He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner! Read online

  He Will Be Mine

  Kirsty Greenwood

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kirsty Greenwood

  For Lynette. My hugely intelligent, cool, witty and kind-hearted big sister who I look up to so much.

  Chapter One

  Nora

  There comes a point in the day of every freelancer when they have to consider a single very important question.

  Should I bother getting dressed today?

  A conclusion can usually be established by considering a small number of follow-up enquiries, i.e.:

  Do I need to leave the house at all?

  Am I expecting a delivery person to show up at the door?

  Are my pyjamas as soft as clouds?

  Do said pyjamas have a bunch of extra room in the waistband to accommodate that massive cheese toastie I plan on having for lunch?

  Am I at ease with eschewing typical conventions of how a twenty-seven-year-old adult should behave and willing to just sometimes be a lazy-ass bitch without shame or guilt?

  I find myself asking these questions a lot lately and my answers usually lead me to the sofa in a drawstring waist. Being a virtual admin assistant might be one of the dullest jobs known to humankind, but it’s super laid-back, and working flexible hours from home means that some days (or lots of days lately) I get to have a long bubbly bath mid-morning, or a 2 p.m. mega-nap, or read delicious romance novels in between emails, or re-watch one of my favourite movies, Sleepless in Seattle, starring my favourite actress Meg Ryan, whenever I damn well please. It’s a pretty peachy life for your common or garden variety introvert.

  I plonk myself onto the living room sofa, peer at the old, slightly tatty Sleepless in Seattle DVD case and I sigh.

  ‘Not today, Meg Ryan,’ I say to her perfectly adorable face.

  Unfortunately I do have to get dressed this morning. I have to leave my cosy little flat and go outdoors and I have to do it for the most terrible of reasons: my adored mum and dad died two years ago today and my sister Imogene insists we meet for a walk around their beloved local park to visit the memorial bench we got in their honour. There, we will most likely sit and cry for a while and then Imogene will proceed to nag me about my “worrying lack of a life” or maybe try to set me up with some basic bro she knows because I am in my “prime fertile years and not exactly in a position to be fussy over guys”.

  Yikes.

  I head into the bedroom, gaze at my pale blue soft-as-clouds pyjamas folded on the bed and tenderly pat them. Then I peer over to the stack of romantic comedy films and the Harcourt Royals novels I’d much rather be burying myself into today and tomorrow and the rest of the foreseeable, frankly.

  I pull my thick waves of dark hair back into my favourite purple velvet scrunchy, put on a big T-shirt and some jeans and try not to worry about the fact that the shadowy bags under my eyes could carry a week’s worth of groceries.

  ‘I already miss you, indoors,’ I whisper theatrically, before reluctantly pulling on my raggedy but super comfy trainers and leaving my beloved cocoon.

  ‘You look really pale, Nora. Are you eating?’ is the first thing Imogene says when we meet by the river in Brigglesford Village park. She’s dressed in a perfectly clean, dazzlingly white sleeveless blouse and stylish tight black jeans. My one-year-old niece Ariana is in the pram beside her, dressed in an equally clean and dazzling white sundress. I lean into the pram and smother her in kisses.

  ‘Hello, my juicy pudding,’ I say, laughing as she blows me a giggly, spit-filled raspberry. I take off my sunglasses and smile at Imogene. ‘Hello to you too, dear sister.’

  We give each other a brief, slightly awkward arm pat before setting off down the river path side by side.

  As we stroll, Imogene looks me up and down, her eyes lingering a little at my belly and thighs, currently a comfortable size 16. ‘Well, obviously you’re eating,’ she says. ‘But are you eating properly? Not just cheese toasties all the time? Are you getting any sun? You do look pallid. It’s July! It’s a heatwave. You should be tanned. Look at my tan!’ She indicates her gym-honed golden arms proudly. They look suspiciously patchy at the elbow.

  ‘That’s fake tan, Imogene,’ I point out.

  She shakes her head firmly. ‘Not all of it. Some of it is natural tan. From actual vitamin D. Most people in this country are deficient in vitamin D, you know? It can cause mood changes if you don’t get enough…’

  ‘I can take a supplement.’

  ‘And what’s up with your voice? You sound all croaky and raspy. Like Michael Bolton, but not sexy.’

  I clear my throat. She’s right. I do sound croaky. But then it occurs to me that I haven’t actually spoken to another human in four days. My voice box is a little out of practice, that’s all. ‘Just a, uh, dry throat,’ I lie with a shrug. I don’t know why I lie. Being holed up in the house on my own a lot isn’t something I should feel embarrassed about. If I don’t mind, then no one else should, right? I like it there and I’m not doing anyone any harm.

  ‘You look like you haven’t slept, either.’

  Imogene’s right about that one. I haven’t been sleeping properly for, ooh, around two years now. Hence those lovely 2 p.m. mega-naps I’ve grown so fond of.

  ‘A little bit of make-up might make you feel better. A bit more put together, you know?’

  I touch my face self-consciously. I actually can’t remember the last time I wore make-up. I used to wear it all the time – being on the plainer side of pretty meant I was well versed in the art of a bold lip and a couple of lashings of mascara, but I’ve definitely gotten out of the habit recently. It doesn’t matter though. It’s not like I’m seeing anyone or going out much these days.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell Imogene firmly. ‘Stop fretting, you turd. I love you and I know you’re trying to look out for me, but I’m all good, honest!’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She examines me, her eyes flickering with pity, which I’ve got to say makes me bristle a bit. Just because I might not have my shit all together and wrapped in a millennial pink satin bow like
her doesn’t mean I’m someone to feel sorry for.

  Rounding the corner, we step into a clearing and approach the black cast-iron bench we had put up after Mum and Dad died. It’s clean and shiny from yesterday’s summer showers. The flower garden surrounding it is in full, colourful bloom: pinks, yellows and oranges scattered here and there like thick oil-paint splotches. It’s a beautiful spot.

  My stomach folds as we approach the bench. Hearing Imogene start sniffling beside me, I reach out and grab her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Together we look at the golden plaque’s engraving.

  Emily and Daniel Tucker. True soulmates to each other, beloved parents to Imogene and Nora.

  We park our bottoms, Imogene rolling the pram back and forth in front of her, and for a few moments there’s nothing but the sound of the occasional passer-by, the chirrupy birds overhead and the crunch of the gravel beneath the wheels of Ariana’s pram.

  I think about Mum and Dad. At the funeral service, everyone kept saying how they were the perfect couple. They were the perfect couple. Theirs was a true love story. The night they met, back in the late 80s, they saw each other across a crowded garden at a New Year’s Eve party. As the clock struck midnight, and the fireworks sparkled and fizzed above them, they laid eyes on one another and knew instantly that they were meant to be. A big thunderbolt, was how Mum described it: right through the belly. Dad told me that when he saw her smiling, mischievous face, he felt giddy, like he’d been missing her his entire life and now here she finally was. He said he knew that everything from there on out was going to be great, even the bad parts because he and Mum would be together for them and that was all that mattered. The whole thing sounded so magical to me. Like something out of one of the Harcourt Royals romance novels I’m addicted to. They were so genuinely happy together, right until the very end.

  I glimpse sideways at Imogene, who is still crying gently, trying to keep it subtle for the sake of Ariana and, I suppose, me. She only allows herself to get sad on this one day each year. The rest of the time she is all go, never stopping, organising everyone around her, making sure that everything is perfect.

  On the surface, it would be so easy to think that Mum and Dad dying didn’t affect her as much as it affected me. But I can see that right now her heart is quietly breaking all over again, just like mine is.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say in a small voice.

  Imogene looks up at me, her eyes red, her mascara slightly smudged at the inner corners. She reaches a hand out and rubs my arm. ‘For God’s sake, Nora. It wasn’t your bloody fault.’

  She’s lying to make me feel better. Because, the truth is, it was absolutely my fault.

  I’m the reason my parents are gone.

  Chapter Two

  Nora

  I was a precocious eleven-year-old when I decided I was going to sing and write songs when I grew up. I’d seen Joni Mitchell performing on the telly and was immediately obsessed. For Christmas that year I was given a little red guitar and started writing songs every chance I got. For a good while, the songs were mostly shit; ditties about the next-door neighbour’s aloof cat, or sickly ballads about Jamie Braithwaite at school and how he was totally the best at drawing in the whole year and maybe also would marry me one day. I thankfully improved with time and writing songs became my very favourite thing to do in the world – that magic feeling of pairing words and phrases together with the exact right melody to create something that didn’t exist before.

  The night of my parent’s accident, I was in a showcase gig at a cabaret club in London. I’d been invited there by an indie label A&R rep who’d seen me play at a dive bar in Sheffield city centre. There would be a bunch of record label people in the club and I’d get to show them what I could do, maybe even get signed! After years of trying so hard, of borrowing money from my parents just to survive, working odd jobs and hustling my way through the pub and club scene, I finally had a real shot.

  Mum and Dad were encouraging of singing as a hobby, of me doing something that I loved, but as a career option? The lack of security that came with it worried them. When I got the showcase, I insisted they come to watch. Why? Because I wanted to show off. To prove to them that I was going to make a career out of this, show them that people were actually willing to pay money for my skills. Important people who knew what they were talking about.

  My parents were the best, so, of course, they said yes, even though it was a four hour drive away and Dad had been feeling under the weather recently. I’d warned them not to be late, to please please please not show me up on the biggest night of my life. And that’s why they were rushing on the motorway…

  The hideous memories are interrupted by Imogene shoving her phone at my face as we tread around the park.

  ‘You know, Nora, Roger Pepper would be a great choice for you,’ she says in a determined voice. ‘He’s a catch. And he’s got lovely teeth. Here’s a picture.’

  Imogene is about to hand me the phone when we pass by a tall woman walking a golden-coloured dog. The dog jumps up at my knees excitedly, almost pushing me over into a boggy puddle.

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaim, never quite knowing what to do or say when confronted with overeager dogs, or any dogs come to think of it. The pooch’s owner gives me a benevolent smile as if I should be thrilled about the fact that her pooch clearly has some sort of beef with me and is currently trying to wrestle me to the ground. ‘Um, ha ha. Good dog? Get off me, good dog,’ I say gawkily, shaking the dog off my leg and stepping slightly behind Imogene.

  ‘Oh my goodness, so cuuuute!’ Imogene gushes to the woman, ruffling the dog’s ears and making up for my lack of appropriate response. ‘His little faaaaaace!’

  ‘Aww, thanks,’ the woman says with the same pride as if she had given birth to the dog herself. ‘Your toddler is gorgeous.’

  Imogene and the woman get into a little small talk – my least favourite thing in the world. Imogene tries to bring me into the conversation, but each time I go to say anything, I stutter and mumble and blush stupidly, which has been happening a lot lately. So instead I just let them chat, lean down to the pram and play peekaboo with Ariana, chuckling as she jumps and giggles delightedly whenever I say ‘Boo!’ and reveal my face from behind my hands. So much more fun than small talk!

  Once the woman and her dog have left, Imogene finally passes me her phone, picking up from where we left off. On the screen is a photo of Roger Pepper, her colleague at the office where she works as a senior marketing manager for an up-and-coming fashion brand. Roger Pepper’s face is abnormally long, made longer by the hipstery beard he’s grown. His teeth are too perfect; all exactly the same size and so white they glow. He is holding one of those tiny espresso cups between his thumb and forefinger. Bleugh!

  I shake my head, give her back her phone and continue walking. ‘I met Roger Pepper last year at your Christmas do, remember?’ I tell Imogene. ‘He had a bit of vol-au-vent on the corner of his top lip. It looked like herpes.’

  ‘He’s got good banter!’ Imogene retorts. ‘And he owns his own house. It’s posh too. It has a bidet and everything. Imagine that!’

  ‘Imagine Roger Pepper on his bidet? I will not.’

  ‘Nora! Ew. Stop being facetious. Roger Pepper is lovely, you could do a lot worse.’

  ‘He might own his own house with a bidet, but he has zero banter. Even less than me and that’s saying something! Seriously, he talked my ear off about Fitbit step counts, Imogene. Fitbit step counts. He went right into detail too, showed me all these little charts on his phone and all sorts. I told him I thought I was going to barf just so I could run to the loo and get away from him.’

  ‘You did not! Good god, Nora.’

  ‘What? I have trouble chatting to strangers at the best of times. I felt so awkward and so bored that my head almost popped off.’

  ‘He was probably just nervous. You’re so unreasonably fussy.’

  I snort. ‘It’s not unreasonable to be fussy about love. Love is the bigge
st thing that happens to a person. I’m just waiting for my soulmate is all and I’m pretty sure Roger Pepper is not him.’

  Imogene stops abruptly mid stride, lets out a massive huff and throws her hands up in the air. ‘Aaaaaargh. Not this again!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This soulmate bullshit. It’s such an excuse!’

  ‘Woah!’ I fold my arms and step aside so a jogging man can get past us on the narrow path. ‘An excuse for what?’

  ‘For you to turn down any decent man who comes your way unless you feel some magical mystical spark.’ Imogene does weird jazz hands as she says magical mystical spark. ‘Magical mystical sparks don’t happen in real life, sis.’

  ‘They did for Mum and Dad,’ I say quietly. ‘And Mum told me it would happen for me one day too…’

  I think back to a random night three years ago. I was going on a date with Timmo, my boyfriend at the time, a barman/amateur guitarist at a club where I had the odd gig as a singer. ‘Never settle for less than your soulmate,’ Mum had said to me earnestly as she swiped some Barry M bronze glitter dust onto my eyelids, most of it falling straight onto my cheeks instead. ‘Everyone is so sensible and realistic these days. No one goes after The Magic anymore! And it’s right there for the taking, Nora. It’s right bloody there.’