AVON
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016
Copyright © Polly James 2016
Polly James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record 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: 9780007548552
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007548569
Version 2016-05-13
For Mark, Daisy and Jack, as always – and for Becky Thomas, without whom there would be no book.
“There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.”
François de la Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Twenty-Seven Years Later…
Winter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Spring
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
Summer
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
Autumn
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Winter
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dan lets go of both oars and searches the front pockets of his jeans, looking more anxious by the second.
“Shit,” he says. “Where’ve I put it?”
I take no notice, as I’m too busy lounging in the stern of the dinghy and trailing my fingers in the water. The sky is intensely blue and I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. (I’m about to get even happier, though I don’t know that yet.)
“A-ha!” says Dan. “I’ve found it. Thank God for that.”
I’m still not looking at him, because now I’m friend-spotting amongst the groups of art school students celebrating the end of finals on the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park. The sun’s so bright, I can’t see properly without the sunglasses I dropped overboard the last time Dan kissed me, so I just wave vaguely in the direction of the crowds.
Someone shouts something unintelligible across the water, at the same time as a duck squawks and Dan says something equally unintelligible.
“What?” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Hannah,” says Dan, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Pay attention, will you? I’m trying to do something important here.”
The boat bobs gently up and down as he adds, “I asked you if you’ll marry me.”
I stare at him, wondering if I’ve misheard due to that infuriating still-squawking duck, and then he tries again.
“I love you, Han. Marry me?”
“Oh, my God, yes ,” I say, “Yes, please.”
I jump up and hurl myself towards Dan, just as he tries to pass me the small blue ring box that he’s holding, but then the boat rocks and tips me headfirst into the lake.
Thirty seconds later, Dan has already dived in to rescue me from the weeds in which I’m now entangled, and has lost my engagement ring in the process – as well as the boat, which is drifting away.
Fifteen minutes after that, we’ve swum to the bank and are outside the cafe, wrapped in blankets and toasting each other with mugs of hot chocolate, while being lectured on why you should never stand up carelessly in a dinghy by the owner of the one we allowed to drift away. That’s the exact moment at which an off-duty press photographer takes our photograph, the one that appears in the local paper the following day, under the headline: Loved-Up Art Students Make a Splash.
Twenty-Seven Years Later…
Winter
It’s all the fault of the half-naked teenagers, or most of it, anyway. They’re staggering about drunkenly on the TV screen, and Dan is staring at them as if his life depended on it.
“What the hell are you watching?” I say, as I come into the room bearing two mugs of extra-strong coffee to help prevent the hangover we’ll otherwise be doomed to have.
It’s 12:30am, and we’ve been drinking geriatric drinks all night: Aunt Pearl’s way of thanking us for moving her belongings into her new retirement flat during the day. I don’t think port and lemon agrees with me, and it certainly doesn’t agree with Dan. It’s given him short-term memory loss, judging by the fact that he completely forgot to wish me a happy New Year when we heard Big Ben strike twelve on the radio, in the taxi that was bringing us home.
Once we arrived, Dan got out of the car, unlocked the front door, and then headed straight for the sofa like a homing pigeon. One with opposable claws for operating remote controls, and a tendency to go deaf whenever wives ask awkward questions.
I try again.
“What is this programme, Dan?” I say.
“God knows,” he says, taking the mug I pass him without moving his eyes away from the screen. “ Brits in Ibiza , or something like that.”
He must be able to sense my expression, as then he adds, “Probably the channel Joel was watching before he went out tonight.”
It’s so useful having a supposedly adult son still living at home whenever you need to pass the buck. I doubt Joel would be caught dead watching this idiotic programme, not when he can view similar scenes any night of the week when he’s out clubbing – and in the flesh, as it were. God, there’s a lot of that on this TV show.
I shift about in my seat, suddenly uncomfortably aware of what I’m now wearing: mismatched pyjamas, to go with my rather less mismatched face and arse. They say either your arse can look good after the age of forty, or your face, but never both. When you get as close to fifty as I now am, both are past their sell-by date.
“I can’t see the appeal of half-naked teenagers, myself – not since I stopped being one,” I say. “Especially not when they’re vomiting everywhere like this lot will be in a minute. Isn’t there anything better on?”
Dan doesn’t reply. You’d swear he’d been watching this programme for at least the last two hours and it was about to reach a thrilling climax, given how hard he’s concentrating. I repeat what I’ve just said, and then I wave at him across the room, but he doesn’t react, and then I feign a coughing fit. Still no response whatsoever – none – so I pull off one of my slipper socks and throw it at him.
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