One Perfect Summer

  Praise for Paige Toon

  ‘Another perfect summer page-turner from Paige Toon’

  Mirror

  ‘I loved it – I couldn’t put it down!’

  Marian Keyes

  ‘Wonderful, addictive, sharp and sexy’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘Brilliant . . . one of the rising stars of chick-lit’

  Heat

  ‘Laugh-out-loud funny and touchingly honest. This is summer’s poolside reading sorted!’

  Company

  ‘Charming and romantic. Real old-school chick-lit, like they used to make in the old days’

  Lisa Jewell

  ‘Witty and sexy – perfect holiday reading material’

  Closer

  ‘A fast-paced and funny read . . . Superior chick-lit with great jokes and a thoughtful heart’

  Daily Express

  Also by Paige Toon

  Lucy in the Sky

  Johnny Be Good

  Chasing Daisy

  Pictures of Lily

  Baby Be Mine

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Paige Toon, 2012

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Paige Toon to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  B Format ISBN 978-1-84983-128-4

  EBook ISBN 978-1-84983-129-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  For Nigel Stoneman

  who, with five little words, helped

  make my dreams come true

  Contents

  When I Was Eighteen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Six Months Later

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Seventeen Months Later

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Three and a Half Years Later

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Epilogue

  ‘There’ll be bluebirds over . . .’

  ‘We’re going to Dorset, not Dover, Mum.’ I interrupt as she launches into another rendition of ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover.’

  ‘I know, but I can sing, can’t I?’ She pretends to be wounded.

  ‘It would be better if you stuck to painting,’ I tease.

  She flashes me a grin and I smile back at her from the front passenger seat.

  ‘This is going to be fun!’ she exclaims, reaching for the knob on the car’s radio. She’s about to settle for Heart so I quickly intervene. Dammit, there’s no XFM this far out of London!

  ‘iPod?’ I suggest hopefully.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she concedes. ‘Anything to get you in the holiday mood.’

  ‘I am in the holiday mood,’ I try to convince her as I plug in my brand-new white MP3 player – a present from my parents for my recent birthday. Mum gives me a discerning look before returning her eyes to the road.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed Lizzy can’t come, but you’ll still have a good time. Plus, you’ll be able to get started on all your university reading.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Over’ by Portishead begins to play.

  ‘For goodness sake, Alice, this is making me want to slit my wrists!’ protests Mum after a while. ‘I mean it,’ she continues when I ignore her. ‘Something more upbeat. Please!’

  I sigh, but comply. Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ starts belting out from the speakers.

  ‘This is more like it!’ She starts to sing again.

  ‘Mu-um,’ I moan. ‘Remember your vocation.’

  She laughs. ‘That’s a big word for a teenager. Aah, but you are going to Cambridge University.’

  ‘University in Cambridge, not the University of Cambridge,’ I correct her for what feels like the umpteenth time. I’m actually going to Anglia Ruskin, but she seems to forget the details when relaying this fact to her friends.

  ‘It’s still a big deal,’ she says and I don’t disagree because it’s nice to have proud parents. Then she’s off again: ‘Holiday!’

  And like they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, so I do.

  My mum is an artist. She specialises in painting abstract landscapes using oils, and incorporating other materials like metal, sand and stone. She’s struggled for years to make decent money, so although her last collection sold well, my dad is still the main breadwinner. He’s working at his accounting job in London during the week and will be joining us in Dorset at the weekends. It’s the middle of July now and we’ll be here until the end of August. Mum plans on spending these six weeks working on her new collection which, to her delight, is being exhibited at a super-cool East London gallery in September.

  As for me, initially I agreed to this long summer break because my best friend, Lizzy, was going to come too. She’s heading off to university in Edinburgh and we’re both sad at the idea of leaving each other. We’ve spent the last few years living practically in each other’s pockets, so this will be the end of an era. The pair of us envisaged long, lazy summer days sunbathing in the garden or borrowing Mum’s car to go to the beach. But Lizzy’s mum, Susan, recently discovered she had a lump in one of her breasts, which turned out to be malignant. The shock was immense and I still feel absolutely sick at the thought of what my friend and her family are going through. Susan is having an operation this week to remove the lump and then will have to undergo chemotherapy; so, n
eedless to say, Lizzy needs to be with her right now.

  ‘Isn’t this pretty?’ Mum says. I look out of the window at the rolling green hills. ‘Look! Are those wild horses?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer, not that I’d know. ‘You could have riding lessons while you’re here. And there’s a castle not too far from where we’re staying. You can catch a steam train from Swanage that takes you all the way there.’

  ‘I know, you’ve told me already.’

  ‘Well, that will be fun, won’t it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply non-committally. It would have been fun. If Lizzy were here. Oh, I hope her mum is going to be okay . . .

  ‘You might make some new friends,’ Mum suggests hopefully, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

  ‘I’m not eight anymore,’ I reply with a wry smile.

  ‘I know, but you’ll have a good time,’ she says again.

  I think she’s trying to convince herself of that as much as she’s trying to convince me.

  The cottage where we’re staying is off the beaten track. It’s built out of cream stone, and a dry stone wall encloses a small, grassy garden at the back. There’s a bench seat out at the front in full sunshine and I can already picture myself sitting there and tackling some of my English Lit books.

  The place has been recently renovated, and it feels cosy and clean. Mum puts the kettle on and unpacks milk from the cool-box while I sit at the kitchen table and look over the manual left by the owners.

  My mum is tall and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. I take after my dad’s side of the family. I’m shorter at five foot five inches tall and I have long, very-dark-brown-almost-black hair. My eyes, although green like my mother’s, have a slightly Oriental look about them. My paternal grandmother was Chinese, but she died before I was born.

  ‘What does it say about things to do around here?’ Mum asks as she puts a cup of tea down in front of me.

  ‘Pretty much everything you’ve already told me,’ I reply. ‘Apparently there are some nice walks along the cliff if you go up there.’ I point in the opposite direction to the way we came in. ‘There’s also a pub within walking distance if you head that way.’ More pointing.

  ‘That sounds promising. Maybe we could go there for an early dinner and then relax in front of the telly for the night?’

  We drive to the pub because, despite having sat in a car for almost three hours, neither of us has the energy to walk.

  Our nearest village is lovely. Limestone cottages with painted window frames in shades of blue and green line the streets, and the sea is visible across the rolling hills. We walk up the steps to the pub. There are grey stone tables and bench seats outside with views towards the sea and we decide to come out here to sit down, but first we head inside to have a nose around, and to order.

  I see him almost immediately, the guy working behind the bar. He’s tall – about six foot one or two – has chin-length, dead-straight black hair and his right eyebrow is pierced with a silver ring. He’s pulling a pint and looking down, but as he glances up his dark eyes momentarily meet mine. POW! I know how crazy this sounds, but it feels like my heart has just leapt out of my chest and slammed into him.

  Then he’s looking down again, filling the pint glass to the brim and carrying it, somehow without spilling a drop, to a middle-aged man at the other end of the bar. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Mum snaps me out of it.

  ‘He looks to be about your age,’ she says, gleefully nudging me as she nods in the direction of the unsettlingly attractive bartender.

  ‘Shh!’ I warn, inwardly cringing and trying, but failing, to tear my eyes away from him as he takes money from the man and goes to the till. He comes our way and my pulse quickens.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  A big, burly man with short, gelled black hair and enormous tattoos on his arms has materialised in front of us. The disappointment is intense.

  ‘A glass of white wine, please,’ Mum asks pleasantly. ‘Alice?’

  ‘Um . . .’ My eyes dart towards the guy, but he’s already taking another order. ‘Half a cider, please.’ The man gets on with the job without another word. He’s wearing a white vest and his dark chest hairs are visible beneath the fabric. I wonder if he’s the gorgeous boy’s father. He plonks a half-pint glass full of honey-coloured liquid in front of me. Some of it sloshes over the brim, but he makes no apologies, nor does he smile as he requests money or when he returns Mum’s change. I feel oddly uneasy about him.

  ‘Do you have any menus?’ Mum asks him.

  ‘We don’t do food,’ comes his gruff reply.

  I glance over my shoulder as I follow Mum through the door, and then I’m outside in the late-afternoon sunshine.

  ‘This is nice,’ Mum says when we sit down. ‘He was a bit tasty.’ She nudges me again, once more snapping me out of my reverie.

  ‘Mum, no one says “tasty” anymore.’ I sound unbothered, even though I’m not.

  I try to concentrate while she engages in conversation, but soon the gentle sound of clinking glass from behind us makes me turn around. I realise with a flurry of nerves that he’s there, collecting empties from recently vacated tables.

  ‘Hello!’ my mum calls cheerfully.

  Oh, Christ, Mum, shut up!

  ‘Alright?’ He gives her a vague smile and his eyes flicker towards mine. POW! That feeling again. It’s like I’m made of metal and he’s a powerful magnet. What on earth has got into me?

  ‘We’re on holiday,’ Mum tells him. ‘Can you recommend anything nice to do around here?’

  ‘Um . . .’ He stands upright and thinks for a moment, holding the glasses he’s collected between his fingers. ‘Have you been to Corfe Castle yet?’

  ‘We’ve only just arrived.’ She shrugs and smiles.

  He’s wearing black jeans and a black indie-rock T-shirt. My kind of guy.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asks, glancing at me. I’m unable to speak so, thankfully, Mum does.

  ‘In a little cottage over those fields. We’re here for six weeks, so if you’ve got any ideas . . .’

  A dog starts to bark and his head shoots around towards the pub. Almost on cue, the big, burly man storms out.

  ‘JOE! Sort it out,’ he shouts angrily.

  Joe . . . The gorgeous boy has a name . . . Well, of course he has a name, Alice.

  ‘Coming,’ Joe shouts back wearily. ‘Gotta take my dog for a walk,’ he says to us as he turns away.

  ‘Do you want some company?’ Mum calls after him hopefully, as the annoying nudging arm comes out to play once more. ‘Alice is desperate to meet people her own age.’

  ‘Mum, no!’ I hiss, mortified.

  He looks at me as my face turns bright red and I would give anything – anything – for the ground to open up and swallow me, or for an enormous Pterodactyl to swoop down from the sky and gobble me up. I really don’t care, I’m not fussy, I just DO NOT want to be here right now.

  ‘JOE!’ the man shouts again, interrupting any reply.

  ‘No, no, it’s okay, you go ahead,’ I manage to splutter.

  ‘Okay. See you around.’ He quickly makes an exit. My face continues to burn as I bury it in my hands.

  ‘That was so embarrassing!’ I screech under my breath.

  ‘Why?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I cannot believe you just did that,’ I moan.

  ‘Goodness sake, Alice, he’s just a boy,’ she replies, sounding all uppity.

  But he’s not. He’s not ‘just a boy’. Do not ask me how I know this, but somewhere, deep inside, my heart has already started to fracture and I know that Joe has everything to do with it.

  Back at the cottage, I found myself lying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling thinking about You Know Who. And then it occurs to me that I might bump into him if he’s walking his dog . . . I hurry downstairs.

  ‘I’m going to go for a walk.’

  Mum tears her eyes away from her sketchpad and looks up at me.
‘We can watch telly together, if you like?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I need some fresh air.’

  The wind has picked up so I tie my hair into a loose bun and slip on my waterproof and wellies, in case it’s muddy. I turn left onto the track and follow a sign for Priest’s Way. After a while I see another sign for something called Dancing Ledge. That sounds pretty. I carry on walking. There are a few people out and about, and every time I see a dog before its owner I jolt with anticipation. I know I’m being an idiot, but I’m bored; I can daydream.

  I turn right into a grassy field and make my way along a stone track lined with wild flowers. The sea is visible up ahead – shimmering dark blue in the hazy evening sunlight – and I pause for a moment to breathe in the fresh air.

  God, he was gorgeous. I feel nervous at the thought of seeing him again, but I’ll be dragging Mum to that pub tomorrow, whether she likes it or not.

  I remember with sudden mortification how she told Joe I was ‘desperate’ – and how I blushed! He couldn’t escape fast enough. I instantly feel deflated and I almost decide to return to the cottage, but I’ve come so far, I may as well see this Dancing Ledge, whatever that may be. I pass through a gate and then the path narrows and becomes rockier and steeper, leading me downwards between tall gorse hedges. It’s sheltered from the wind here, and then suddenly . . . well, I have never been a nature freak, but the view as I come out of the gorse nearly takes my breath away. In front of me is a grassy slope which seems to roll away to a sudden stop. To my left, more rolling hills jut away at the cliff edge. It’s breathtaking, and slightly scary, but I wander a little way down the slope and sit on the grass. No wonder Mum chose Dorset as a destination – she should come here to paint.

  A big, black, shaggy-haired dog bounds past me, coming from the direction of the gorse walkway. He runs towards the cliff edge and I tense up, but then he turns around and comes my way. I hold out my hand to him and smile – I like dogs – and he rewards me by manically wagging his tail and panting the biggest doggy smile I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Hello!’ I say as I pat him vigorously. Out of curiosity I glance behind to look for his owner and then . . . no way! I must be psychic or something, because there he is! JOE! It’s bloody Joe! My stomach swirls with Amazonian-sized butterflies as he approaches.