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Copyright
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2014
Cover illustration © Shutterstock 2014
Cover design © Emma Rogers 2014
Claudia Carroll 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: 9780007520886
Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007520893
Version: 2014-12-09
Dedication
This book is warmly dedicated to Moira Reilly
With love and thanks, always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Three Years Ago …
Yesterday …
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Two Weeks Later
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
Saturday
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Sunday
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Six Months Later
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
THREE YEARS AGO …
Chloe.
‘Shh, shh, shh,’ I can hear my best friend Gemma saying, as she hands me a fistful of Kleenex and purposely avoids hugging me, so as not to crumple the wedding dress. Even though it makes shag-all difference now. My perfect wedding dress too; the one I spent long months trawling just about every bridal shop the length and breadth of the country to find.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Just try to tell me what happened.’
Right then, I think, staring dully back at her. You asked for it. So here it is; here’s what I can remember from just minutes ago, before the skin got ripped off the surface of my life, exposing nothing but raw flesh underneath.
The killer is, I’m just a nice, ordinary, normal girl. This isn’t the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to nice, ordinary, normal girls, now is it?
So I took a deep breath and began. Gemma says nothing, just nods silently and waits till I’ve finished.
‘You’ll be okay, you know.’
‘Will I?’
She paused for a beat and I was so grateful to her for at least answering me honestly. But then, Gemma is one of those people who physically gets heartburn when required to lie.
‘I only wish I could say yes.’
* * *
‘And two hearts will beat as one.’
Dawn Madden and Kirk Lennox-Coyningham
Would love you, as one of their dearest friends,
To celebrate their fusion
At Mount Druid,
On the feast of Midsummer, June 21st.
Blessing in the unconsecrated chapel
At two o’clock.
Feasting at The Old Gazebo,
Followed by a tree dedication ceremony on the grounds.
Please don’t RSVP by post, as we believe all paper is wasteful. And know that vegetarians, vegans and all on a gluten-free or lactose intolerance diet will be well catered for.
Organic and unfermented wine freely available.
No gifts please. Donations only, if necessary, to the National Forestry Society.
Accommodation isn’t a problem at Mount Druid. But please let us know if you’d prefer a Mongolian yurt, a shepherd’s hut or a self-catering cottage (running water available here. And eco-loo facilities).
(This invitation has been printed on 100% recycled organic paper and no trees were harmed in its manufacture.)
* * *
Jo and Dave
Cordially invite you
To celebrate their marriage
On fifteenth of February
ST MARY’S CHURCH, 2.45pm sharp, for a prompt 3pm start.
Dress code: strictly black tie, floor length dresses for ladies. Absolutely no cocktail dresses please.
Reception to follow at the Radisson Blu hotel punctually at 7pm.
Full wedding list available at Brown Thomas (no off-list gifting permitted).
Kindly note:
1 Coaches will be on hand at the church to transport guests to the hotel. Please clearly tick the box below if you require transportation.
2 All coaches will leave the church punctually at 4.30pm. This is essential in order to facilitate an on-time arrival at the hotel.
3 Kindly RSVP before December 31st if you have any dietary requirements. Please note, this is essential.
4 Seating plan will be available to view at www.It’sJo’s_Big_Day!.com, from January 1st.
5 No confetti or rice to be thrown at any stage.
6 Guests requiring overnight accommodation, see attached list, which is arranged in order of comfort and budget, from five star standard, downwards.
7 All queries concerning the day should be addressed directly to Jo Hargreaves at Jo_Marketing_Director @digitech.com
Thank you for your prompt reply and looking forward to seeing you on our special day!
* * *
Lucy and Andrew
Are getting married!!!
And they request the pleasure of your company,
At the mother of all parties to celebrate
On New Year’s Eve,
Pichet Restaurant, Trinity St., Dublin.
Sorry, but the actual wedding ceremony will take place privately, on the Twenty Fourth of December, at the Moon Palace Hotel, Cancun, Mexico.
With apologies and please don’t kill us!
No gifts please. We have everything we could possibly need in each other …
Chapter One
London
Chloe.
Last night, the old nightmare came back to haunt me.
I don’t actually know if it’s day or night. All I know is that it’s still my wedding day – or rather the day I was supposed to get married – and I somehow allowed myself to be led out of the bathroom where I’d locked myself, and laid down on top of the fluffy hotel bed. Still in my confection of a wedding dress, crumpled to bits now, like some kind of latter-day Miss Havisham. And they must have given me a sedative the equivalent of a horse tranquillizer, because instead of the heartache that’s to come, all I feel is groggy and sluggish, like I’ve been out cold for hours.
The curtains are drawn and it’s semi-darkness in here, but suddenly I’m aware of someone breathing and a big blurry silhouette perched on the bed beside me. Frank? Could that by some miracle actually be him? For one wonderful, fleeting moment, hope overrides everything my sane mind is trying to tell me. By some miracle, was today just some kind of hallucination and this is actually my wedding night? But I poke round at the slumbering figure a bit and realize that it’s not Frank at all; it’s my best friend Gemma, now out of the gakky bridesmaid’s dress, the one that I practically bullied her into wearing and back into her normal, standard issue jeans with a swingy, summery top.
Still here. Still watching over me, bless her, like the guardian angel that she really is.
‘Did I dream it all?’ I croak over to her.
She shakes her head.
‘’Fraid not, love.’
‘So where is everyone?’
‘Well, a lot of his side just buggered off when … well, when they realized that there wasn’t going to be any … emm, you know. But your parents, plus most of your family and pretty much half of your mates from work all decamped to the Cellar Bar downstairs. More private for everyone, I think they all felt, given … you know.’
‘Yeah,’ I say dully. ‘I work here. Believe me, I know.’
Doubtless still all reeling in astonishment at, well, let’s just say, how the day actually panned out. I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t think this wouldn’t be the talk of the town for years to come. Poor Mum. And after all the bother she had finding shoes to match her dress for it too.
‘So … what happened? I mean, afterwards …’
‘Now that’s absolutely nothing at all for you to worry about, sweetheart,’ Gemma says firmly. ‘That scary wedding planner one, whatshername … dealt with everything beautifully. God, you should have seen her. Worth every penny you paid her just for the massive damage limitation job she did. Your Dad made a short speech at the church and it was all very …’
‘Very what?’
She looks back at me, as though weighing up whether or not I can be trusted with the truth. But then I know she’ll tell me everything. Gemma always has and always will.
‘Well … I want to say dignified, but I do remember him using the phrase, “I’ll kick that bastard’s arse if he ever comes near my daughter again.” Oh and then, he chased Frank all the way downstairs to the underground car park, then threatened him with court action for breach of promise. I nearly thought your Dad would have to be held back by burly security men. I was only thankful he didn’t have a set of golf clubs to hand; he’d have sent Frank straight to an intensive care unit.’
I surprise myself by actually smiling. But then Dad’s a barrister; he’s always threatening people.
‘Did you talk to Frank?’ I manage to get out groggily. Jeez, what did they slip me earlier anyway? A valium sandwich? The same kind of tranquillizers you’d use to anaesthetize a rhinoceros?
‘Briefly. He was loading up suitcases into the boot of his car and told me to tell you he’d call.’
‘What?’ I say, suddenly wide-awake now. ‘You mean that was it? That was all the fecker said? The guy breaks my heart, completely humiliates me in front of the world and its sick dog, and all he can come out with is, “tell her I’ll call”?’
‘Well, in fairness, it was all he could say. I left out the bit where I was physically walloping him with the wire metal bit off my bouquet and only praying it would inflict lasting damage on the cowardly git.’
I squeeze her warmly, silently blessing her loyalty, then slump back against the deep hotel pillows. And now that I’m actually awake, here it comes. What I’ve been postponing all day. I’ve been forcing myself all this time not to relive today’s horrors, but now, like on oncoming car-crash, there’s no avoiding them.
So where did it all go wrong? What in the name of God did I miss? Then, slowly, my stomach starts to twist as it all begins to come back to me. The excruciating rehearsal dinner last night for a start, I suddenly think. That was the start of it. Definitely the first time I got that slightly sick feeling right in the pit of my solar plexus that something was slightly off-centre.
Frank has this slight poker tell, you see. Whenever he’s a bit uncomfortable, he gets twitchy and finds it difficult to make direct eye contact, particularly if you happen to be the one he’s uncomfortable around.
But at the time I thought he was just a bit nervy, nothing more. I even remember looking across the dinner table at him naïvely, lovingly even, more fool me. There’s one hundred and twenty people landing on top of us today, I figured, so who could possibly blame him? Have to admit, I was feeling a bit tetchy myself. I spent useless hours worrying about utter crap, like would the flower arrangements wilt at the reception tables, before everyone got the chance to admire them? And knowing my mates, probably try to nick them later on. But never in my wildest imaginings, did I think this would come to pass.
Suddenly, violent flashbacks start to crowd in on me. I get a pin-sharp memory from this morning of the make-up artist, a lovely girl called Zoe, hysterically screeching, ‘Mother of God, the groom! What the hell is he doing here?! Would you ever just get OUT!’ as Frank gingerly tapped at the door of my hotel room while we were all still getting ready.
‘Frank! You know right well it’s bad luck to see the bride just before the ceremony!’ I can remember my niece Emma screeching over her thin, emaciated shoulder blades, in between lashing on more bronzer than you’d normally see on a Strictly Come Dancing finalist. At that, a sudden, disconnected thought ricochets round my addled brain. Poor Emma. God love the girl, she was so looking forward to being a bridesmaid today. Even joined Weight Watchers especially, then went and lost a whopping eleven pounds. She was the envy of her whole class in school, apparently. And is now so stick-thin, I honestly don’t know whether to feed the kid, or else make soup out of her.
And yet still Frank didn’t budge. Instead, he just stood there, taking us all in with flat-fish eyes. Dead eyes, I’m now thinking.
‘Ehh … sorry to interrupt you all, but by any chance Chloe, would you have a minute?’ he said directly to me, and just in case I’d missed last night’s subtle clues, there it was yet again for all to see. That telltale twitching.
‘Oh, isn’t that sooo romantic,’ I can clearly remember Mum having to practically shout at the young one who was blow drying her hair, raising her voice so she could be heard above the blast of the hairdryer. ‘Bet Frank wants to give her a lovely wedding present before the ceremony. Bit of jewellery, probably, he’s a good lad like that. Wait till you see, our Chloe has him well trained!’
I can remember being a bit taken aback when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere like that, but nothing more. Some last minute problem with buttonholes or seating arrangements, was my ridiculous guess. Because how could I have possibly foreseen what was to come?
A sudden wave of nausea sweeps through me as the whole thing hits me square in the face again, its impact getting more and more painful each fresh time. I’m sweating now, cold and clammy, shivering and shaking weakly, wondering when my life will finally stop spinning out of control.
‘Chloe?’ says Gemma softly through the gloom of the hotel room. ‘I’m right here if you want to talk about it.’
‘Do you want to know what Frank’s last words to me were?’ I eventually manage to croak back at her.
‘Tell me.’
‘He said, “I’d better go now. My left buttock is getting numb from sitting on this tiled floor.”’
‘Well, my oh my, what a diehard romantic he is.’ And even through the darkness, I can sense her rolling her eyes up to heaven. ‘Seriously Chloe, you couldn’t have married Frank,’ she goes on, hauling herself up on one elbow now and looking down at me. ‘I mean, come on, all the signs were there … I did try to warn you …’
‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, staring up at the ceiling, ‘but I can’t do this right now. Please bear in mind this is supposed to be my wedding night.’
Gemma looks steadily down at me.
‘Any point in my mentioning great romances of the past that have all crashed and burned? Charles and Diana? Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Jennifer Aniston and Brad?’
I manage a weak shake of my head, then turn away from her, savouring the cool feel of the hotel pillows against my thumping head.
‘For God’s sake, look at you, you’re completely drained,’ she says, eyeing me steadily. ‘Now how about you just go back to sleep, and have a nice little snooze, love? And just wait till you see, everything will be so much better tomorrow. Trust me. I’ll leave you in peace and make sure no one disturbs you.’
She tiptoes out the room, like I’m a convalescent recovering from major heart surgery who can’t even handle the stimulation of a door being closed gently … and finally I’m alone again.
With my mind racing.
What to do? Go back to sleep, then get up tomorrow and somehow try to piece my whole life back together again? Go back into work and face everyone? In the very hotel I was supposed to have my wedding reception in? To make matters worse, where Frank and I have worked shoulder to shoulder together for the past few years?
Then comes a sudden straw of hope which I wildly clutch at. Maybe I could try to laugh it all off? Side-step all the humiliation by pretending it was mutual and that Frank and I are actually good friends?
But even if I had the energy, I know deep down that it just can’t be done. Because how am I supposed to come back here to work and just act like nothing happened? How could I look across a function room at him and smile, like he hadn’t just ripped my entrails out and mashed them up against a wall? How can I just pick up the threads of my old life and somehow struggle on? Even in my semi-drugged state, I know I can’t do it.
Not. An. Option.
And then suddenly, from out of nowhere, an idea.
You don’t have to, a tiny voice inside me prompts. You don’t have to face any of them, not if you don’t want to. Who says you even have to? You can just pack up and go. Start a new life, start over. Start right now.
Suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright, heart walloping cartoon-like in my chest, as I really start to give it serious thought.
London, I could go to London, couldn’t I? Not too far from Dublin that my family would think I’ve completely lost the plot and yet distant enough for me to get some perspective. I even have an old pal there who couldn’t make it over for the wedding, maybe she’d look after me for a bit? We did hotel management together in college, so who knows? She might even know of a few job opportunities I could go for.
For the first time all day, I feel a surge of fresh energy coming over me. Just the thoughts of a new life in a whole new city, where I wouldn’t forevermore be branded as the girl who got dumped on her wedding day, and suddenly I’m on my feet and already unhooking the back of my wedding dress. I’ve already got loads of luggage in packed suitcases here, full of clothes I needed for the honeymoon. Admittedly, most of it is fancy-schmancy underwear, but I know at least there’s a pair of jeans and a warm jumper in there somewhere.
Ten minutes later and I’m out the door, pulling a small wheelie bag after me, tiptoeing down the deserted corridor like some kind of fugitive from justice. I know all my family and pals are still downstairs in the hotel’s Cellar Bar, which is in the basement, so with any luck, chances of my running into any of them are slim.
I check my phone and am astonished to see it’s actually still early; just coming up to six in the evening. And I know there’s always late evening flights to London, so with all going well and if I can grab a last minute seat, I might just make it.
Then a sudden dilemma. How do I get out of here unseen by the rest of the staff, by my colleagues, maybe even my boss? If I’m spotted, they’ll just drag me back, tell me I’m not acting rationally and possibly call a psychiatrist to give me the once over. And if I use the staff entrance like I always do, there’s no way on earth I won’t be spotted.
Main door then. No choice. Just like any other guest. Best shot all round. I take the precaution of using the stairs in case I bump into anyone I know in the lift who’ll physically try to haul me back, but thankfully, my luck holds; I’ve the whole stairwell to myself. I make it all the way downstairs and apart from distant voices wafting up from the Cellar Bar, I don’t start running into any other guests until I make it to the busy, packed foyer.
Please, please, please, I find myself praying to a God I barely believe in, don’t let anyone I know see me …
And for the first time throughout possibly the shittiest day known to man, the heavens actually send me a break. The Merrion Hotel is a real weekend hotspot, so the drawing rooms by reception are packed with the fake tan brigade out in stiletto-heeled force and a clutch of hunky looking men wafting around them. Heart palpitating, I spot two lounge staff that work for me, but thank you God, they’re so busy weaving in and out of the throng that they don’t seem to even notice me.
Chest hammering cartoon-like, I weave my way through, slip out the main door completely unnoticed and in the blink of an eye I’ve escaped outside, clattering my wheelie bag behind me.
Mercifully, the air outside the hotel is cool and I allow myself a few deep, comforting gulps of it, feeling exactly like I’ve just escaped from Alcatraz. I make a silent vow to call Mum and Dad as soon as I’m safely booked onto a flight, because let’s face it, last thing I need after the day I’ve had are any of my family going to the cops and filing me as a missing persons case.
Mind’s made up and this girl is not for turning.
The Merrion Hotel is just round the corner from Stephen’s Green, which I race towards as fast as humanly possible, all the while scanning right, left and centre for a cab.
And then, a miracle. Just at the junction of Kildare Street and the Green, with immaculate timing, a taxi turns the corner. I instantly let out an almighty yell at the driver and am just about to shove my way through the crowd to get to him, when a voice from behind suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.
‘Any spare change for a hostel, love?’
No, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please don’t let it be someone I know, come to haul me back … not now! Not when I’ve got this far! But even through the befuddled haze clouding me, a tiny part of my logical brain says … hang on just a sec. Your wedding guests are hardly likely to be out on the streets looking for change for a hostel, now are they?