Always Something There To Remind Me

It’s never too late to live your dreams…

Divorcee Lydia is clearing out her attic when she finds an old, dust-strewn notebook, containing a list of her teenage hopes and dreams:

- Overcome fear of flying

- Learn to ice skate like Jayne Torvill

- Sing in front of an audience

- Get a date with a rockstar!

Still petrified of planes and with no celebrity notch on her bedpost in sight, there’s no denying that her younger self would be disappointed. So Lydia elects to tackle her teenage bucket list: one dream at a time!

From falling flat on her bum on an ice rink to a hilarious encounter with a hypnotist, Lydia’s journey throws up more chaos than she ever imagined. Thank goodness her gorgeous friend Des is there to literally hold her hand every step of the way!

But Lydia soon realises that there’s something missing from her list: love. And it could just be that the man who’s helping her achieve the dreams of the past will do much, much more…and unlock the key to her future!

Always Something There to Remind Me

Lilian Kendrick

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Lilian Kendrick 2014

Lilian Kendrick 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.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474009102

Version date: 2018-07-23

LILIAN KENDRICK

A semi-retired teacher, Lilian started writing as soon as she realised that the pointed end of the pencil made marks appear on the paper.

She writes poetry and short stories of all kinds, but is most at home with comic verse and flash fiction.

An avid reader of horror and crime stories, Lilian was surprised to find that her preferred genre for novel writing is women’s fiction for readers of ‘a certain age’, with the emphasis on romance.

Her first novel “Sister, Daughter, Mother Wife” was published in 2009. She has also published a collection of flash fiction, “A Flash in the Pan” and a poetry collection “Poems, Prayers and Parodies”.

Some of her poetry was included in an international collaborative anthology, “Poeticising Chat – Rambling Poets at Café Cyber” in 2011.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

I would like to express my gratitude to those who read and reviewed the early drafts of my work, especially my dear friend Trudi Morrissey and my niece, Ronnie Deery.

I should particularly like to mention authors Diane Dickson, Kirk Haggerty and Tonia Marlowe whose critiques helped me to improve the story.

To my beta readers who never fail me.

Chapter 1: Action Plan

We called them rough books or jotters, those thick, grey-covered exercise books we were given for taking notes in at school. The ones we used for ‘real work’ were coloured according to the subject: blue for Maths, yellow for English, green for Geography and so on. Anyway, none of that really matters. What was important was that I’d found a rough book after all those years … well, to be precise I’d found my rough book from year 10. I’d been fifteen and full of it! The battered grey cover was smothered in graffiti: ‘I luv J.G.’, ‘Luvsik Kitten Rules!’ and other similar sentiments declaring my undying love for the band of the moment. Almost thirty years on, I smiled at the memories brought back by my teenage scribblings.

Clearing out the attic had been Trudi’s idea. She thought it was high time I got over the whole divorce thing and put Bob out of my mind for ever. Not that I was thinking about him much by then. The hurt was healing at last. Hearts don’t really break, do they? They just get squeezed out of shape by life, and I was better off without him anyway – everyone said so. Anyway, it was a wet Friday evening in October and, having nothing better to do, I’d decided to tackle the boxes that I’d dragged around unopened for most of my adult life. It was kind of fun – until I opened the rough book and flicked through it. That was when I discovered the list. If I hadn’t found the bloody thing I’d have been fine. ‘My Plans for Life’ – written when I was fifteen – my hopes and dreams summed up in a few bullet points, and here I was, well past my sell-by date, and I’d achieved hardly any of them. Where did I go wrong? How did those dreams escape so easily? Unable to come up with the answers, I did what any woman would do in the circumstances: I sat on the floor and cried my heart out.

* * * * *

The next day, Des called round for breakfast. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and he was just what I needed. He always knew the right thing to say. Over bacon sandwiches, I revealed the cause of my distress.

‘Why don’t you just go for it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The list – why not do all the things on your list? How hard can it be?’

I loved his optimism. I’d known Des for eight months. We’d met at a Creative Writing group I joined just after my divorce and had been great mates ever since. He was a dreamer too, but he had this really positive outlook and once he made up his mind to do something it usually got done. If anyone could make dreams come true it was Des. He asked me to give him the list.

‘I’ll help you. We can do this.’ Then he looked at it and laughed out loud. ‘Lydia, honey, you are one crazy lady.’

‘It’s impossible, right? I’m just one big, fat failure destined to live a life of disappointment!’ I was close to tears again, but Des put his arm around my shoulders and stroked my hair.

‘Not at all; you’re just unhappy and lacking in confidence.’ He hugged me. ‘But, you’re also a bit of a drama queen.’ He released me and sat at my desk. ‘Now let’s look at your list again and get this show on the road.’

So Des drew up an action plan. Seriously, he tackled my list as if it were a business proposition.

‘We need targets,’ he said, ‘SMART targets.’

‘As opposed to dumb ones?’

‘It’s an acronym … S.M.A.R.T. Your targets should be Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Time-scaled. That’s how it’s done in the business world.’

‘We may have a problem with achievable and realistic,’ I said, looking over his shoulder at the table he was creating on my laptop.

‘Don’t hit me with them negative waves so early in the morning.’ Des’s impression of Donald Sutherland in Kelly’s Heroes always cracked me up.

So we set about our plan of action, because now it somehow belonged to Des too. I wasn’t alone any more and he was determined not to let me fail. I printed the action plan and stuck it on the fridge.

Chapter 2: Facing My Fear

‘So you’ve never been on a plane?’ Des was amazed. ‘How does that work? Haven’t you been abroad?’

‘Of course I have. I just don’t fly. It scares me.’

‘How do you know if you’ve never done it? I mean, you wrote this when you were fifteen, right? Most kids of that age are dying to travel the world. They don’t know what fear is.’

‘Well, maybe I do … er … did. Anyway, I had my reasons and I’m still scared, OK?’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No, thanks. Shall I make more coffee?’

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Des, or that I thought he wouldn’t understand; it was just too difficult for me to open up to anyone about … well, anything really, but especially about that. I still wake up at night sometimes, remembering Mum crying when she told me Dad had suffered a fatal heart attack, flying home from his cousin’s funeral in Ireland. I was nine at the time and he was my world. I blamed the plane, of course. At nine, I didn’t know any better, but the idea stuck with me.

Des squeezed my shoulder gently. ‘I’ll make the coffee. You get onto Mr Google and see if you can find out how to get over this.’

* * * * *

There are lots of ways to overcome your fears, I’ve discovered. There are also lots of companies advertising on the Internet who can’t actually deliver the goods.

I googled ‘fear of flying’ and soon found a number of likely looking courses that claimed they could help me. I’d probably have done better to go to one of the major airlines who all offer courses, but the cost was prohibitive. I was struggling to keep up with the mortgage payments, so I certainly didn’t have £250 to spend on a day at the airport. So I searched for a cheaper alternative and came across the telephone number of Max Mesmero, stage hypnotist turned therapist, who assured me, in a rather sexy dark brown voice, that he could cure my problem in one session for the modest sum of £30. My appointment was for 6.30 p.m. which meant a mad dash home from the office to change into something more comfortable than the business suit and court shoes I was obliged to wear for work. Being a natural slob, I’m much more at home in jogging bottoms and a baggy sweater. I found the house with ease. It was only a ten-minute walk from mine, but the street was poorly lit and as I stepped onto the driveway I could hardly see a thing. I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I should have asked Trudi or Des to come with me. My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Des.

‘Lyd, I just had a thought. What if this guy’s a maniac? You shouldn’t be going there alone.’

‘I was just thinking the same thing. I’m outside his house now.’

‘Give me the address. I’ll drive round and wait outside for you. Keep your phone in your hand with my number on speed dial, then if there’s any problem I’ll be there to help.’

My hero! I relaxed and managed a laugh.

‘OK, Superman, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ I gave him the address and we agreed to go to the pub after my session.

Max’s appearance was theatrical, to say the least. He answered the door wearing a dark green, velvet smoking jacket with a white silk cravat. His long, jet-black hair (obviously dyed) fell in loose curls around his collar and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee beard and moustache, speckled with grey. He scrutinised me with his piercing brown eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose as if deep in thought before greeting me.

‘Welcome, Lydia, to my humble abode. Step inside and together we will conquer your fears.’

I heard a car pull up in the street behind me and knew that my backup was in position, so I took a deep breath and followed Max Mesmero through the dimly lit hallway and into a room festooned with brightly coloured posters of his former life in the theatre.

I sat in a reclining armchair, and Max positioned himself on a stool facing me. An anglepoise lamp stood on a coffee table and he adjusted its position until it was pointing straight at me. I turned my face away from the glare.

‘Try not to close your eyes,’ he said. ‘At least, not yet.’ He reached across and turned my head back towards him and the light. The physical contact made me nervous and I clutched my phone even tighter. Des was outside and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

Max produced the obligatory watch and chain from his jacket pocket and held it in front of my face. Its highly polished surface sparkled as it swung gently, catching the light.

‘What is it that you fear?’

‘Flying,’ I replied. ‘Everyone I know can just get on a plane and go somewhere, but I can’t bear the thought of it. I get sick at the very idea.’

‘Look into my eyes, Lydia, and relax.’ Max’s voice was … well … hypnotic, I suppose, and despite my nerves, I soon found myself drifting off as he spoke. ‘I want you to imagine you are in a peaceful place. Think about the most relaxing and happy location you know …’

I closed my eyes and I was there … a warm sea breeze caressed my face as I lay on the sunlounger. My happy place was Diano Marina, on Italy’s Riviera of Flowers. I was on the roof terrace of the hotel, alone; the others were at the beach.

‘Are you there, in your happy place?’ He had such a soothing voice, it was impossible not to relax. I nodded slowly and snuggled deeper into the chair. ‘Can you describe it for me? What do you see?’

‘Acres of blue sky and golden sunlight.’

‘And what are you doing?’

‘Sunbathing and daydreaming.’

‘That’s great, Lydia. Look at the sky for me. What do you see there?’

‘A few seagulls, circling overhead.’ I smiled as a thought struck me. ‘It’s almost lunchtime and they know it. It’s Italy – there’ll be pizza somewhere soon.’

‘Indeed there will. What will the birds do then?’

‘They’ll swoop down and try to steal it, like they always do.’ I yawned. I could feel the heat of the sun and wondered if I should be applying more lotion.

‘Focus your attention on one of the gulls. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, it’s circling above you and coming down. It’s perching on the guard rail. Can you see it there?’

I nodded as I looked at the huge bird. It was eyeing me curiously, but it made no attempt to move. Max droned on, giving me instructions.

‘Walk over to the guard rail and make friends with the bird. There’s a cracker on the table; feed it to him.’

I rose from the sunbed and picked up the cracker. I walked slowly towards the gull, anxious not to spook him. I offered the cracker to the bird at arm’s length. He cocked his head to one side and then reached out and took it, oh so gently, and hopped down to eat it at my feet.

‘Think yourself small, Lydia. You are shrinking, down, down, down in size.’

I was tiny, standing eye-to-eye with the gull; it had now finished eating and was looking at me intently. For a minute I thought it was going to have me for dessert!

‘Don’t be afraid, Lydia. He’s not going to hurt you. See – he’s waiting for you to climb onto his back.’

The gull sat down! I don’t know if that’s the right term to use for when a bird’s legs disappear underneath it and it sort of rests, but that’s what it looked like. I did as I was instructed and hauled myself onto his back. It was surprisingly comfortable. I could hear Max telling me not to be afraid; to relax and tell him what was happening. It was hard to speak at first as my feathered friend took off gracefully and soared into the sky with me on board! We dipped a little and turned right, heading towards the mountains.

‘I’m flying!’ I managed to get the words out at last. ‘I’m sitting on the back of a seagull and flying towards the mountains. Oh my God! I’m actually flying!’

‘You’re not afraid are you, Lydia?’

‘Not at all!’ I surprised myself with that statement. ‘It’s wonderful; I could stay up here for ever.’

I reached forward and patted the head of my seagull. ‘Thank you, sweetheart! Thank you!’ For several minutes we swooped and glided, then the gull turned back towards the town. I could see the beach on the right, far below us, and we started a gentle descent as the hotel came into view up ahead on the left. That was when it all went horribly wrong! The sky was darkening rapidly as we neared the rooftop and then …

The explosion shattered the trance and I sat bolt upright in the chair and shrieked.

‘We’re going to crash! We’re going to crash!’ Max jumped up from his stool and came to calm me down. He sat on the arm of the chair and took my hand.

My thumb, acting independently, pushed the speed-dial button on my phone and through my sobs I could hear Des shouting, ‘I’m coming in!’

Max stroked my hand. ‘It’s a thunderstorm, that’s all. Nothing to be afraid of.’

I felt like an idiot as I came fully to my senses and realised that the rain was lashing against the window and periodic flashes of lightning were illuminating the rather overgrown garden.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mesmero …’ I began, taking a deep breath to control myself. The door burst open at that moment. Max leapt to his feet and turned to face the intruder just in time for his nose to collide with Des’s fist. He lost his balance and fell to his knees, howling in agony and holding his cravat over his nose which was bleeding profusely. Des stepped around him and came to my side.

‘Are you OK, Lyd? What happened? Should we call the police?’

Fortunately for all of us, Max Mesmero’s nose wasn’t broken and he decided not to press charges, as long as I agreed to pay for the damage done to his front door when Des broke in.

So I left his house fifty quid poorer and still terrified of flying.

Chapter 3: Stars on Ice

I hate Wednesdays. I used to think it was because Wednesday is as far from last weekend as it is from the next one. That may well have been true once upon a time, but nowadays the weekends aren’t that great either. Whatever the reason, I was having an attack of the usual Wednesday blues when Trudi called round after work.

Trudi and I go way back. We were at school together a hundred years ago, or so it seems. The boxes I was rummaging through were full of shared memories and proved to be a fine source of entertainment.

‘I can’t believe you’ve still got all this stuff!’ She flicked through the rough book that was on the coffee table, stopping at the list. ‘Ah, there it is! I threw mine out years ago.’

‘I’d forgotten you had one too.’

‘Oh yes! We wrote them together, one wet lunchtime when we had to sit in the library.’

It was coming back to me now. ‘Yours was much more sensible than mine, though. All about passing exams and earning loads of money.’ I laughed. ‘Actually, you did pretty well on both of those, didn’t you?’

‘Your exam results were better than mine, and the money never seemed to matter to you.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it did much. I just wanted to be happy …’

‘It’s never too late, Lyd. Now you’ve found your list again, you can make it all happen.’

‘That’s what Des said.’

She squealed with amusement then, as she picked up a copy of Go Girl!, the magazine I’d been addicted to thirty years ago.

‘Josh Greenwood!’ she shrieked. ‘You still have all the pictures of him! You were totally obsessed.’ She leafed through the pile of battered posters on the coffee table. ‘So what are you going to do with them? eBay?’

I stared at her in amazement. ‘How can you even think it? I could never part with them. He’s still on my “most wanted” list.’ I smoothed the creases out of an ancient picture, cut from a magazine so long ago. It had always been my favourite and for years it had occupied the place of honour on my bedroom wall, right where it would catch my eye as soon as I woke up in the morning, fresh from dreaming about him! Glossy, black hair framed a perfect face with brown eyes to die for, dramatically outlined with black eyeliner. His dark shirt was open to the waist revealing the band’s name, ‘Luvsik Kitten’, tattooed above his heart. How my teenage hormones used to race! Trudi studied the picture with me.

‘Hmm! He was pretty, I suppose, but he was never my type,’ she said.

‘I seem to remember you always liked older men.’

‘Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra, that’s right. Real men.’

‘You sound like my mother sometimes!’ I laughed.

‘So how’s it going with your list? Are you ready to fly around the world yet?’

‘Not quite. The hypnosis thing didn’t work out. I don’t want to talk about it.’

But of course, an hour later, after we’d shared a bottle of wine, I told her all about it.

‘I’d love to have been there,’ she said, hardly able to contain her giggles. ‘I can just imagine it!’

‘I bet you can’t. I felt such an idiot. Scared of a thunderstorm, and then Des rushing in like some kind of superhero and punching the guy …’

‘That’s rather sweet really, having your own personal bodyguard. Anyway, when am I going to meet your Des?’

I felt a blush rising from the base of my neck, but I didn’t really know why. ‘He’s not my Des; he’s just … Des, and I suppose you can meet him any time you like.’

‘OK, so he’s not your Des, but I’d still like to meet him. Bring him over tomorrow night.’

‘We can’t come tomorrow. It’s our writing group on Thursdays.’

‘OK, the pub a week on Saturday?’

‘Maybe. I’ll ask him. Anyway, I’ve given up on the flying for now.’

‘So what’s next?’ She was looking at the list. ‘Skating?’

‘I suppose so, but that’s even scarier than flying.’

‘It’s easy. I’ll teach you. We can start on Monday after work if you like.’

Oh dear, I’d be lucky to get out of this without a few broken bones.

* * * * *

Trudi was waiting for me in the car park at the Ice Cube, her skates slung around her shoulders. She looked me up and down as I got out of the car.

‘I’m glad you took my advice about the leggings.’

‘I hate the things. They make me look huge. I wish I’d worn jeans.’

‘Jeans get damp when you fall and then they’re too heavy to move about in.’

‘You’re not exactly inspiring me here.’

‘Everyone falls over sometimes, especially beginners.’

Standing up in skates was a nightmare. For the first time in my life I realised why it takes babies so long to learn to walk. I don’t think I’d ever considered it before. My ankles didn’t want to co-operate at all and kept trying to bend at angles they weren’t designed for, and that was before I got onto the ice.