CORGI BOOKS
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Prologue
A LEX May 2010 ‘They say you should never go back but everyone does. Everything comes back for a second go. Look at flares. And Wispa Gold. And Take bloody That.’ I lie flat, my back pressed against the grass, not caring if any midges bite me as the embers of the day’s sun warm my face and arms. By my side is Holly, who is sitting cross-legged, sowing a daisy chain with her hands. ‘What are you on about, Al?’ ‘Me and you. It’s like we’ve come back for a second go. Reformed.’ Holly remains focused on her project, but I can see in my peripheral vision that she is suppressing a smile. ‘Flares might have come back into fashion in Mothston, Alex, but nowhere else.’ ‘I’m being serious,’ I persist. The origins of my theory are in the can of cider resting on the grass beside my right knee, but it still feels profound somehow. ‘You’re saying me and you are like Take That?’ 7
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‘Yes, like Take That, but without all the money and screaming fans.’ Finally Holly looks at me, smiling. ‘You’d be Gary Barlow. All straight-laced and sensible. And better looking with age.’ ‘You’d be Robbie.’ ‘The one that used to be fat?’ ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘The rebellious one that ran off the first time round.’ Holly resumes her chain, but with a more thoughtful expression than before, as though her heart isn’t really in it any more. ‘It’s true, though,’ I add. ‘This is like our reunion tour.’ ‘Al?’ ‘Yep?’ ‘Pass me another cider, would you?’ I shake my head and reach into the plastic bag with the cider in it, throwing a can into her waiting hands. I smile to myself, happy to be here, Holly and Alex, and I try to ignore the fact that the sun is starting to disappear. I’ve waited for this moment so long, and I do not want today to end.
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Chapter One
HOLLY September 1999 When I wake up the next morning, I feel different. Admittedly not the kind of different I was prepared for. Not the happy/spring-in-my-step/seeing-the-worldthrough-new-eyes type different. But I know what I need to do. Thinking about anything from last night makes the painful knot in my tummy tighten – even the earlier bits when I was having fun. Downing pints of Turbo Shandies (50 per cent lager, 50 per cent Smirnoff Ice, 100 per cent NEVER AGAIN) and grinding to DJ Luck & MC Neat around the garden with Ellie. It was pretty warm by September’s standards – it was gone midnight by the time the party moved into her house. My call to Alex came a good few hours after that. I can’t believe I decided a drunken call in the middle of the night was the perfect time to tell him how I feel. That I want to be more than friends. That I’ve wanted it for ages. Thank God he never answered. Not because I’ve changed my mind about wanting him to know. I just 9
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think it’s sort of important that I’m not out of my tree when I say it. I pull off my T-shirt and avoid looking in the mirror as I grab my bathrobe and sprint to the bathroom. I had a burning-hot shower when I got home last night and I have another now, enjoying the sting and the reddish tone my skin is turning, then force myself out, dressing in boot-cut jeans and a navy vest top – Alex always says navy is my colour – before bounding downstairs into the living room. ‘Mum, can you give me a lift to Alex’s?’ ‘Sure, Hols. Diagnosis Murder is nearly finished.’ Her eyes flick from the telly to me and back again. ‘I have a theory. You see that man? Everyone thinks he’s killed his wife but I think she’s faked her own—’ I can’t take this right now. Whether a random fictional character killed his wife is the very least of my problems. Thank God she was in bed when I got home last night. I can pull it together today, but I’d have to be the best actress in the world to have pulled the wool over her eyes last night. ‘It’s all right – I’ll walk.’ Least it will give me a chance to work out what I’m going to say. Shall I just come out with it? Or should I start with an explanation? Tell him about the worst night of my life – how even thinking about what happened makes my eyes screw up, my skin crawl and my brain hurt – and that the only person I wanted to see at the end of it was him. That he’s my best friend and that while I’ve always known how much I cared about him, these past couple of years I’ve more than cared about him. I’ve never admitted this to myself until now. I am 10
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completely in love with Alex Tyler. LOVE. My best mate, who always puts everyone before himself – his dad, his mates, me – even though he’s had a tougher time than anyone over the last couple of years. I love that I can talk to him about anything, and that he tells me what he really thinks instead of what he thinks I want to hear. I love that he still always offers to carry my bag, no matter how many times I tell him I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself. I love that he wears woolly jumpers – and not even ironically. Could I grow to love his geeky hair? Sure. I can always send him to a proper hairdresser if not. I love how when I make us a sandwich he follows me around cleaning up the mess with a Dettol wipe. I love how he knows so much about stars and music and books – stuff that other boys don’t put any thought into. I love how he alphabetizes his CDs. I love how he alphabetized my CDs – although I laughed at the time. Did I even say thank you? I’ll mention it today after I’ve told him I literally love him to bits. (I even love that he tells me off for my misuse of the word ‘literally’.) What will he say when I tell him? Say it back? Knowing him, he’ll want to talk about it first. Over-analyse it Alex-style to make sure it’s definitely what I want. Or maybe he’ll look horrified, and awkwardly tell me that he could only ever see me as a mate – a sister, even – and that he’s flattered, thanks, but NO, it’s never gonna happen. I remember the first day of sixth form, not long after his mum had died. We were talking on the way to school and somehow got on to the subject of his mum and dad and, because he looked so sad, I went to hug him, but the look on his face . . . You’d think a rabid dog had leant in for a cuddle. 11
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The memory still stings, but not enough to make me turn around, go back upstairs and climb into bed. I need to know either way, and it might be the last chance I get. OK, the timing is not the best, with me about to start uni in London and him staying up in Yorkshire. Not that I’d have based my choice of uni around him – I’m not THAT girl. It is a bit frustrating to think we’ve been living a few streets away from one another for the past seven years. Why didn’t I pluck up the courage to tell him? I should have listened to my mum all those times she joked about us getting married. Everyone else did too but I always told them to shut up – that we were just mates. I guess for ages it was because I thought that was true. And then later because I was terrified that if I didn’t protest enough, everyone would know how I really feel, and make fun of me. I don’t care what anyone thinks now. And if Alex wants to, we can make the long-distance thing work. I’ll be back in all the holidays, and we can chat on the phone – we chat for ages on the phone now anyway. And we can send loads of love letters – it’ll be well romantic. And when I go off travelling Alex can come with me. I read something about Brits teaching English abroad – he wants to be a teacher anyway. It’s bloody freezing – I guess that’s summer officially over, then – so I walk quickly and distract myself with daydreams of weekend reunions. I’m stepping off the train and running straight into his arms, and he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. And even though in my fantasy it’s an old-fashioned steam train I’m getting off, it won’t be any less romantic when I step off the Midland Mainline and drag my wheelie case 12
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towards him before the jumping-into-his-arms bit. ‘Oh hello, Holly.’ Alex’s dad moves aside to let me in. ‘No coat? It’s getting chilly out there. Want a cuppa?’ Usually I’m all for a natter with Alex’s dad – I think he’s pretty lonely these days – but I tell him no and try not to notice his disappointment. ‘Son! Holly’s here,’ he shouts up the stairs. ‘Go on up, love.’ Alex clearly didn’t hear – he’s in the shower singing something about being a creep and a weirdo to a tune I vaguely recognize from his car, so I sit on his bed and wait. Alex’s room is as familiar as my own. The big Che Guevara poster over his bed. His college books in precise piles on his desk. Crease-free pyjamas where they always are – folded neatly on his pillow. I can’t believe there was a time I used to think it was stuffy. A bit boring, if I’m honest. But after his mum died, I used to come around and try to cheer him up and we’d talk late into the night, until I’d fall asleep, fully clothed on top of the covers, and I started to see his room differently. It’s warm. And safe. A cocoon from the outside world. Like bad things can’t get you in here. ‘Uh, hi,’ Alex says. He’s at the door with a towel around his waist, and I feel myself blush. Droplets of water are glistening on his recently filled-out chest and dripping down to his slim waist, and when I try to say hello my throat is dry and my voice croaky. Get a grip, Holly. You’ve seen Alex without a top on before. With wet hair and eyelashes, and smelling all soapy. I’ve never wanted to hug someone so much in my life. 13
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‘What can I do for you, babe?’ BABE?! I ignore his random greeting and reach out to take his hand. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ ‘About last night, right? How was it?’ Is it my imagination or is there something a bit sarcastic to his tone? I try to catch his eye but he drops my hand and looks around his room like he’s trying to find something, which is weird because his room is spotless and everything is always in its place. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans to cover up my embarrassment. ‘Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I tried to call you last night. I—’ ‘Oh yeah – sorry, I didn’t answer the phone.’ He grins as he rolls deodorant under his arms. ‘I had a date and let’s just say I was otherwise engaged. If you know what I mean.’ In case there’s any doubt about what he means, he gives me an elaborate wink. What the hell is going on? This is totally un-Alex-like behaviour. The Alex I know is kind, thoughtful, sweet . . . and, more to the point, who the hell was he on a DATE with? ‘Who were you on a date with?’ ‘No one you know. Her name’s Jane. She’s well fit. Big boobs. Good kisser.’ Right, something weird is going down. That’s the kind of shit Kev comes out with. And when he does, Alex covers his face with his hands and shakes his head. There have been loads of times I’ve tried to picture what it would be like telling Alex how I feel, but I never 14
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pictured myself being this nervous. I can ask a guy out. I don’t need to do that lame, pathetic, girly thing of waiting to be asked. And he can’t have strong feelings for this Jane girl – they must have only just met. It can’t be anything compared to what we’ve got. Can it? ‘So, are you planning on seeing her again?’ Say no, say no, say no. ‘Yep, hoping to see her tonight, as it happens. Hence the shower.’ He winks again and my heart stops, through jealousy or embarrassment I don’t know. Is this all a COLOSSAL error? All this time thinking that I love Alex when I’m actually in love with some fictitious version of Alex I keep in my head, and I don’t actually know him at all? Like a few years ago when, after years of fancying Mr Abel, the French teacher, and an entire summer holiday daydreaming that I was a twenty-five-year-old meeting him in a coffee shop in Paris where we fall in love over a croissant, and kiss under the Eiffel Tower, I walked into his first lesson in September both excited and nervous to see him. As soon as he walked in, with his freshly grown moustache and his conjugating French verbs chat, I thought: Quelle the hell was I thinking? Maybe this pain isn’t my heart breaking. Maybe it’s just painful disappointment that Alex is like other boys after all – acting as though they really like you just to get what they want, motivated by their willies. But I wouldn’t care this much if my feelings weren’t real. And I can’t have got him all wrong this entire time, surely? I attempt eye contact again. ‘What are you staring at?’ he says, laughing, and I feel my cheeks burn. I don’t even have time to style it out 15
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before he continues . . . ‘What is it you were going to tell me, babe?’ OK, where did this ‘babe’ crap come from? I’ve never heard him call anyone babe in his life – he sounds weird saying it. Am I that generic? It’s me! Holly! I want to remind him. But I can’t. I can’t say any of the things I really want to say, because this isn’t how this was supposed to go. Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and give him a resigned smile. ‘I just came to say goodbye. I’ll be tied up with packing over the next few days, and then Dad’s going to drive me down to London. Then who knows when we’ll see each other next?’ I study his face, waiting for a reaction, but it’s expressionless. Still, when he opens his mouth to say something I allow myself a moment’s hope that it’s to ask me what I’m talking about – that of course he’ll see me in the next couple of days, even if it means he has to come and help me pack. And obviously we’ll visit each other loads. And then he’ll pull me towards him for a hug and . . . ‘Who knows?’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe Mothston Grammar will have a ten-year reunion. You’ll be back from your travels by then, married to some Australian hunk and with a load of kids.’ ‘Yeah, maybe.’ I laugh softly. ‘Although you’ll be headmaster someplace else and too busy with your own school to come back to ours.’ ‘Maybe.’ I take his hand in mine and we stare at each other for about seven seconds, before he pulls away and pushes his wet hair back off his face. Then he starts tugging at a 16
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stray thread on his towel, looking as awkward as I feel, so I mumble one last goodbye and leave, shutting the door behind me. It’s not until I’m walking down the stairs and out of the front door that the tears start falling. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see Alex Tyler again, but one thing I do know is that I can’t wait to get as far away from Mothston as possible.
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TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA A Random House Group Company www.transworldbooks.co.uk THE BEST THING THAT NEVER HAPPENED TO ME A CORGI BOOK: 9780552170710 First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Corgi Books an imprint of Transworld Publishers Copyright © Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice 2014 Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009 The Random House Group Limited supports the Forest Stewardship Council® (FSC®), the leading international forest-certification organisation. Our books carrying the FSC label are printed on FSC®-certified paper. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk/environment Typeset in 10½/13½pt Meridien by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon. Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk. 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
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