The Summer We Danced

As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for two things: having her nose in a book and living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least she’s found a career that puts her runaway imagination to use.

Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Scottish Highlands and the English countryside on a summer’s afternoon. The Summer We Danced follows the success of The Little Shop of Hopes and Dreams and The Doris Day Vintage Film Club.

Fiona loves to hear from readers and you can contact her through fiona@fionaharper.com, find her on Facebook page (Fiona Harper Romance Author) or tweet her @FiHarperAuthor.

For Carol, with much love.

Thank you for your care and warmth, for your grace and creativity.

It’s been a blessing to have you in my life.

I have a lot of people to thank for their help with this book, especially as a lot of the research was very hands-on (or should I say “feet on”?).

Firstly I’d like to thank my lovely editor Anna Baggaley, for always always nudging me to go deeper. Every book is better for it. Thank you also to the rest of the wonderful team at Harlequin and for all their hard work in getting this book into readers’ hands. I really appreciate all that you do and your tireless enthusiasm.

Much gratitude too to my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who is always the voice of encouragement and sanity when I need it most.

I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the teachers and fellow pupils who made learning to tap dance so fun. I want to mention not just Hannah and Emily, who got me tapping for the first time in my life at Sara Phillips School of Dancing, but all the ladies in the adult tap class there, who were always so graceful and elegant while I was flailing away at the back of the class. (They say write what you know, and the scenes where Pippa is lost and tying her feet in knots were definitely based on personal experience!) Many thanks especially to Sam, who always had time to break down a step for me while we were waiting for our next turn across the floor.

Huge thanks also to everyone at the Thursday night classes at the Churchill Theatre, especially our amazing teacher, Lexi Bradburn of Sole Rebel Tap. I’m not giving it up, so you’re stuck with me, even now the book is finished! I’d also like to express my gratitude to Teresa Tandy from Cocarola for teaching me how to foxtrot, even if I did keep forgetting I should let her lead and what to do about corners.

A massive thank you to my great writer friends: Donna Alward, Heidi Rice, Susan Wilson, Daisy Cummins and Iona Grey. Thanks for listening to me moan on when things aren’t going right, celebrating with me when they are and providing laughter and lots of wine no matter what!

An extra special hug to my sister Kirsteen Coupar, who gives sage advice when it comes to writing tangles and can make me laugh harder than any other person on the planet. Thank you also to my lovely friends Nicola Ingle and Rachel Carter for your encouragement and friendship. It’s a blessing to know both of you.

Last but definitely not least, I have to thank my husband who didn’t moan a bit when I kept flitting off to dance classes almost every night of the week, and my daughters who didn’t make fun of me when they found me tapping away in the kitchen following YouTube videos instead of cooking their dinner. (Or occasionally trying to do both at once!) I love you all loads. You give me the joy I need to keep me dancing.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Copyright

One

I inhaled deeply as I raised myself on to my toes with the poise and concentration of an Olympic diver. I swayed precariously, but steadied myself, knowing that everything—everything—depended on me keeping perfectly still for the next few seconds.

I waited, eyes half-scrunched closed, even though they were fixed on the digital numbers flickering rapidly between my big toes.

Any moment …

Any moment now the display would stop jumping around and deliver its verdict. My heart was thudding so hard I could swear the noise was bouncing off the tiled walls of my bathroom.

And then, just as I thought it was never going to happen, it did.

I stared down at the pale-green digits lighting up my bathroom scales in horror.

‘No way!’

I knew Christmas had been bad. I knew that, despite my promises to myself to have just a few naughty things, as the festivities had progressed my cravings had gained momentum, eventually sweeping me away on a relentless tide I’d been helpless to resist. (I’d never been a strong swimmer.)

The green digits flashed at me, blinking their accusation. I jumped backwards off the scales. The stupid thing was malfunctioning, that was all. Probably just sulking because I’d neglected it for most of November and all of December, a bit like Roberta did after I’d been away.

My cat always put on a show of being mortally offended if I dared leave her alone overnight, giving me the cold shoulder for at least half an hour before she finally leapt on to my lap, kneading my thighs with deliberately unsheathed claws and purring like an old-fashioned petrol lawnmower.

Not that I expected my bathroom scales to purr back at me when they’d had a chance to calm down. However, a little love in the form of a decent number wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, we’d be bosom buddies again in no time, especially now January’s cold light was intent on revealing my every lump and bump.

I glanced in the mirror, something I’d studiously avoided doing over the festive season. My cheeks were definitely chubbier, making the pixie cut I’d had back in the summer—the I’m-divorced-and-I’m-embracing-my-new-life cut—seem like a moment of insanity rather than a declaration of freedom. I ignored the healthy gloss on my short, almostblack hair, the way the cut made my eyes look huge, and focused instead on the fact my cheekbones had definitely been swallowed up by the sheer volume of mince pies I’d consumed.

Ugh. Disgusting.

I’d had a good excuse, though. I’d thought the second Christmas without Ed—the first since our divorce had been finalised—would be easier. Less lonely. And maybe it would have been, if he hadn’t been posting pictures on Facebook of his fabulous Caribbean Christmas with the Tart.

Now, before you start lecturing, I know I should have blocked him, but I needed to see those pictures, to remind myself of reality, to remind myself I should stop snivelling about the way life had turned out and be glad it was the Tart who had to deal with his smelly socks, unrealistic demands, and toxic under-the-duvet fumes now. Even a thatched bungalow on an Antiguan beach couldn’t make that stench romantic.

I was better off without him.

I had to be, because he wasn’t coming back.

Anyway, as Big Ben had chimed last night I’d toasted Roberta with a large glass of Baileys and vowed that today would be my turning point. This would be the year of the new, improved Pippa. The Pippa who could finally get into a pair of skinny jeans without herniating something. The Pippa who was going to rise phoenix-like and resplendent from the ashes of her marriage and transform into a glorious being.

I pondered that for a few moments but then made the mistake of looking down and discovered I could no longer see my toes past my rather wobbly midriff. I prodded the bulge with a finger and it rippled.

That’s the downside of stripping down to your underwear to weigh yourself. What you save in precious ounces, you gain back in reality. No longer could I ignore the fact I didn’t just have a muffin top, but a whole Victoria sponge sitting round my middle.

Maybe a phoenix was the wrong image—the wrong logo—for my marvellous rebirth. Maybe a butterfly would be a better fit. Because I clearly had the whole roly-poly cocoon thing going on.

While I’d been thinking, the bathroom scales had turned themselves off in a huff. I jabbed the button again with my big toe and waited for the display to do its usual warm-up dance and settle back to zero.

I’d try again. Just to double-check. After all, the battery might be going.

Once again I shifted my weight on to my toes, because I knew that leaning forward would cause the scales to dip up to half a pound. I rose to the right spot, the point of balance where I was far enough forward to see the jostling numbers go down a little, but not so far that I toppled over and faceplanted into the bathroom wall.

Oh, yay! Lower this time … Not even in the teens, but closer to—

Hang on. No.

Don’t do that! Stop climbing!

‘No, no, no, no, no!’

The scales had returned to exactly the same number they’d been at the first time. A number they had never dared show before. Not just double figures, but higher. The one that was unlucky for some, and definitely not good news for me.

I couldn’t even comfort myself I was the national average dress size any more. I’d waved goodbye to that number in my rear-view mirror some time around mid-December.

‘Traitor,’ I whispered as I stepped off the scales and threw my pyjamas back on. Before the display went dark, the offending numbers seemed to linger just a little longer than normal, mocking me.

‘That’s it!’ I muttered as I tied up my dressing gown. ‘I’ll give you one more chance tomorrow, but after that I’m off to Argos for a replacement and you’re going down the dump!’

The scales sat there, unblinking in their innocence, as I stomped from the bathroom.

Two

After that lovely little episode, I really didn’t want to leave the house. I’d have much rather hidden myself away under my fleecy blanket on the sofa and watched one of the DVDs Roberta had bought me for Christmas than have family round for a big New Year’s Day lunch.

Okay, okay … I knew the cat hadn’t actually opened up an Amazon account and ordered me a couple of Hollywood’s golden oldies, but there’d been precious little else under the tree this year, just a lovely scarf from my older sister, Candace.

It probably didn’t help that I’d put the scraggy little fir in exactly the same spot Mum and Dad had always had a tree when the cottage had been our family home. Present-day reality was competing hard with memories of so many happy Christmases here, filled with both laughter and bickering. Now Mum and Dad were gone the house seemed far too quiet, even if I chattered away to Roberta as I tried to reacclimatise to seeing the cottage not as just ‘Mum and Dad’s’ but as my new home.

I sighed. When I’d dreamed of how my life would turn out when I’d been younger, this was so not what I’d been expecting. I’d always had some half-conscious idea that by the grand old age of thirty-seven my life would be like a John Lewis Christmas ad—perfect and stylish, grown-up and full of warmth. But instead of the loving husband and cheekily cute children I’d imagined, I was all on my own, only a cat and a few presents I’d wrapped myself in cheap Rudolph paper to keep me company. I’d even had to fill my own stocking (mostly with chocolate, save for a wrinkled satsuma I’d nicked from the fruit bowl) and put it at the end of my own bed.

I stared at the gaping hole under my Christmas tree. It seemed to grow bigger and darker the more I looked at it.

Ed had always been terrible with money but good with presents. There’d been an explosion of badly-wrapped parcels under our tree when we’d been married. Things he’d splashed out on that we probably couldn’t afford, not on a musician’s pay, anyway. I allowed myself to miss that, at least, even if I’d forbidden myself from missing the man himself any more.

My ex had been the lead singer of a band called The Shamed, who’d had one big hit and a couple of not-so-huge ones back in the early noughties. They’d been making an okay living, though, doing gigs all over the UK, especially on the university circuit.

But then a contestant on X Factor had covered one of their songs, leading to a flurry of iTunes sales and things had started to change. Ed, who’d never let common sense get in the way of his career planning, had started dreaming of bigger record deals and arena tours. He’d even boasted about pinching Take That’s comeback crown. So when the opportunity to do a late-night reality show on a minor-league cable station had come his way it had been too much to resist.

He’d spent almost three months locked up in a house that looked like a mini-version of Ikea—without the nice meatballs—battling it out with other D-list celebs for the grand prize of … well, not a ton of money, that was for sure … but, for the lure of resurrecting his profile and the band’s career.

And it had worked, thanks to an infatuation with a glamour model almost half his age. The story had made the front pages of the tabloids and internet gossip columns. Thanks to his new-found notoriety, the band had signed with a new record company and were planning a greatest hits album. Ed had got everything he’d ever wanted. It didn’t seem fair.

I sighed. That was it. I couldn’t stand staring at the tree any longer. It was coming down this evening when my sister and her family had gone home. I had to leave the past behind, stop dwelling on what couldn’t be changed and move forward.

Speaking of moving forward, it was probably time I got both myself and the house ready …

I spotted Roberta, stretched lazily out on the sofa with her eyes half-closed, and felt a stab of jealousy, but I still rubbed her tummy before I jogged up to my bedroom to get dressed.

I opened my wardrobe and sighed. I didn’t even bother perusing the left end of the rail, clothes from before the divorce: colourful, pretty and way, way too small. Instead I stared at the right-hand side of my wardrobe, where there were flowing fabrics, dark tones and a healthy amount of elastic. My ‘wardrobe of doom’, as I’d christened it because, basically, anything from it would be a good fashion choice for the Grim Reaper.

I pulled a pair of charcoal trousers from a hanger and reached for one of my ubiquitous black tops, then ran downstairs to do some last-minute tidying.

Just as I stuffed a pair of socks I’d found behind the sofa into the sideboard, the doorbell rang. I headed for the door, and on a last-moment impulse, I grabbed the scarf Candy had given me for Christmas and looped it round my neck. It provided just the right splash of colour to my black-and-grey combo, the soft pinks and neutral tones complementing it perfectly. How did she do that? If I didn’t know better I’d swear my sister had rigged the house we’d inherited from our parents with secret video cameras.

I pasted on a wide, I’m-happy-to-see-you smile, and swung the door open so enthusiastically that the wreath tied to the knocker bounced a couple of times. Standing on the step was Candy, flanked by her husband, Mike, and my niece and nephews.

My sister threw her arms around me. ‘Happy New Year!’ she said, squeezing hard, then pulled back to look at me. ‘You look nice today. Love the scarf,’ she added, with a knowing glint in her eye.

Candy, as usual, was dressed down but elegant in shades of taupe and grey, chunky silver jewellery on her fingers and at her throat. You’d never guess that she’d had three kids in the last eight years. She didn’t look any bigger than she had back in her twenties. Sometimes I tried to get cross that she’d sucked up all the skinny genes before I’d been born, but I could never manage it. Besides, as I kept chanting to myself every time I looked in the mirror, you don’t need to be skinny to be happy, right?

‘Happy New Year,’ I replied, maybe not quite as brightly. I attempted to hug my nephews—Callum, eight, and Noah, four—but they raced past my legs and into the house, probably in search of Roberta, who, most sensibly, had hidden herself in the airing cupboard as soon as she’d heard the doorbell ring.

Mike, who was carrying both a cool bag and a cardboard box full of food and drink, leaned in to kiss me on the cheek as he passed by me on his way to the kitchen, and my niece Honey (six going on sixteen) presented her cheek for me to peck as she swept past in her pink satin dress and tiara.

I closed the door and followed Mike and Candy through into the kitchen—still the well-constructed but rather orange pine units my dad had installed in the eighties—and found them unpacking enough food for a small army. Candy had made a huge lasagne and a sliced-tomato salad, and she was giving brisk instructions to Mike to turn the oven on to warm the nibbles and ciabatta. All I’d had to do was provide some wine and tiramisu, the one dessert I was capable of making without disaster.

I knew Candy’s famous lasagne was full of pancetta, cream and three kinds of Italian cheese, and I promised myself I’d only have half a portion. Which I did. It was the second helping and the generous plate of tiramisu that really blew all my good intentions out of the water.

After lunch, Mike suggested taking the kids over the village green to blow off some steam. He picked up a football and the boys cheered but Honey folded her arms and looked down at her glistening party dress, which she had insisted on putting on in honour of a visit to her favourite (and only) auntie. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ Candy said, smoothing down her daughter’s dark hair. ‘You can stay behind with me and Pippa if you like.’

Honey liked, so when the whirlwind of male energy had gathered up its coats and gloves, wellies and footballs and slammed the door behind itself, Honey skipped off to see if I’d missed any of the chocolate decorations on the Christmas tree (fat chance!), while Candy got us both a nice glass of red.

We walked into the living room, where Honey had already dived under the tree to begin her search. Once again, just the sight of the blowsy floral wallpaper, the tree in the corner, all Mum’s Christmas decorations hanging just where she would have put them, hit me in the chest.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Candy said quietly beside me. ‘Them not being here. I mean, I know it’s been five years, but this is actually the first Christmas we’ve had here since …’

‘Since Dad died,’ I finished for her. We both stood there for a few seconds and then Candy wandered over to the fireplace, which had always been my favourite bit of the room. It was a Victorian cast-iron one and I’d actually made the effort to sweep out the grate and light a proper fire there this morning, exactly as my mum would have done.

I plopped down at one end of the large, squashy sofa and picked up one of her tapestried cushions, hugging it to my middle. I was becoming an expert in using soft furnishings to disguise the bulges that appeared every time I sat down.

‘At least Christmas in the village is lovely,’ Candy continued. ‘What with all the lights and the carol singing and the primary school nativity. I didn’t realise how lucky I was to have grown up with it until I’d moved away. And it must have been a great way to bump into old friends! Who have you run into since you’ve been back?’

‘Erm,’ I muttered. ‘I think a lot of people have moved away.’

An outright lie. Or, at the very least, a guess. The truth was that I had no idea who still lived here and who didn’t, because apart from going to work, I’d pretty much kept myself to myself.

If I’d been able to afford it, I’d have gone somewhere completely new. Maybe even a different country. But I hadn’t had much choice. Once our divorce was final, Ed and I had decided to put the flat we’d owned in North London on the market. Ed had already moved out—gone to live with the Tart—and I hadn’t wanted to stay behind alone in the home we’d once shared, surrounded by a lot of empty space and stale memories, so I’d come back to the village of Elmhurst, slap-bang in the commuter belt of north-west Kent, the place where I’d grown up and gone to school, where I’d learned to drive and had fallen in love for the first time.

Candy walked across the room and perused the sad little row of five Christmas cards standing guard on the mantle. When she got to the largest and most glitzy one, she paused, frowned, then picked it up and turned round to look at me.

‘Ed sent you a Christmas card? I can’t believe it!’ She stared down at it, read it again, her expression darkening.

‘Don’t be like that,’ I said, hugging my cushion gently. ‘He was just trying to be nice.’

Candy humphed loudly.

‘Just because he fell in love with … her … doesn’t mean he stopped caring about me,’ I said. ‘I know he feels terrible about how things worked out.’

This time Candy didn’t just humph, she snorted. ‘Tell me you’re not still in love with him.’

I looked away. ‘I’m not. I mean, not in the same way.’

She just stared at me. ‘After everything he did to you on that stupid TV show! You need to move on, Pip.’

‘I know,’ I said, nodding, and then I said it again, more firmly this time. ‘I’m trying. But think about how you’d feel if this happened to you and Mike … Even if you were hurt … devastated, even … you couldn’t just flick a switch and feel nothing. It takes time.’ I felt the tears begin to sting in my nostrils. ‘You need to give me more time.’

Candy put the card back on the mantelpiece and folded her arms. I could tell she wanted to go all Big Sister on me and throw it in the fire, but she resisted. I loved her just a little bit more than I already did when she changed the subject.

‘Did the last tenants leave it in an okay state?’ she asked as she plopped on to the other end of the sofa. ‘I know you had to move in quite quickly.’

I nodded. ‘They were a lovely family. It’s probably dirtier now than it was when they left.’

Candy, not wishing to incriminate herself, didn’t comment.