sense of excitement is bubbling into my stomach. When I regain some control over my pulse, I roll onto my back.

‘Mrs FitzRoy,’ I say, pulling the duvet all the way to my chin – and at those words, a shiver runs pleasantly down my spine as my smile widens.

Too many emotions are storming inside me and I need a minute to collect myself, so I stare at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, trying to concentrate on my diaphragm moving slowly up and down; but my thoughts start to wander somewhere out of the boundaries of my control, and I’m soon lost in a world of exquisite dreams.

Stretching languidly, I think of the venue in Vegas we’ve chosen for our ceremony, and while I’m still lazily sprawled in bed, it’s crazy to imagine that we are due to fly to the States in just a few hours. I shake my head at the madness of it but the smile stays firmly on my lips.

We picked an outdoor location, decided that we wanted an evening service, so when we landed on The Grove’s website, we both knew it was just perfect.

An oasis in the desert, far away from the lights of the Strip and the bustle of the casinos – the venue is incredibly beautiful. I can so easily picture the two of us standing in the middle of the charming orchard of century-old almond trees, their branches lit up by a thousand fairy lights, huddling around us with their protective embrace.

I’ll look into Paul’s eyes as we exchange promises of eternal love under a magical canopy of twinkling stars, at the stroke of midnight.

I bite down on my trembling lower lip and my heart is literally bursting inside my chest at the thought that before today is over, I’ll marry the man I love.

‘I’m getting married today,’ I whisper suddenly feeling a surge of panic bubbling into my throat. ‘Stop it! You’re just being irrational,’ I tell myself when my mouth goes dry and my heart starts beating with irregular thumps. I swallow. I’ve known Paul since we were children, and loved him for just as long. We moved in together six months ago, and in all honesty, our life won’t change much after we say ‘I do’, so why does it feel as if we are rushing in?

‘Maybe because you just got engaged, that’s why!’ I tell myself, rolling my eyes at the reckless decision I made when Paul proposed, while in Paris, only a couple of days ago.

I cover my blushing cheeks with my hands shaking at the thought that I’ve been the one suggesting we elope instead of just doing it the traditional way. ‘This is crazy,’ I mutter shaking my head again, wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind.

‘Good morning, beautiful,’ Paul says, looking at me with a smile as he walks back into the bedroom. With just a towel wrapped around his waist, hanging low on his hips, he is a glorious sight, and when my eyes meet his, all my doubts melt away like ice cream on a sunny day, sweet and sticky. My hesitations are immediately replaced with the familiar sense of belonging that Paul always inspired in me, ever since the very first time we met.

I smile back thinking: Yes, I’ve totally lost my mind and yes, I am crazy … crazy for him!

‘Today I’m going to marry the most handsome bachelor in London,’ I say with a flirty look. I’m trying to be playful to lessen the solemnity of my emotions while I watch him walking towards me. The fear is now gone and my whole being is just pulsing with love and excitement.

‘I knew you just wanted me for my body! My mother warned me about women like you,’ he says with an offended tone and a raise of an eyebrow; but I can see the ghost of a cheeky smile dancing on his lips. I want to run to him and kiss him until we are both out of breath but, feigning complete indifference to his grimace, I agree with him instead. ‘Absolutely! You’ll be my trophy husband.’

He sighs, then flashes me a grin. What now? I wonder as I watch him walking with an exaggerated swagger to the oversized mirror propped against the brick wall. He spends a few seconds inspecting himself, taking his time to admire his reflection, even flexing his biceps in an overdramatic, macho way that doesn’t suit him.

‘I can totally see your point, woman,’ he announces eventually, throwing a glance back at me and I just have to giggle.

He turns to stare at me, then walks back to the bed and comes to sit next to me. His eyes are soft now but I know him well enough to spot tension in his shoulders.

I stop laughing immediately and an involuntary loud sigh leaves my lips. The emotions inside me are bouncing up and down in my chest again. He can see I’m struggling to keep them under control.

‘How do you feel about getting hitched?’ His tone is easy and relaxed but his expression has turned serious.

‘A little nervous …’ I admit, slightly embarrassed.

‘Cold feet, Miss Willson?’ He lowers his lips to mine. His wet hair drips onto my skin and I start to shiver. ‘Should I be worried that you’ll run off before I get the chance to say “I do”?’ he whispers tenderly. Then, in a playful move, he softly pinches my toes, still tucked under the covers.

‘Of course, not,’ I answer, wiggling them away from him as I sit up against the headboard. We are just inches apart and I can feel a bubble of love forming around us.

‘Sure?’ His eyes are careful as if trying to read my thoughts.

‘Totally,’ I tell him, covering his hand with mine. ‘I won’t run,’ I promise, but the concern in his eyes is still there.

He takes a deep breath. ‘You know we don’t have to do it this way, right? We don’t need to rush things. We don’t have to elope to Vegas – I’m not going anywhere. You know we can still call this off, make new plans.’ There is frustration in the kiss he places on my forehead, but I’m not sure why. ‘We can wait a little longer. We could get married next spring in Cambridge, or maybe next summer, in France. Have a ceremony in a real chapel, with family and friends around us, even have a reception with guests, who are not complete strangers. We could just settle for the usual.’ He floats the idea, then pauses for a while to let his words sink in.

‘No.’ My conviction is supported by the determined tone in my voice. ‘I want to marry you tonight, Paul, I really do and I know it’s crazy to organise a wedding in three days and I know we will have to rush around like lunatics but that’s exactly what I want. My heart rules today and I don’t care about planning. I don’t care about being careful; all I care about is becoming your wife.’

I can read the emotions in his eyes and that gives me the courage to bare my deepest feelings. ‘The fantasy of being your wife, Paul, has always been there. Marrying you at midnight tonight is exactly what I’ve dreamed of, all my life. I just didn’t realise it until you proposed,’ I say to him, unearthing my most intimate secret – one that, for a long time, I kept hidden even from myself.

He takes another deep breath and, without a word, he stands. His eyes are as clear as spring water and I can see his emotions floating under the surface. When I take the hand he’s offering me, he smiles and pulls me gently out of our bed, and into his arms.

Being crushed against his wet skin makes me shiver. He stares at me when I lift my arms and wrap them softly around his neck. He places his hands on my lower back and holds me even closer, when I boost myself up on my tiptoes.

‘I love you,’ he says, before pressing his lips softly on mine and when a shiver runs down my spine I regret not having joined him in the shower. Our eyes are locked, our lips only inches apart, and my belly fills with longing.

‘I want to marry you tonight, Paul. I don’t want to wait another minute, not another second. I want our forever to start.’

‘I want exactly the same thing, Fran. Always have, always will,’ he answers softly and my breath hitches inside my chest. I close the distance between us and when he kisses me again, in that perfect moment, I feel as if our forever is really just around the corner, waiting for us.

‘Not long now – only ten hours on a transatlantic flight,’ he jokes, ‘and a quick limo ride to The Grove and then you’ll be my wife.’

‘The bed is still warm and cosy. We have aeons before the flight,’ I whisper, teasing him with my lips and a flirtatious look. ‘What time is it?’ I ask him, wondering if we should just get a jump-start on our honeymoon.

A smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘It’s almost forever, my love. Are you ready for it?’ he asks and when I nod, taking a deep breath and trying to contain my excitement, he lifts me up, and spins me around the room, kissing me as I float. The echoes of my giggles reverberate into my heart, filling me with joy.

If I had known this was going to be the last time I’d be in his arms with my eyes locked deeply with his, I would have never, ever, let him go.


Chapter One (#ulink_1fa4e729-eafe-5d85-814a-19fd2efa7a23)

My back is curved, my elbows are digging uncomfortably into my thighs, and my head is burrowed into my hands. Loose strands of hair are covering my face, while my eyes are staring into a world that’s now opaque with crippling fear.

I quiver at the noise of the ambulance sirens that still echo inside my ears, inside my head, and I shiver at the chill that has descended inside me, dimming the clarity of my memories.

I cannot remember how I got to the hospital. I think someone drove me here, but I’m not quite sure who it was. I recall the journey through the traffic, the sound of my sobbing filling my thoughts with scared confusion. I remember my voice shaking when I asked after Paul at the reception desk. I puffed while running up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, the sound of my shoes reverberating all around me. All that rushing, just to be asked to sit, to be told to wait.

I’ve been sitting and waiting for what feels like an eternity already. Grinding my teeth, I keep asking myself questions that I have no answers to. Worse still is the fact that no one else seems to have any either, which is both upsetting and frustrating.

The police are not sure about what happened to Paul, the doctors are not sure about his prognosis and I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive, if he dies.

Then suddenly, in the silence of my despair, I hear her calling my name.

Her voice echoes inside my head, resounding through the ringing in my ears, distant and foreign. The fact that I’ve known that voice for twenty years bears no significance in the dark place I am in. Her steps are hurried as she walks towards me but I don’t have the strength to look up. She calls my name again. Her tone is urgent, preoccupied, but I don’t seem to find the energy to get up, to look at her, so I remain exactly as I am. Motionless.

I hear her approaching.

‘Fran?’ she calls again, softly, but it’s only when she eventually places her open palms on my shoulders and shakes me gently that I manage the strength to lift my head and look in her direction. She seems to be enveloped by a hazy glow. My eyes are tired and sore from crying. I can sense that they’re puffy, and because of the stinging sensation in them, it takes more than a few seconds to focus on her face. She is standing in front of me, only a few inches away. I stare at Georgie, my best friend since pre-school, and I feel a sudden sense of relief.

‘Georgie …’ Her name is a whisper of relief that comes out of my dry lips like a prayer.

‘I’m here,’ she murmurs, wrapping her arms around me when I press my face against her shoulder and take a deep breath. Even such a small movement demands an enormous effort on my part. My back tenses as it shifts upright.

As soon as the oxygen fills my lungs, the tears inundate my eyes and the sobs come all at once. They are uncontrollable fits, fuelled by a raw fear that slashes through me with each breath I take. Georgie lets me purge, stroking my back, murmuring soothing words in my ears. I cling on to them, on to her, as if someone else’s hope will keep me afloat.

‘This is one of the best hospitals in the country, Fran, possibly in the world, and they are just going to do the impossible to make Paul better,’ she says and those words become a mantra looped into my murky brain, as their ripple washes away some of the panic inside my chest.

They’ll make him better.

They’ll make him better.

I keep repeating it to myself until the crying stops, and my breathing returns to normal. I’m not sure how long it takes to calm down because it feels as if I’ve somehow lost the ability to estimate the passing of time, and I can’t tell how long it is before I dry my tears with the tissue Georgie has put in my hand. How long before I get hold of my raging emotions and shake myself from the apathy that has seeped into my veins.

‘Do you know what happened?’ Georgie asks tentatively, and I feel as if she’s been waiting until I’ve regained some control before posing this difficult question.

‘No,’ I answer her, shaking my head. Frustration fills up my throat. My voice sounds hoarse because of it. ‘The police … they think he may have walked into a robbery, but they’re not sure. He was beaten, stabbed,’ I say, telling her the little information that I know. My heart sinks at the reality that Paul is fighting for survival, on our wedding day. ‘Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life,’ I whisper to Georgie, who nods in understanding.

I can see her eyes are filled with sorrow but there is nothing she can say to soothe my pain. We both know that; she just moves on to a different topic.

‘I spoke with Harry,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘He’s on his way. Albert is with him. They left as soon as you called and they were near St Albans when I talked to him. It won’t be much longer now.’ I nod looking down at the floor. I can hear Georgie still talking about something but my mind has drifted off. My heart goes out to Albert.

He is Paul’s father and I’ve known him since childhood, but since his wife died last year, he’s not the man he was. Josephine’s passing broke him and I’m dreading to think what this unexpected blow will do to him. Josephine, Paul’s mum, was ill for a long time – for as long as I can remember – but all the way through we never stopped looking for a cure. We didn’t give up hope, not even when she deteriorated significantly last year.

Albert retired so he could spend every minute she had left with her, convinced that his love, his affection, and his constant presence at her side would perform a miracle. When Josephine eventually died, the doctors agreed that it had been astonishing for her to survive that long given the poor state of her lungs. Still, she outlived even the most optimistic prognosis by ten years.

‘It was a miracle,’ Albert said in his eulogy to his beloved wife. ‘Amor Vincit Omnia – Love Conquers All,’ he added with a broken voice and a shattered heart. I grab on to those words in this moment of despair, and hold them tightly as they are the only glimpse of hope I can see right now. If only Harry were here with me, he would know exactly what to do.

Harry is Paul’s younger brother. He often spends the weekend with his father in Cambridge, in their family mansion, and that was where he was driving back to London from.

I used to live in Cambridge too, in a three-bed mid-terrace on a busy road, but the FitzRoys’ mansion was the home I really grew up in. I feel a painful twinge in my heart when all the beautiful memories I have of that house come flowing back like a swollen river flooding its bank. I can’t stop them, and I’m suddenly swallowed by the past. While the reality of what just happened to Paul blurs away, I’m back in a hot summer morning, a few weeks before my eighth birthday. That was the day I met Harry and Paul, and Josephine, and my life entwined with the FitzRoys’ forever.

***

The FitzRoys’ estate was just off the main road, less than a mile from my house. Century-old trees and tall Buxus hedges hid the house from view, so – even if I walked by it countless times – I had no idea how their mansion really looked, at least until the day I walked right in.

Everyone knew of them. Still, never in a million years had I thought I would ever get to meet them. We didn’t have any friends in common, we went to different schools and, indisputably, they would never come to play in the small park on the wrong side of the road.

The FitzRoys were appropriately active in the community, and even if their kids went to one of the renowned private schools in the centre of town, they supported the PTA of the local school, they sponsored the local under-elevens football team, and generously donated to the church fête. Once they even helped a talented local artist with a scholarship for the Accademia di Belle Arti, in Milan. Still, it was a series of coincidences that led me straight to the FitzRoys, a twist of fate that would change my life.

My sister Becca was leaving in September for Leicester University, and with only a couple of hundred pounds to her name, she had been trying – desperately and without success – to get a summer job and some extra cash. No one seemed to have anything to offer, until, out of the blue, the perfect opportunity landed right in her lap.

The FitzRoys’ nanny, Sara, broke her foot while skipping rope and had to keep her leg in a cast for a few weeks, so Becca was asked if she wanted to help Sara with the kids, until she was – literally – back on her feet.

‘They are going to pay me to play, watch movies, and sit in the garden. It sounds like the best job ever!’ Becca told me as soon as she put down the phone, after accepting the offer, without even questioning how they knew she was looking to temp.

She had to start immediately, and I was allowed to accompany her given that she hadn’t had time to organise for someone to step in and look after me.

Some may call it destiny, others coincidence, either way, all the stars aligned in that one magical, fortunate moment, which defined the rest of my childhood and then, the rest of my life.

I was incredibly nervous at the idea of meeting such a prominent family. I felt a little queasy as we walked down the road, so I looked up at Becca to check if she was nervous too. She smiled at me, relaxed and confident, and I envied her assertiveness.

She looked great with her short hair and her new big round sunglasses. They were a knock-off copy of a fancy Armani pair but she wore them like they were the real thing; so they looked like the real thing. She was a little bossy but she also had charisma and exuded conviction in all her actions. I admired her for her fortitude.

She was eighteen – ten years older than me – and since our parents divorced she had been everything to me, and I loved her even more because of that. It scared me that she’d be leaving for university in a few months and I would be left alone with a father who only had time for his students and his studies.

I was biting my nails, an unconscious habit, as we approached the FitzRoys’ house. When we turned onto the white gravel driveway, Becca squeezed my hand that she had been holding all the way and whispered with a smile, ‘You’ll be all right, Fran.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I repeated to myself as I lifted my gaze. That’s when I stumbled at the surprise of the impressive house that appeared in front of me, in all its majestic beauty. I had never seen a private home this impressive and magnificent before. Three storeys high, with at least a dozen windows, probably more, it was framed by tall trees at the back and flowered bushes at the front. It belonged in a fairy tale.

‘Wow,’ I mumbled.

‘How incredible that modern life hasn’t touched it. It’s like stepping back in time,’ said Becca, clearly trying to sound sophisticated but with amazement in her eyes. I grinned at her, all nerves gone, as I itched to go inside and explore.

I don’t know how to explain it properly but I was drawn to objects: clothing, books, songs that belonged to a different era. Architecture was a big part of it too. My wildest dreams always involved a visit to the Pyramids and the Colosseum and the Parthenon. My mind always filled with the images from Dad’s textbooks and the documents he would leave lying around. They captured my imagination. This building was the closest I had ever been to stepping into one of those pictures.

‘Ready?’ asked Becca, lifting her sunglasses over her head.

When I gave her an assertive nod, she knocked twice on the imposing black door.

A young woman, dressed in a flowing summer dress, answered it.

‘Hello,’ she said with a melodious voice. ‘You must be Becca.’

My sister smiled. ‘And you must be Sara?’ she asked in return, looking down at the cast sticking out from under the hem of the young woman’s dress.

‘That’s me – skipper extraordinaire!’ she said with a small curtsy and a laugh. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help out until I get rid of this contraption. I know it was very short notice.’

‘Really, I should thank you for this opportunity,’ Becca answered sounding sincerely grateful.

‘What goes around, comes around,’ Sara said. We looked at her puzzled so she explained. ‘My auntie said you were looking for a summer job and that you weren’t having much luck finding anything. She also recommended you wholeheartedly, so two birds, one stone.’

I liked the way Sara seemed to be communicating through idioms. It made me smile.

‘Your aunt?’ Becca asked, raising both eyebrows as if she found it incredible that someone would actually think so highly of her. It surprised me to discover that maybe my big sister wasn’t quite as confident as she always led me to believe.

‘Mrs Schumann, your next-door neighbour,’ Sara said.

‘Oh! Of course, I’ve known Mrs Schumann all my life,’ said Becca with affection.

‘Auntie Myriam is my father’s sister and she said that when it rains, you always walk her dog, which is very kind of you. She suffers quite badly when her arthritis plays up in the winter and walking in the rain would only make it worse.’

‘It’s my pleasure really – I like the rain and I love Harold,’ said Becca with a smile. ‘He is such a sweetheart. Really, it’s no trouble to take him out for a walk, especially because Mrs Schumann always repays me with a slice of cake, so definitely worth the effort!’

I thought about Mrs Schumann’s lemon drizzle. It was to die for, and the memory of it made my mouth water.

‘Well, thank you for your kindness – I’m glad I was able to somehow repay you for the favour,’ Sara said, clumsily turning around. ‘Come on in, I’ll show you around.’

We followed her as she limped ahead of us.

The inside of the house was as breathtaking as the outside. The corridor, crafted with sleek ornate tiles, made me feel as if I’d stepped back in time. The beautiful decorated ceilings and the shiny timber furniture seemed to be as antique as the building itself.

I didn’t know real people lived in magical places that looked like museums.

Sara’s voice brought me back to the here and now, when she stopped in front of a double door and said, ‘Sorry I’ve forgotten your name.’ She was looking at me expectantly so when I hesitated Becca nudged me slightly with her elbow.

‘Francesca,’ I said. ‘But everybody calls me Fran.’

‘Well, Fran, nice to meet you. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself. We have all sort of toys and books and movies and video games too, so I’m sure we’ll find something to keep you entertained.’

I nodded.

‘Also, knowing that you were coming the boys have requested an extra special casse-croûte – and that’s no ordinary snack,’ she added with a wink. ‘I promise you are in for a real treat.’

I nodded again, slightly dazzled by what she had said. She winked at Becca and then turned to open the tall double doors in front of us. ‘This is the playroom,’ she said, wobbling in.

The room, a large and airy double-high extension, was deserted.

‘I think the boys are in the garden. It’s such a lovely day – I’m pleased they’re outside enjoying the sun.’ She slowly hopped her way towards the folding French doors that were opened wide. Outside I could see a lush garden stretching below the stony patio.

I took a 360-degree turn to get a better feel for the space. An unexpected contrast to the entrance hall, this place was loaded with so many gadgets they sent my head spinning. Everything in here was so modern it felt as if we’d been catapulted from another era into the future. There was a games console positioned near a humongous TV screen. In front of it there was a big, plush corner sofa as well as several beanbags scattered on the floor. A floor to ceiling bookshelf that looked like it was built into the back wall was packed with DVDs, video games, books, and comics. Becca was obviously as astounded by the space as I was.

Neither of us had a mobile phone and we still didn’t have any Internet at home, not even dial-up. The only video games we ever played were at the arcade when we went on holiday to Cromer. This place was like the Kennedy Space Center in comparison to our house.

‘Let’s go,’ Becca said and nudged me along when I stopped in front of the laptop on a small desk in the corner. I walked through the French doors, and when I stepped outside, the sun was shining over a manicured lawn. Tall trees, scrub, and tended rose bushes contoured the garden. This house was a constant source of surprises as the garden extended far beyond what I had imagined possible for an estate in the centre of Cambridge.

‘Wow,’ I breathed, looking at the wooden swing attached to the centenary oak to my left.

There was laughter coming from the gazebo and that was exactly where Sara was heading. ‘Robert! Harry! Look who’s here!’ she bellowed and that was when I spotted two children who answered her with a loud ‘Hello’ and an enthusiastic waving of arms.

When we reached them, I stood a foot away hiding slightly behind Becca. A little boy was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the decking beside his brother. They both looked straight at me.

‘Hey, Rob!’ said Sara, bending down near the youngest of the two boys.

‘Mummy’s here! Mummy’s here!’ he chanted full of excitement as if that was a rare and extraordinary event. I watched an enormous grin appear on his face as he pointed at a beautiful woman gracefully sitting on one of the rattan sofas behind him. My gaze fell on her and from that moment I was not capable of diverting my eyes.

She was sitting still but her sinuous pose gave her a sense of fluidity as if she was in motion. She had long legs, long arms, long fingers, long eyelashes. I couldn’t quite stop looking at her full lips and her big hazelnut-coloured eyes. Her skin was pale and tanned at the very same time, a perfect complement to her eyes and her beautiful chestnut hair. I’d never seen anyone like her. She belonged in a movie.

‘Oh! Hello, Josephine, you look great this morning. How are you feeling?’ said Sara sitting down on the decking and stretching the leg in the cast in front of her.

‘Much better, thank you. Certainly better than you,’ Josephine answered with a smile.

‘I’m never going to live this down,’ Sara said, glancing at us.

Josephine followed Sara’s gaze and trained her eyes on us, looking at Becca first and then at me.

‘Becca, Fran,’ Sara said somewhat pompously. ‘It’s my pleasure to introduce you to the most famous French “first ballerina” of all time, Josephine Du Pasquier – also known as Mrs A. FitzRoy.’

‘Sara,’ said Josephine as if reprimanding her but her tone betrayed her affection.

I watched their exchange with surprise. They behaved like old friends and not employer and employee.

‘Nice to meet you, Becca and Fran,’ said Josephine.

‘Nice to meet you too,’ Becca answered while I mumbled the same words, unsure of what to do next. The older of the two brothers stood up and walked to me. ‘I’m Harry,’ he said, offering me his hand.

‘Hi,’ I answered, shaking it gently. ‘I’m Fran,’ I said, blushing.

‘I think it may be easier if I make proper introductions,’ said Josephine, taking the attention back onto herself. I was really glad she did.

‘First of all, please call me Josephine. Mrs FitzRoy is just so awfully formal,’ she said and then patted the space next to her. ‘Come and sit down here,’ she suggested so we humoured her and sat on the sofa. ‘These are my children,’ she said when we were comfortably settled. ‘Robert is the youngest of my boys. He’s only just turned three. Harry here is nine, and right over there, rocking a “moody teenager” demeanour a few years ahead of schedule, is Paul. He’s really only eleven and will be starting senior school in September,’ she said, ostensibly mocking him though her voice dripped with pride.

‘Hello,’ he said, turning away from the book on his lap only for a second, but when our eyes met I felt a strange curiosity towards him and the book he was reading. Josephine and Becca started to chat with Sara. Harry went to play football with Robert. I declined his invite to go with them.

While half listening to the grown-up conversation, I kept my eyes on Paul. Slowly, I started to shuffle towards the armrest so that soon enough I was able to look over Paul’s shoulder as he sat on the deck with his back against the side of the sofa. I watched him in silence for a few seconds, but then curiosity took over.

‘What are you reading?’ I asked, unable to think of a better approach.

He turned to look at me. ‘Are you into books?’ he asked instead of answering my question.

I nodded enthusiastically, hoping he would like that we had that in common.

‘It’s new. You probably don’t know this author,’ he said. ‘The book only came out a few weeks ago,’ he added and I felt my cheeks burning. He kept his eyes on me so I rushed to say the first thing I could think of.

‘I may know who he is, if you tell me his name,’ I said lifting my shoulders.

‘J.K. Rowling,’ he said and then waited for my reaction.

‘Oh … I don’t know him,’ I said deflated.

‘She is a woman, and as I said she is a new author – not many people have read this book,’ he answered. Then turning slightly, he added, ‘I only just started it myself.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I stammered, worried that he thought I wanted to take his book from him. ‘It’s your book. I was just asking …’ I tried to sound reassuring but when he shook his head, I worried I was going to get in trouble.

‘I really only just started it,’ he explained. ‘So, I mean, if you want you can read it with me. You know … together … but only if you want,’ he said.

I couldn’t keep the surprise from showing on my face.

‘So? Do you want to read with me?’ he asked patiently, turning so that we were facing each other.

‘Ehm, I …’ I mumbled, not sure of what to do.

‘Look,’ he said, lifting the book over the armrest so that I could see it. ‘Only four pages in.’

‘Okay, then,’ I said and slid off the sofa. I gingerly kneeled nearby.

‘Sit closer,’ he suggested, and gestured to the paperback he held open on his lap. I nodded and sat next to him with my back propped against the sofa, mimicking his posture. My head, tilted to his side, almost touched his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind the proximity. He turned back to the beginning, and after a few pages, we found a pace that suited us both, reading line after line almost at the exact same speed.

We sat engrossed in J.K. Rowling’s words for the entire afternoon and started a friendship that would grow into a deep, everlasting love.





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