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One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019
Previously published as Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea.
Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover Illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Jane Linfoot 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: 9780008356293
Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008356286
Version: 2020-02-10
Praise for Jane Linfoot
‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’
Heidi Swain, Sunday Times bestseller
‘A pure delight … fabulous, fun and unforgettable’
Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of Summer at the Comfort Food Café
‘Simply stunning’
A Spoonful of Happy Endings
‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’
Reviewed the Book
‘This author packs a punch’
My Little Book Blog
‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn … the writing is fast and feisty’
Contemporary Romance Reviews
‘With every book I read I fall more in love’
Booky Ramblings
‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story … A deliciously scrumptious treat’
Rebecca Pugh
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Jane Linfoot
Dedication
Epigraph
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
P.S.
Acknowledgements
Read an extract of A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall
About the Author
About the Publisher
For Val, with love
epic
ˈɛpɪk/
adjective
heroic or grand in scale or character
particularly impressive or remarkable
achievement
əˈtʃiːvm(ə)nt/
noun
a thing done successfully with effort, skill or courage
1
Day 1: October
Five miles east of Salisbury
Epic Achievement: The skydive.
‘C’mon, Edie, let’s do this.’
We’re bumping our way backwards along the fuselage floor and when I screw my head around there’s a gaping space where the door used to be. Then the backdraught hits and we’re sucked out of the plane.
What happens next is the most crazy thing that’s happened in my life so far. There’s no lurch of my stomach, no warning, but I’m hurtling downwards. The air rush is wrenching my cheeks off my face, and the blow is so hard I can’t breathe. I’m just screaming and falling. Falling and screaming. Somehow I remember to stick my arms and legs out. Then I’m freezing and screaming. And choking. And the flat patchwork of fields below are hurtling nearer and nearer. It’s going on forever. We have to stop soon, or we’ll definitely die.
Somehow we spin, and I catch sight of the camera guy a few metres below us who almost looks stationary. And bizarrely he’s waving at us. It’s that weird thing about waving. Without even thinking, I’m waving back. Then we’re twisting again, and I’m looking up across the sky at Bella. Her cheeks are distorted, her hair is plastered across her face and she’s waving madly too.
Then, just when it feels like it’s never going to stop, there’s a yank and the air rush stops. Everything slows down and my screams have stopped. Instead of falling we’re hanging, suspended on strings, and up above us a broad blue parachute is billowing across the sky. And I can hear Dan’s voice again.
‘That’s the ’chute out. Not long now. Would you like to do some twists and turns on the way down … or hold the parachute?’
He has to be joking me, make mine vanilla. ‘Straight down is fine … thanks all the same.’
It’s so relaxed, there’s even time to look around. Far below I can make out a tiny tractor ploughing a rectangle of field, cars zooming along a ribbon of road. There’s the cream rendered slab of the headquarters, and minutes to admire the logo in shades of blue, painted on the roof. There’s even time to see my shiny new Audi, its flinty metallic paint glinting, on its own at the far end of the car park where it won’t get bashed. A gleam of sunlight reflects off the driver’s window straight into my eyes – that has to be a good omen. Tash acing it as the supportive sister, perched on a straw bale at the edge of the gazebo in her pale blue mac, one arm around her children, Tiddlywink and Wilf, the other holding her phone up to the sky.
Then the ground is rushing towards us; it’s close enough to see individual blades of grass, a tree at a wonky angle.
And there’s Dan’s voice again, as his hand clamps my head onto his chest. ‘Okay, and we’re almost down, lift up your legs like we showed you.’
One massive bump later we’re lurching forwards as Dan lands for us. Then my feet hit the ground too and guys are running in for high fives as they hurry past to sort out the ropes and pick up the crumpled parachute. As I stagger I hear a whoop, and I whip round to catch Bella crashing back down to earth too. There’s a needle of pain under my ear as my neck cricks, but a second later it’s whooshed away as Dan unclips me.
‘Okay? So how was that?’ His smile is wide, and the video guy is hurrying over to catch my reaction.
‘C-c-c- cold.’ I’m back to juddering again, but I’m alive, and the whoosh of happiness bursting up in my chest is like a fountain. ‘And f-f-f-frigging a-a-a-amazing.’
And right now there’s a rush of thoughts stampeding through my head. How I’m so grateful to Dan I could throw my arms around him. That after this I can do anything. How cool it would have been if Colin Firth had been waiting on the ground. Or Marcus even. I strike that one out pretty damned fast. How awesome it is being alive. How I need to do it all over again.
Then Bella’s there and she sweeps me into a huge hug. And when we finally break apart Tash is standing on the grass, beaming, passing us a plastic flute each.
I take a gulp of fizz, then gasp. ‘I really can take this new job and make it my own. And in two weeks’ time I sign for my new flat, and there’s no need to worry. After this, every day’s going to be BRILLIANT!’
Because when you’ve survived a skydive, whatever comes next has to be easy, right?
2
Four months later …
You could say this all started the day of the skydive. Like a lot of people, I’m obsessed with beginnings. It’s as if we have this need to look back and identify the exact moment where things began, as if fixing an exact point in time could help any. But there again, if I hadn’t broken up with Marcus, I seriously doubt I’d have done that jump, so possibly it began earlier, with the split. But there again, if I hadn’t got my new job, things with Marcus would never have kicked off as they did. So maybe it began with that. But whatever went on before, right now I’m on a journey I didn’t choose to make and didn’t anticipate either. And the rest of my life will only begin again when I get back to where I started.
*
A hundred and twenty-nine days ago I had a stroke.
At the time no one else believed it either. The Tuesday after my skydive I was still giddy with adrenalin. But when I got into the Zinc Inc office in Bath where I work, my boss, Jake, had to carry my morning coffee and muffin fix to my desk because I had pins and needles in my right arm. By lunchtime I couldn’t feel my fingers enough to hold my apple turnover. When I told Jake I could see rainbow halos around his head he took me straight to A&E.
At first they thought I’d slept awkwardly, and sent me home. It took days for them to discover a clot had formed in a blood vessel in my neck, then moved to my brain where it was causing a blockage. The skydive I’d done a couple of days earlier wasn’t directly to blame. They can only think it happened when I wrenched my head around to wave to Bella. Or because I’d spent so long staring up at the sky before we set off. Or maybe when I fell over the champagne bucket.
I didn’t know then, but the brain has millions of tiny things whose name I can’t put my finger on now, all firing messages to different parts of your body. If the blood flow to an area of the brain stops, random bits of your body stop working too. And that’s what happened to me.
You’d think if science has come far enough to land rockets on Mars that doctors would know everything about how the human body works. But the brain is so complicated there is still a lot about it even doctors don’t understand.
There are some things I do know. I’m actually lucky because it could have been a lot worse. I’m walking and talking, and I couldn’t be any more thankful for that. The outlook for recovery is good – most young people who have strokes will return to the job they did before. And that’s the hope I’m hanging on to.
My stroke took things away from me. Right now I’m having trouble with words. I can’t read. My speaking lags way behind my thoughts, and a lot of words I knew before just aren’t there any more. My sensations are all messed up too. Some are heightened, but others have disappeared completely. And I did have a seizure at one point too, so – for now – I can’t drive.
The last four months I’ve grabbed every therapy and medication on offer; I’ve improved a lot, and now it’s over to me. My car’s in the garage at home. My boss, Jake, is paying me a tiny amount until I’m well enough to do my job again. So what I have to do is to find my way back to what I was, one day at a time. It might be slow, and I’ll need to be patient. But what I think is, if I can jump out of a plane I can pretty much do anything. So long as I put my mind to it, I’ll get there with this too. All I want is to go back to being the person I was before. And so now I’m going to Cornwall for a while – I can always remember the Cornwall bit – because it’s my best hope of getting my life back on track. Watch this space …
3
Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March
St Aidan, Cornwall
Epic Achievement: Finding Cornwall.
‘Periwinkle Cottage, first on the left down Saltings Lane – this is the one!’
I’m looking at a rambling stone cottage next to the lane, its shiny slate roof and chimneys etched against the sky, one windy field back from the cliff edge, but the latticed front porch we’ve pulled up at is just like it looked in the pictures Mum showed me. I’ve been repeating the address under my breath since we left Bath this morning and my woozy head feels like I’ve crossed continents not counties. It’s the furthest I’ve travelled in a while, but it was important to hold out and stay independent on this one. Thanks to Dad’s mate Hal, an Uber driver, I’ve dodged the embarrassment of being a thirty-something getting dropped off by my parents. For the first time in ages I almost feel like a fully fledged adult again.
As we drove into St Aidan along the seafront there was time to take in the long stretch of the bay and the strings of lights being blown around between the blue painted lamp posts. As the sea spray lashed across the taxi windscreen and I peeped out at the clusters of random cottages with their pink and white render clinging onto the hillside, the tiny butterfly flutters I’d had in my stomach all the way here turned to flapping. We passed the neat harbourside houses, the lines of boats bobbing along the quayside, the cockle sellers’ sheds shut up against the winter winds, then wound up the narrow cobbled roads, where emporiums full of surfboards and neon-coloured T-shirts rubbed shoulders with patisseries and cafés and even a gorgeous upmarket wedding shop. We passed houses with small paned windows and bright front doors, and with every corner the car swung around there was a new glimpse of sea between the rooftops. And then we came out onto the top of the hill to find fields edged with rough stone walls, and as we turned into the lane the narrow tarmac road became a rough track, and the first cottage on the left was the one. And now I’m actually here there’s an entire flock of seagull wings battering my chest.
As I jump out and wrestle the taxi door closed I can’t help notice that the bright Cornish sun my mum promised is missing. When I turn to gasp at the hugeness of the sea over the cliff edge beyond the next field, instead of being blue and sparkly the water is blacker than the wide, stormy sky. But for now I don’t give a damn that it’s nothing like the azure postcard views in my head – what matters is I’m here, I’ve done it! And, better still, for the first time since the day I jumped out of that plane, I’m feeling a wonderful lift of achievement. That has to be a good sign.
‘My bags will be fine here. Thanks for everything, Hal.’
I know he’s rushing off to his next job, so I clamber over the pile of abandoned paint pots and stepladders heaped in the porch, give the ship’s bell by the door a loud jangle, then step back to wait.
Ideally I’d like to get off the lane as soon as possible so no one sees how much crap I’ve brought with me, but also because I try to keep my mum’s bags on wheels under wraps at all times. When Marcus and I split he kept all the designer cases, probably because they were all his. Wacky neon luggage might be great at baggage collection for someone my parents’ age, but as far as style goes I’m dying here. Not that I’m one of those ‘must have every label’ people, but a woman has to have some standards.
Hal’s already back in the car and I’m still here next to my bag pile, so I give another tug on the bell rope and wave him off. By the time he’s pulling out onto the main road again I’m remembering Mum mentioning my aunt and her afternoon naps, and how I had to go straight on in if no one answered. So I turn the door knob, giving it a shove, then, when it doesn’t move, I try the bell again but this time I ring it much harder and longer and even louder. Hal said we made good time and my aunt might well have nipped out to get something tasty for tea. Knowing how chatting runs in the family, I could be here all day.
But I’m on a roll here. This is the new, brave, Cornish version of me – I’m not going to let anything as small as a locked door stand in my way. When my mum talked about the fabulous healing sea air in St Aidan she somehow missed out that it would blow my face off. I clamp my hands on my scalp to save the last of my messy up-do, step out into the wind and take in the long stone cottage. I run my gaze along the higgledy row of salt-spattered windows to check for a light shining into the late afternoon gloom, but there’s no flowers or plants on the windowsills and most of the blinds are down. My gaze stops at a narrow sash window where the central bars don’t quite line up. It’s a sure sign that the latch isn’t on, and as my fingers close on one of the stepladders on the porch the choice is clear. I can wait down here until I get blown out to sea – which will probably happen in the next few seconds, given the gale – or I can nip in through the window and have the kettle boiling in time for when the cakes arrive. The message was to let myself in, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. The only difference will be that I’ll be arriving through an upstairs window instead of the downstairs door. So long as I whip off my shoes the moment I’m through, my aunt won’t have anything to grumble about.
The window is at a half level so it’s not even that high, and the ladders are light and extendable. A few seconds later I’ve shimmied up to find it’s as I thought – the catch is off, and as I push on the bottom sash it trundles upwards. As I launch myself off the ladder and into the gap it leaves, what I’m thinking most is that I’ll have to tell my aunt to be more careful to lock her windows in future. But then something more important takes over.
You know those times when you pick up a pair of jeans in a shop and they look big enough, massive even. Then you get in the fitting room and try to pull them up, but somehow there’s a complete mismatch between the size they appear and the size they actually are and, no matter how much you wrench, they’ll only come up to your knees. That’s what happens with me and the window. As I dive for the hole it looks plenty big enough, but I plunge as far as my waist before sticking fast. There’s plenty of room above, so it’s my width that’s wedged. And right at the moment my ribcage sticks, something else not so good happens too – I look down the wall inside and realise the window’s way above the floor in a double height hall, so even if I did flip in like a seal as planned I’d be hurling myself into thin air rather than onto some wonderfully sturdy floorboards.
And just when I’m kicking my legs against the wall in a wild attempt to get free, thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse, there’s a shout from outside.
‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’
It’s a guy and, unless my aunt arrived out of nowhere, he has to be talking to me. I freeze as I try to think of some words to explain but I’ve only got as far as a whimper when he starts again.
‘BREAKING AND ENTERING. SCARING THE ELDERLY. YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!’
My aunt would be mortified to be called elderly, and she’s being so kind having me to stay, so I’m already bristling on her behalf. I manage to screw my head around and catch sight of some shoulders down below, bursting out of a beaten-up denim jacket, and yell down a reply. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’
‘Ever heard of Neighbourhood Watch? Well, I’m from next door.’
I feel my chest implode, although it can’t have deflated too much as I’m still stuck. ‘Okay, Mr Nosey-Neighbour, thanks for the concern. I rang the bell but no one came, the front door was locked, so I’m letting myself in.’
The deep notes of his voice turn high with disbelief. ‘Digging yourself in deeper with every word. EVERYONE knows the front door’s round the back – this part of the house is shut up.’
And damn that I didn’t work that out for myself. ‘But I’m visiting my aunt.’ I meant it to be less of a wail.
‘Good luck to her with that if this is how you carry on.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he goes in for the kill. ‘So which aunt would that be?’
‘I … I … I …’ I remembered the name of the cottage all the way. ‘I’ll know … as soon as she reminds me.’
‘Nice try.’ There’s a loud snort. ‘We’ll see about that once you’re on the ground – let’s have you down that ladder NOW, please.’
‘There’s nothing I’d love more …’ if only I wasn’t squeaking ‘… but I’m stuck.’
‘Now I’ve heard it all.’
There’s a scrape of the ladder on the wall, the creak of metal, then a sharp yank on my belt. Next thing, the gale is lashing my ears and my ribs are free, but now I’m being crushed between the ladder and what my bestie Bella would call a ‘hard, hot human’.
Strictly speaking, when a woman says a guy is ‘hot’ it’s shorthand for him having eleven key qualities; stuff like empathy and generosity count just as much as looks and muscle definition when it comes to heat. When I grab a quick glance behind me, all I’m taking in is some tousled brown hair, eyes that match and a seriously sexy voice, even if it is coming out with all the wrong words. Enough to say, from what’s accidentally pressing against my back, we can mark him down as fit and ripped enough for Bella. Between us, her ‘hot’ only has about three tick boxes – she’s never that fussed about integrity or a sense of humour.
As for me, I’m avoiding every kind of guy until I get back in touch with my fast comebacks and my ‘old’ self is as I used to be. In any case this one’s just seen my two worst assets – my bum and my luggage – so I’d be a lost cause even if he wasn’t out of my league.
So, for my next trick, all I have to do is to work out how to disentangle myself here and reach the ground without falling off the ladder and making even more of an arse of myself than I have already. Further down the track I can see a boy kicking the grass on the verge, hands rammed in the pockets of a blue puffer coat. A small dog skittering at his feet. And suddenly there’s another figure too, rushing forward, hand shading her eyes, peering up at me as she shrills, ‘Edie? Is that you?’
‘Aunty …?’ She doesn’t even look like she’s dressed and, worse still, there’s no sign of any bags of cake at all.
‘I’m Aunty Josephine – you remember me, don’t you?’ If you leave a gap where a word should be, someone will usually fill it in for you. As for remembering her, it’s only a couple of weeks since she visited us in Bath, so who knows what she’s implying with that. ‘What on earth are you doing up there, Edie? And why have you come with a window cleaner?’
‘He’s not a …’ The details are too confusing; I need to skip to the important bit. ‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought I’d come in through the window.’