The Time of Our Lives Read online

  About the Author

  PORTIA MACINTOSH has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.

  After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead.

  Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real life experiences to show what it’s really like being a woman today – especially one who doesn’t quite have her life together yet.

  The Time of Our Lives

  PORTIA MACINTOSH

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2019

  Portia MacIntosh 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.

  Source ISBN: 9780008330903

  E-book Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008328849

  Version: 2019-03-06

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For Joe & Joey

  Prologue

  New Year’s Day, 2009

  I’ve always had bad timing.

  I never budget for long enough in the bathroom. I’ve missed more buses than I’ve made. I was even born late – seventeen days late, to be exact – which took me from being the creative, passionate, stubborn Leo that I think I am, to being the organised, practical, shy Virgo that I absolutely am not.

  Last night though … last night was something else. Last night it felt like time was actually against me.

  Missed connections, a case of mistaken identity – what does it matter? As the clock struck midnight, dragging me from 2008 to 2009, I realised exactly what can happen when you’re in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Yep, I’ve always had bad timing. But last night, it ruined everything.

  Chapter 1

  Now

  I’ve never been one for inspirational quotes. You know the ones, they constantly pop up on your Facebook news feed; white text on a colourful or scenic background, usually shared by some distant cousin, old school friend, or random acquaintance you don’t remember befriending – shared because it’s just so damn profound and relatable.

  ‘Don’t be a woman that needs a man, be a woman that a man needs’ emblazoned across a sunset, as though the two are somehow related, or the famous ‘Marilyn Monroe’ one: ‘If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best’ which I really don’t think anyone should subscribe too, because it basically translates to: ‘If you don’t put up with me when I’m being a bitch, you don’t deserve me when I’m being nice.’

  As much as I hate these quotes, I saw one today that felt very apt (not that I felt the need to hit the share button though). It said: ‘The friends you make at university are your friends for life’ and that one must be true because if it weren’t, I wouldn’t be driving down a dark country lane in Norfolk, on my way to my old uni friend’s wedding.

  I alternate concentrating on the road with scanning the darkness for signs of life. One of my colleagues told me there was a lot to see in Norfolk, but not here, not tonight. There is absolutely nothing to see here.

  It did cross my mind, to make an excuse – I have to work, I’m having dental surgery, I’m on holiday – but these days people book their weddings so far in advance, they don’t even give you the chance to come up with an excuse that is both polite and gets you off the hook. I had to RSVP to this thing almost two years ago. Can you imagine being engaged for two years? I can’t even imagine having a boyfriend for two years. That’s probably why I’m so anxious about this wedding tomorrow.

  Matt, the groom, is one of five people I shared a house with in Manchester during my third year at uni. It’s been ten years since we all graduated and five years since we all saw each other last.

  For the most part, we’ve always been the worst kind of millennials. With the exception of Ed, who is more than making up for our collective shortfall with his four children so far, we all stumbled into our thirties unwed and childless. The rest of us are contributing to a country with an aging population and a declining birth rate, because we’re all way too busy with our jobs and our lives, and it’s just so easy to think we can put off these things until later. But as my mum keeps reminding me, I’m losing daylight, eggs, and the figure to bag myself a decent man – all of which sound like something from a bygone era, or a sci-fi movie with a dystopian future for women. But when my mum was my age – 31 – she’d already had me and my sister, so I guess you can’t blame her for thinking I’m wasting my life.

  The problem now is that it’s so easy to compare myself to my uni friends. We all had the same start in adult life, we all got degrees and then we went off into the world (well, I didn’t go off anywhere, I stayed in Manchester) and we all got jobs in our fields. Relationship-wise, we’re all at very different stages. But while Ed is married, Matt is getting married tomorrow, Zach and Fiona are engaged (yes, to each other), and Mark (or Clarky, as he’s more commonly known to those who tolerate him) has a girlfriend, I am still single. I’m not sure that counts as a stage. I don’t really feel like I’ve left the starting line yet.

  I glance at the digital clock in my car. The red glowing numbers
tell me that it’s nearly 10.30 p.m. So much for saying I’d arrive early and have a drink with my old friends. I’m sure everyone will be in bed by now, so that they can be up early for the wedding tomorrow.

  I notice car headlights in my rear-view mirror – the first sign of life I’ve seen on this road and I’m not sure if it puts me at ease or makes me feel nervous. I’ve seen too many horror movies, I think.

  The lights grow bigger, brighter, and they appear to be heading straight for me. As the car gets too close to mine, I speed up a little to try and put some space between us, but the car behind only goes faster.

  As my speed increases, so does my heartbeat and my breathing. I feel my hands begin to sweat, but I daren’t adjust the grip on the steering wheel that I’m holding so tightly, I can see my knuckles turning white.

  It all happens so quickly. Suddenly the car behind – a red sports car with a private plate – pulls out from behind me, moving onto the other side of the narrow country road to overtake me, before speeding off ahead.

  I loosen my grip as I watch its lights grow smaller and smaller until they disappear.

  Finally alone again, I puff air from my cheeks. What an arsehole, driving like that on a lonely country road at this time of night. I don’t care where he has to be, no one is in that much of a hurry that they have to drive so recklessly. I suppose I ruined his fun, sticking to the speed limit in my Polo that’s seen better days.

  The thumping in my chest slows down around the time I spot the Willows Lodge Hotel floodlit in the distance. Thank God. At least when I leave in a couple of days, I’ll be driving in the daylight. Drivers like that are almost always nocturnal, aren’t they? No sign of them during the day and then, under the cloak of darkness, they come out in their ridiculous cars to drive like maniacs. I could just about tell that it was a man in the car – a man with too little in his pants and too much in his bank, if you ask me.

  I pull into the hotel car park, turn off my engine and breathe a sigh of relief. I’d say thank God I’m here, but I’d rather be anywhere else. Well, apart from car wrapped around a tree courtesy of someone who is overcompensating for something.

  I give myself a brief internal pep talk to try and psych myself up (You can do this, Luca. You’re a strong, independent woman, Luca etc). I’m not sure it works, but I get out of my car, grab my hold-all from the boot, and make my way across the floodlit gravel car park.

  As I walk between the parked cars, I can’t help but look over my shoulder every now and then. It feels so lonely out here, with no sign of life anywhere. The only sound I can hear is from the stones crunching under my feet as I walk – at least I’d be able to hear footsteps, if someone were to try and creep up behind me.

  I remind myself to keep my imagination in check, but it doesn’t matter. Something distracts me. I’m almost at the hotel entrance when something catches my eye: a red sports car. It’s not the same one that sped past me, is it? I hover a hand over the car and feel heat radiating from its hot body. And then there’s that number plate, that tosser private plate that makes me hate this guy already.

  Maybe it’s because I’m all frazzled over this wedding business or maybe it is because he genuinely scared me, but I do something completely out of character from me. I take a pen and a piece of paper from my bag, and I write a note.

  I’m not usually the kind of girl to write: ‘no one is impressed by your driving or your car’ on the back of a receipt before placing it under the windscreen wiper. In fact, it’s so unlike me to do something like this that I quickly grab my bags and retreat to the safety of the hotel, before anyone sees me.

  As I check in, I notice a little sign on the counter advertising homemade red velvet cake. That’s exactly what I need to take the edge of a rubbish evening.

  ‘Is it too late to get some cake?’ I ask the receptionist.

  ‘There might be some left,’ she replies. ‘If you ask in the bar.’

  The receptionist points to a small, empty looking bar in an adjoining room.

  Another thing that is out of character for me is hanging out in bars on my own, but I can’t really face going to my room just yet, and some cake would be lovely. I might even have a drink too. A quick nightcap, just to relax me little. Then I’ll go to my room, climb into my bed, and get a nice early night in preparation for the big day tomorrow. I do have a tendency to be late, but I absolutely cannot do that tomorrow – I want my friends to think at least one thing changed since the last time they saw me.

  Chapter 2

  I pitch up at the empty bar, like some kind of downbeat film noir detective.

  When a barman appears, I order a slice of red velvet cake and a Disaronno and coke, with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a death row inmate ordering their last meal.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he says brightly. ‘It might never happen.’

  Half the problem is that it never happened – nothing has ever happened, and it feels like nothing will ever happen. I’m not the sort of girl things happen to, and, at 31 years of age, I’m not even sure I qualify as a girl anymore.

  I mentally pinch myself, and tick myself off for being so melodramatic. My life is not that bad, it just seems it when I compare it to my friends’ lives. Well, it’s not that it seems bad … it’s just … uneventful.

  ‘This might put a smile on your face,’ the barman says, setting down an extra-large slice of cake in front of me. ‘This is all that was left. It wasn’t enough to cut into two slices, and we only would’ve thrown the smaller bit away.’

  ‘Wow,’ I blurt. It is huge. ‘Thanks.’

  I laugh to myself as I rotate the plate, viewing the giant slice from all angles. There’s no way I’ll eat this – I’d be ashamed of myself if I could – but I’ll certainly give it my best shot.

  ‘Jack and coke please,’ I hear a man say next to me. The fact that someone else is in the bar gifts me a little comfort. Drinking here alone, I was dangerously close to becoming a cliché. ‘And a slice of red velvet cake, please. Just saw the ad for it at reception.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. This lady just bought the last piece,’ the bar man replies, pointing towards me.

  I look up, to see whose day I’ve ruined.

  The man looks down at my giant slice of cake, and back up at me. Suddenly, I feel like a pig. Not just because he’s a handsome guy, but because I look like I’m about to take down this huge slice all on my own.

  ‘Do you want to share it?’ I ask him. ‘This is way more than I can eat.’

  ‘Really?’ he replies with a smile.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  ‘Can I get you another drink, to say thanks?’ he asks me.

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Top my new friend up too,’ the man replies, handing over his card. ‘And another fork please.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say again, quickly straightening my back, smoothing out my outfit, and subtly tszujing my hair.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. ‘I’m Pete.’

  ‘I’m Luca,’ I say, shaking the hand he’s offering me. ‘It’s nice to have some company.’

  ‘You here alone?’ he asks, eagerly plunging his fork into the cake.

  ‘I am,’ I reply. ‘My friends are getting married tomorrow.’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘You’re here alone or you’re here for a wedding?’ I ask.

  ‘Both,’ he says. ‘Matt and Kat?’

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak excitedly. ‘You know them?’

  ‘I do, I lived with Kat at uni, actually. We shared a house.’

  I laugh at the unbelievable coincidence.

  ‘Same. I lived with Matt during third year.’

  He laughs. ‘That’s weird.’

  For a moment, I can’t help but examine my new friend. He must be about my age, if he went to uni with Kat.

  Pete is not a bad-looking man. He has blond hair that I don’t think is too long, but he has it pulled into a man bun on the back of his head. It’s a man bun and not a topkno
t – the two are most definitely very different looks. On a topknot’s Instagram he’ll be posing for photos with sedated tigers on holiday, and capturing his latest Nando’s acquisition before he wolfs it down. A man bun though, he’s the kind of guy to have pictures of him wearing cardigans, snuggled up to golden retriever puppies.

  Pete has chiselled good looks, like maybe Michelangelo carved him after he practised on David. But while his features may be almost razor sharp, he’s got this warmth about him. A real kindness in his cool blue eyes.

  ‘It will be nice to have an ally here,’ he says, rubbing his stubbly chin sheepishly. ‘Everyone I know here has come as a couple.’

  ‘Same,’ I reply, baffled by yet another coincidence.

  Starting to relax a little, I take my first bite of cake. Rich, chocolatey sponge smothered in sweet, cream cheese frosting. It’s everything I hoped it would be and more – I still don’t think I could’ve eaten the entire slice though.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ Pete asks.

  ‘Me?’ Though I’m not sure who else he could be talking to, we’re the only ones here.

  ‘Yes, you,’ he laughs.

  It’s been so long since a good-looking, charming guy showed a genuine interest in me, I thought I’d better make sure it was actually me he was interested in.

  ‘I work in the PR department at ABO – Anything But Ordinary,’ I reply.

  ‘The clothing company,’ Pete says.

  I nod.

  ‘I bet that keeps you busy,’ he says, with a knowing look.

  ‘You heard about that,’ I needlessly point out. ‘Yep, still reeling from that one.’

  Pete is referring to events a few months ago, when the company CEO was recorded saying she didn’t want ‘fat girls’ modelling her clothes in ad campaigns.

  ‘I’m actively looking for a new job,’ I tell him. ‘Something more worthwhile, something that makes me feel like I’m doing something important. What do you do?’

  ‘I am a global programme manager for an environmental charity.’

  ‘Now that’s a worthwhile job,’ I reply, feeling slightly jealous.