A Summer to Remember Read online

  About the Author

  Victoria Cooke grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.

  Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!

  ‘An unputdownable read’

  Rachel Burton

  ‘A true love story’

  Amazon Reviewer

  ‘I couldn’t put it down’

  Jessica Bell

  ‘Delightful contemporary romance’

  Amazon Reviewer

  Also by Victoria Cooke:

  The Secret to Falling in Love

  The Holiday Cruise

  Who Needs Men Anyway?

  It Started with a Note

  A Summer to Remember

  VICTORIA COOKE

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2019

  Victoria Cooke 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 © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008310264

  Version: 2019-06-13

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!

  Also by Victoria Cooke

  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 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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For my nanna, Lillian.

  For your sense of humour, strength and determination.

  xxx

  Prologue

  2010

  The black and white chequered floor whizzes past. Like a psychedelic trip, it isn’t real. I know that I’m running. I can’t feel my limbs moving, just the vague sensation of the air resistance caused by the motion. I’m on autopilot, and the only thing tying me to the reality of where I am, is the pungent smell of disinfectant that’s been with me at every turn.

  I stop abruptly, almost colliding with a person dressed head-to-toe in baggy green scrubs. My heart pounds in my chest. I look down at my hand, the knuckles white, still clutching my phone from when I got the call. It can only have been twenty minutes ago. It’s hard to tell because it feels like a lifetime has passed. The surgeon seems to understand that I can’t speak; his features are barely displaced, neutral, but there’s something lurking in his earthy eyes. Sympathy? ‘Mrs Butterfield?’ he asks. I nod, my mouth like Velcro, my brain too disengaged to speak.

  ‘Mrs Butterfield, I’m sorry. We did everything we could.’

  Did?

  You can’t have.

  The blood pumping in my ears is deafening. Barbed wire is wrenched from the pit of my stomach, right up through my oesophagus. I’ve never felt pain like it. My legs give way, unable to bear the weight of the surgeon’s words and my knees crash to the floor.

  I’m vaguely aware of a low, drawn-out wail. It’s me. The surgeon crouches down and looks me directly in the eyes. The warmth of his chestnut-brown gaze anchors me, and I’m able to gather tendrils of composure. I take a breath.

  ‘Mrs Butterfield, is there anyone we can call for you?’

  I shake my head. I only have one person, and now he’s dead.

  Chapter 1

  2018

  ‘Eurgh.’ I slam the pearlescent invite down by the kettle. ‘Plus one,’ I say in a mocking tone. Coco cocks her head to the side like she’s trying to understand me, and I cup her fluffy face.

  ‘I know, I don’t get it either.’ My cat’s emerald eyes are still intent on me so, glad of an audience, I carry on.

  ‘Why Bridget has to assume I need someone by my side is beyond me. As if I’m not capable of going to a wedding without a plus one. It’s not nineteen blooming twenty. I don’t need a chaperone. Perhaps I’ll take you, Coco. That’ll teach her.’ I tickle her under her chin and she stretches out lazily. I’m only half joking.

  As I pour my first coffee of the day, my phone rings. ‘Someone’s ears are burning,’ I say on answering.

  ‘Really?’ Bridget also ignores the need for pleasantries.

  ‘I got your wedding invite,’ I say dryly.

  ‘Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic about the happiest day of your best friend’s life,’ she retorts.

  ‘Aren’t we a bit old for best friends?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  I rub my temples with my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sorry, Bridge. I just, well … I’d specifically told you I didn’t need a plus one.’

  ‘It’s just a formality, Sam. Don’t be so sensitive. I just wanted you to know the option is there if you did want to bring someone.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ I say, before feeling a little guilty. ‘It just seems so old-fashioned, like, the lil lady needs a gentleman to escort her.’ I put on my best ‘Southern Belle’ accent, and Bridget giggles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t meant to offend you.’

  ‘I did warn you,’ I scold. ‘Look, I’m not on the lookout for a man, nor am I resigned to being alone – I’m happy with it. People need to stop assuming I need someone. I got the bloody cat everyone thought I should get, okay!’<
br />
  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Everyone else will be coupled up, so I just thought if you wanted to bring a friend, then you could, that’s all.’

  ‘All of my friends will already be there.’ I’m aware of my exasperated tone so I soften it a little. ‘I was just telling Coco that she could be my plus one.’

  ‘You’d better bloody well not.’ Bridget’s stern tone amuses me. I sense that she wouldn’t put it past me.

  ‘Oh, now you’ve made her sad.’ Coco looks far from sad as she rubs her face on my balled-up fist. ‘I’ve seen some gorgeous cat dresses on eBay.’

  ‘Bring her and I’ll have you both escorted out,’ Bridget replies.

  ‘Then stop assuming I can’t be single and happy.’

  ‘Fine!’ she sighs. ‘But send me a picture of one of those cat dresses, it’s been a miserable week.’

  I’m happy it’s time to drop the subject. It may seem like an overreaction, but Bridget knows as well as my other friends do that my frustrations are the result of a good seven years’ worth of do-gooders trying to set me up with brothers, colleagues, friends of friends, and even a sister at one point. I’m happy on my own. It’s like the saying goes, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.’ All I need are my memories and my cat.

  ‘How’s work?’ she asks.

  I groan, wondering where to start. ‘I’m still working my backside off to make the US team. Seventh time lucky, hey?’ Every year five people from our offices are chosen to go to Boston for three months to work on a global marketing project with the American head office team. I’ve tried for seven years – yes, seven years – to make the cut. It’s become my obsession.

  ‘Oh Sam, this year has to be your year,’ she says sympathetically.

  ‘It’s like no matter how hard I try, someone else shines brighter. This year I’ve worked my backside off and if I’m not chosen, I might start looking somewhere else.’ It sounds like I’m being a drama queen, but I’ve given everything to Pink Apple Advertising and I’ve been pretty open about wanting to go to Boston. If they don’t choose me this year, I don’t think they ever will, and that Boston trip is the only real catalyst to a promotion.

  ‘Well, if they don’t pick you this time, they don’t deserve you.’ Bridget sounds distracted, like most people do when I talk about work.

  I stifle a sigh. My friends will never understand how much it means to me. ‘The invites are gorgeous, by the way,’ I say, stroking the silver ribbon running down the thick, shimmery cream card with embossed dusky pink lettering. She was right when she said it will be the best day of her life.

  2003

  My breath catches in my throat. There he is, chewing the corner of his thumbnail nervously. He looks so vulnerable standing there in his navy suit and tie. When his eyes set upon mine, I can feel their warmth envelop me. His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side and his watery eyes crinkle when he smiles. I glance down at my simple ivory dress, self-consciously smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. My mum had steamed the thing to death, fussing about invisible creases and generally adding to my overall nervousness.

  The music starts, a piano instrumental of Canon in D, and butterflies beat venomously in my stomach when the expectant faces turn towards me. My mum is there, at the front with her new olive-coloured organza hat on. She’s clutching a tissue to her face.

  ‘Are you ready, pumpkin?’ my dad whispers in my ear. Normally, I’d tell him not to call me that, but today I’m too nervous to care.

  I grip my dad’s arm tighter in mine, clutch my bouquet of white lilies with the other and take a deep breath before setting off. It’s a blur as we walk down the small aisle, past a handful of close friends and family, to where Kev is waiting. When I join him, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze and leans in close and breathes into my ear.

  ‘You … are … beautiful.’

  I feel his words.

  Suddenly the room is ours and ours alone.

  Chapter 2

  2018

  I smooth down the skirt of my Ted Baker dress as I walk into the church, smiling as I take in the beautiful flower displays. Bridget has chosen pageboys and flower girls instead of bridesmaids so that she didn’t have to choose between her closest friends or fork out for a bazillion extortionately priced dresses. To be honest, I was quite relieved when she told me. Being plucked, waxed and spray-tanned within an inch of my life didn’t really appeal, though I have shaved my legs for the occasion. I’ve worn this dress to three recent weddings because it fits my slender five-foot-five frame perfectly. It has a pencil skirt in shades of metallic pink and rose gold, with a plain white chiffon top. My make-up is minimal, and my dark hair hangs in loose waves which look like they dried that way after my morning surf but in actual fact took the hairdresser thirty minutes of wanding, teasing and praying to the hair gods for. I’ve never surfed in my life. I don’t go in the sea ever – too much uncertainty lurking under that strange foamy stuff which floats on the surface.

  Viv, Sarah and their husbands are easy to spot as I make my way down the aisle. I slide into the spot they’ve saved for me next to Viv.

  ‘It could be you next,’ Viv gushes as I place my bag on the floor. Seriously, I’ve just sat down. It’s as if she doesn’t know better, except for the fact that she bloody well does. I’m about to say something about hell freezing over first but second guess myself. Can you say the word ‘hell’ in church? The last time I paid any attention to religion was the Harvest festival in 1996, and that was only because the vicar looked a little bit like Mark Owen. Am I about to be struck down by lightning? Maybe I should cross myself.

  ‘So, you didn’t bring anyone then?’ Sarah leans across to ask. She kind of purses her lips in a sympathetic way. I don’t reply, but seriously, it’s okay to go to a wedding alone. It’s like these people don’t even know me, despite the fact we’ve been friends since Bridget introduced us over seven years ago.

  When I first met these women, I’d just moved to London. I couldn’t bear to stay in our village after losing Kev. I needed a clean slate. My old life had finished, and I needed something completely different. It was almost a year to the day I’d lost Kev when I bumped into Bridget in the foyer at work. And I mean literally bumped into her, knocking her espresso out of her hand so hard that it flew over her shoulder, luckily without spilling so much as a drop on her cream suit. She worked for a different company in the same building, and being new to London, I was hugely intimidated by her. She laughed off the faux pas and said I looked like I needed a stiff drink. We met up after work, I told her my story, and the rest is history.

  Viv and Sarah are Bridget’s close friends, but soon became mine too. At first, they took pity on me, listened to my endless stories about Kev and offered sympathy whilst I revelled in my new friendship group. But before long, they started to talk about me ‘putting myself back out there’. I’ve been defending my singlehood ever since.

  I give her a tight smile and nod. It’s the same old story. Sympathetic glances when people learn you’re single in your mid (okay, late) thirties, and the comments are always along the lines of ‘you’ll meet someone soon.’ In some ways, I feel sorry for them, thinking you need a man to make your life better. A man can’t make your life better. Only a soulmate can even come close to doing that, and I’d already found mine.

  The organ starts to play. The dull sound of pressurised air being forced through the pipes reminds me of death. Why they play this instrument at weddings is beyond me. Everyone turns to catch the first glimpse of the bride. Bridget looks stunning in a simple silk gown with capped lace sleeves and a diamanté-encrusted waistband. Her blonde hair is in a neat chignon with some loose curls framing her face. She smiles at us as she walks past, her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes radiating happiness. I remember that feeling too, and I cherish it.

  ***

  Thank god. I swipe a welcome Pimm’s on arrival at the hotel reception, and it goes down rather too easily. Churches are ting
ed with the memory of Kev’s funeral. Whilst the funeral itself is a blur, I’ve never felt comfortable in one since.

  ‘Slow down, Sam, it’s only noon,’ Sarah says, taking mouse-like sips from her own.

  ‘You do you, okay?’ I say, before realising I sound harsh. ‘Sorry. I love weddings and I love seeing my friends happy, but they do bring back memories.’

  Sarah strokes my arm. ‘We get it, hon, but if you get sloshed and make a prized tit out of yourself, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘That happened one time,’ I say with an eye-roll.

  ‘Yes, and I forgave you because everything was still raw and because I wasn’t letting anything spoil my big day. You need to be here for Bridget today.’ Her eyes bore into me, but their intensity is broken by the waiter offering more Pimm’s. I decline and look pointedly at Sarah, who wears a smug expression.

  Across the foyer of the hotel, Bridget and her new husband Alex are posing for photographs. The photographer is shepherding miniature humans into a line. It’s like a comedy sketch: just as he manages to get one end of the line straight, he loses a child from the other end. His face is starting to redden.

  ‘We should find our table,’ Viv says, moving us on.

  The tables are not numbered or named like usual. Instead, we have to find ours by working out the punchline of a joke. ‘Well, Mrs Killjoy, you’ll never find your table,’ I whisper to Sarah, who gives me a tight smile and shakes her head. The joke for our table reads: ‘What happens when Iron Man takes off his suit?’ Viv and Sarah exchange confused glances.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Seriously?’

  They both shake their heads. I look to John and Mark, their husbands, who are wearing equally blank expressions.

  ‘He’s Stark naked! Tony Stark?’ I say, chuckling in response to a few groans. I remember Bridget running that one past me and I thought it was hilarious.

  We find our table, and sure enough, the centre plaque reads ‘He’s Stark naked’. As we sit down we watch several bewildered guests wandering around in confusion.