Victoria Cooke - The Holiday Cruise - The feel-good heart-warming romance you need to read this year

After a good five minutes, I calmed myself down and began to sweep up the shards and arrange the other items neatly back on the desk. I was too proud of the business I’d built to see it a mess, but it’d served its purpose in those few moments of despair. I dried my eyes and wiped away the smudged mascara from underneath my eyes. Dark circles remained and it was hard to tell if they were etched in from the sleepless nights or just stubborn stains from the mascara. When I looked vaguely human again, I stood in the middle of the salon, trying to get my thoughts into some kind of order. I was going to need coffee.

The outside air was calm and still, contrasting with my earlier outburst. A cold snap had brought some autumnal frost to the village, which had decorated the high street beautifully. The cobbles were glistening silver, bringing an air of magic to the place, which normally would have excited me, serving to foreshadow Christmas perfectly. I’d have enjoyed snuggling up by the window in the café, gazing out down the pretty village high street with a hot chocolate warming my hands. Now, it felt so wrong: a juxtaposition of heartbreak amidst beauty. Smashed windows, graffiti, and litter would have served as a more appropriate backdrop. It was still a way off but the thought of spending Christmas alone made me shudder.

I popped into Jean’s coffee shop and ordered a large cappuccino to take away. ‘How are you coping, love?’ she asked solemnly as she handed me my five pence change, which I chucked in the tip jar. The whole village must know about me and Daniel . I plastered on a smile.

‘I’m holding up, thanks, Jean,’ I replied before scuttling off and heading back home to try and work out how to save my business.

I spent a quarter of an hour enjoying my coffee in silence, plucking up the courage to win back my customers. If they returned, Amy and Jess could return, and I could at least salvage something from the dire situation I was in. I booted up my laptop whilst my plan was forming. Manager’s specials, welcome-back discounts, bring-a-friend Fridays – Cherry at Glam Shack wouldn’t know what had hit her. As the adrenaline pumped around my body, the ideas kept coming. Balloons. Balloons outside would really draw the eye. Free product demos would help with upselling. It wouldn’t be so hard, and once I was back working again, I’d be too busy to think about him .

I looked at the screen, and my heart stopped. The wallpaper had loaded, and I was hit with the painful image of a happy couple. It was taken on holiday in Cancun back in April. Daniel and I were cuddled up on the beach, sipping cocktails at sunset. My usually straight, chin-length dark hair had caught natural highlights in the sun, and the saltwater had worked its magic, creating loose waves. I had on a simple yellow sleeveless shirtdress that set my tan off perfectly.

Daniel was tanned and wore a Hawaiian-style shirt that we’d giggled about. His arm was thrown lazily around my shoulder and I could still feel the warmth of it. We’d gone to celebrate Daniel’s fortieth birthday and it was the perfect setting – such a romantic place. We’d been so happy that now, thinking back, it was hard to believe he’d already met her . Nobody would’ve guessed.

The image threw me back six weeks to that awful day: ‘Hannah, I’m leaving you,’ he’d said, so matter-of-fact.

I was confused – leaving me what? His Twix? His car keys? ‘You’re going to work?’ I’d asked, without thinking. It was evening but it wasn’t unheard of for him to have to go back at night.

He moved around to face me. ‘No, Hannah, I’m leaving you for…’ Her name hadn’t even registered, but I remember it sounding cheap, the name of a woman only a weak man would choose over his dedicated and loving wife.

The rest of that day was a blur. I recalled clinging to him, begging him not to go, and the physical pain I felt when he shrugged me off. When my efforts failed, I’d walked around the house in a daze, silently following him in shock as he packed his things into the large holdall we’d shared just a few weeks before when we’d had a weekend away in The Lake District. He’d stalked around the house, gathering his things with occasional mutterings of ‘I’ll leave that for you’ or ‘I can’t find my charger; I’ll pick it up another time’ but he didn’t offer me any reason for leaving other than he’d fallen in love.

After he’d left, I’d spent the first few weeks wandering vacantly around a black hole, occasionally bursting into emotion, whether it was anger or floods of tears. I’d ignored everything and everyone, surviving on whatever foods required the minimum effort to prepare and eat: a yoghurt here, a bag of crisps there, or confectionary I was too sad to taste. All washed down with wine, and when that ran out I’d raided the old Christmas stock. Mulled wine I didn’t bother to heat, out-of-date Baileys, and whatever else I could lay my hands on.

I’d spent hours dissecting our relationship, looking for clues, but there weren’t any. We were financially secure, living in a lovely modern, four-bed detached house, which was complemented by a pair of nice cars on the driveway. We didn’t argue about anything of consequence. It wasn’t always easy, juggling the businesses, and the late nights were stressful from time to time, but we helped each other out. We were a team, or so I’d thought.

At some point during those dark weeks, he’d moved out the rest of his belongings. I don’t even remember it happening. I’d simply noticed his old running machine had gone from the spare room one day, leaving only an imprint in the carpet just like the one he’d left on my chest.

I imagine I’d been sitting, drunk, in a dark corner when he came, and he’d ignored me as he collected his things. Shirts I’d laundered, the fancy watch I’d bought him, and other possessions that I wished I’d broken out of my haze and vandalized in some way to try and inflict just an ounce of my pain upon him.

So it should have come as no surprise that, after six weeks of wallowing in self-pity, my life lay in tatters around me. But I needed to try and pick myself up, and that’s what I was doing. I slapped my coffee cup on the table and stretched out my fingers. Loading up my client database, I struck ‘A’ to filter the clients by surname, excited to have some focus again. There were fifteen clients whose surnames started with A. That’s a great start .

I went to dial the first client: Samantha Ackbury. Just before it connected, I hit the red button and slammed the phone down. I didn’t know what to say. What if she was angry because the business had just closed? I’d left her in the lurch. I bashed the phone against my forehead. I hated phoning people at the best of times, never mind when it was to beg for business. But I needed to do this . Pulling myself together, I straightened my face, raised my eyebrows, and pursed my lips, creating what in my mind, seemed like a confident face. Taking a deep breath, I dialled again.

It rang and rang before going to voicemail. I left a polite message, apologizing for any inconvenience caused by my family emergency and explaining the salon offers I’d decided upon. That wasn’t so bad. I forced myself to carry on but the rest of the As had similar results, so I moved on to the Bs and then the Cs.

I was beginning to despair, until, finally, a customer answered the phone. A wave of relief washed over me. Kate Davidson was a regular – she came in for microdermabrasion every six weeks without fail. Her account showed she had been in to have the treatment with Amy just over five weeks ago. Perfect .

‘Mrs Davidson, it’s Hannah calling from The Hollywood Hut. I want to apologize for any inconvenience you may have encountered during our recent temporary closure. It was a one-off family emergency and won’t happen again. Anyway, I’ve noticed you’re due your usual in the coming week and wondered if you’d like me to get that booked in for you?’ I was surprised and glad at how natural it felt to slip back into ‘salon Hannah’ mode.