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The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea: A gorgeously uplifting festive romance!
Jaimie Admans


Don’t miss the heartwarming holiday romance coming soon from the author of The Little Wedding Island!Pre-order now!









About the Author (#ulink_71ca2b6e-0399-5b38-9d65-69b596341722)


JAIMIE ADMANS is a 32-year-old English-sounding Welsh girl with an awkward-to-spell name. She lives in South Wales and enjoys writing, gardening, watching horror movies and drinking tea, although she’s seriously considering marrying her coffee machine. She loves autumn and winter, and singing songs from musicals despite the fact she’s got the voice of a dying hyena. She hates spiders, hot weather and cheese & onion crisps. She spends far too much time on Twitter and owns too many pairs of boots. She will never have time to read all the books she wants to read.

Jaimie loves to hear from readers; you can visit her website at www.jaimieadmans.com (http://www.jaimieadmans.com) or connect on Twitter @be_the_spark (http://www.twitter.com/be_the_spark).




Also by Jaimie Admans (#ulink_5ab25417-69c0-5b73-a459-0c0fd07917f8)


The Château of Happily-Ever-Afters

The Little Wedding Island

It’s a Wonderful Night




The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea

JAIMIE ADMANS








HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Jaimie Admans 2019

Jaimie Admans 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008330866

E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008296964

Version: 2019-02-25


Table of Contents

Cover (#ue359a24f-7436-5b18-a9f2-245670bee42d)

About the Author (#u2159dde8-ee0d-5f84-aaed-e0c0840a754d)

Also by Jaimie Admans (#u368e5414-0378-5baf-9202-f3c7d7c31382)

Title page (#u827c4ecc-c400-55cd-8d27-84b6ceaae61f)

Copyright (#u79a38e0e-946d-544d-a3d0-2c1c8ecc55d7)

Dedication (#ud8d0d97a-7db6-58ab-8c24-dc57f286df6e)

Chapter 1 (#u7cda985a-d0d8-5b42-b92d-7d4a5ec9385f)

Chapter 2 (#uc9b50222-01db-5124-ad0e-a1065d4e609e)

Chapter 3 (#ud9797e27-32e2-5403-abc6-3d9504be7aa1)

Chapter 4 (#ucbffafd8-ea36-58b6-b1a0-34127394bd9f)

Chapter 5 (#ud54425f7-5a10-5284-bd91-980f9ae4d148)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


For Mum and Bruiser.

You will forever be my little family who I wouldn’t change for the world, now and always.




Chapter 1 (#ulink_14fa41d5-b9e8-5695-8dff-e2250dae5e60)


Why does every man in London think that eight o’clock on a warm June morning is the ideal time to remove their shirt and get on the tube? I consider this as I peel myself away from a sweaty back and turn around to find myself face to face with someone’s wet armpit. There’s often a good time for shirtlessness, but the middle of rush hour on a crowded train is not it.

I sigh and stare at my feet. Every morning I get on this train and get off feeling like a floppy sardine that’s just been let out of a tin and probably smelling worse. All to go to the soulless office block of the women’s magazine where I work as a fact-checker, and then do the exact same thing at half past five with all the other sweaty, irritable commuters who would really love nothing more than to poke their boss in the eye and run away to a beach somewhere.

Someone stands on my toe and a handbag hits me in the thigh as someone else swings it over their arm. Ow. Only four more days to go until the weekend, and then I can have two whole days of not having to leave the flat and face the crowds of London. Two whole days of uninterrupted Netflix, apart from when Mum calls to update me on my ex-boyfriend’s latest news, which she knows because they’re still online friends even though I deleted him over two years ago.

I jump back as a briefcase threatens to take out my kneecaps. There’s got to be more to life than this.

I look up and my eyes lock on to a man near me. Train Man is going somewhere today. Usually he only has a backpack with him, but today there’s a huge suitcase leaning against his leg, rucksack straps over both shoulders, and a holdall bag hooked over one arm. He’s standing up and holding on to a rail like I am, his attention on the phone in his hand, the lines around his eyes crinkled up as he looks down at it, and the sight of him makes something flutter inside me.

I see him quite often, but he’s always already on the train when I get on, and we’re usually much further apart. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous than I’d always thought he was. He’s got short brown hair, dimples denting his cheeks, and the kind of smile that makes you look twice, which I know because he’s one of the rare London commuters who smiles at others.

The noisy tube train full of other people’s body parts in places you don’t want other people’s body parts, the noise of people sniffing and coughing, an endless medley of beeps as people play with their phones, snippets of conversation that aren’t meant for me … they all fade into the background and the world turns into slow motion as he lifts his head, almost like he can feel my eyes on him, and looks directly at me. If it was anyone else, I’d look away instantly. Staring at strangers on the tube is a quick way to get yourself punched or worse, but it’s like a magnet is holding me, drawing my gaze to his, and his mouth curves up a tiny bit at each side, making it as impossible to look away now as it is every other time he smiles at me.

I feel that familiar nervous fluttering in the deepest part of my belly. It’s not butterflies. My stomach must have disagreed with the cereal I shoved down my throat before rushing out of the flat this morning. Even though it’s the same fluttery feeling I get every time I see him and he sees me. Maybe it’s because I’m never usually this close to him. Maybe those dimples have magical powers at this distance. Maybe I’m just getting dizzy from looking up at him because I’m so short and he’s the tallest person on the train, towering above every other passenger around us.

His smile grows as he looks at me, and I feel myself smiling back, unable not to return his wide and warm smile, the kind of smile you don’t usually see from fellow commuters on public transport. Open. Inviting. His gaze is still holding mine, his smile making his dimples deepen, and the fluttery feeling intensifies.

I feel like I could lean across the carriage and say hello to him, start a conversation, ask him where he’s off to. Although that might imply that I’ve studied him hard enough on previous journeys to work out that he doesn’t usually have that much luggage. And talking to him would be ridiculous. I can’t remember the last time I said hello to a stranger. It’s considered weird here, not like in the little country village where I grew up. People just don’t do that here.

He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and he tilts his head almost like he’s trying to hold my gaze, and I wonder why. Does he know that I spend most journeys trying to work out what he does, because there’s no regularity to his routine? I’m on this train at eight o’clock every morning Monday to Friday, I look like I’m going into an office, but he’s always in jeans and a T-shirt, a jacket in the winter, and sometimes he’s on this train a couple of times a week, sometimes once a week, and other times weeks can pass without me seeing him. I don’t even know why I notice him so much. Is it because he smiles when our eyes meet? Maybe it’s because he’s so tall that you can’t help but notice him, or because London is such a big and crowded place that you rarely see the same faces more than once.

His dark eyes still haven’t left mine, and he pushes himself off the rail he’s leaning against, and for a split second I think he’s going to make the move and talk to me, and I feel like I’ve just stepped into a scene from one of my best friend Daphne’s favourite romcom movies. The leading couple’s eyes meet across a crowded train carriage and—

‘The next station is King’s Cross St. Pancras.’ An automated voice comes over the tannoy, making me jump because everything but his eyes has faded into the background.

I see him swear under his breath and a look of panic crosses his face. He checks his phone again, turns around and gathers up his suitcase, hoists the holdall bag higher up his arm, and readjusts the rucksack on his shoulders.

I feel ridiculously bereft at the loss of eye contact as the train slows, but I get swept along by the crowd as other people gather up their bags and make a mass exodus towards the doors. He glances back like he’s looking for me again, but I’m easy to miss amongst tall people and I’ve moved from where I was with the crowd. He looks around like he’s trying to locate me, and I want to call out or wave or something, but what am I supposed to say? ‘Hello, gorgeous Train Man, the strange short girl who’s spent the entire journey staring at you is still here staring at you?’

I’m not far behind him now, even though this isn’t my stop and it’s clearly his. I can see him in the throng of people, his hand wrapped around the handle of the huge wheeled suitcase he’s pulling behind him as the train comes to a stop.

As if the world turns to slow motion again, I see him glance at his phone once more and then go to pocket it, but instead of pushing it into the pocket of his jeans, it slides straight past and lands on the carriage floor at the exact moment the doors open and he, along with everyone else, rushes through them.

He hasn’t noticed.

Without thinking, I dart forward and grab the phone from the floor before someone treads on it. I stare at it for a moment. This is his phone and I have it. He doesn’t know he dropped it. There’s still time to catch up with him and give it back.

Zinnia will probably kill me for being late for work, and I’m still a few stops away from where I usually get off, but I don’t have time to wait. I follow the swarm as seemingly every other person in our carriage floods out, and I pause in the middle of them, aware of the annoyed grunts of people pushing past me as I try to see where he is. I follow the crowd off the platform and up the steps, straining to see over people’s heads and between shoulders.

I’m sure I see his hair in the distance as the crowd starts to thin out, but he’s moving faster than a jet-powered Usain Bolt after an energy drink.

‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘Wait up!’

He doesn’t react. He wouldn’t know who I was calling to, if the guy I’m following is even him.

‘Hey! You dropped your—’

Another passenger glares at me for shouting in his ear and I stop myself. I’m already out of breath and Train Man is nothing more than a blur in the distance. I rush in the same direction, but those steps have knackered me, and the faraway blob that might still be the back of his head turns a corner under the sign towards the overground trains, and I lose sight of him.

I race … well, limp … to the corner where I saw him turn, but the station fans out into an array of escalators and glowing signs and ticket booths, and it’s thronging with people. I walk around for a few minutes, looking for any hint of him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. In the many minutes it’s taken me to half-jog half-stumble from one end of the station to the other, he could be on another train halfway across London by now.

I pull my own phone out and glance at the time. I’m twenty minutes late for work, and still three tube stops and a ten-minute walk away. Zinnia is going to love me this morning. I put my phone back in my pocket and slide his in alongside it.

I’ll have to find another way to get it back to him.

I could just hand it in at the desk in the station, but he’ll probably never see it again if I do that. If I dropped my phone, I’d like to think that a stranger would be kind enough to pick it up and attempt to reunite it with me, rather than just steal it. Why shouldn’t I do that for Train Man?

There’s something about him, there has been since the first time I saw him standing squashed against the door of a crowded train, right back in my first week at Maîtresse magazine. I know Daphne’s going to say that this is the universe’s way of saying I’m supposed to meet him after all the smiles we’ve exchanged, although she regularly says that when she’s trying to set me up on dates, if she’s not too busy reminding me of how long it’s been since my last date.

But it doesn’t mean anything. He isn’t even going to know that I’m the girl he smiles at sometimes. I’m sure I can just get an address and pop the phone in the post to him.

Simple as that. It won’t be a problem.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_12c131c2-47c5-5719-8aa8-2df0a72fc909)


‘Let me get this straight,’ Daphne says as I sit in her office at Maîtresse, mopping sweat off my face from the rush to get here just-regular-late instead of monumentally going-to-be-fired late. ‘A stranger made eye contact with you, on public transport, in London?’ She screws her face up. ‘What kind of weirdo is this?’

By the time I’ve finished recounting my tube journey, she’s leaning over her desk, one hand rubbing her pregnant belly and one fanning her face. ‘Oh my God, Ness, I take it all back, he’s not a weirdo at all, he’s Train Man.’ She elongates the middle of both words to make it sound like she’s swooning.

It might not be the first time I’ve mentioned Train Man to Daphne.

‘This is like the start of a chick flick. I’d force you to watch this with me if it came on TV.’

‘And I’d humour you and spend the whole film picking apart the inaccuracies, because we all know that happily-ever-afters don’t happen in real life, and those daft romantic films are pure escapism, a million miles away from anything that could ever happen in reality.’

Daphne is so pregnant that she can barely get comfortable and she shifts in her chair again, still fanning a hand in front of her face, and I’m unsure if it’s because she’s getting hot flushes or because she thinks my morning is so swoonworthy. ‘The universe wants you to meet this man.’

I knew she’d say that.

‘No, it doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve to get his phone crushed by a stampede of people, but that’s as far as it goes. This is not one of your romantic stories.’

‘It could be like Sliding Doors.’ She ignores me. ‘Maybe you split in two as the train doors closed and there’s a whole alternative universe where you did catch up with him and—’

‘I could definitely do with splitting in two. Would the other one take half my body weight so I’d never need to go to the gym again?’

‘You don’t go to the gym, Ness, you just feel guilty for not going to the gym.’ She points a swollen finger at me. ‘And don’t try to divert the conversation. This is something special. In the other universe, the one where Gwyneth Paltrow cuts all her hair off and tells her cheating boyfriend where to go, your fingers could’ve brushed as you handed his phone back and he could’ve halted his plans to immediately take you on a date, and …’

I glance at the time on my phone again. ‘Well, my alternative-universe self works a lot faster than me. I went down the wrong escalator and got stuck for ten minutes trying to get back up. I bet she didn’t get her toes run over by three separate suitcases either.’

‘Your alternative-universe mum is probably already buying a hat. Can you imagine what your mum will say when you tell her about this? She’ll start a national campaign to find this man.’

‘That’s why no one is telling my mum in a million years. If she finds out—’

‘She’ll love it, just like all our readers will,’ Zinnia says, appearing in the doorway of Daphne’s office. I hadn’t even realised she was listening. ‘I was about to tell you off for being late, Vanessa, and then you come in with an incredible story like this.’

‘It’s not a—’

‘This is just like Sliding Doors, but it’s real,’ she says, her face lighting up as much as the Botox will allow it. ‘It’s just the sort of romantic story our readers would fall head over heels for.’

‘The romantic tale of soulmates torn apart by closing tube doors.’ Daph sits up. ‘What if now you have to find him in this universe and catch up with the other universe or you’ll be torn apart forever?’

‘I think that’s pushing it a bit, don’t you? There were no magical sliding tube doors. I’m just not fit enough to chase someone through a train station.’

‘Oh, don’t talk about pushing.’ Daph groans and rubs her belly again. ‘And everyone wants love like in the movies, but you never try to find it. Movie characters don’t just sit around expecting love to find them in the most romantic way—’

‘Unrealistic way,’ I cut in. ‘Although I wouldn’t mind my hair being as good as a Nineties Gwyneth Paltrow.’

‘Yes!’ Daph says. ‘But that’s how it is when you find “The One”. The universe rearranges itself to throw you into each other’s paths. Just like when I met Gavin. Ridiculous, inconvenient, all-consuming love, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw. This could be your chance.’

Zinnia points a bony finger at Train Man’s phone, which is still sitting in the middle of Daphne’s desk like it might burst if someone pokes it. ‘Can you get into that?’

‘No, it’s locked.’

‘Well, get it unlocked, woman. How else are you going to get it back to him and feel the sparks of your fingers brushing as you stare deeply into his eyes and fall in lurve?’

Zinnia is probably a typical magazine editor; picture Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, but with more hair product and brighter clothes. Thankfully she’s a bit nicer than Miranda Priestly, and she runs a fortnightly women’s magazine instead of a haute couture fashion mag, but she only employed me because Daphne persuaded her I had all the qualities needed in a fact-checker, like being fastidious and meticulous, when the only thing I’m fastidious about is making sure there’s not a scrape of Nutella left at the bottom of the jar and I’m definitely not meticulous about setting my alarm in the mornings, and the more days that I underestimate the amount of time it takes to commute through London, the more likely Zinnia is to realise that Daphne was just trying to help her best friend get a job and I’m not actually that good at being a fact-checker. Or at getting here on time.

‘You’ve got articles to check piling up on your desk, Vanessa. You could’ve finalised three stories in the time you’ve spent running around train stations this morning. Either get that unlocked and give me something that Daphne can write about, or forget it and get back to work.’

I should forget it. I should’ve handed it in at lost property in the station and been done with it. I lean over and pull the flat, black phone towards me. ‘I suppose I could ask the IT guy to look at it.’

‘Gosh, this is so romantic.’ Zinnia clasps her hands together. ‘Maybe you’ll have some sort of spiritual connection and you’ll just subconsciously know his password.’

‘Oh come on, it’s asking for a four-digit code. There are endless possibilities and the phone will probably lock us out after three attempts.’ I pick it up and run my fingers across the blank screen. I would love nothing more than to have a look through it and prove to them both that he’s undoubtedly married and his best quality is probably trying to pick up women on trains that his wife doesn’t know about. I need to forget all about Train Man and his phone. Besides, he was around my age and gorgeous, there’s no way he’s going to be single too. I don’t know what they’re expecting to come out of this.

Daphne gets up and waddles around the room in another attempt to get comfortable. ‘Try 1234,’ she says with a laugh.

I type the numbers in. ‘As if anyone would be that stup—’

The phone makes a jingling sound and pings into life.

Daph bursts out laughing. ‘Seriously? The man deserves to have his phone stolen just for that. What’s his credit card PIN – 5678?’

I suddenly feel really bad. Whoever Train Man is, this is his private phone. He wouldn’t want a random stranger going through it, and I feel like some kind of criminal mastermind to have managed to unlock it. I’m going to be hacking the government next. Even though the government’s security systems are probably slightly more complex than 1234.

‘What did I tell you?’ Zinnia sounds gleeful. ‘Get into his pictures, quick. I want to see this dashing romantic hero.’

‘What’s that?’ Daph peers over my shoulder.

‘A train timetable,’ I say, looking at the jumble of numbers and times still onscreen from the last time he looked at it. ‘And not for the tube.’

‘So he was catching another train. Maybe that’s why he ran off so quickly.’

‘He did look worried about something. And he did keep checking his phone. Maybe he was looking at the time. Probably to check that his wife wouldn’t be home before his latest bit on the side left.’

‘Nah,’ Daph says. ‘Things like this don’t just happen. He’s obviously single and looking, just like you.’

‘I’m not looking.’

‘I’m looking for you,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Same thing.’

‘Anyone would think you didn’t have enough on with swooning over your own husband and a baby on the way.’

‘Girls, pictures,’ Zinnia says before she can respond. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had this conversation anyway. It always goes the same way. Daph says I’m over the hill, I tell her there is no hill to be over because whether I’m thirty-four or fifty or seventy, I’m not interested in another relationship, and she says she thought the same thing until she met Gavin, and if I’d just put myself out there and give it a chance, I might surprise myself and meet someone. I tell her how much I enjoy my own company and how nice it is to be single after spending so many years in a loveless relationship, and she tells me that was just one relationship and others will be different, ad infinitum. I can finish the conversation in my head without Daph saying another word, until she walks off muttering things like ‘spinster’ and ‘cat lady’.

I’m obviously not moving fast enough because Daphne plucks the phone from my fingers and starts playing with it. ‘I hope he takes a lot of selfies. I’m desperate to see this guy.’

‘We shouldn’t be going through his phone,’ I try to protest.

‘We’re not. We’re looking for a way to get it back to him. Via his photos. Ooh, and his notes. Oh, and we have to check his messages because there might be some vital bit of contact information in there.’

‘And we’re just nosy,’ Zinnia adds.

Like I hadn’t figured that one out for myself.

‘Like you don’t want to know too,’ Daph says.

‘Nope. I’m not looking. I’m not interested. I just want to get the phone back to him.’

Daphne makes various noises as she fiddles with the phone and I fight the urge to see what she’s doing.

‘Okay, well, he’s not big on selfies, but we’ve got bigger problems than making eye contact on public transport. Are you sure he didn’t strike you as a bit of a weirdo?’

‘No, why?’ I instantly imagine she’s found a folder full of dick pics ready to send to unsuspecting women or something. No wonder he smiles at people on trains – he’s probably assessing them for how happy they’d be to receive an unsolicited photo of his manhood.

‘Nothing about him screamed weird fetishist or anything?’

‘No. Why, Daph?’ All pretence of not being interested falls away as I jump out of the chair and try to see over her shoulder.

‘Well, he’s got a real thing for wooden horses. Look at this. His phone is absolutely full of photos of bits of wooden horses. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’

‘They’re carousel horses.’ I peer over one shoulder and Zinnia peers over the other as Daphne scrolls through his photos at the speed of light, each one showing similar pictures of wooden carousel animals in methodical stages, from perfectly painted to varying states of decay.

‘And what’s that? It looks like parts of a rollercoaster, and what the— Ooh, is that him?’ She shoves the phone at me, showing a picture of Train Man in the distance, his arms outstretched on a sparkling carousel.

‘He’s definitely got some kind of weird fetish for those things,’ Zinnia says.

‘Or maybe he just likes that godawful old movie that you love.’ Daphne elbows me in the ribs, knowing full well I can’t retaliate while she’s pregnant.

‘Aww, stop mocking Carousel. It’s a lovely film. One of the best.’

‘Yeah, if you like things that are nonsensical, boring, and old. And then you have the nerve to complain that I like modern romcoms. Judging by these photos, I bet he loves that movie. Talk about your perfect match.’ She takes the phone back and scrolls further through the photos, picture after picture of wooden things, half-finished paint jobs on carousel horses and other animals, and a few of various scenery, beaches and mountains and hills. Train Man must get around a bit.

‘Well, he’s definitely not vain – he’s never taken a picture of himself in his life. Although he’s got half his shoe in with one of these horse legs, which tells us so much.’ Daph gives up and scrolls back to the photo of him on the carousel, zooming in on it and bringing the phone almost to her nose. ‘He looks handsome, though. Good hair.’

‘He had good hair on the train this morning.’

I don’t realise I’m smiling involuntarily until I catch the knowing look on Zinnia’s face. I blush and tuck my own shoulder-length lank hair behind my ear. ‘Unlike my messy split-endy thing that needs a trim.’ I always feel self-conscious of my hair around Zinnia, who never has a strand out of place. Mine still hasn’t recovered from an ill-advised home highlighting kit where the streaks went orange so I dyed over them with a brown that was supposed to match my own colour but ended up going lighter because of the orangeness. Daph calls them lowlights; I call them ‘can’t afford to go to the hairdresser’s’.

‘You hate taking selfies too,’ Daphne says. ‘I can already tell this guy is perfect for you. Now, what next? Text messages?’

She’s gone back to the home screen and is fiddling around in his message folder before I’ve even started to protest. ‘We’re just looking for vital contact information so we can get it back to him.’

‘And evidence of a girlfriend because so far there’s nothing,’ Zinnia adds. ‘He must be single or there’d be some photos of a girlfriend, boyfriend, or otherwise on there. My phone is packed with pictures of my husband.’

‘And mine’s packed with pictures of Gavin measuring things against my ever-expanding belly to show how big it’s getting,’ Daph says. ‘Well, this morning someone called Jack texted telling Train Man “not to miss that bloody train”. His parcel was “now with his local courier for delivery” last Thursday, he wished someone called Susan a happy birthday last week, and someone sent a message a fortnight ago asking if he wants to go on a fishing weekend in July, but he hasn’t responded.’ She glances at me over her shoulder. ‘This is just as boring as your phone.’

‘Still no girlfriend,’ Zinnia says. ‘Tell me this isn’t looking more and more promising.’

‘There’s nothing here,’ Daphne says. ‘Funny pictures someone’s forwarded him, the odd joke between mates, but absolutely no sappy love messages. Not even an “on the way home, see you soon” – and even I text Gavin one of them when I leave work every night.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not interested.’ I ignore the flutteriness again. There must’ve been something wrong with that cereal this morning. Nothing more.

‘Right, notes. He could have written his address in there in case his phone ever got lost.’

‘Daph! This is his private property!’

‘Oh my God, Ness. He’s a vegetarian too. He’s literally the male version of you. Look, last week’s shopping list.’ She waves the phone in front of me. ‘Halloumi cheese, Quorn sausages, veggie bacon, Coco Pops, Nutella, and Cadbury’s Fingers.’ She sighs happily. ‘Any guy who buys Cadbury’s Fingers is a keeper. They’re your favourites.’

‘He’s probably buying them for his wife,’ I say, even though warmth floods my insides. I’m not interested in men, but if I could invent a perfect one, that would be his shopping list. ‘Besides, Cadbury’s Fingers only mean he’s a keeper if he bites both ends off and sucks tea up through it like a straw until it goes all melty and gooey on the inside.’

‘No address then?’ Zinnia asks. She’s all about yoga and detoxing teas. She doesn’t approve of chocolate. Daphne and I regularly joke that it’s all a front and she often leaves abruptly so she can get back to the bar of Galaxy hidden in her desk.

‘Nothing. What shall we do? Call the last number he dialled and see if they know how else to get in touch with him?’

‘Oi!’ I finally do protest. ‘I’m the one who found the phone. I should be the one doing this. It’s not right for us all to gather round it like some kind of soap opera.’

‘Yeah, and I’m pregnant so you can’t hit me to get it back.’ Daph ducks behind Zinnia and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘Right, call log.’

I sigh as I watch her go through the phone. ‘Again, no repeat calls to any specific number. No late-night booty calls. Here, last number dialled was local. I’ll ring it.’

She presses the dial button and puts the speaker on.

‘Cheap N Easy Pizza is closed at this time. Try again after five-thirty,’ a tinny voice comes through the phone.

Daph hangs up and bursts out laughing. ‘The last thing he did was get a takeaway pizza. Ness, he’s literally you. When did you last have a takeaway pizza?’

‘The weekend,’ I say, trying not to blush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with takeaway pizza. Not all of us have husbands who like to experiment with cooking gourmet meals for us, you know.’

‘Not for my lack of trying to find you one,’ she mutters. ‘And I bet he even likes pineapple on it too.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with—’ I start to protest but Daph drops her arm and I see an opportunity to snatch the phone out of her hand. ‘Ah ha!’

‘Okay, how are you going to find him then?’ Zinnia asks. I’m surprised she’s getting so involved in this. She loves anything to do with love, but she’s not usually got much time for me. I’m supposed to be a fact-checker for Maîtresse but my heart’s not in it. She knows it and I know it, and I’m not fast enough, thorough enough, or dedicated enough for her to like me.

‘There’s not even any social media,’ Daphne says. ‘I’m getting a bit worried here, Ness. Where’s his Facebook app? No Twitter? No Instagram? You are sure he isn’t a technophobe ninety-year-old, aren’t you?’

‘Well, maybe he just likes to keep things private. Not everyone’s on social media. Some days, I think we’d all be a lot less stressed if we weren’t. I don’t have the Facebook app on my phone either.’

‘See?’ Daph holds her hand up. ‘Perfect match.’

I sit there and scroll through the photos. He’s certainly got a thing about carousels. Almost all his photos are of them. There are photos taken of aged photos depicting them in olden days, pictures of broken parts of various wooden animals, paint-chipped poles, carousels in fairgrounds, one on a pier, and there are other rides too. I spot what must be joints of a rollercoaster and possibly some tracks, what looks like antique furniture and old steam engines. I linger on the distant photo of him standing on a carousel for longer than could be considered normal. My heart is pounding harder just at the sight of him in a zoomed-in photograph.

I have to stop thinking about it. The sooner this phone is out of my hands, the better. ‘Why don’t I try texting someone on his contact list and ask them how to get in touch with him?’

‘I volunteer my services while you go and get on with work,’ Daphne says quickly. ‘I’ll find someone who can get in touch with him and verify his relationship status.’

‘Chop chop.’ Zinnia taps her wrist like I’m on a schedule.

I scroll through the messages again but Daph’s right, there don’t seem to be any ongoing conversations or anything other than perfunctory messages and courier confirmations, so I go to his contacts list instead, hoping it might be in some kind of most-contacted order but it’s alphabetical.

‘Just text the first one,’ Zinnia says, and I get the feeling this has gone on too long for her. She’s efficient and doesn’t believe in wasting time, which is probably why she’s the editor of a popular women’s magazine and I’m the person who phones round publicists trying to find two sources to confirm that Brad Pitt’s name is actually spelt Brad Pitt. Nothing is too pedantic in fact-checking.

I slide my finger back up to the top. ‘Okay. Alan it is. Let’s hope he’s a good friend of Train Man.’

Hello, I type out. I found this phone on the train this morning and I’m trying to get hold of the owner to give it back. Do you know how I can contact him?

‘Now we wait.’

Daph starts talking about the baby pressing on her bladder, but within minutes, the phone lets out a low jingling noise and lights up in my hand.

‘Oooh!’ we all say in unison.

I unlock the phone and blink in surprise at the reply. ‘Oh. No “oooh” at all. Wow.’ I ignore the growingly insistent chorus of ‘whats’. ‘That’s not very nice.’

I read the text message from Alan aloud, cutting out some of the more, er, choice language. ‘Eff off Nathaniel, don’t involve me in whatever stupid game you’re playing now.’

‘Ooh, intriguing,’ Daph says.

‘Worrying,’ I amend for her. ‘What’s he done to this bloke? What “stupid game” has he been playing before?’

‘Why’d he bother to keep him as a contact if they hate each other so much?’

‘A mystery,’ Zinnia says. ‘To solve.’

‘Nathaniel is such a sexy name,’ Daph says, fanning a hand in front of her face again.

‘That’s what you took from that message?’

‘Well, at least we know what he’s called now. Although I don’t fancy texting dear old Alan back to ask for his home address or landline number, do you?’

I recoil at the thought. ‘Don’t you think we’ve invaded this poor man’s privacy enough? We’ve been through his pictures, his notes, his messages; we’ve even managed to text his number one enemy. I should have dropped this phone straight in at lost property in the station. It has nothing to do with me if he gets it back or not.’

‘There’s an amazing story in this. It’s so romantic. A man you’ve been silently flirting with on the train for months, eyes meeting across a crowded carriage, and now you being the one to spot his dropped phone and the quest to find this mystery man and return it … Our readers will love it.’ Zinnia looks between me and Daphne with an expression that means she’s plotting something, and then her eyes settle on me. ‘And you’re going to be the one to write it.’

‘Me?’ I shake my head in an attempt to clear my ears because I’m definitely not hearing her right. ‘Write what?’

‘This.’ She rolls her eyes, leaving me in no doubt about how dense she thinks I am for not getting it yet. ‘The story of The Guy on the Train. It’ll be like that novel but without all the alcoholism and murderyness.’

‘Oh, it’ll be so romantic.’ Daph picks up a magazine to fan herself with. ‘The playful flirtation, the eye contact, the smile, the dimples, the connection on a crowded train where the only thing anyone usually connects with is some drunken guy’s leering or the smell of wee where someone’s urinated on a seat. Again.’

‘Yes,’ Zinnia says. ‘A story about being in the right place at the right time to pick up the mysterious gorgeous man’s dropped phone and lose him by the whisper of a second in a crowded station. A romance for the modern woman who commutes to work every day on public transport. A magical connection with a stranger that could happen to any one of our readers at any moment.’

‘But … I …’ I have no idea what to say. I can’t believe she’s giving me a chance to write for Maîtresse. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since I started here. Fact-checking was only ever supposed to be temporary, but in the two years since I started, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.

‘I want this story, Vanessa, and realistically you’re the only person who can write it. I know you joined Maîtresse with the intention of writing features for us, and I know you’ve been hoping for a promotion since your first day and you’re probably wondering why I’ve always overlooked you, but the right way for you to prove yourself has never come up … until now.’

It’s probably meant as a compliment but Zinnia only succeeds in making me feel about as important to this office as the persistent bluebottle buzzing around the water dispenser.

‘I want this article on my desk today. We’ll put it on our website straight away, and if it gets a good response, then you’ll find your debut feature in print in the July issue of Maîtresse, and we’ll talk about moving you out of fact-checking and into a feature-writing role. We can start with Daphne’s maternity leave. You know she’s disappearing on us next month, and you probably know that I haven’t arranged cover yet. Impress me with this article, and Daphne’s job is yours for the twelve months of her maternity leave. If you do well, we’ll look into something more permanent.’

Daphne squeals in delight. ‘I told you ages ago that Ness should do it!’

I’m, again, unsure of whether the idea that my best friend and boss have been talking about me is a good thing or not, but it makes me feel a bit irrelevant. Daph mentioned that I should talk to Zinnia about covering her maternity leave months ago and I never plucked up the courage – if she mentioned it to Zinnia around the same time then Zinnia clearly wasn’t interested in the idea.

‘It’ll be a great start to a career as a writer here,’ Zinnia continues. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘More than anything,’ I say quickly before she has a chance to change her mind.

She nods once. ‘Good. I’ll forward this morning’s articles to be fact-checked to one of the temps so you can give this your full attention. I think this is going to be really special. Two o’clock this afternoon and not a second later.’ She goes to walk out but then spins on her heels and points a long red nail at me. ‘And, Vanessa? Leave it open-ended. You’re going to find this guy, and when you do, our readers will want to know about it.’

Daph barely gives her time to get out of earshot before she squeals. ‘This is brilliant, Ness, well done!’

It is brilliant, I know that, but … a love story? Me? I’m the worst choice in the world to write a love story. I haven’t even been on a date in over two years, as Daph reminds me repeatedly. She’s the one who writes articles about love and romance and couples who meet in weird and wonderful ways. I just fact-check them, and I love reading them because my best friend wrote them, but Daphne can make a story out of anything. I don’t know how to write this breathtakingly romantic article that Zinnia seems to want out of a guy I’ve looked at on the train a few times.

Daph’s already scribbling notes for me in a notepad. ‘Tell it exactly as you’ve always told me about Train Man. Focus on how his gaze makes you feel rather than how pretty his eyes are because you don’t want his identity to be too obvious. And make sure to mention how single you are and how single he is, and how you’ll meet when you give his phone back.’

‘I’ve got to find him first. Alan certainly wasn’t any help.’

‘Someone else will be. You haven’t got time to go through his contacts now, but after the article’s done, then you can concentrate on finding him.’

‘He’s probably a psychopath,’ I say. ‘Eye contact on public transport is a big no-no.’

‘You made eye contact on public transport with him too.’ She sighs. ‘You don’t always have to think the worst of people, Ness.’

‘I don’t always think—’

‘You thought that guy I tried to set you up with last month was a lunatic.’

‘He wanted to go rock climbing for a date. Rock climbing, Daph! A coffee is a date, not clambering up a flippin’ rock. Dating is bad enough without involving rocks and exercise.’

‘You wouldn’t have accepted even if he’d offered coffee and cake, just like you didn’t accept the last guy I tried to set you up with, or the one before that, or the one before. It’s been years since “poor Andrew”—’

‘Just how romantic do you think Zinnia wants this to be?’ I interrupt her. I know she thinks I was mad to break up with ‘poor Andrew’ and even madder not to want to find someone else, but I’m better off alone. ‘Poor Andrew’ proved that. Netflix is a much better companion.

‘So romantic. She wants the love story of the year that’s going to resonate with any woman who’s ever been on a packed train.’

‘That’s exactly the point though, isn’t it? It’s just a story. A fantasy. It’d make a nice movie, but this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen. It’d be great if he was the man of my dreams.’ I pat the phone in my pocket. ‘But he isn’t. Stories like these are just stories. They’re not real life.’

* * *

At five to two, I press send on my email to Zinnia.

The Guy on the Train: A love story for our time, with a twist worthy of any Paula Hawkins novel

By Vanessa Berton

The unspoken rule of London transport: ignore everyone. No one else exists on the tube. The disinterested gaze at nothing in particular as long as it’s not another human being is an art form that every person learns upon their arrival in the capital.

I have broken this rule. A man has broken this rule with me.

For a few months now, Train Man and I have looked at each other on the Victoria line. It’s not every morning, far from it. Sometimes there can be days or weeks between our clandestine gazes.

I’m not a born Londoner. Would other Londoners turn on me if they knew that I regularly make eye contact with a stranger? Would they make me disembark at the next stop if they knew that we sometimes – and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – smile at each other?

There. I’ve said it. I’ve noticed that there are other people on the tube. One of them has noticed me. Sometimes we share a smile. And it’s a very nice smile. It’s a smile with dimples, and hair of the darkest brown, and dark eyes that smile too when they look at me. It’s quite a feat to see me flustered and sweltering on a summer morning and not be scarred for life, but Train Man manages it. Each morning that I see him is just a little better than any other morning. I arrive at work with just a slightly springier step.

This morning was different. This morning, instead of being at the opposite end of the carriage like I usually am, I was mere feet away from him, crammed against a sweaty shirtless body. Unfortunately not his sweaty shirtless body. That would’ve made the journey marginally more pleasant.

Our eyes met as usual. And his dimples at such close range were enough to make me take leave of my senses. I nearly spoke to him. Thankfully I stopped myself at the last second because I hadn’t completely lost my marbles. But he nearly spoke to me too. In fact, we were barely saved from a lifetime of awkward conversation by arriving at a station – his stop today, but not his usual stop. Why is he getting off here when he doesn’t usually? Judging by the suitcase and array of bags, he’s obviously going somewhere, and judging by the panicked looks he keeps giving his phone, he doesn’t have much time to get there.

I don’t mean to watch him, but he’s tall enough to unintentionally draw the eye, and I’m short enough to be hidden by other passengers, so he can’t see me lurking behind him, watching the way long, sexy fingers wrap around the handle of his suitcase as he waits for the door to open. I see him give a final glance at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. Except, he doesn’t slip it back into his pocket. He thinks he has, but I’m the only one who’s noticed that he missed, and in the clamour of the doors opening, he hasn’t heard it clatter to the floor.

I grab it before it gets caught in the stampede, and make a split-second decision to run after him to return it, but I may have been slightly lax on my gym visits lately, and he runs out of there at a speed that would make Sonic the Hedgehog jealous.

I don’t catch him. And I now I have his phone.

And I’ve managed to unlock it. I am inside the private life of Train Man. I’ve read his texts. I’ve seen his photos. I know what grocery shopping he bought last week and that he ordered a pizza last night. I know he likes the same things I like, that there are no texts to a significant other, and I’ve happened to notice on our shared journeys that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

Could a guy so friendly and gorgeous really be single? Could my silent flirtation with Train Man really mean something? Have we defied the laws of public transport because of a deeper meaning? Has the universe thrown us into each other’s path for a reason that we can’t yet see?

I have his phone. I have to get it back to him. But I have to find him first …

Daph warned me to only expect a response from Zinnia if she hates it, so I take the silence as a good sign and get on with fact-checking the stack of articles piled up in my inbox. Well, between obsessively refreshing the website to see when it goes live, obviously.

It’s not perfect; I know that. I’m sure it’ll fade into the depths of Maîtresse’s site and be read by approximately four people, three of whom will be me, Daph, and Zinnia double-checking ad placement, and any hopes of seeing my name in print and starting a real career will be gone forever. But it was fun to write, even if my promotion to features writer only lasts a morning.




Chapter 3 (#ulink_9be6ab3e-4cae-5e92-9656-5616a18b1c6b)


I’ve just sat on the sofa and put Netflix on that evening, and I’m scrolling through the recently added things, having already watched pretty much the whole catalogue, when the phone rings. I’ve left Nathaniel’s phone on the kitchen unit next to mine, and as I shove my microwave meal onto the coffee table and run to get it, I notice it’s his phone that’s vibrating across the counter towards the sink. I grab it and slide the screen up to answer without even glancing at it.

‘Hi, this is Nathaniel’s phone.’

‘Hi, this is Nathaniel.’ He pauses and my heart jumps into my throat. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the number onscreen, a mobile number that’s not saved in his contacts. It must be him on another phone. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t know – he’d have rung off by the time I’d psyched myself up to speak to him.

‘No, wait, it’s Nathan. Only people who hate me call me Nathaniel. Where did you get that name from?’

‘I texted the first name in your directory.’

‘Who was … oh no, don’t tell me. Alan? I take it he gave a suitably charming response?’

‘He, er, didn’t seem to like you very much …’

‘The feeling’s entirely mutual.’ He sighs. ‘What did he say?’

‘Um …’ I don’t feel particularly comfortable repeating the nasty message. ‘You’ll see when you get your phone back.’

‘Don’t worry, “um” is more than descriptive enough.’ He lets out a sad laugh. ‘It’s actually nice of you not to tell me. You are planning on giving it back then?’

‘Of course I am! I have my own phone that I’d like to get away from half the time, I certainly don’t want yours as well. I saw you on the train this morning. I was behind you when we pulled into your stop and you went to put your phone in your pocket but you missed. I picked it up before it got trampled or stolen. I’ve been trying to find a way to contact you all day.’ You know, between writing an article about how pretty your eyes are and examining every inch of your phone.

‘You’re the girl I see sometimes, aren’t you?’ His breath catches in his throat and I get the sense that he’s holding it, waiting for an answer.

At that caught breath, all of my doubts slip away. He does know me. I haven’t imagined some connection between us. He smiles at me too. Whatever Sliding Doors magic Daphne keeps going on about, whatever else Zinnia wants me to write about him. It doesn’t matter. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this isn’t just coincidence.

‘We do see each other sometimes, yeah,’ I say, hesitating a little because I’m not quite sure how to describe it.

He lets out a long breath and warmth floods my insides. He must’ve felt something over the months of our silent flirtation too. Not just that I was a weird public transport starer.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks in a soft Yorkshire accent.

‘Ness. Well, Vanessa, but everyone calls me Ness.’

‘We have something in common then – full names we don’t get called by.’

The way he says it makes me want to smile but I still feel like I need to explain myself. ‘I tried to catch you, you know? But you ran out of there faster than the Road Runner.’

‘Beep beep,’ he says, doing a spot-on impression, and a giggle takes me by surprise because I used to love those cartoons.

‘Yeah, sorry, I had a connection to catch and about three minutes to make it between platforms and that was without the tube being a couple of minutes late. Trains to this part of the country only run once a day. I couldn’t miss it.’

‘What part of the country’s that then?’ I grew up in a little village where my parents still live. I remember the days of one bus an hour and being completely cut off from civilisation. The constant trains and buses were one of my favourite things when I first moved to London, but even that’s got old now. Sometimes I long for the days of one bus an hour and not being crammed into a tube train every morning like a limp flip-flop on a summer’s day.

‘A little village called Pearlholme. I bet you’ve never heard of it because it’s so small that even people who live five miles away from it have never heard of it. It’s on the Yorkshire coast, not far down from Scarborough.’

‘I always hear people saying they love that part of the country.’

‘It’s perfect here. The beach is amazing and the village is so tiny. It’s all cobbled streets and quaint cottages. There’s one combined shop and post office, a pub, and a couple of beach huts on the promenade, and that’s it. It’s the perfect antidote to London. I’ve only been here a few hours and I feel better than I have in months.’ He sounds like he’s smiling as he speaks.

I wasn’t expecting him to sound the way he does. His voice sounds warm and approachable, like a steady reassuring policeman, someone you’d be safe with. It matches the way his smile has always looked.

‘Are you on holiday?’ With your wife? And children?

‘No, I’m working, although I’ve got a nerve to call it work, really. I’m restoring an old carousel by the sea. I’m literally on the sand. The beach is my office. It’s amazing. It couldn’t get any better.’

I find myself smiling at how happy he sounds. ‘That explains all the pictures of wooden horses on your phone.’

‘So you’ve been going through my pictures then, have you?’ He still sounds jokey and not annoyed at all.

‘I wasn’t going through them, I was looking for a way of getting your phone back to you.’ I don’t mention quite how much time Daph, Zinnia, and I spent combing through his phone inch by inch this morning or that I’m already thinking about how smug I can sound tomorrow when I tell them the carousel horses aren’t just a weird fetish.

‘In my photos?’

‘Well, you could’ve taken a picture of your house, couldn’t you?’

‘Hah. It’s a crummy flat in an ugly block in London. The only people who’d take a photograph of it would be filmmakers for a documentary on Britain’s worst housing.’

‘Oh, I know that feeling.’ I glance over at the bucket in the corner, catching a leak of unknown origin. The landlord, on the rare occasion I can get hold of him, promised to get it sorted last year. He hasn’t answered his phone since. Perhaps I should stop the rent direct debit – that’d get him round here pretty fast.

‘And I bet you pay enough rent to purchase a small car every month too, right?’

‘Several small cars, actually.’

‘You should see the cottage I’m staying in here. It’s a holiday let that I’ve rented for six weeks, but I could live here for six months for the price of one month in London, and it’s gorgeous.’

‘Six weeks,’ I say, trying not to think about a beautiful cottage by the sea or that gorgeous man in it. It sounds like the most perfect place and I suddenly have an overwhelming pang of sadness because I’m here and not there. ‘You won’t be back for ages.’

‘No, the owner wants this thing restored by the summer holidays so I’m here until then. It’s an incredible old carousel. I reckon it was carved entirely by one person, and it was found in an old ruin. The owner won it in an auction, and put it on the beach for the public, and their busiest season is once the kids break up from school so that’s my deadline.’

So much for hoping to see him on the train again tomorrow morning to return the phone. ‘Do you do this a lot then? I mean, all those pictures …’

‘Yeah, mainly repairs rather than full restorations because there just aren’t that many carousels to restore in the country – this is a rare treat for me.’ He laughs. ‘And yeah, I really am that boring. That’s pretty much all I use my phone for, as I’m sure you discovered. Pictures of work.’

And keeping track of your shopping lists, of course. Which I know because you buy all of my favourite food.

‘I must be creating such a good picture of myself here. All I do is moan about my flat and talk about work. Sorry, I’m sure I’m not usually this boring.’

‘It’s not boring at all. Pretty much all I do is work and moan about my flat too. At least your job is a lot more interesting than mine.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a fact-checker for a women’s magazine. I have to double-check everything that proper journalists write so we don’t publish anything that’s untrue. I want to be a journalist and I thought I’d get a chance to prove myself there, but it’s been years now and all I am is basically a proofreader who does a lot of googling and phoning around to confirm quotes. I work a lot of overtime because I have nothing better to do and I keep hoping my boss will notice how dedicated I am.’

‘I can’t complain about my job. I work a lot of overtime because I love old carousels and mainly because if I’m working then I’m not sitting in my crappy flat thinking about how many places I’d rather be.’

‘I know that feeling too,’ I say, looking at the window, which gives me a marvellous view of the building next door. I can imagine what his view in that gorgeous cottage is like. ‘Do you do anything other than carousels? There were some pictures that we— I— couldn’t work out, they looked like bits of rollercoaster?’

‘I’m glad you were so thorough in your search for my address.’ He still doesn’t sound annoyed by it. ‘And yes, I’m not strictly carousels, although they’re my speciality. I’m just a repairman in general, really. My firm restores all sorts of old things, from organs to engines to fairground rides, and yes, they were bits of rollercoaster but not rollercoasters as we know them now – the old wooden scenic railways that were popular in the early 1900s, the kind of thing anyone from a baby to a granny could enjoy a ride on, a real throwback to days gone by. I take a lot of pictures because you can rarely get parts in this day and age, and we usually have to find something similar and adjust it or make the parts ourselves.’

He suddenly stops himself. ‘I’m sorry, I must be boring you senseless. I’m not usually this boring, honestly. And the fact I’ve said that twice tonight probably doesn’t bode well. You’re not busy, are you? I’ve been rabbiting on for ages and never asked you if I was interrupting something. You’re probably sitting down for a nice dinner with your husband, and—’

I laugh at the mental image. ‘No husband. I was sitting down with a microwave meal and Netflix. How’s that for busy? Talking to you is much more interesting.’

He laughs too. ‘You obviously don’t know me well enough yet.’

I try to ignore another little flutter of butterflies at that ‘yet’.

‘And you’ve just described my average evening. Netflix and a sarnie. Sometimes I stretch to something really strenuous like cheese on toast.’ He says it with a French accent, like a posh chef describing a gourmet meal, and it makes me laugh again, and I realise that I’m gripping the phone tighter because I don’t want him to go yet. ‘My brother bought me a chef’s blowtorch once. God knows what he thought I was going to cook with it. Beans on toast on fire?’

‘You know what I don’t get?’ I say, trying to stop myself laughing again. ‘Instant mashed potatoes. You sprinkle a little bit out of the packet into the bottom of a mug, and it makes six bowlfuls.’

‘Oh, I love instant mashed potatoes,’ he says. ‘They’re like the ultimate comfort food, and I can pretend they’re healthy because they’re vegetables. Powdered, reconstituted vegetables, but still. I’m spoiled tonight because the landlady at the cottage made me a macaroni cheese and left it in the fridge. At least I now know why she asked if I had any allergies. I wondered if she was planning on filling the roof with asbestos and painting the walls with lead or something. I’m just waiting for that to come out of the oven and I’m going to eat it in the garden with a cup of tea.’ He pauses. ‘You probably thought I was thirty-six this morning, but now I reveal I’m really an eighty-year-old woman in disguise. No wonder I like it in Pearlholme so much. Everyone seems to be elderly around here. You should’ve seen my landlady, bless her. She looked like she could barely carry the key when I collected it. God knows how she’s still managing to cook huge casserole dishes of food.’

I laugh yet again. I’m not good at talking to strangers, which is probably quite weird for someone who spends a lot of time phoning strangers to confirm facts and double-check quotes in articles, but there’s something about him that puts me completely at ease. I’m often on edge in my flat – you can usually hear the shouting of neighbours or fights in the hall, and it never feels safe here, but his warm accent on the other end of the phone settles something inside me.

‘Thanks for picking up my phone this morning. I’m glad it was you. I mean … I saw you … We’re usually much further apart … and I was in such a hurry … and I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say. Just thank you for grabbing it and trying to get it back to me. I assumed I’d been pickpocketed. I always think the worst of people and don’t really trust anyone, so …’

‘My best friend has been saying exactly the same thing about me this afternoon.’

He does a soft snort. ‘Ah, at least we can revel in our trust issues together. Which is, of course, a totally normal thing to talk to a complete stranger about. I don’t talk to many people, as you can tell because I’m so bad at it.’

He’s self-deprecating and rambly in the most adorable way. And I just … don’t want to stop talking to him. ‘Well, that’s three things we have in common – trust issues, full names we don’t use, and being bad at talking to people. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job so far. This is fun.’

I can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Maybe it’s because you’re on my phone. I feel like I’m talking to myself.’

‘Yeah, that must be it.’ I’m sitting here smiling at my empty living room, which is not something that usually evokes a smile. ‘How’d you manage without your phone today? Must’ve been tough – we’re so used to always having them on us.’

‘Oh, you have no idea. My train timetable was on it, directions, and the bus timetable to get into Pearlholme. I didn’t even know the time because I rely on my phone instead of wearing a watch. I had to do the unthinkable. I had to stop strangers in the street and ask for directions.’

‘Oh no, how did you cope?’ I struggle to hold in a giggle.

‘It was terrible! I had to make actual eye contact and everything.’ He makes the noise of a shudder. ‘Who does that in this day and age? It’s what Google Maps was invented for – to prevent the rare occasion that you might have to speak to a random human being you don’t actually know.’

‘I remember that. It was always so annoying when you’d ask someone and they’d tell you the way, and you’d follow their directions and you were clearly in the wrong place, so you’d ask someone else and they’d tell you completely the opposite direction from what the first lot had told you, and then you’d have to drive back past the first lot and wonder if you could casually push them over a bridge or something.’

He groans. ‘I better not tell you that one of my favourite pastimes growing up was trolling people who asked for directions. They’d ask if I knew where a place was, and I act all authoritative and say, “Oh, yes, I live right near there; it’s this way, take a left and turn down the lane.” I’d direct them to, like, the middle of the nearest cow field. It was great!’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I grew up in a tiny village and life was boring.’ He pauses. ‘From the tone of your voice, I take it the correct answer is “because I was young, cruel, and incredibly immature, and got my jollies off by making other people’s lives a misery”?’

‘That’s better,’ I say, unable to contain my laughter. He’s naturally funny but none of it seems forced. He seems like an old friend I’ve known for years.

A really hot old friend, obviously.

‘I nearly had to go full-on retro and call the speaking clock to find out the time.’

‘With what?’

‘I hadn’t even thought of that!’ He laughs. ‘See? That’s how weird it is not to have a phone on you. I suppose I’d have had to find a relic of an old telephone box. Anything would be better than having to ask a stranger again. Starting conversations with strangers once in a day is more than enough.’

‘So what phone are you on now? Did you have to borrow one?’

‘No, I bought this ancient pay-as-you-go thing for fifteen quid. It’s one of the old clamshell flip phones, if you can remember them. Colour screens had barely been invented and there’s so much glare that you can’t see it in daylight. Most people haven’t seen one since 2003 but they like to keep up with the times around here.’

‘And you managed to get that in Pearlholme? From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound modern enough for a phone like that.’

‘Flipping ’eck, no. There’s a slightly bigger village about five miles away. I got the bus there and found it in the chemist of all places. And when I got on the bus, the bus driver said, “You’re the bloke doing up the carousel on the beach, aren’t you?” and he refused a fare because the carousel will be good for the area. That’s how archaic it is round here. I’d only been in town long enough to collect my key and dump my bags at the cottage.’

‘I grew up in a village like that. I used to hate it, but sometimes the crowds of London make me miss it.’

‘Me too. I’m from a village in South Yorkshire. I haven’t lived there for a long time though.’

‘Yeah, your accent kind of gives that away.’ I try not to sound as spellbound by his accent as I am. I could quite happily sit here and listen to him read the phone book. ‘I’m from Nottingham but it reminds me of home.’

‘I hate London. You never really escape the feeling of loneliness there despite the fact you’re constantly surrounded by people. I love going on jobs like this where I can get away for a while.’

‘I’m so jealous. My office is a cubicle the size of a matchbox, and my choice of view is a white wall or a white wall with the scars of a thousand drawing pins being stuck in it over the years. Your job sounds like heaven.’

‘I’m really lucky,’ he says. ‘If you ever want to get away, you should come up here. It’s beautiful.’

‘I’ll add it to my list of destinations for holidays I’ll never take,’ I say, feeling more desolate than is normal when talking about holidays.

He sighs and the line goes quiet, but it doesn’t feel awkward. I used to talk about nonsense to fill up uncomfortable silences with ‘poor Andrew’, but I feel content just listening to him breathe down the line.

It is a bit weird though.

‘So how am I going to get this phone back to you then?’ I say eventually. I don’t want this conversation to end, but it seems stupid not to mention anything about it. ‘I can keep—’

‘Why don’t you come and find me? It’s kind of your fault that I lost it in the first place because I was distracted by you—’

‘Oi! You can’t blame me.’

He starts laughing, letting me know it was just a joke. ‘Well, you want to give it back so badly, come up to Pearlholme and give it back. It’s the most gorgeous village – you’d love it here.’

‘I can’t, Nathan, I’d never get the time off work and it’s a long way and …’ I trail off, feeling like I’m scrabbling for excuses. In reality, my heart has leapt into my throat and is hammering like a pneumatic drill. The idea of getting away, of going to a beach, a vintage carousel, and … him. The idea that he might actually want to see me …

‘Yeah, of course. Sorry. It’s been a long day of travelling. I’ve lost my grip on how funny my jokes are. I didn’t mean owt by it.’

‘I mean, I would, but …’

‘No, no, I was just messing about. No one would be that much of an idiot. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll look after it for me.’

‘Of course, but—’

‘I’d better go before I make an even bigger fool of myself. It’s getting late and I’ve got to start work at first light tomorrow. I need to strip the carousel to pieces and assess exactly what kind of condition it’s in and what needs doing, and that macaroni cheese is bubbling away, ready to come out of the oven.’

‘Thanks for ringing.’ I try not to think about how jealous I am of his quiet cottage, homemade meal, garden, tea, and sea view. Nothing has ever sounded more appealing. I squeeze the phone tighter, hoping that I can somehow cling on to him a bit longer. ‘I’m really glad you did.’

‘Me too,’ he says softly, and I can hear that smile in his voice again.

He doesn’t say anything else and I get a sudden flutter that maybe he’s doing the same thing as I am, hanging on that little bit longer.

This is all too weird. I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone so easily. It’s like something from a film, like those first exciting emails between Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, and I’m sure I’ve got the same sappy smile on my face.

‘I suppose I’d better say goodnight,’ I say, feeling abrupt, but the longer I hang on to this call, the more real it seems, and this … whatever this is … how can it be real? Life doesn’t happen like this. You don’t smile at a stranger on a train and then they turn out to be the perfect match.

‘Yeah, me too,’ he says. Am I imagining how sad he sounds?

I could so easily ask him something else, anything else, just to stay chatting to him a bit longer, but I give myself a shake. ‘Goodnight, Nathan. It was nice talking to you.’

Nice? It’s the best evening I’ve spent in months. Years, maybe. Nice is how you describe the questionable jumper your nan knitted you for Christmas when she asks if you’ve worn it, not a warm, funny conversation with a gorgeous, sweet guy.

Even though I’m not interested in guys, no matter how gorgeous or sweet they are.

‘Night, Ness,’ he says. ‘And thanks again. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’

‘Don’t let the sand fleas bite in that gorgeous cottage of yours.’

I can hear his laughter fading as he hangs up, and it makes me smile. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s made me smile tonight. He’s better than anything I could’ve chosen on Netflix.

And no matter how not-interested I am in men and relationships, I grab my charger and breathe a sigh of relief when it fits his phone. I don’t even know why I’m so relieved, but I know I want to keep it charged in case he phones again.

* * *

About an hour later, after I’ve warmed up my microwave meal – living on the edge because the packet said ‘do not reheat’ – Nathan’s phone jingles again. I trip over my own feet as I rush embarrassingly fast to get the message, still convinced it will be his girlfriend wondering where he is.

It’s him again, a picture this time. I smile as I open it. He must be standing on the beach, and he’s taken a photo of the sun setting over the ocean, almost pink sky and darkening clouds as the sun sinks into the sea, a jagged cliff to one side.

It’s the most perfect view I’ve ever seen.

The phone jingles with another text message, and I smile again as I read it.

This is my office. Not a drawing pin scar in sight.

Two seconds later, it jingles yet again.

And yes, that was taken with the bona fide VGA camera on this awful flip phone. That should go some way towards showing how beautiful it is here – it even looks good in 0.03 megapixels.

What is it about this guy? Everything about him makes me smile.

And everything about him makes me want to throw caution to the wind and go to Pearlholme. But that would be stupid, right? I mean, it does look like a gorgeous place, maybe I really will add it to my list of potential holiday destinations, and Mum and Dad aren’t too far from there; maybe I’ll pop by next time I go up to visit them, see the carousel after it’s restored and Nathan’s long gone.

I couldn’t go up there now, while he’s still there. That’s another thing that would only happen in one of Daph’s beloved romantic comedies. Not in real life.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_f9f855d0-5917-5db7-a5ae-3773c267b4e1)


‘Gimme that.’ Daphne whips Nathan’s phone from my hand before I’ve fully pulled it out of my trouser pocket.

‘He texted you goodnight at half past ten last night and he put two kisses. If that’s not a sign that he’s into you then I don’t know what is. Do you know how hard it is to get a goodnight text from a guy? Gavin doesn’t even text me goodnight when he’s away and we’ve been married for three years.’

‘Everyone puts kisses these days. It’s habit. It’s a nightmare when you send a professional email and accidentally sign off with a couple of x’s. I’ve done it loads of times.’

‘I see you did it last night too.’ She raises an eyebrow.

‘Well, he texted me goodnight – it would’ve been rude to ignore him, wouldn’t it?’

‘And he put kisses so you just had to put them back, right?’

‘You’re reading way too much into—’

‘And how long did you talk to him for last night?’

‘About half an hour—’

She’s into the call log before I can finish the sentence. ‘An hour and thirty-one minutes! Ness, you’ve never talked to a guy for that long before! You dated “poor Andrew” for three years and you probably didn’t talk to him for that long over the whole course of your relationship combined.’

‘Which is a great clue to why it went wrong. And I didn’t talk to Nathan for that long. It was nowhere near that.’

‘It says it here in black and white.’ She taps a nail on the screen. ‘And it’s Nathan now, is it? Not Nathaniel?’

‘He doesn’t go by Nathaniel. He prefers—’

‘And this is where he wants you to go.’ She zooms in on the beach photo and stares at it longingly, while I wonder why I’m bothering to tell her anything when she’s going to draw her own conclusions from the phone anyway. ‘It’s beautiful. I’d be there in a heartbeat.’

‘He doesn’t want me to go there. It was a joke. I mean, he seems lovely and everything, but it’s just so—’

‘I know you, Ness. You only make those kinds of excuses when you really want to do something but you think you can’t. Like that guy from Gavin’s work I tried to set you up with last year. He friended you on Facebook and you liked the look of him but you found a snake-length list of excuses not to go on a date, even though there was a very good chance that you’d have had a good time.’

‘This is not like that. There’s no dating. The only thing he wants is his phone back. He’s probably married anyway,’ I say, even though I know Daph’s right. It’s just another excuse. No part of our conversation last night made me think he’s married.

Daphne snorts. ‘No way is the guy on the other end of that flirty, adorable conversation anything but single. He furtively wheedled husband info out of you, Ness. And he didn’t even try to arrange any other way of getting his phone back. Assuming he assumes you aren’t going to Pearlholme, he’s got an excuse to call you again, hasn’t he? You talked for hours with the intention of giving his phone back but you seem to have talked about everything other than giving his phone back; therefore you’ll just have to talk again, won’t you?’

My mind drifts at the thought of talking to him again and I don’t realise I’m smiling until Daphne smacks the desk.

‘Oh my God, you actually like this guy, don’t you? Like, really like like?’

‘No! And that’s far too many likes for one sentence. I don’t even know him, he’s a total stranger, and it’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s the love story you’ve always wanted.’ She clasps her hands together and holds them to her chest.

‘It’s not what I’ve always wanted—’

‘It’s just like Sliding Doors but with hopefully less dying. It’s why you broke up with “poor Andrew” for no good reason—’

‘It wasn’t for no good reason.’

‘It’s why you refuse every date I find for you. Because you’ve subconsciously known that something better was coming. Because you’ve been waiting for this. For Nathan.’ She waggles her eyebrows and my face betrays me by smiling at the mention of his name.

Daphne’s face suddenly straightens. ‘You actually want to go, don’t you? To Pearlholme? You want to follow this complete stranger halfway across the country, and you’re telling me that you don’t like him?’

‘Of course I don’t! I’m not going all the way up to North Yorkshire to return his phone. I’ll do exactly what I thought from the start – post it to him. Problem solved. End of story.’ I reach over the desk and try to grab his phone from Daph’s hand but she pulls it out of my reach. ‘Give it here, I’ll text him for his address now.’

‘Oh no, you won’t.’ Zinnia appears in the doorway of Daphne’s office, sounding so much like a pantomime villain that I half-expect her to follow up with a rousing ‘it’s behind you’. How long has she been standing there again? Is her entire job description to lurk outside doorways and eavesdrop on the staff? How does a woman in four-inch heels move so silently?

‘What?’ Daphne and I say in unison. I absolutely do not feel that little flutter in my chest again.

‘Viral.’ Zinnia shoves her iPad into my hands. ‘Eighteen thousand views and counting. This is wonderful, Vanessa. Even better than I expected.’

My eyes scan the screen, unable to believe what I’m seeing. The page of statistics in front of me is a jumble of numbers and graphs, but sure enough, on the page views line, it says 18,267. That can’t be right.

‘This is an amazing story,’ Zinnia says. ‘I was telling my husband about it and even he was interested, and the most romantic thing he does is plunge the sink when it’s blocked. I couldn’t stop thinking about it while I was lying in bed last night, and our readers are obviously thinking the same. Look at the comments.’

I tap the screen to close the statistics and go back to the article, which I spent most of yesterday afternoon looking at when I was supposed to be fact-checking – surely most of these views are me? The social media sharing buttons along the bottom of the article have numbers showing the amount of times it’s been shared, and they’re all well into the thousands. There are a couple of hundred comments as well. Too many to take in. They’re all saying things like ‘OMG, don’t leave it there!’ and ‘I HAVE to know what happens next!’

This is unreal. Even Daphne’s articles don’t get this kind of response. This is what I’ve always dreamed about, but my dreams have never included writing something with even half this amount of comments and shares. I can’t believe this is happening.

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Zinnia says excitedly.

Daphne and I share a wary glance. Zinnia getting excited is generally a sign of an impending apocalypse or something equally welcome. Even the Botox gives way to a slight forehead wrinkle.

‘This whole thing is like something from a film. It’s exactly the sort of feel-good story that everyone needs. And it’s only getting better. Now we’ve got the perfect phone call in which you discover you’ve got so many things in common, an adorable vintage carousel – carousels are romantic without even trying – and the invite to this idyllic little village …’

‘He didn’t invite me; it was a joke. He doesn’t actually want me to go.’ I feel like I’m repeating myself. ‘I’m just going to put the phone in the post—’

‘You’re going to Pearlholme.’ Zinnia doesn’t let me finish the sentence. ‘Yesterday I was planning on getting Daphne to write the second part, documenting your first meeting with the mysterious Train Man, but I didn’t expect this incredible response. People want the second part of your article and they want it now. Daphne’s too pregnant to be sending to some obscure little village in the back end of beyond. This is your story, Vanessa, and you’ve done well with the first part. You’ve captured the public’s imagination and I believe in rewarding good work where it’s due. It’s only right that you should be the one to write the rest of it.’

‘What’s the rest of it?’ I ask. I’ve got butterflies again for an altogether different reason now. This is amazing. Writing something that people connect with is what I’ve always wanted.

‘We’re going to run a massive campaign to find Train Man.’ The Botox makes Zinnia’s smile look more like a grimace.

‘He’s in Pearlholme,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it won’t be too difficult.’

‘Oh, we don’t worry about a little detail like that.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Over the course of a few issues, we’re going to run a real-time crusade to find the mystery man. It guarantees repeat readers coming back for the next part. You’ve already started the ball rolling with that fantastic closing line, so in part two, we’ll publish some key clues to his identity and get our readers involved in discovering who he is. I’m picturing big, flashy “have you seen this man?” headlines. We’ll ask for their help in finding him. Of course, you’ll have already been to Pearlholme and found him by then, but we won’t tell them that. Now, I’ll have the shopping list and that photo of a carousel horse with his foot in it. They’ll make excellent titbits on the trail of breadcrumbs we’re starting, and I’m going to get the art department to mock up some “wanted” posters that we can start splashing all over social media.’

‘You can’t use his photos, you need permission.’ I know that because triple-checking photograph permissions is one of my most mind-numbingly boring jobs.

‘We’ll blur the photograph and change a few items on the shopping list. No one will ever know …’ She moves on without taking a breath. ‘You can write about how you’ve been hunting for him every morning on the train but haven’t seen him since, and then in part three you can tell all about this darling little village and meeting up with the gorgeous Train Man, and then for the final part, you can write about falling in love with him and living happily ever after, and we’ll end with a lovely photograph of you two together on the carousel as we finally reveal the identity of this mysterious carousel reconstructor and end with a perfect balance of old-time nostalgia and a modern feel-good happily-ever-after.’

‘What if I get there and he says, “Thanks for the phone. Have you met my wife?”’

‘He won’t,’ Daphne says. ‘Don’t forget, if he bought a pay-as-you-go phone then he paid for that call.’

I go to deny it, but it’s a nice thought. We did chat for ages last night, and it never occurred to me that he must’ve been paying for it by the minute.

‘You’re doing that smile thing again,’ Daphne says. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw a smile like that on you. He must be really special.’

I force the corners of my mouth to turn downwards, which is harder than it looks. ‘My smile has nothing to do with him.’ I wave the iPad towards her, even though the screen has turned itself off by now. ‘And speaking of Nathan, what about him? He might not agree.’

‘Oh, we don’t worry about that either,’ Zinnia says. ‘Who cares whether he agrees or not? He’s just fodder for the article. You’ll keep him anonymous until the very last moment, by which time you’ll have made him like you enough to agree to the final unmasking.’

‘I’m not very good at making people like me.’

‘Well, I didn’t like you very much, Vanessa, but this wonderful story has certainly changed my opinion of you. But don’t you dare start worrying about him and what he wants. This is about you and what you want. You want a career writing features for us here at Maîtresse, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then this has nothing to do with Nathan. You use him to get what you want. Keep him anonymous so it won’t affect him in any way. If the absolute worst comes to the absolute worst then we’ll hire a model who matches his description.’ She casts a critical eye over me from my frizzy hair to the scuffed toes of my shoes. ‘On second thoughts, maybe two models would be ideal to play the parts of Vanessa and Nathan, and then we won’t have to worry about your hair, that outbreak of blackheads on the side of your nose, or what he wants or doesn’t want. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The point is that we’re selling a story here. You’ve given us a great starting point, but it’s our duty now to make that story the best it can be. If we have to embellish a bit, then so be it.’

I nod along but something about the callous way she talks doesn’t sit right with me. If she’s going to make it up anyway, what’s the point in me going to Pearlholme at all? I could just invent the whole thing, and it sounds like that’s what I’ll end up doing anyway, because there is no chance at all that this is going to go how Zinnia expects it to. I’m going to go there, hand him his phone, and that will be that. He’s not going to fall in love with me. I’m not going to fall in love with him. Love doesn’t happen like that unless you’re reading a movie script.

‘Do this well, Vanessa, and it’s the start of a new career for you. And I don’t just mean while Daphne’s on maternity leave. People are falling in love with this story. They’re going to keep coming back to see how it pans out. When it ends, they’re going to want to read what you write next. This will be the start of great things for you here at Maîtresse. At your age, and with your lack of experience, you won’t get a better opportunity than this, so don’t mess it up, okay?’

She makes me feel like I’m ninety-four rather than thirty-four, but I know she’s right too. I was a temp before I started here. I have no experience of writing for magazines and that’s my dream job. I’m never going to get a better chance than this. ‘What about my job now? If I’m going to Pearlholme, I won’t be here.’ I excel at stating the obvious. ‘How much time do I get there?’

‘Take your laptop. You can do your usual work remotely. I’ll make sure every article is emailed to you, and as long as you can drag yourself away from gorgeous men and golden sands long enough to work from there …’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Take three weeks. Allow yourself to really feel something with this guy. Readers will see through it if you just make things up. You have to start with something real. You have to see if the connection on the real train really meant anything. Not just for yourself and Train Man, but for the thousands of readers following your story now.’

I gulp. No pressure then. I obviously don’t look grateful enough to Zinnia because she whisks her iPad back out of my hand and points the corner of it at me threateningly. ‘I’m doing you a huge favour here, and taking an enormous risk on someone who I’ve only ever seen one article from. The next parts had better be as good as the first. Not only do you get a chance to see if a flirtation means anything, but you also get a chance at the career you’ve always wanted in the process. Most people would be overjoyed to be given this chance. You can thank me for being an amazing, wonderful, understanding boss anytime now.’

She’s probably joking but the unnaturally smooth face doesn’t give me enough of a hint.

‘Thank you, Zinnia,’ I chorus dutifully, trying for my best overjoyed face. I probably look more like I’m about to sneeze.

‘This is amazing!’ Daphne squeaks. She’s still got Nathan’s phone in her hand and is going through it, bluetoothing his photos of carousel horses to her computer.

‘Forward those to both of us,’ Zinnia says. ‘And have a look through for anything else that can be used in the article – and, Vanessa? I’ll go over our publishing schedule and email you the deadlines for each part. Good luck.’ She salutes me as she glides out the door, leaving me wondering how much luck I’ll need. Zinnia doesn’t believe in luck, which makes me wonder about quite how bad an idea this might actually be.

‘This is a fantastic opportunity,’ Daphne says when she’s gone. ‘I often write about real-life couples who met in weird and wonderful ways, and now you’re one of them. It’s so exciting!’

It is exciting, but I’m terrified too. That phone call last night made me feel fluttery and excited, something that I’ve seen on TV but never thought could actually happen to real people … What if I get to Pearlholme and discover that it all meant nothing? What if Nathan’s nothing like I think he is?

‘I’m proud of you, Ness,’ Daphne says.

‘I haven’t written anything yet.’

‘Not about the article. That’ll be fab, no matter what you do with it. I meant about actually doing this – wanting to do this – you’re really putting yourself out there and taking a risk. I’m always saying that you need to do more of that—’

‘And I’m always telling you to shut up.’

She grins. ‘I know. And you’re about to prove that I was right all along. You will throw yourself into this, won’t you?’

I go to answer but she cuts me off.

‘Don’t find excuses not to do stuff. If he asks you out, go. What have you got to lose?’

I shake my head, because I know she’s right but she’ll probably explode if I admit it. I’ve not wanted another relationship since I broke up with ‘poor Andrew’, and I’ve had an excuse for every potential date Daphne has tried to find me even if they looked promising. I’ve hidden away and pretended to be happy when I’m sad. I’ve told people I enjoy my own company when I’m lonely. I work late every night so I have fewer hours to stare at the damp-stained walls in my flat.

But things felt different with Nathan. Even in one phone call, I didn’t feel the need to pretend to be something I wasn’t. I didn’t pretend to be okay. I even told him I was eating a microwave meal and I never tell anyone that in case my mother finds out and immediately starts marching down the M1 with a stack of Tupperware containers under each arm.

I can’t ignore the fizzle of excitement. And it’s not just because people have read my story and now I’ve got a chance to make a real career here. It’s because of Nathan. This is so out of character for me, but there’s something about him that makes me want to find out whether months of eye contact and smiles on the train really did mean anything, because for just a moment when I spoke to him last night, it felt like they did.




Chapter 5 (#ulink_b9ff4082-1fdf-549f-9bdf-6c788cb6b130)


In London, the June weather is so muggy that every breath feels like hard work and the skies are overcast and dull, but as I sit in the window seat of a refreshingly empty carriage on a train that’s trundling north, the clouds outside the window turn from grey to white and the sky brightens until it’s blue.

I went to bed early last night because I knew I couldn’t miss getting the earlier train than usual, and I left Nathan’s phone on the kitchen unit overnight because if it was any nearer then I’d never be able to resist the temptation of constantly checking to see if he’d rung. When I got up this morning, there was a missed call from his pay-as-you-go number, followed by a text message.

I tried to call but either I missed you or I bored you silly last night and now you’re avoiding me – completely understandable! xx

Another two kisses. Daphne’s waters would probably break with excitement.

I want to reply because seeing that message this morning made the butterflies start doing bungee jumps again, but I still haven’t summoned the courage to, because I’m too nervous to tell him I’m on my way to Pearlholme. He must have been joking when he said it, but how can I tell him I’ve taken him seriously without sounding deranged?

The nearest station to Pearlholme is not like any train station I’ve seen before. It looks like a quaint little bungalow, but with sliding glass double doors and a railway sign outside. The air is clear and there’s a warm breeze that makes me inhale deeply and I don’t feel like I’m going to choke on exhaust fumes.

There’s a tiny car park outside the station and a couple of bus stops on the opposite side. I remember Nathan saying he got the bus so I wander across to them, dragging my suitcase behind me. I’m staring at the timetable, running a finger down the list of place names I don’t recognise, wondering if I’m even in the right place, when I spot a man selling newspapers standing on the corner of the car park.

‘Excuse me?’ I walk over to him, thinking of Nathan’s joke about asking strangers for directions. ‘Do you know if I’m in the right place to get the bus to Pearlholme? I can’t see it listed on any of the timetables.’

He gives me a toothy grin. ‘Pearlholme’s much too small for that, love. It’s on the route but it’s an unnamed stop that’ll take you to the edge of the village. It’s the number five bus you want, and you’ll need to get off outside a pub called The Sun & Sand.’

‘Brilliant, thank you.’

‘You’ve not long missed the bus though. It went through about twenty minutes ago, and they’re only every two hours.’

‘Oh, great.’ The journey has gone well so far; something had to go wrong at some point.

‘It’s only about half an hour on foot and it’s a lovely walk.’

I glance in the direction he points, wondering how lost I could manage to get on this walk because the chances are pretty good that I’ll never be seen again. But the weather is gorgeous and I have been sat on a train for the past three hours, and the station behind me looks like you’d struggle to occupy five minutes in it, let alone an hour and forty of them.

‘You’re Pearlholme’s second tourist this week,’ the man says. ‘They must be doing something right.’

I can’t resist asking. ‘Was the other one a tall guy with dark hair?’

‘Indeed he was. If you’re looking for him, he’ll be on the beach doing up the old carousel that’s been found. From The Sun & Sand, you can either take the back road into the village or the front road along the promenade and the beachfront. You can’t miss the carousel from there.’

Wow. Nathan was right, they really do know everyone around here. ‘Thanks.’ I give him a smile because of how much he reminds me of where I grew up, where you couldn’t walk up the road without someone asking where you were going and why you were going there.

‘It’s beautiful at this time of year,’ he says. ‘Gets a bit busy once the summer holidays begin, but this time of year is ideal. You’re not staying at The Shell Hotel, are you?’

‘I managed to get a room there at the last minute,’ I say, smiling again.

The man visibly cringes and I feel my face fall. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’ He gives me a smile that looks completely false.

‘That question did not have an “I’m sure it’ll be lovely” tone to it …’

He huffs and his shoulders slump. ‘The village itself is exquisite, but the hotel … not so much. I best not say more than that, love, I don’t want to put you off.’

‘All the cottage rentals were full. I thought I was lucky to get a room at the hotel.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Lucky.’

He doesn’t sound like he means lucky. Or like he’s going to enlighten me any further.

I thank him for his time and buy a newspaper because it seems like the polite thing to do, and set off in the direction he points me in, after assuring me that it’s a straightforward road.

I feel like I’m cutting school as I drag my suitcase down the wide pavement, like when you used to go on an errand for your teacher and walk through the empty school grounds when everyone was in lessons. It always felt a little bit naughty and a little bit thrilling, and it always made you feel a little bit more grown up than everyone else.

The road gradually shifts from residential houses to a tree-lined country lane, branches heavy with white flowers hanging across the pavement, hedgerows spilling over with pink wild roses, and the odd pretty cottage dotted among them. There’s hardly any traffic, and the occasional car that does pass is pootling along so slowly that I can overtake them on foot. I’m enjoying the walk so much that I’m surprised how quickly the time has passed as the pub comes into view.

I stop and read the blue lettering on a sand-coloured board above the door. The Sun & Sand. Even the name makes it sound nice. There are tables and chairs outside, a wide green lawn, and two huge but neatly trimmed trees on either side, weighed down with not-yet-ripe green cherries. It looks like the kind of image you’d see on the front cover of a romance book about a woman who moves to a tiny village to run a pub and falls for the handsome builder who comes to mend the roof.

It would be so easy to take the front road and walk along the seafront and find the carousel and Nathan, but I decide to be sensible and head to the hotel first. It’s not even two p.m. yet. There’s plenty of time for that when I’ve had a quick wash and change after travelling all day.

There’s a woman trimming the hedge outside The Sun & Sand who calls over as I go to walk away. ‘Where are you looking for, love?’

‘The Shell Hotel?’ I say, not used to this number of people keen to help you find your way around.

She makes the same face the newspaper man made. ‘Are you an inspector come to shut them down?’

‘No, just a guest.’

‘Oh, lovely.’ She sounds just as false as the newspaper man. What is it about this hotel?

‘It’s that way.’ She points down the second road that clearly heads into the village. ‘It’s right on the other end of the village, just follow this road and go downwards when you come to the fork. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks.’ I set off before the idea of this hotel sends me running straight back to the train station.

‘Come back anytime,’ she calls after me. ‘We do the best chips in Pearlholme! The fish and chip shop on the seafront will tell you otherwise, but we all know which one of us is right!’

It makes me smile as I wheel my suitcase behind me, through a narrow, cobbled street that seems barely wide enough to allow even the smallest of cars. This street must be the main residential street, and its rows of brick cottages fit perfectly with the uneven cobbles of the road. Each cottage looks like it could tumble down at any moment, but they all have perfectly neat front gardens, separated from the cobbled street by a haphazard brick wall covered in trailing purple aubrietia flowers. Each one has a path of stepping stones up to their door, a neatly trimmed lawn, and borders full of flowers. Even the birdhouses on tall stands at the end of each garden are miniature replicas of cottages, and birds who are happily pecking at seed inside their tiny bird cottages fly off in groups as I walk past, my suitcase bouncing along the cobbles behind me.

There’s one house on the street that’s a bit different. This one still has a freshly mowed lawn and the scent of cut grass is strong in the air, but in the window is a ‘Post Office’ sign, and instead of flowers in borders, there’s a bright red postbox outside, a chalkboard advertising fresh milk and bread, a newspaper board with today’s local headline, which is blank, and I wonder if that’s indicative of how quiet it is around here. Zinnia would’ve told them to make up a story about someone being mauled by a starfish to sell more copies.

Even from what Nathan said on the phone the other night, I didn’t realise quite how picturesque it would be. Every house has window boxes brimming with a rainbow of flowers and trailing hanging baskets on either side of their bright-painted front doors. It’s like a picture-perfect film set, the kind of village that you see artists painting in watercolour.

At the end of the main row of houses, the road forks – the left fork curves down towards a battered-looking old barn, and the right twists up a shallow slope towards green hills and a handful of little cottages that must overlook the beach. I’d rather take that road, but the woman outside the pub did say to go downwards, didn’t she? And I’m sure there’s something written on that old barn …

As I walk towards it, only the side is facing me, peering above rusty black railings. The back garden is hidden behind overhanging trees that have overhung so far they’ve gone for a scramble through the blackberry bushes behind the building. It looks more like an overgrown graveyard than any kind of hotel, but as I cautiously walk round the front, I realise that’s exactly what it is. The Shell Hotel is in big letters across the front of the building, but the S has gone wonky and dropped down, looking like it’s hanging on by a thread.

This does not look like a hotel. It looks like somewhere you’d expect Lurch to open the door.

I suddenly understand why everyone I’ve spoken to so far has made the same face at the mere mention of this place.

* * *

The hotel is not that bad. If you like broom cupboards with no view. There only seems to be one elderly man working here, and the only other guest I’ve seen is a man I passed in the corridor with an easel under one arm, making me think I wasn’t far wrong about artists painting such a picturesque village.

And I suppose I was lucky to get a room here at such short notice, in June, in a gorgeous little seaside village, and it doesn’t matter how small my room is or how uncomfortable and stained the bed looks, because I’m here, and I’ve done something unusual for me; I’ve ‘put myself out there’ as Daphne would say, and now I’m walking up the other fork of the cobbled road, towards the cottages, and hopefully the carousel on the beach.

At the peak of the hill, I stop and take in the view. From here, to my left, are the green hills of the cliffs overlooking the beach, and they’re spotted with little cottages, all with pretty gardens stretching out behind them. In front of me is the most perfect beach I’ve ever seen. Miles of unblemished sand stretches out into the ocean. The tide is out and the waves are lapping in the distance.

To the right is the seafront, and my reason for coming here. I walk down the lower road towards what is obviously the promenade. A blue-painted iron railing springs up along the grassy edge as I head towards a row of colourful beach huts along one side of the road, opposite a wide set of steps and a long ramp leading down to the beach. Just beyond them, is the tip of a marquee tent. It must be the carousel. It’s exactly where the newspaper man described.

The road has changed from cobblestone to smooth tarmac now, which I notice because my knees are shaking as I walk, and while I could convince myself it was because of the cobbles before, now I have to admit that it’s nerves. What the hell am I doing here? Coming halfway across the country to meet a man I smiled at on a train a few times? He’s going to think I’m a nutter. Maybe I am a nutter.

If I left now, I could probably make it back to London by tonight. I could at least stay somewhere near the station and get the first train out tomorrow morning. He would never know I was here. We could meet like normal, sensible, sane people in a neutral place in London where I can hand his phone over like a normal, sensible, sane person, and not stalk him two hundred and fifty miles across the country. In six weeks’ time. When he gets back … Six weeks is a hell of a long time. And I’m here now, aren’t I? I can just drop by the carousel and hand over his phone like it’s not a big deal … Maybe I could tell him I’m visiting family in the area? That’s a reasonable excuse, right?

My legs have carried on walking without me realising, and I’m suddenly on the liveliest part of the promenade, right next to one of the sets of steps leading onto the sand, and mere metres from the marquee surrounding the carousel. He must be in there. It’s too near, this is too weird, everything about it from the train to the phone to the article … and the lovely-sounding guy who phoned me, who I talked to unreservedly the night before last, who voluntarily rang again last night and then texted when I didn’t answer, and I still haven’t responded to.

I examine the row of beach huts on the opposite side of the promenade to delay having to approach the carousel and somehow make myself sound rational while explaining that I’ve stalked him halfway across the country.

They’re all painted in bright colours, each one different from orange to purple, graduated so they form a rainbow along the street. All have signs above their doors and sandwich boards outside advertising their goods. There’s the fish and chip shop I’ve already heard about, an old-fashioned arcade, an art shop showcasing paintings by local artists, a shop selling all kinds of beach goods from dinghies, windbreakers, and inflatable whales to buckets and spades and snorkels, and there’s an ice cream parlour … Oh, now there’s an idea.

The sign outside advertises a 99 cone that still costs 99p, something that’s probably as rare in Britain nowadays as when a Freddo used to cost 10p, and I can’t remember the last time I had one. I go into the little red hut and buy two. Turning up with ice cream makes this much less weird, right?

There are four rows of wide concrete steps leading down to the beach and sandy ramps side on, so I walk down one of them, holding an ice cream in each hand.

A wooden walkway has been installed in the sand surrounding the carousel, and a temporary metal fence about six-foot high has been put up around it, stopping anyone getting any closer.

As I cross the sand towards it, I try to work out what on earth I’m going to say. Shall I knock? If I can even get in, how do you knock on a tent? Rattle the fence? Call his name?

Just as I’m thinking the best thing to do would be to run away and eat both the 99s as I go, he steps out from around the side of the tent and I freeze because it’s suddenly real. He’s actually here. I’m actually here. I actually did something so completely out of character for me, and maybe that’s not an entirely bad thing, even if it is about to go down in flames.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of dungarees, which are covered in paint and oil stains and ripped at the knees, and he’s rubbing a manky-looking cloth over something, looking out towards the sea. He looks completely entranced by the ocean and hasn’t even glanced in my direction, and I wonder how long I could stand here admiring him if these ice creams weren’t melting.

‘Nathan?’ I finally pluck up the courage to speak and it comes out barely above a whisper. I’m sure he won’t have heard but he jumps at the sound of something other than the squawking of seagulls and swivels towards me.

‘Ness?’ He physically does a double take and squints in the sunlight.

At least he recognises me. That’s something.

‘Ness!’ he says again, his voice going high. ‘You actually came?’

Suddenly he’s moving, pushing aside one of the metal fence panels and striding towards me, his mouth turning into a grin that lights up his whole face and makes the laughter lines around his eyes crinkle up. He doesn’t look like someone who thinks I’m a deranged stalker.

What’s weird is that as soon as I see him, the moment I see that smile spread across his face and the dimples I haven’t been able to get out of my head since the first time I saw him, all of my nerves melt away.

He looks … overjoyed. No, it can’t be overjoyed. Maybe constipation? I don’t think anyone has ever looked that happy to see me before.

‘You made it sound so perfect.’ I have to wet my lips and swallow a couple of times to make my voice sound stable.

‘I can’t believe you came!’

‘And I brought ice cream.’ I hold one of the cones out towards him.

He goes to take it but his hand stops in midair and we both look at it because he’s covered in black grease. He pulls it back quickly and tries to wipe it on the cloth he was using to clean the thing he’s just shoved into the pocket of his dungarees. ‘Look at the state of me. I don’t usually get into this much of a mess.’

He plunges a hand into the dungaree pocket again and pulls out a mini packet of wet wipes, covering it in the black grime as he struggles to open it and pull one out, and I stand there with two ice creams melting in my hands, wondering when dungarees became so sexy. I’ve always thought of them as a work uniform for builders, but on Nathan, they look like something from a Calvin Klein aftershave advert. Even with the rips and stains, one rip in particular shows a delicious sliver of thigh, and …

I’ve been here for all of two minutes and I already can’t stop perving on the man. I can’t remember the last time I looked at a guy and fancied him this much, no matter how much Daphne tries to make me. Fancying men and how sexy they might or might not be hasn’t been on my priority list for a long time now, and yet I already want to slide a finger into that tear in the faded denim and … I force myself to think of something else.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Nathan’s scrubbing at his messy hands with a wet wipe, which looks about as effective as a chocolate teapot. ‘Talk about a good first impression. This is a boiling hot water, exfoliating handwash, and a scrubbing brush job, and I’m nowhere near any of them.’

He seems nervous, maybe even more nervous than I was, and it’s completely and utterly endearing.

‘Do you need a hand?’ I say, wishing I could kick myself before I’ve even finished the sentence. Who makes terrible puns like that in front of a gorgeous man they wouldn’t be opposed to impressing? What is wrong with me? I don’t know why I bother hunting for excuses not to go out with any of the men Daphne tries to set me up with. I should go and let them be instantly put off by my terrible sense of humour. She’d soon stop trying.

At least he’s polite enough to laugh and make it sound genuine, his eyes crinkling up again as he grins at me, and I find myself staring at him. His hair is so dark brown that it’s almost black and his brown eyes reflect the colour of the sand and the sun, making them look golden in certain slants of light. I always thought he was gorgeous by the washed-out light of an underground train, but in natural daylight, he’s glorious.

‘You couldn’t, er, feed it to me, could you?’

I let out an undignified snort and cover it with a nervous giggle, sounding like a pig that’s had a nappy accident, if pigs wore nappies and were perceptive enough to be aware of soiling themselves. Maybe those nerves aren’t so far away after all. ‘Well, that’s one way to break the ice.’

I try to ignore the way my stomach flips as he groans and goes to smack himself on the forehead but stops just in time to avoid a greasy handprint across his face. ‘Oh God, that wasn’t meant to sound as bad as it did. I meant in a completely non-erotic way, obviously. Just hold it in my general direction and I’ll lick it like a dog.’

‘I’d be happy to,’ I say, wishing I could think up a clever, witty response to make up for the ‘do you need a hand’ fiasco.

‘My nefarious plan for getting pretty girls to feed me ice cream is almost complete. Next step, world domination.’ He steeples grease-covered fingers in an evil overlord way, making me giggle again. ‘I’m going to stop making an idiot of myself anytime now.’ He gestures towards the gap in the metal fence. ‘Come in and sit on my wood.’

I laugh, but mainly at how fiercely red his cheeks have gone.

‘I meant my wooden decking, obviously.’ He points towards the edge of the platform in the sand surrounding the tent. ‘I told you I’m crap at talking to people.’

‘Well, I asked you if you needed a hand, so I think we’re fairly even on that front. And these are melting.’

He smiles as he sits down and I perch on the wooden pathway next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to hold his ice cream to my right.

He leans forward and licks it. ‘You have full permission to poke me in the nose with it if you want.’

I’m trying eat mine daintily without ending up in a Beauty and the Beast-style porridge scene and it makes me laugh so much that I nearly take my own eye out with the Flake. ‘I was just thinking about how easy it would be to do that. Are you some sort of mind reader or what?’

He laughs too. ‘I think there’s an innate part of every human being that makes that connection when there’s a pointy ice cream and a nose around.’

I give him a sideways glance, appreciating the way his tongue runs up that smooth ice cream. His chin is so close to my hand as he moves, near enough that I can almost feel the drag of his stubble, and it’s probably a really weird thing to sit here and feed ice cream to a complete stranger but it doesn’t feel as weird as it should.

‘I can’t believe you came. I didn’t think you would and I was really hoping …’ He shakes his head without finishing the sentence. ‘And I can’t believe you brought me ice cream. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but …’ His voice drops to a whisper and I naturally lean a bit nearer to hear him. ‘I’ve already had two of these today.’

I laugh like it’s a terrible secret. ‘Isn’t there an unwritten British law that says you have to have a 99 when within a five-mile radius of a beach?’

‘Oh, definitely, but I don’t think they mean to prescribe them like Paracetamol, you know, one every four hours until your liver packs in from sugar overload. I had one when I got here this morning and then I couldn’t resist running back across the road for another one after lunch. I foresee that working across the street from an ice cream parlour is going to be very bad for me.’

‘I can’t think of a nicer place to work.’ I nod towards the sea in an attempt to take my mind off his tongue and how close it is to my hand. ‘The ice creams are just a bonus.’

‘I can’t believe you came,’ he says again. ‘I was really hoping you would. I got the impression on the phone that you’d love it here, and I thought I’d probably scared you off and I’d never hear from you again, and I just …’ He swallows and leans over until his shoulder knocks gently into mine before sitting upright again. ‘I’m chuffed you’re here.’

It makes the sun warming my skin feel like it’s warming the whole of me from the inside out. He’s so … uninhibited is the word that springs to mind. Either he’s overcompensating because he thinks I’m a deranged stalker and is biding his time until he can run away, or he’s genuinely pleased to see me, and instead of trying to hide it and invent excuses like I am, he’s not afraid to say it. I’m still wondering if he’d believe that I have family in the area and I happen to be visiting them mere days after he told me where he was and I conveniently forgot to mention it the other night. ‘You made Pearlholme sound so perfect and I liked talking to you,’ I say, trying to be a bit more forthright with my answer. ‘I couldn’t resist seeing the village and the carousel.’ And the guy restoring it. Well, maybe not that forthright.

‘Did you get my text last night? I thought I’d better check to make sure I hadn’t bored you into a coma the night before.’

‘Yeah. Sorry, I’d gone to bed because I knew I’d have to get up early for the train, and I got your text this morning, but I didn’t answer because …’ Right, forthright. ‘I didn’t know how to say I was on my way here without sounding like I was stalking you.’

‘Well, I wasn’t joking when I asked you. I tried to pretend I was because it’s a bit weird to talk complete strangers into holidaying with you … I mean, not with me but in the same place I am …’ He twists one blackened finger around the other. ‘When I said I was going to stop making an idiot of myself earlier, I clearly meant now, not then. Now I’m going to stop making an idiot of myself. Just as soon as I finish the ice cream you’ve been forced to feed to me because I can’t get my hands clean.’

I giggle again, and I really am going to have to stop all this nervous giggling, I’m even annoying myself, but the thought that he actually wanted me to come … that it wasn’t a joke … It’s making me feel all fluttery and light, like in the movies when you see the heroine twirling down the street in a floaty pink dress after a wonderful romantic date with a handsome man who’s too good to be true.

I look over at Nathan again and his eyes meet mine and we both smile at the same time. Until he takes a bite out of the cornet and sends crumbs fluttering everywhere.

‘So, is “will you feed it to me” the worst chat-up line you’ve ever heard? Not that it was a chat-up line or anything – I am not interested in that kind of thing – I just meant it sounds like something a leery drunk in a pub would think was a clever chat-up line, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, but “hold it and I’ll lick it like a dog” is right up there.’

He laughs and groans at the same time. ‘Oh God, I hadn’t even thought of that one. See? I’m terrible at having conversations with people. I’m not even trying to chat you up and I’ve tried out the worst chat-up line you’ve ever heard in your life.’

‘Nah … A bloke outside the tube station told me he’d like to eat my ovaries once. Not quite sure what he expected the outcome to be.’

Nathan puts a non-greasy wrist to his forehead and pretends to swoon. ‘Oh, finally, your prince has been found?’

‘Exactly. Now that’s setting the bar high for bad chat-up lines.’ I laugh. ‘I always wonder how many women he tried it on and if any of them ever said, “Oh, lovely, that sounds like a jolly good way to spend an afternoon.”’

He dissolves into a fit of laughter and the fact that he’s nervous and giggly too makes me feel a bit more normal.

‘So what’s the worst chat-up line you’ve ever had then? It’s not some girl turning up on a beach and ramming an ice cream down your throat, is it?’

‘Are you kidding?’ He meets my eyes and raises both dark eyebrows. ‘This is the highlight of my day. No, my month. Although that’s a bit unfair because we’re only a week into June and I doubt anything will beat a beautiful girl feeding me a 99 this side of Christmas.’

I blush because he called me beautiful. I’ve never been called that before. Daphne is beautiful. I’m just plain and ordinary, the kind of person who would never stand out in a crowd.

He seems to realise his slip-up because he continues quickly. ‘I mean, no, I’ve never been chatted up.’

‘You’ve never been chatted up?’ I ask in disbelief. I know I don’t know him at all, but on face value, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t chat him up.

‘I think I put out a bit of a “not interested” vibe. I’m quite boring and I’m not looking for a relationship so I don’t go out and meet people. I generally just work and spend my evenings collapsed on the sofa in front of Netflix.’

He doesn’t put out a ‘not interested’ vibe to me. He seems warm, and friendly, and so approachable that I nearly broke the unwritten rule of London transport and spoke to a stranger on the tube.

‘Ditto. On all things.’ I make a point to emphasise the ‘all’ just in case he gets the mistaken impression that I am looking for a relationship because I most definitely am not. ‘And hooray for Netflix – my evenings would be empty without it.’

‘I would offer you a hooray for Netflix high five, but …’ He wiggles his greasy fingers in front of us. ‘I also fear a high five might give away how desperately uncool I am. No one high fives anymore, right?’

I grin at his self-deprecating humour. In person, he’s even funnier than he was on the phone and just as easy to talk to, but I’m more self-conscious because I can’t hide how much he’s making me laugh, and I’m all too aware of vanilla ice cream slowly dripping down my fingers because I’m not eating my own ice cream fast enough, and I can’t remember the last time a man was more interesting than an ice cream. That just doesn’t happen, right?

He uses his teeth to take the bottom of the cone out of my hand in one go, and I can tell he’s making an effort not to touch me, but this time his barely there stubble does brush against my fingers, making me shiver despite the warm sun.

Somehow, he manages to fit the whole thing in his mouth at once even though it’s so big he can barely chew it.

‘Impressive,’ I say, unable to take my eyes off him.

He laughs despite the mouthful and nearly chokes.

‘Why, thank you.’ He pretends to bow when he can finally speak again. ‘My ability to feed myself is second to none.’ He pauses for a second. ‘I say while someone else feeds me.’

It makes me giggle again. I’ve got to stop this – the giggling is getting ridiculous.

‘Did you find the place all right?’ He says while I try to furtively lick melted ice cream off my fingers after finishing my own cornet.

‘Not really, but I thought I’d have the full Pearlholme experience and ask a stranger for directions. The bloke selling newspapers outside the train station?’

‘Yep, I asked him as well.’

‘So he said. You weren’t joking when you said everyone knows everything around here, were you?’

‘Told ya.’ He winks at me. ‘Where are you staying? It’s not The Shell Hotel, is it?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Oh, come on. Why are you the third person to say that to me today?’

He looks worried. ‘I take it you are?’

‘Of course I am. I’m starting to wonder if they’ve changed the standard greeting in Pearlholme from “hello” to “you’re not staying at The Shell Hotel, are you?” in a sinister voice. Let me guess, the newspaper guy and a woman outside the pub asked you the same thing?’

‘Actually, it was the newspaper guy and an old gent who started talking to me on the bus when I went into the next town.’

‘Oh, great. It’s a real county-wide thing then? That’s comforting.’ I glance at him. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’

‘I don’t know. I gave it a quick peek from the corner when I was looking around the village but I didn’t want to get too close. It looked like the kind of place you might walk into and never be seen again.’

‘Thanks, that’s even more comforting.’ I know he’s only joking but I narrow my eyes when he grins again. ‘Not all of us are lucky enough to get a perfect little cottage with a landlady who makes us mac and cheese, you know.’

‘It was an amazing mac and cheese too. I’d ask her for the recipe but I doubt I’d get further than getting the cheese out of the fridge without burning the cottage down so it’s safer if I don’t.’

‘I’d say your inability to cook is endearing but I’m even worse. I doubt I could get further than a bowl of uncooked macaroni and a block of cheese. Sounds good, right?’

‘If you ever want to cook for me, that’s the cottage.’ He leans forward and reaches his arm past me so I can see where he’s pointing. I follow his grease-covered finger towards the first cottage on the cliff, the closest one to the road where I stopped on the way down here, a delightful little picture-worthy stone building with a grey slate roof, surrounded by a lot of greenery and a garden hidden behind a rhododendron hedge. Even from this distance, I can see that it’s just as perfect as I’d pictured it, although it’s difficult to concentrate with his arm so near, and the movement has sent a wave of his tropical shower gel towards me, along with the sexy scent of oil on skin and an undercurrent of sea air.

‘I mean it, you know?’ He suddenly turns serious. ‘You’re welcome to come over anytime. If your hotel is anywhere near as bad as it looks from the outside, or if you want a nice view or a bit of company or something …’

‘Thanks, Nathan.’ I cut him off because I’m surprised that he’s offered, that he genuinely seems keen to see me, and that he doesn’t think I’m a nutter for coming here. I should probably say something else but I’m a tad flustered.

He looks like he wants to say something else too, but he doesn’t. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘A couple of weeks,’ I say, deciding it’s best to keep it vague. ‘It’s kind of a working holiday. As long as I’ve got a laptop and an internet connection, I can work anywhere. My boss probably only gives me a cubicle in the office so she can check I’m not slacking off. She’s let me bring my work with me. She was really understanding about the whole phone thing. She thought I should get it back to you as quickly as possible.’

‘Nice boss.’

How can I tell him? He’s just told me he’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m definitely not, so what am I going to say? I’m here to write an article about whether you’re going to fall in love with me or not? The answer is already a resounding ‘not’, so what am I here for? To make up an article about us falling in love? Neither option makes me sound any less off my rocker.

‘Well, it’s my own fault for being so careless.’ It takes me a moment to realise he means the phone when he looks at me. ‘Or so distracted.’

I go red for no reason.

‘To be honest, I’m kind of enjoying being without it. Pearlholme is the kind of place you come to disconnect, and this little old thing …’ he pats the pocket of his dungarees ‘… is perfect for that. It can phone, it can text, it can take an awful picture, and it’s got no internet, which is a welcome break to be honest. Do you know, I actually slept soundly last night rather than tossing and turning for ages over something I’d just read on Twitter or watched on Facebook.’

‘You don’t have the apps on your phone.’

‘So you went through my apps but you didn’t go through my browsing history? You’d make a terrible investigator, do you know that?’

He’s smiling as he says it and he doesn’t seem annoyed with me. ‘I didn’t even think of that. I didn’t want to invade your privacy too much.’

‘You didn’t want to open my browser and find I was into unicorn porn or something like that?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Is that a thing?’

He laughs. ‘I have no idea. I promise I’m not into anything weird. If you had opened my browser, you’d have found Google News and searches for how to make a Pot Noodle more interesting.’

‘Can you make a Pot Noodle more interesting?’

‘It’s really a case of with or without the sauce packet. Some bloke on YouTube tried putting it in a sandwich, which just looked … ick. And I’m always being careful not to strain something with my adventurous cooking.’

Surely it’s not normal to just sit here and smile at someone? Everything about him makes me smile. I feel comfortable sitting with him, and I’m suddenly so, so glad I came. I know it won’t lead to anything more, and I don’t want it to, but I’m just glad to have met him. He feels like someone special.

I shake myself. I have to stop it. I’m here to further my career, nothing more. ‘So, are you okay? You said on the phone that you felt better than you had for months. Had you been feeling bad?’

He gives me a sideways glance and his dark eyes turn soft. ‘I can’t believe you heard that. Or cared.’ He looks out at the sea again. ‘Yeah, I hate London. My last job was restoring an Edwardian organ in the basement of a London museum. I felt like I hadn’t seen daylight in months. I couldn’t have asked for a better job at a better time than this.’

I glance at the giant tent behind me. There’s not much of the carousel to see. He hasn’t opened the tent from this side, so all that’s on show is the greyish white canvas of the marquee covering and enough space for Nathan to work around it. ‘Do you get many jobs like this?’

‘It’s been a while since I was sent anywhere quite as perfect as this, but yeah, I go out to fix things in situ if I can. Our workshop is on the outskirts of London, so we get stuff brought in there or shipped to us, or we go out to jobs like this one. There’s six of us there and we all have different specialities. My boss is one of the leading antique restorers in the country, so people go to him with whatever they need doing and he decides which of us is best suited to the job. I’m lucky that I mainly fix big old things because I’m more likely to get to go out to jobs. I’m probably sixty per cent away and forty per cent in the workshop. The guys who fix up furniture and small easily moveable things are almost always in the workshop.’

Which explains his absence on the train for weeks at a time. It’s easy to tell how much he likes being outside. It’s something I’d never really thought about until I wandered through Pearlholme, but I don’t get much fresh air either. I’d always thought I got enough on the walk from my flat to the tube station every day and the lunchtime walks to the nearest sandwich shop, but there’s a difference between London fresh air and real fresh air.

I can’t help looking at his hands again as he leans down to draw mindless patterns in the sand at his feet. ‘Do you know they’ve invented these really clever hand coverings for people who do messy jobs … called gloves?’

Instead of being offended like I feared he might, he laughs, a warm sound that shakes the wood we’re sitting on. ‘I need to be able to feel what I’m doing. See this?’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small metal thing he was rubbing earlier. ‘They’re the bearings that allow the carousel to turn, and because it’s so old, they’ve got gunk all around them where it isn’t supposed to be. I’ve got to be able to feel if they’re damaged – if there are any chips or splits it’ll affect the movement – and the best tool I’ve got for clearing these little ridges out is my thumbnail.’

He rubs the metal thing with his thumb and then runs his nail along one of the grooves in it, a tiny noodle of grease appearing in its wake.

He wipes it on the cloth. ‘We’ve got fantastic gloves that are like a second skin, but nowt’s as good as actually feeling something this old with your fingers. I think you can almost feel the years that have passed.’ He rubs the bearing with the cloth and then shoves it quickly back into his pocket, suddenly seeming embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you’re not even vaguely interested in my metal bits.’

‘No, I am, it’s fascinating. I love carousels but I’ve never thought about how they work, and I’ve definitely never met anyone who does something so interesting before.’

‘Ah, me and the word “interesting” don’t belong in a sentence together. You just don’t know me well enough yet.’

There’s that ‘yet’ again. The butterflies that haven’t left my stomach since the train the other morning take off in another storm of fluttering.

‘And I am sorry about the mess.’ He holds his hands out in front of him and wiggles his fingers again. ‘Modern grease tends to come off with wet wipes. The old stuff that’s in this is like tar – they don’t make it like this anymore.’

I look behind us at the tent. ‘How old is it then?’

‘Oh, I wish I knew.’ His face lights up, making laughter lines crinkle around his eyes again. ‘Usually they’re emblazoned with the name of the maker and the date, but this one isn’t. I can vaguely date it because the horses are solid wood, anything from the 1930s or Forties would’ve been aluminium, and it changed to fibreglass in the Fifties, but only pre-1930 would’ve been made solely of wood, so it’s definitely at least that old, but from the style, the trappings and just the way it’s carved … I’d say it’s older than that, the late 1800s to the turn of the century. It matches what you would’ve seen at that time, but it’s nothing like a commercial carousel, and it’s definitely never had commercial use— Sorry, I’m rambling. Simple answer: late Victorian era.’

‘Oh, please, ramble away, it’s fascinating.’

‘You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that, but fascinating is code for, “When will the boring bastard shut up? Oh God, is he still going? Kill me now”, usually accompanied by the distorted facial expressions of trying to hide a yawn.’

It makes me laugh even though it probably shouldn’t. He gives me a smile when I meet his eyes, but I get the feeling that it covers something deeper. ‘I used to love going on these when I was little. There was one on the seafront where we went every summer and I always went on the same horse. Mum used to call it “my” horse.’

‘Me too. My nan and granddad used to take my brother and me for days out by the seaside when I was young and the carousel was the only thing my nan was brave enough to go on. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to fixing them … but seriously, everyone in my life knows better than to ask me questions about work because I get overexcited talking about it.’

I tuck a leg under my thigh and turn towards him, trying to figure out why anyone would want him to shut up. ‘Do you know the film Carousel?’

‘The old Rodgers and Hammerstein musical from before The Sound of Music? The one that “You’ll Never Walk Alone” comes from and no one knows that?’

I’m smiling again as I nod. ‘It’s one of my favourite films.’

He screws his face up. ‘It’s about a dead guy who hits his wife and then gets a chance to go back to earth and make amends so he hits his daughter instead.’

‘It’s about a man who died before he could bring himself to tell his wife that he loved her because he thought she deserved better than him, when all she really wanted was for him to realise that he was good enough and always had been.’

He hums the chorus of ‘If I Loved You’. ‘I’ve got about six copies on DVD. When you work on carousels, it’s a go-to present every Christmas and birthday regardless of the fact someone “goes to” it every year. It’s not exactly my favourite film but it has a certain charm.’

‘My best friend thinks I’m nuts for loving it.’

‘I like it because films were magical back then. Every movie meant something; they weren’t the action-packed blockbusters that are just like every other one of the hundred action-packed blockbusters that come out each week. They were a real experience to go and see. I love watching old films because they’re such a snapshot of times gone by.’

I grin at him again and wave towards the giant structure behind me. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw all those photos of wooden horses on your phone. I mean, what are the chances?’

When he smiles this time, I can see the tension drain from his shoulders. ‘Do you want to have a look? It’s mostly in pieces and a total mess, but if you wanted …’

‘I’d love to,’ I say, loving the way the lip he was biting as he asked spreads instantly into a wide smile.

He jumps to his feet and holds a hand out to pull me up and I’m just about to slip mine into it when I look up and realise what I’m doing. ‘Better not, thanks.’

He groans and rips his hand away, swiftly hiding them both behind his back. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me today. I keep wanting to explain that I’m not usually this much of an idiot, but I’ve needed to say it about ten times so far and every time just proves the point.’

‘You’re great,’ I say and then blush furiously. There’s forthright and there’s forthright. ‘I mean, this whole place is great, the beach, the carousel, the ice cream. I’m glad I came.’ I pretend to focus on getting to my feet and pulling the legs of my capri trousers down where they’ve ridden up my thick calves so I don’t have to look at his gorgeous face.

My sandals tap on the wooden walkway as I follow him around the side of the tent and through a gap where the material is pulled aside.

‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he says, and I smile at the way he drops the ‘h’. I love a Yorkshire accent.

‘Wow.’ I can’t help the intake of breath as I look around, even though it’s no more than the skeleton of a carousel at the moment. There’s a tall, thick pole in the centre, supported by diagonal posts, with rods extending out from the top of it like the arms of an umbrella. A rusty-looking engine is next to it, and an old pipe organ, but all the horses are stacked on the floor, and there are metal bars lying all over the place, and various piles of metal bits like the one Nathan showed me. ‘You did all this by yourself?’

‘What, took it apart?’ He continues when I nod. ‘That’s my job. I mean, the owner got the platform built and the tent’s been up for protection since he bought it, but my job is to strip carousels, fix them, and rebuild them. You can get them apart in half a day if you know what you’re doing.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘That’s the most interesting part. No one knows. The guy who owns the fish and chip shop on the promenade is some millionaire fish and chip mogul. He won it in a blind auction and got planning permission to install it on the beach. Apparently he’s going to do free rides for everyone who buys food there or something.’

‘A millionaire fish and chip shop mogul … It’s not Ian Beale, is it?’

‘An EastEnders fan,’ he says with a laugh.

‘Not really, but my mum insists on telling me every plot point in minute detail. The more I protest, the more I hear about it.’ I’m sure he didn’t want to know that. ‘Can you find out anything else about it?’

‘When I collected the fence keys from the chip shop, the girl serving said it was found in an abandoned house or something. I’m hoping that stripping it down will give me more clues about its origin.’

‘What do you think?’ I ask because I get the impression he wants to say more.

His face lights up again. ‘It’s definitely not been outside because it doesn’t have the wear, so an abandoned house would make sense. Must’ve been a massive house though – can you imagine getting something this big into one of our crappy one-bedroom flats?’

I shake my head, looking up at the spire on top. It really is humungous.

‘There’s a dent in the top and damage to the rounding boards, and the top bars are bent, so that suggests something fell on it. From the scratches and debris, I’d guess a roof or ceiling came down on it, but at the same time, I’d guess that whatever it was also gave it some kind of protection. This is in incredible condition for the age of it, it must’ve been well cared for back in the day, and although it’s obviously been let go since then, it doesn’t have anywhere near the damage you’d expect.’

The tent smells of aged wood and the grease that Nathan’s hands are covered in, and I wander around the circular area, stepping over the metal posts that he’s carefully laid out. I run my fingers down one of the support poles suspended from the bars above, carved into a twist and covered in tarnished gold paint, which comes off in flakes when I touch it. ‘Did you say that this was all carved by one person?’

‘I reckon so, yeah. I think this was a personal project, something never intended for public use. It doesn’t have the glitz of a fairground ride, but it has a personal touch in every bit of carving. There are the same quirks in every part. I can’t see how it could’ve been the work of a workshop where you’ve got different carvers working on each bit. It doesn’t feel like that.’

‘It must’ve taken forever.’ I look around in awe as I crouch down and run my fingers over what I assume is one of the rounding boards he mentioned, a lavishly carved but battered frame surrounding cracked mirror glass, one of many stacked against each other on the floor. They look like they belong on a castle wall with an evil queen peering in and asking who’s the fairest of them all. The intricacy of one simple panel is incredible, and it’s unimaginable that one person could’ve done all of this by hand, but Nathan really seems to know what he’s talking about.

‘This is such a massive find. Original steam-powered gallopers from that era are so rare. There are only about seventy in the world and this isn’t one that’s registered. It’s also the most complete one I’ve ever come across and in as near to original condition as possible. It’s incredible. Look at this.’ His long legs step over a tangle of metal poles as he walks towards one of the wooden horses lined up at the edge of the tent. ‘These have only ever been painted once. That’s unheard of for something of this age. Usually when I go to restore carousel animals, the biggest job is stripping back layers and layers of paint where someone’s thought they were preserving it by slapping on another coat every few years. This is the original lead-based enamel that’s been out of existence for decades now … Why are you smiling?’

I blush and try to rearrange my face because I hadn’t realised I was. It doesn’t work. I can’t stop myself smiling at his enthusiasm. ‘Because you know so much.’




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