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KATY COLINS learned there is always a second chance in life.
Jilted before her wedding, she sold all she owned, filled a backpack and booked a one-way ticket to the other side of the world.
Her solo travels inspired her to pen ‘The Lonely Hearts Travel Club’ series and saw her dubbed the ‘Backpacking Bridget Jones’ by the global media. And, in a stunning twist of fate, Katy found her happy-ever-after by marrying the journalist who shared her story with the world.
She now lives in the middle of England with her husband, John, and two young children.
You can find out more about Katy, her writing and her travels at www.katycolins.com or @notwedordead on social media platforms.
Also by Katy Colins
Chasing the Sun
The Lonely Heart Travel Club series:
Destination: Thailand
Destination: India
Destination: Chile
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Katy Colins 2019
Katy Colins 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.
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, downloaded, 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.
Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008202231
Dad, I think you’d like this one.
‘That it will never come again is
what makes life so sweet’
- EMILY DICKINSON
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Katy Colins
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Prologue
I straightened my chiffon scarf so the small forget-me-nots lay flat against my crisp, white shirt. A quick tug of my sleeves, brushing off imaginary fluff, a pat of my hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, and I was as ready as I would ever be. My rubber-soled shoes allowed me to silently do the last check of the small room. Every seat was presentable – the flowers arranged just so – and the windows and mirrors were spotless. Not a fingerprint or smudge in sight. The lights were set to the correct level, the gaudy air freshener that had been here when I’d arrived was where it belonged – in the bin – the synthetic lily of the valley scent no longer catching at the back of your throat. I smiled at the calming space. It looked perfect.
It had been another late night, preparing for today and the other services I had this week. I could hear my boss Frank’s voice warning me that I was going to end up burnt out if I wasn’t careful. I’d already had niggles with my neck and shoulders that he was convinced were stress-related, despite my insistences that I was fine. I’d catch up on sleep this weekend, I promised myself.
The sound of car tyres pulled me away from giving one of the red ribbons I’d looped though the end of the pews a final flourish. The family hadn’t specified a colour scheme but, as Mr Oakes had been a lifelong Liverpool FC fan, I thought they’d appreciate the gesture.
I straightened up and nodded to Leon, who was giving the sound system a once-over. He was my favourite of the team. He understood what I was trying to achieve without too much questioning, usually a slight raising of his bushy grey eyebrows or pressing his thin lips together would be all he’d say about some of my more ‘out there’ ideas. I ran a finger over the lectern. Clean as a whistle.
‘Leon, before I forget, did you get my message about next Wednesday? The Rivers family want to change their dove release from before to after the memorial slot.’
Leon nodded. ‘Don’t you worry. When would I ever let you down?’
‘Thank you.’ I was about to mention something else when a soft tinkle of an alarm began playing.
‘That’s our two-minute warning,’ I said, fishing my phone from my pocket, switching it to silent and double-checking the time.
Earlier I’d received a call that the cars had left precisely on time. I’d asked the drivers to take a slight detour that I hoped would bring some comfort to the family, if it went to plan. I had already checked the online route map for any last-minute traffic jams, diversions or roadworks, and had breathed a sigh of relief – everything looked clear.
I’d also made sure to check the weather app in case we needed to provide more umbrellas – Spring had been all over the place. I’d learnt quickly that small things like bottles of water in the cars and even sunscreen could make a huge difference. People didn’t remember to take things like that with them on days like these.
‘Seriously, Grace.’ Leon nodded at my phone, unable to hide a smile. ‘An alarm?’
‘You get on with your job and I’ll get on with mine,’ I replied politely.
‘I forgot, organisation is liberation,’ he parroted. I think it was meant to mimic me. A flourish of blush spread across his cheeks at the look I gave him.
I let it go and cleared my throat.
‘It’s time.’
He composed himself, gave a solemn nod, then pressed play. The room was suddenly filled with the sound of Gerry and the Pacemakers’ ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. It played at just the right volume from the hidden speakers that had recently been installed at my suggestion, the sound optimised so that the acoustics were the same for all the guests.
‘Show time,’ Leon whispered and pulled open the doors.
We took our positions. We were mere background players from then on. There to observe, supervise and, above all, ensure everything went to plan. The family slowly walked in, steely determination etched on their pale faces.
A light oak-veneered coffin was carried over the threshold. Heads bowed, feet shuffled, the odd gasp of breath was just audible over packets of tissues rustling. As the service got underway, I scanned my eyes around the congregation. Mr Oakes had clearly been a popular man. I’d gone to the liberty of printing off extra orders of service just in case the numbers given by his family were off slightly, and I appeared to be proven right. Nearly every seat was taken.
I sensed Leon smiling at me.
‘You’re miming the words again,’ he whispered. I looked away to hide any sign of blushing. I had a habit of doing that.
Mr Oakes’s son, Edward, made his way to the lectern. Each slow step was painful to watch. He tugged at his shirt collar and fidgeted in his black suit. Clearly a trip to the dentist or a gruelling job interview would be a walk in the park compared to this. Some people revelled in being centre stage, no matter what the occasion. Edward Oakes was not one of those people.
He took two deep breaths to compose himself. The microphone whined that he was too close, a jolting sound that clearly didn’t help with his nervous state. He jerked back and wiped his glistening forehead.
‘I’ve been asked to give a reading and then introduce the piece of music Dad loved so much.’ He swallowed and tried to focus his red-rimmed eyes on the card in his trembling hands. I ran through the short, concise speech in my head. His mother had chosen the text and the song was one they’d danced to on their wedding night.
He cleared his throat once more and began to read.
*
Before long, guests exited the room, blinking back the bright spring sunlight and exclaiming what a good service it had been.
‘He would have been proud.’
‘It summed him up perfectly. He’d have been sorry to have missed it.’
I bowed my head as they filed past.
‘Grace? Thank you.’ Mrs Oakes had come up to me and was now gripping my elbow. Her mascara had smudged and her voice trembled with emotion but she was doing a remarkable job of holding herself together. I wondered how long she would cope, keeping up this pretence.
‘You’re more than welcome. I hope everything went well?’
She let out a loud sniff. I subconsciously patted in my back pocket for the packet of tissues I always kept with me. She kept in the threat of tears and gave my arm a rub.
‘He would have been delighted. I noticed the red ribbons. A lovely touch. I didn’t know we’d mentioned him being a Liverpool fan – he was mad for them.’ She flicked her eyes heavenward and smiled sadly. ‘We were driven past his favourite pub on the way here, where he used to go and watch the games on the big screen. The landlord and the staff all lined up as we went past. It was very touching. I didn’t even know they’d been told the news.’
I’d go and thank the team for pulling that off. I’d had a long chat with the landlord, who’d insisted he do something to mark the passing of one of his locals.
‘I’m so pleased it all went to plan. You had quite the turnout too. Your husband was clearly a much-loved gentleman.’
Mrs Oakes blinked at the guests still making their way out from the ceremony room. For a second it seemed like she’d forgotten why she was here. ‘He was.’
‘I won’t keep you, but if there is anything else you need then please don’t hesitate to give me a call.’
She smiled and sniffed again. Her game face going on. ‘Oh and thank you for your lovely note, it was very thoughtful.’
I had popped it through her letterbox yesterday evening, wanting to let her know that I was thinking of her. The night before you bury your husband was never going to be a pleasant one.
‘You’re welcome. My phone number is on there if you ever can’t get me at work. Take care of yourself, Mrs Oakes.’
I left her surrounded by her family and friends and allowed myself a slight rush of pride as I walked over to my car. Another success. Mrs Oakes and the other families that I helped would never know the lengths I went to in order to deliver on the day. I was proud of the unseen ways in which I ensured a personal and heartfelt tribute to the people in my care. I took it upon myself to see the side of people that others don’t see. I knew how important this was. It made the late nights, extra work and long shifts worth it – knowing I had done as much as I possibly could.
This was not a dress rehearsal, after all. You only get one chance at the perfect goodbye.
Chapter 1
‘Morning, Mrs Craig. Can you believe it’s Friday already?’ I sang, opening the door.
Mrs Craig stayed silent.
‘It’s set to be another cold one this weekend. I just hope we don’t get the snow that they’re predicting. Can you believe it, snow in March? I wouldn’t want that to ruin your big day.’
There was still no sound from Mrs Craig.
‘Right, I’m going to put the kettle on.’
Leaving Mrs Craig to it, I settled at my desk to have my breakfast, first making sure to pop out the tiny white pills that must be taken on an empty stomach, just as Doctor Ahmed prescribed. I opened the newspaper and allowed myself ten minutes before the day properly began. Flipping straight to page thirty-four, I checked that all the names had been spelled correctly and the text was free from grammatical errors. I still remembered the waves of nausea when I’d noticed they had printed a colon instead of a semi-colon for Mrs Briars back in 2015. I glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes before the rest of the team would be in, so I decided to quickly do a last-minute check of Facebook and Instagram before any interruptions. I tried my hardest not to use those sites at work, but I’d been so busy that I was finding it tough to stay on top of things.
When the doorbell went, I didn’t need to check the video monitor to know who was waiting on the doorstep. There she was, a vision in beige. Ms Norris’s visits were like clockwork: every Friday morning, the same for the past nine months.
‘What is with this weather?’
The plump woman tutted, readjusting the flowery chiffon neck scarf that had twisted in the howling gale. It was severely tangled around her saggy, powdered jowls like some sort of butterfly-patterned noose.
‘I’m sure I never heard that nice weather man with the funny accent say anything about a hurricane this week. I just don’t know if I’m coming or going. One moment they’re saying it’s warmer than average and the next it’s like living in the North Pole. Bring on summer, I say!’
I stood up and hurried to help close the door behind her, crunching on leaves that had blown in like fallen confetti around her sensible black shoes. I’d have to get the Hoover out the minute she left. Tan-coloured tights bagged at her swollen ankles.
‘Morning, Ms Norris,’ I smiled.
Her normally sleek porcelain grey bob now resembled tousled candy floss.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to brave it out in this weather.’
‘It’ll take a bit more than Storm Elmo or whatever ridiculous name they’ve given this one to keep me indoors. Purdy doesn’t watch the weather report, so it doesn’t matter one jot to her if it’s glacial or a heatwave. When she needs a walk, she needs a walk.’
I peered past Ms Norris, now taking off her thick beige pea coat, to see Purdy tied up to the railings outside. The flat-faced pug, also beige, was shivering dramatically.
‘Er… will she be OK out there?’
Ms Norris wafted a liver-spotted hand, red-lacquered nails flashing in front of my face. ‘She’s the ultimate drama queen, that one.’
I nodded uncertainly. The pug had, thankfully, stopped shaking and was now more interested in the leaves skittering across the small drive.
‘Linda not in yet?’ She glanced over at the empty chair and blank screen of Linda’s computer. The first day Ms Norris had come in to the office she had originally been booked in with Linda, but after a series of ‘creative differences’, i.e. a bit of a personality clash, she was placed with me and we’d been working together ever since.
‘Not yet.’
‘Hmph. I should have a word with Frank about her timekeeping… Shall I just go through, dear?’ Ms Norris asked, already on her way down the corridor to the only meeting room. ‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one.’
I snapped back to attention. ‘Oh, of course, the kettle has just boiled actually.’
‘So, I’ve been thinking about songs.’ Ms Norris cleared her throat before I had the chance to put down her well-thumbed file and sit down opposite her.
‘Songs?’
‘Yes. Songs.’
I flicked a thumb through the many papers, frowning. ‘I thought we’d covered music?’
Ms Norris adjusted herself in the teal-coloured armchair. ‘Well, we had, but I’ve been thinking about my song choices and, well, I’ve changed my mind.’
I forced myself to stay impassive. This was the third time Ms Norris had been ‘thinking about her song choices’ in the last month. Not that it was a problem to amend the details, it just worried me that she would change her mind yet again before her big day.
‘Sinatra.’
‘Sinatra?’
‘I know it has been done to death but I think we should go back to “My Way” and stick with it. I don’t know what I was thinking with Vera.’
‘Right.’ I marked a thick line through ‘We’ll Meet Again’. ‘Any other thoughts whilst I have your notes here?’
‘Yes. You can take Blythe Summers off your list too. Her kids have moved her to Brighton to be near them, and spend her numbered days in some council-run nursing home being served cold soup and looking at the sea through grubby windows. Outrageous if you ask me, just so they can relieve some guilt on their part by pretending it’s what she wants. I know for a fact that she doesn’t even like the seaside that much, and I can’t say I blame her!’
I turned to the list of invitees that Ms Norris had given me a while ago. She liked to keep this up to date so that, when the time came, her friend and point of contact, Alma Dawes, would take charge of the plans, knowing the guest list was set to her requirements. ‘This is rather fun!’ she’d said when we’d first met. ‘I’ve never had a wedding so it feels exciting to be planning a big party!’
But since she’d first visited, we’d scored so many names off – people who had passed away, moved on or, perhaps most often, those she’d had a falling out with, that the guest list was looking a bit thin. But, as Ms Norris said, ‘It’s my day so I can invite who I want. The rest of them can like it or lump it.’
‘Anything else?’
Ms Norris shook her head. ‘Nope, that’s it for now. Oh! I remembered your Tupperware this week,’ she said, struggling to bend down to pick a carrier bag off the floor. She placed the empty box on the table between us with a flourish. ‘You excelled yourself this time, Grace.’
I blushed. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed them. I’ll swap you for a batch of raspberry macarons on your way out. I have to say this was your trickiest one yet.’
Our mini bake-off had started out as an innocent request from Ms Norris for a decent Victoria sponge. She was adamant that none of the coffee shops in town appeared to be able to get this simple recipe right. She proudly told me how, back in the day, she had been a bit of a star baker, but arthritis had limited her repertoire. I was at a loose end so had offered to give it a go; she insisted I used one of her recipes, and it was such a hit that I included a baking session into my weekly routine. I actually looked forward to the challenges she set me and the constructive criticism she liked to spoon out afterwards.
‘Did you use caster sugar and not granulated, like I told you?’ Her lips set in a thin line.
I nodded.
A warm smile broke out. ‘Wonderful. I’ll report back next week.’ She swallowed a mouthful of tea before continuing. ‘So, how are things with you, dear?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Same old, same old.’
‘You got anything fun planned for the weekend?’
Same questions week in, week out.
‘The usual.’
Same answers week in, week out.
She kept her eyes on me. ‘I do wish you’d surprise me one time and tell me that you were sky diving, speed dating or getting a tattoo.’ She chuckled at the face I pulled. ‘What? It’s good to mix things up a little, Grace.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I know you can’t escape death but you can choose to live, and it’s a lot more fun with a nice man by your side.’ She paused. ‘My neighbour was telling me about her niece who’s found a lovely chap on this other dating website, Tindem or something. Apparently there are tons of them for single people, all looking for the same thing.’
She probably meant love, but I couldn’t help being cynical about the other thing many people on dating sites were looking for. I tried to ignore her pointed stare and burrowed my eyes into the dove leaflet in front of me. It costs £30 more to release a white dove at a wedding than at a funeral. Same company, same dove and same service. I looked up from the leaflet. The colour of the font and the irregularity of the pricing irritated me. Anyway, I’d sworn off dating since my ex. Henry had well and truly broken my heart, and I didn’t much fancy putting it back out there to be broken further.
‘Grace? What do you think?’
I forced a smile. ‘Yep, I’ll look into it.’
‘You must. If I was a little younger, then I’d be on there too. You’ve got youth on your side, Grace, you need to use it before it fades. Right, I’d better be off. Got a lot to do.’ She rose to her feet with a struggle. Her joints cracked as she stood.
I handed her the macarons and helped her with her coat. Purdy’s ears pricked to attention the second the door opened.
‘Bye, Grace. Hope I don’t see you soon!’
I laughed politely. Same joke every week. I couldn’t take any offence. In my job, no one ever wanted to see me again. I wouldn’t want to see me again. I watched her carefully waddle down the steps and unfasten Purdy’s lead from the railing.
With a final wave, I went to check on Mrs Craig. My regular visits might not make any difference to her day, but they mattered to me.
Chapter 2
A gust of icy wind cut through my winter coat as I waited for the temporary traffic lights to change. Amber pools of light from passing cars lit up the non-stop drizzle that fell from the heavy grey clouds. Darkness curled around me. Last week it had been bright sunshine; the row of forlorn daffodils at the roadside were presumably regretting their optimistic decision to pop open. I awkwardly used my elbow to press the button at the crossing. I’d been trapped there that morning on my way to work, forced to ignore two stocky men wearing grubby hi-viz vests who’d hollered to me from the scaffolding opposite. The workmen had long downed tools and gone home.
I’d stayed much later than I’d planned, working on the final prep for Mr Stuart’s big day next week. I hadn’t even realised what time it was. Finally, the traffic stopped and the beeps rang out. I still made sure to turn my head two, three times to check the coast was clear before I put a foot in the road. You couldn’t be too careful. I’d read recently that the number of road deaths had hit a five-year high.
‘Ah, here she is, our saving Grace,’ Raj bellowed as I walked into his shop.
‘Evening,’ I smiled.
‘Oh, wait!’ He held up a chubby hand and reached the other under the counter, which was covered in neat displays of chewing gum, reams of scratch cards and a plastic cabinet containing e-cigarette liquid. He pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and flicked through it.