Belinda Missen - An Impossible Thing Called Love - A heartwarming romance you don't want to miss!

B ELINDA M ISSENis a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

A Recipe for Disaster

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.

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

1

First published in Great Britain by

HQ, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Belinda Missen 2018

Belinda Missen 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.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Source ISBN: 9780008323028

E-book Edition ISBN: 9780008296902

Version: 2018-11-07

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Belinda Missen

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Belinda.

That’s me, btw.

Twelve-year-old you is thrilled.

Hogmanay, 2010

Flames danced towards the night sky, slowly snaking their way along the cobblestoned street like a slow-moving river of fire. At the front of the procession, Viking warriors chanted to the steady rhythm of a beating drum, blending with the sound of bagpipes.

It all sounded so medieval, but it wasn’t anything like that – not by half. Positioned near St Giles Cathedral on Edinburgh’s famous Royal Mile, our tour group huddled tightly near the end of the spiralling mass of people taking part in the traditional Torchlight Procession.

Tonight officially kicked off Hogmanay, one of the most spectacular – and exciting – ways to ring in the New Year. And I was there to experience it all.

An icy wind sprang up, causing the flames of our torches to wobble excitedly. I tugged my jacket tighter, warding off the chill that blasted my face, and pulled my beanie further over my dark brown hair. Somewhere nearby, a bagpipe started another frenzied rendition of a Proclaimers song. This wouldn’t have been a problem normally, but it felt like the same song had been on repeat for the last two days while we’d wound our way up from London, after already hitting a dozen European cities. Hearing the song again caused raucous groans and laughter from our group.

‘You know what this reminds me of?’ My best friend Heather leaned in. ‘It reminds me of that time in primary school where we had to practice those Beatles songs over and over.’

For months, our class of ten-year-olds spent day after day rehearsing the same four songs, all from the Yellow Submarine album, the culmination of which was being crammed on a tiny stage in the town hall to sing for the masses – mostly other schools and mums, but it was our five minutes of fame. One misplaced step saw Heather, the periscope of the submarine, fall off the edge of the stage.

I smiled at the memory. ‘I was a bright pink octopus.’

A crackly loudspeaker and the shuffle of feet announced the beginning of the procession and, just like the song, we were on our way. My breath formed small cloudy bursts in front of me and, not for the first time this trip, I was thankful that I’d packed another layer of clothing. Even though we’d been in Europe almost three weeks already, the cold took some getting used to, especially as we were more acclimatised to roasting under the Australian sun at this time of year.

‘Josh was seaweed,’ I said, the memories of our gone too soon childhood flashing before my eyes. A small child bounced off my leg and collapsed onto the muddy ground, before getting up and running off again. Her exasperated mother was hot on her heels, a puff of fringe and muttered words under her breath.

‘Actually…’ Heather looked around. ‘Where is he?’

Along with half of our tour group, Josh had dispersed as soon as the procession began, blending in with the hundreds of other people joining us for the traditional Scottish event. He was weaving in and out, looking for new, unsuspecting girls to charm with stories of Australian urban legends. Lanky and a little bit standout-ish, I managed to identify him by his Where’s Wally beanie over by a group of girls. One on each arm, he looked more than happy with how his night was progressing. He turned the corner with the crowd and disappeared towards Princes Street.

Wet roads glistened under street lights, and grass glowed an iridescent shade of green. Everything here just seemed so … vibrant. From the architecture, to the history, the people, and the fiery shade of red hair over by a first aid station. I couldn’t help the small smile that spread across my face as I realised that I was finally here.

For almost eighteen months, Edinburgh had been circled on our calendars as the pinnacle of our trip. Heather, Josh and I – friends for most of our remembered lives – had decided we would embark on a European bus tour at the end of our gap year. When one year became two, it only afforded us more time to save, adding more destinations to our trip.

We worked jobs we hated, took late-night shifts, skipped parties, felt soggy food floating in filthy dishwater, and I’d forgone volunteer shifts at our local hospital (the plan was medicine, if they ever let me into university) in favour of forcing smiles at retail customers in the Christmas rush. It was all in the pursuit of adventure. It had paid off.

So far, our trip had been a whirlwind experience in the best of ways. In just ten short days, we’d had a Christmas feast of buttery pastries underneath the Eiffel Tower and battled cheesy woodfired pizza after tossing coins in the Trevi Fountain. Salzburg revived our senses with sweet cinnamon-y apple strudel after shopping the Getreidegasse , and hoppy beer in Berlin kept us warm against biting temperatures. I ran my fingers along all the old stone buildings and dunked my toes in all the freezing waters. I wanted to feel it all. The moment we arrived back in London, we boarded another bus for Edinburgh, ready for the biggest street party and New Year’s celebration this side of the Atlantic.