One Last Summer at Hideaway Bay: A gripping romantic read with an ending you won’t see coming!

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Zoe Cook 2016

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Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover design by Alex Allden

Zoe Cook 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.

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Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008194451

Version 2016-06-27

For James and Lara, the loves of my life.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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 33

Chapter 21

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgements

Zoe Cook

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

September, 2005

Can you believe that after all these years I have to write this in a letter because I can’t say it to you, can’t get the words out right?

I know you think I’m running away. You’re probably right. But what do you think I have if I stay here? There are too many ghosts here, Tom, too many memories. It’s like walking around in my own nightmare sometimes, and it will drive me mad.

I wish we weren’t fighting about this. I don’t know what I expected you to think or to say about it all, but I didn’t expect you to be so angry with me. I feel like you’re taking it the wrong way. It’s not you I want to leave; it’s this place.

If you knew how many hours I’ve spent thinking about what the hell to do – honestly, the thought of being without you is unbearable. But I didn’t want to put you in this position, to do what I’m about to do now. I didn’t want to ask you to come with me, to leave everything you have here. This place means so much to you, and you have so many reasons to stay.

But I guess I am selfish, like you say I am. Because I want you to come with me, Tom. I can’t do the London thing on my own, I don’t want to. I don’t want a life that doesn’t have you in it. I can’t really see the point in that. Is that pathetic? You are everything that’s good in my life.

I know you’ll need time, but can you think about it? About coming with me? Starting a life away from here? It would be the adventure we’ve always talked about, wouldn’t it? I mean I know it’s not exactly South America or Thailand, but you know…

I’m doing that jokey thing you get cross with me for, aren’t I? Trivialising things because I’m nervous and awkward.

I’m rambling now. And I don’t even know if I’ll ever give this to you. Part of me thinks I should just go and leave you here to live your life without me. I think you might be better off that way. I want you to be happy, Tom. I love you more than words. If nothing else, I hope you always know that.

Lucy

1

London, July, 2010

Lucy tipped the white powder from a carefully folded lottery ticket onto the mirror of her compact. She scraped it into a neat line with her credit card and took the rolled bank note from the back of her wallet. She sniffed quickly and quietly, pausing for a second to feel the immediate hit of energy. She placed the folded paper and card in the zipped section of her purse, straightened herself up and walked out of the toilet cubicle back to her desk.

It was 5:55pm before Lucy had time to check her personal emails on Tuesday. Work was manic, as it always was in the lead-up to an awards ceremony. For Spectrum, the Screenies were the event of the year, a real prestige project and a massive money-spinner. The grand-scale, live-broadcast awards show at the Metropolis on Park Lane, which celebrated all things TV, dominated spring at Spectrum, with a huge production team recruited, doubling the number of people in the office for the months leading up to the show. Emma had too many meetings to fit into each day and, as her PA, it was Lucy’s job to make them all happen – somehow. Emma’s mood alternated between manic happiness at the prospect of an evening of guaranteed attention, and sudden bursts of furious disappointment at the team she employed to run Spectrum TV’s events. Lucy had mostly escaped her wrath, instead taking the role of confidante, which she actually felt even less comfortable with. Every time she was called into Emma’s office she dreaded the instruction to ‘close the door’, which signaled an imminent verbal assassination. Lucy hated how Emma dragged her into her bitter inner world of hatred towards the production team, most of whom had absolutely no idea they had done anything to upset her. Already this week she’d heard how angry Emma was with Frankie, the lovely associate producer working on the awards, because she’d cut her long hair short so close to the event.

‘II would never have employed her looking so butch,’ Emma had spat.

‘We’ll have to reassign her role for the evening, she can’t be talent-facing now,’ she’d sighed, as if Frankie’s new hairstyle might prove too much for any delicate celebrity-type unfortunate enough to set eyes on her at the ceremony. Lucy hated herself for not standing up for anyone, for just sitting there listening to it all, making herself complicit by her inaction. She wanted an easy life with Emma, she’d seen what happened to people who dared to disagree and she valued her career too much to be the next person bullied out of their job. She needed it, needed the money. It had taken so long to earn a wage that meant she could afford her own flat, or near enough afford it, at least; she couldn’t entertain the prospect of having to start on a lower salary elsewhere. So she sat there, like the baddy’s little lap dog, being stroked and kicked alternately, depending on the day, Emma’s mood, the weather – taking whatever shit Emma threw her way and never standing up for anything or anyone.

Emma was having one of her good days today. Lucy had found it relatively easy to juggle her schedule, field her calls and keep her happy. She hadn’t sat down at her desk for more than five minutes at a time and her feet hurt like hell in her new heels, but that didn’t matter too much. The day was nearly done, Emma was due at an event at 7pm, so a car would be picking her up at 6:30pm and Lucy could get out at a reasonable hour for the first time in weeks. She scanned through her inbox, deleting junky emails and opening a couple of ‘funny’ round robins – was she the only person in the world who hated those cat videos? Her eyes were drawn to the email sent at 11:47pm the night before. Subject line: ‘Hello’, from: Thomas Barton.

Her first thought was that it couldn’t be him, that it was a coincidence. Tom never called himself ‘Thomas’, he thought it sounded stuffy and old. Clicking the bold ‘Hello’, her heart began to race at the possibility that it was him, and she ran her eyes over the long email that opened on her screen to the bottom of the page. ‘I still think about you and I hope you’re okay,’ she read. It was signed off ‘Tom’.

Emma called for Lucy to help her into her dress before she could read his words. She guiltily shut her MacBook at the call of her name, afraid of being caught reading something from Tom, something personal. Not that Emma would have had a clue who he was, no one in the office would, but Lucy felt exposed, made vulnerable, even, by his electronic presence. In Emma’s office, sounds and voices appeared as if she was under water and she remembered the sensation of noise bursting into technicolour each time she came up for breath in swimming galas as a young girl. She desperately wanted to get outside for some fresh air, or to the toilets for another line to sharpen her thoughts.

‘Anyway it just won’t do,’ she finally tuned in to Emma’s snapping voice, ‘You’ll have to tell her tomorrow that it’s not her job to do that.’ Emma had finished and Lucy had no idea what, or who, she had been talking about. ‘Absolutely,’ Lucy smiled at her boss in what she hoped was a normal manner.

‘How do I look?’ Emma spun around, her dress lifting far too high with the hideously girlish action, revealing her black underwear and cellulite at the tops of her thighs. ‘Fantastic,’ Lucy lied, ‘Really great.’

Lucy walked to the station too fast, she was breathless and clammy by the time she reached her platform. Her heart raced and she felt a familiar pang of fear about just how much damage she might be doing to herself with her habit. She forced the thoughts aside and focused instead on the rare victory of securing a seat, which she slipped into self-consciously. The drugs always made her feel a little paranoid. As they pulled out of the platform towards Scott’s flat, Lucy hovered over Tom’s email, debating half-heartedly whether to read it now or later. She opened it, unable to resist, and read his words, hearing his voice rather than her own.

From: Thomas Barton

To: Lucy Robertson

Subject: Hello

Lucy, hi, it’s Tom. How are you? It’s been a while. I hope you’re really good. I’ve been meaning to get in touch for a while. It’s hard to know how to after so much time has passed. I’m sure you understand that more than most. Nina tells me you’re doing really well up there. I knew you would be, good on you. You did it!

Everything’s good down here, same as ever, really, but good. Mum and Dad send their love. The café’s doing well, just starting to get busy now with the good old tourists. God bless them.

You should come here, come and see everyone, see how little it’s all changed. That’s why I’m writing to you, actually. I know you’re busy, Nina tells me you’re some kind of TV high-flyer, which sounds fun, but definitely busy, so I know it’s probably difficult. But you should come, Luce. Nina and Kristian are up for it, we’ve been speaking loads recently and we all want to get the gang back together again one more time. They’re coming for August, staying here in the house, and you should come too. The four of us, a summer on the beach, like old times. We all want you here for it. I want you here for it. It’s been so long since I saw you.

Just think about it, anyway. Promise me that much. Promise me you won’t just stubbornly decide ‘no’ and refuse to consider it. Maybe it’s a stupid idea – we both know I have plenty of those, but it would be fun, wouldn’t it? Humour an old friend?

I know we haven’t spoken in a really long time, but I still think about you and I hope you’re okay.

Tom

When she reached the bottom of the email Lucy took a deep breath and counted to ten; she’d done that ever since she was little when she felt like she might cry. It had been five years since she’d spoken to Tom, five years since she’d seen him. She knew he was still in Hideaway Bay; Nina had kept her vaguely informed with updates. But Nina had left too, with Kristian – travelled the world with him after university, and although those two were still in touch with Tom, they knew better than to talk much about him to Lucy.

The idea of going to Cornwall was preposterous, of course. She had a job, responsibilities, a flat, for Christ’s sake. The idea that she could take August off work for some nostalgic road trip to her home town and a reunion with her ex-boyfriend would almost be laughable if it wasn’t so bloody annoying that he’d even thought he could ask. Who the hell did he think he was, suggesting she just ditch all of her own plans to fit in with his pipe dream of a summer reunion? Asking her to promise him things. What did he actually want? To relive their happy summers before she’d left and he’d refused to come with her, the summers before he’d given up on them and let her leave without ever looking back?

How had Nina not told her about this? They’d only spoken a few days ago and seemingly she knew all about this stupid plan. Had Nina thought it was a good idea for Tom to get in touch, go for the weak spot and perhaps Lucy would just melt into a pathetic little puddle at the sound of his name all over again? She wouldn’t go. She’d ignore the email; maybe send a polite response in a couple of days to show that she wasn’t petty, that she was over it. She looked out of the window as the train doors bleeped shut and swore out loud, too loudly, judging by the shocked faces glaring at her from around the busy carriage. She’d just missed her stop.

2

Hideaway Bay, 2003

Tom took Lucy’s hand in his as they walked up the hill to her parents’ house. She could feel his eyes on her, but pretended she didn’t know he was watching her; he had a habit of observing her doing the most mundane things. ‘You look beautiful today,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek.

‘I’m sweaty,’ she replied, laughing. ‘You’re mad.’

‘You’re sweaty and beautiful,’ he said, lifting her arm and spinning her into him. She groaned and then smiled as she nuzzled into his chest, stopping now to kiss him properly.

‘That view,’ he said, turning towards the sea. ‘It still gets me every time.’

‘I know,’ Lucy said. She couldn’t imagine anyone failing to be stunned by the sight, the vast expanse of blue, soaring from a pale crystal at the sand’s edge to deep navy where it met the sky. You could still hear the buzz of the beach, the squeals of delighted children over the gentle roar of the pulling tide. It was the most calming sound in the world, somehow blending the magnificence of nature perfectly with the human pursuit of pleasure.

‘Are your parents in?’ Tom asked, as they began walking again.

‘I don’t think so,’ Lucy said, ‘Dad wanted to take the boat out to “make the most of the weather”.’ She did her best impersonation of her father.

‘Richie?’ Tom asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Lucy said, ‘Why, are you hoping we’ll have the place to ourselves?’ She nudged him gently and skipped ahead of him slightly. Tom reached out for her hand again and smiled at her. ‘Well, I could deal with that,’ he said. Lucy kissed him again, before opening the gate with a code on the keypad.

‘No cars,’ she said, ‘looks like you’re in luck.’

3

London, 2010

In the lobby of the glass and stainless-steel building, home to Scott’s very expensive waterfront flat, Lucy took the lift to the fourteenth floor and knocked on the heavy, dark door. Scott’s face was a more welcome sight than Lucy had imagined, and he held his arms out for her suddenly weary body as she leaned into his arms and let him kiss her hair.

‘Hello, darling girl,’ he said, ‘Come in, I’ve cooked for you.’

In his lounge Scott had set the table and put flowers in a silver-rimmed glass vase. She smiled at the gesture and leant down to smell the purple and pink hyacinths – her favourite.

‘Sit down, Luce,’ Scott called from the kitchen, ‘Dinner’s just coming. I hope you’re hungry.’

He’d cooked what looked like a very good lasagna, which Lucy’s heart dropped at the sight of. She couldn’t eat it. She knew immediately, her body filling with panic at the sight of all that pasta and cheese. She took a slice and filled her plate with salad.

‘This looks absolutely delicious,’ she said, looking at Scott and his lovely face, his chiseled jawline and cute, perfect nose. He was so bloody handsome. Lucy acknowledged this often, but he was just a bit too keen to be truly sexy. She knew this thought made her a bitch and she wished she was less of a cliché. The sad truth was that she knew she’d like him more if he didn’t like her.

She spent dinner cutting up pieces of lasagna and pushing them around her plate and under her salad, listening to Scott talk about his clients, the office politics at his city law firm and about the football match he was looking forward to at the weekend. When he went to get a second bottle of wine, Lucy reached for her handbag, took a tissue from a packet and wrapped as much of her lasagna as she could fit in it, and put it in her bag, praying it wouldn’t seep through. She was drunk, she realised now, her movements were clumsy and it felt like her hands were too big for her arms. It was a feeling she loved, that warm fuzz of wine running through her body, numbing all the sparking connections in her brain, dulling everything down enough to make life feel easy.

Scott poured her another glass of red before taking her nearly empty plate away.

‘You really liked that, huh?’ He kissed her on the mouth, hard, and Lucy realised he was drunk too. He put her plate back down on the table and kissed her again, stroking his hand through her hair, pulling her head back slightly and running his tongue down her neck. Lucy unbuttoned his shirt. He looked good in his work clothes; his body was beautiful. She put her hands on his smooth chest and reached for his jeans. Scott lifted her up from her chair and sat her on the dining table.

In bed, Lucy wore Scott’s t-shirt, her hair tied up, her neck still hot. She took her phone from her handbag and set an alarm for 6am. She had a missed call, from Nina, and the wine fuzz began to turn to more of an ache as she recalled the email on the train. She leant over to kiss Scott goodnight. ‘I love you, Lucy,’ he said, rolling towards her and putting his arm across her empty stomach.

‘Goodnight sweetheart,’ she replied, hurting at her inability to tell him she loved him too. Scott fell asleep with an immediacy that always made Lucy envious. Sleep was not her friend. She lay completely still, staring at the ceiling, trying to make out shapes in the plaster, trying not to think about Tom. This was the curse of her habit. Well, one of them. She needed to stop doing it so late into the evening. No amount of wine could totally take the edge off, and once things were quiet and it was dark, the fear could creep in. Her heart raced and she began to feel hot, as though someone was pressing down onto her chest. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and watched it shake as she pulled it to her lips. Lying back down, she tried to calm herself by breathing slowly and steadily. Eventually her heart seemed to settle, she felt her eyelids begin to become heavy, her thoughts start to spiral into sleep.

They came to her again in her dream. All of them, this time. There was always Richie, and this time he ran towards her, beaming. This time her parents stood quietly behind him, waving. She was so happy to see them, reaching out for Richie’s warm little body, his spindly arms and crazy hair. She kept looking up to check that her parents were still there too, so pleased that they looked happy. She began to realise that it was taking too long for Richie to reach her. She looked again and could see now that he was running almost as if in slow motion. His arms and legs were moving strangely, as if he was being pulled down, wading through something thick. She tried to call out to him, to move towards him, but she was suddenly sinking into the ground too, it had turned to marsh beneath her feet. She felt panic rising as she looked around for her parents now. They were further away than before and their faces were wretched with despair. They weren’t waving any more, they were desperately pleading for her help. But she couldn’t move. Richie was crying now and drifting further away from her. Lucy tried to scream for help but her voice wouldn’t come; instead the screams seemed to stab sharp pains through her chest. Her eyesight began to fail her, as if a thick fog had fallen on them all. She couldn’t breathe now, and she couldn’t see her parents.

She woke, sweating, out of breath. She reached to her side to feel Scott, still fast asleep, as if touching another human being would confirm that she was real and this was real and the dream was over. She felt sick and her heart ached. She pressed her fingers into her eyes to stop the tears that began to form. She’d been having this dream, or versions of it, for years. It never got any easier to cope with. It always knocked her more heavily than she felt was reasonable after all this time. Looking at her phone she saw it was 5am and decided that wasn’t too early to get up for the day. She’d only had around four hours’ sleep, but that was better than the prospect of closing her eyes and returning to her nightmares.