Fiona Harper - Always the Best Man

Was there a storm? The weather forecast had been good. Well, at least she’d imagined it was good because it had been bright and sunny for the last week, and Zoe wasn’t the type to check that kind of thing religiously. If at all.

Large drops of water sprayed onto the hatch as the boat did its biggest lurch yet. Definitely a storm, then. But a strange kind of storm because, apart from those dull echoes from the underside of the boat, it was completely quiet. And why was the sun still shining?

She rubbed her eyes, got out of bed and braced a hand against the wall to stop herself from falling over. Her brain struggled to make sense of the mismatched information being sent to it. She hadn’t drunk much last night, so this couldn’t be the hangover of all hangovers. What the heck was going on?

As she lurched her way through the cabin she glanced out of one of the tiny lozenge-shaped portholes and finally the jigsaw pieces began to come together. There was blue. Lots of it. Above and below the horizon. And cliffs. Last time she’d checked Lower Hadwell had been all about green hills covered in woods and sheep-filled fields. Not a cliff to be seen. Which left only one conclusion to stumble onto.

They were at sea. Almost. Right at the mouth of the estuary.

Matthew must be much more of a morning person than she gave him credit for. How disappointing. And she’d at least have expected him to discuss with her which beach she’d like to go to. Behaviour like this reminded her of someone she’d much rather push to the recesses of her mind and slap the label What were you thinking ? on.

The breeze hit her full in the face and tugged at her hair as she emerged from the cabin. The cockpit was empty, and no one was at the large wooden tiller at the back end. She could hear the mainsail rustling frantically above her head as it flapped in the wind. She stepped out into the cockpit properly, stood on one of the non-slip benches and looked further down the boat.

There, clipping a sail onto the wire that ran from the front of the boat to the top of the mast, was a hunched figure. Zoe called and waved at Matthew, but the wind stole her words. She yelled louder.

And then she had another one of those worst hangover ever moments, because when the hunched man stood up and turned around his face was different and his hair was all wrong. In fact, it looked a lot like …

But it couldn’t be!

Before she could tell her brain to start making sense, another large wave hit the boat—which she now realised had been responsible for the hollow bumping she’d heard in her cabin—and Zoe, who had not been on a yacht enough times before to know it was a good idea to hang onto something at all times, tumbled back into the cockpit.

Had that been the only thing that had happened, things would have been fine, apart from a few bruises and a general sense of embarrassment. But Zoe fell against the tiller when she landed and grabbed onto it for support, causing the boat, which had been facing the wind, to swing round sharply. The mainsail filled and Dream Weaver pitched sideways.

Zoe righted herself just in time to see the shocked face of the man at the other end of the boat. Definitely not Matthew.

Definitely her worst nightmare.

Definitely losing his balance from the unexpected lurch of the deck. In slow motion, he grabbed for the wire he’d been clipping the sail onto but missed. For a couple of seconds he seemed to hover in mid-air, but then there was a splash and a yell, and Zoe’s worst nightmare had fallen overboard.

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