Alexandra Brown - Ice Creams at Carrington’s

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014

Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2014

Cover illustration © Sarah Gibb

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2014

Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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: 9780007488278

Ebook Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9780007488285

Version: 2014-09-20

For my dad, Michael

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Sam’s Recipes

Kirsty interviews Sam

Kevin interviews Eddie

Megan interviews Georgie

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Alexandra Brown

About the Publisher

It’s Sunday morning in Mulberry-On-Sea and, if the dust-speckled shard of sunshine peeping through the chink in my bedroom curtains is anything to go by, then it’s going to be one of those gloriously uplifting start-of-summer days. Bliss. And if this isn’t reason enough to feel happy, then my boyfriend Tom, aka hottest man alive for sure, is leaning over the bed to kiss my cheek.

‘Mm-mmm. Well, hellooooo, Mr Carrington.’ I grin and run my fingers through his thick curly black hair, drawing in his delicious chocolatey scent and wishing he’d jump right back into bed, but he’s already dressed – jeans and a soft grey T-shirt to nicely accentuate his velvety-brown eyes.

‘I have to go,’ he whispers, tracing a path to my ear with his lips.

‘Stay a little longer. Go on … you know you want to,’ I tease, doing my best to sound sultry and seductive.

‘I’d love to, Georgie, I really would,’ he says with a smile. ‘But I want to squeeze in a swim and then sort out some stuff at home, plus I’ve got a ton of paperwork to plough through before the party later on.’ Tom stands up to pat the leather laptop bag that’s slung diagonally across his magnificently firm body.

‘Hmm, well OK, if you must …’ I stick my bottom lip out and pull a cross-eyed funny face to make him laugh.

‘Pick you up at one o’clock, yes? And, seeing as we’re making plans – can you keep the weekend after your birthday free?’ He tilts his head to one side. I nod, and stretch out like a starfish.

‘Oooh, why’s that then?’ Mmm, curious, my birthday – the big three zero is coming up soon! Friday 15 August, to be exact.

‘If I tell you, then it won’t be a surprise, will it?’ Tom grins mischievously and my stomach does a somersault. God, he’s gorgeous, and I hope this exquisite fluttery butterfly feeling never fades. I can see it now, I’ll be an old woman and still infatuated with him. Oh yes, how wonderful would that be?

‘Already missing you.’ I blow a kiss as he goes to leave.

‘Sweet Jesus, what are you doing to me, woman?’ Tom turns back to the bed and gives me another kiss, his lips hot on mine, one hand in my hair, the other tantalisingly close to my knickers. I open my eyes to sneak a peek at his long dark lashes. I’ll say it again … he is officially gorgeous ! The perfect blend of chiselled features and delicious Mediterranean real tan – his mother is Italian. ‘I just can’t resist you. And when are you going to move in with me? All this coming and going just isn’t practical any more.’ He goes to tickle me just as Mr Cheeks, my supersoft black cat, leaps onto the bed and snuggles down beside me.

‘Too slow.’ Laughing, I roll away, almost squashing Mr Cheeks with my left thigh. ‘Aw, poor thing, I’m so sorry.’ I scoop the cat up and bury my face in his silky fur.

‘Don’t avoid the question. It really would make things easier; it doesn’t seem sensible, all this toing and froing. And you can bring this little dude too, if you like.’ Tom lifts Mr Cheeks from the bed and gives him a gentle hug before depositing him on the carpet, much to the cat’s disgust. He likes nestling on the end of my bed; now he slinks off to the kitchen in a huff instead – I can always tell by the way his tail wafts extra-majestically, and I imagine he’d be giving us the finger right now, if he could …

‘Soon. I promise.’ Between you and me, I can’t wait to live with Tom, but it needs to be about more than practicalities. I’ve been in that kind of relationship before – where I was the one who loved just that little bit more. Never again, this time around I’m not messing up. I’m determined to make it work and, if that means waiting longer to be sure, after we’ve chatted it all through, and I don’t mean snatched minutes here and there before Tom has to go again, then so be it. I know he works hard, we both do, and he travels a lot too, meeting suppliers and sourcing new stock lines, so finding time to talk can be tricky, especially as when we are together we can’t keep our hands off each other, but it’ll be worth the wait, I’m convinced of it. Tom is my one, and I couldn’t bear it if something went wrong between us, or if we somehow managed to ruin what we have right now, all because we rushed onto the next stage without planning it properly.

‘Well I hope so. You know that I love you.’ He smiles tenderly, pushing a stray tendril of hair away from my face.

‘And I love you too.’ I prop myself up on a pillow with one elbow.

‘Most women would jump at the chance to move in with me!’ He laughs at his own joke before deftly leaning back as I go to play-punch his arm.

‘Cheeky! And I’m not most women, plus I actually love my little shoebox flat,’ I tease right back. ‘It’s cosy, and it’s been my home for a very long time.’ I scan the room. There’s the triple wardrobe that fills the length of one wall – I remember lugging it all the way home on my own from Ikea, crammed into a rental van. It took me a whole weekend to put it together, but so worth it. And the glorious, enormous Art-Deco-style dressing table; I found it in the YMCA second-hand furniture shop and it only needed sanding down and repainting. I used a metallic bronze spray, which actually works really well now that the shine has faded, giving it a lovely shabby-chic look. It’s authentic, and with the trillion necklaces looped over the sides of the triple mirror and all my lotions and potions lined up, I can just imagine its previous owner, a sophisticated flapper lady, titivating herself ahead of a tea dance, or something.