Jemma Forte - When I Met You

‘An unmissable read’

—Abby Clements

‘A witty account of rollercoaster events that will get you thinking about the “what ifs” in your own life’

—Heat

‘A must read for all women’

—Digital Spy

‘An easy-reading story that bristles with warmth and humour’

—Hello

‘The most imaginative romcom we’ve read in a while’

—Now

‘An engrossing and magical read with romance at its core’

—OK!

‘The perfect mix of funny and emotional’

—One More Page

‘Addictive, heartwarming yet funny’

—Chick Lit Uncovered

‘It’s clever, it’s innovative and I really enjoyed it’

—Chick Lit Reviews

JEMMA FORTEgrew up wanting to write for Cosmopolitan magazine, be a famous actress or work in a shoe shop (she loved the foot-measuring device in Clarks). Her parents didn’t want her to go to stage school because, according to them, she was ‘precocious enough already’. However, they actively encouraged her obsession with reading and writing and she wrote her first book, ‘Mizzy the Germ’, when she was eight. She sent it to a publisher (unwittingly backing up the whole precocious theory) and was dismayed when for some reason they didn’t want it.

Years later, due to The Kids from Fame (and she blames them entirely), her desire to perform hadn’t abated. Hundreds of letters, show-reels and auditions later she finally became a Disney Channel presenter in 1998. After Disney, Jemma went on to present shows for ITV, BBC One, BBC Two and Channel 4 and, when not busy writing, can still be found talking rubbish on telly to this day. When I Met You is Jemma’s fourth novel. She lives in London with her children, Lily and Freddie.

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This one’s for you, Dad.

Thank you to Madeleine Milburn, who I respect enormously but also really like. There’s always a lot of Twitter love for @agentmilburn from all her clients, because she really is the bee’s knees. Thanks too to Cara Lee Simpson for all your hard work.

Huge thanks must go to Sally Williamson and all the team at MIRA for transforming my Word document into a lovely-looking actual book. Being published is my proudest achievement and that’s even after I rapped at my sister’s wedding.

For obvious reasons this book required careful research and so it was that I had the privilege of spending the day with Jane Hastings. At the time, Jane was head of palliative care at Kingston Hospital and I was completely humbled by what she told me. So thank you, Jane, for your time, your knowledge and for allowing me to ask you endless questions.

Thank you to the gorgeous Jenny Blacklock Allan, who put me in touch with Jane. I think we arranged it during one particularly painful blitz session in the park, proving that exercise can be good for you. Thank you for going the extra mile (good pun there).

Thank you to all the cancer charities that do such important work, in particular Bowel Cancer UK and Clic Sargent, who have both been very supportive of this book. And enormous thanks to the gentleman who bid in a Clic Sargent auction to choose a character name in this book. He asked that Teresa Laphan be a character in the story and so she is!

Lastly, thanks as ever to my family. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Mum, Mauro, Sally, Jessica, Jim, Georgie, Isabel (wolf mcsnuff), Paddy, Imogen, Harry and Dr Ned.

Special thanks must go to my dad, Michael, who inspired me to write this story in many ways. I remember so clearly, sitting around for hours one day, talking about what I should write next. ‘You should write about death,’ he said and so it went from there. You gave me the initial idea and before I knew it we’d also come up with the beginning and the rest is history. Thank you. You have always been so creative and brilliant.

Lastly, thank you to my lovely Lily and Freddie. I couldn’t be prouder of the two of you, I can’t wait for you to read my books one day and love you both very much.

Cover

Praise for JEMMA FORTE

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

I sit up, wondering what time it is, what day it is even. My bedroom’s completely dark and the light from the moon is the only thing enabling me to see anything at all. Rubbing my face, I switch on the bedside light and pick up my watch. Three minutes past nine. I only meant to shut my eyes but must have been asleep for ages.

Blurry with sleep, I sit staring blankly into space, wondering vaguely why the rest of the house is so silent until, overcome by both thirst and curiosity, I haul myself up and pad out onto the dark landing to investigate.

Downstairs, there’s a note on the dining table from Mum. It reads ‘Me and Mar gone to Sheena and Dave’s anniversary dins. On mobile. Quiche in fridge. Pete at Josh’s for night.’

Of course, I’d forgotten they were going there. I feel cold and a bit shivery, so as soon as I’ve glugged back a pint of water, I make a cup of tea, grab some biscuits from mum’s stash and head back to my room where I slump onto the bed. The same single bed I slept on throughout my teenage years, which serves as a constant reminder that at the age of thirty-one I haven’t come very far. Still, I’ve wasted enough hours lamenting my embarrassing woman-child status.

It occurs to me then that I should be making the most of the empty house by getting some violin practise in. The one thing I have progressed in over the years. When Mum’s around, I only ever get away with playing for about half an hour before the complaints start – apparently classical music makes her feel like a patient in a mental institution – so it’ll be nice not to have any interruptions.

I place the sheet music for Bach’s solo sonata No. 1 in G minor on my stand. The music’s hauntingly beautiful and incredibly hard to do justice to but, once I’ve practised my scales, arpeggios and a few studies, I feel ready to tackle it. It’s not long before I’m completely lost in the music, oblivious to the storm that is brewing outside. The window is ajar, but the sound of the gale howling only adds to the majesty of the sonata. Then, just as I’m in the middle of an exceedingly challenging section, there’s a huge rumble of thunder, the skies open and rain starts to pelt down, at which point I place my violin on the bed. I’m just about to pull the window shut when I hear a crashing sound coming from somewhere in our back garden. The security lights at the rear of the house instantly flick on. I jump out of my skin.

Heart thumping, I peer out, trying to see what made the noise. The lights give me a clear view of the patio below, which is undoubtedly the most furnished patio in Essex. You can hardly move on it for swing chairs, heaters, loungers and the like. My stepdad, Martin, makes his living selling garden furniture and equipment. He’s bizarrely passionate about it. I swear whenever he visits B&Q or Homebase to check out the competition he goes a bit quivery with anticipation. But I digress.