CHAPTER ONE
Arriving at the entrance to the Swan Hotel, I pausefor a moment, stamping my boots in the snow and digging my hands in my pocketsagainst the bitterly cold January afternoon.
Big deep breath.
Is this really happening?
I catch my image in the glass door. An average looking womanwith brown eyes and dark hair tamed into a tidy knot (in the hope of lookinglike a proper grown-up who actually knows what she’s doing).
I swallow hard. Butterflies are having a good old knees-upin my abdomen and, quite frankly, it all seems like a dream.
Maybe it is, and any minute now, I’ll be woken by Dadcalling through my bedroom door, ‘Martha, love. It’s seven-thirty. Good luckwith the word count and I’ll see you later!’ Followed by the click of the frontdoor as he goes off to his car.
But as I step into the hotel, the large board resting on anartist’s easel by the door tells me this is definitely no dream.
Competition:Hunt for the Next Bestseller!
Southern England Region
My heart lurches just reading the words.
I’ve made the shortlist but I won’t actuallywin. Iknow that. Despite having been writing for almost five years (with lots of encouragingfeedback but no actual published success), I still sometimes feel like a purebeginner. There’s so much more to learn.
Pretending I’m studying the board, I glance around furtively,looking for signs to the Harrington Suite, where – in less than an hour – the winnerwill be announced.
I’m normally fine in the company of strangers, but today, anawkwardness has set in, which makes me want to blend right into the luxurious,gold-embossed hotel reception wallpaper and vanish completely from view. Isuppose it’s a touch of imposter syndrome – that creeping sense that I don’treallydeserveto be here. Thousands entered the competition, after all,from across the UK, and yet I’ve somehow made it to the final five in thesouthern England region.
Get a grip, girl! You can do this!
Taking another bolstering deep breath, I tell myself itdoesn’t matter that I won’t win. Just to be chosen for the shortlist is such anachievement. And the best thing of all is that I know that whatever happenstoday, I’m making Dad proud...
Tears swim in my eyes at the thought of him.
It’s always been just him and me against the world.
Mum left us when I was just seven months old and I can’t beginto imagine how tough that must have been for Dad. I try every day to make upfor the big hole she left in his life – to make him smile – but although our bondis tight and unbreakable after all these years, I know he still misses her.
Dad’s always been one of the biggest supporters of mywriting. He and my fabulous friend Madison are basically the reason I haven’tgiven up, despite the hundred million rejections that have landed in my inboxover the years. (A slight exaggeration, but it certainlyfeelslike thatsometimes.)
Behind me, the door opens, bringing with it a blast of freezingJanuary air. My thoughts interrupted, I take a step back from the board – andcollide sharply with someone standing behind me, the heel of my shoe landing onthe unfortunate person’s foot. Gasping, I pitch clumsily sideways into theboard, and to my horror, the easel wobbles and tips over.
In the nick of time, a firm hand grips my arm, only just preventingme from going the same way as the board, which skids across the tiled floor andcomes to a halt in the centre of the reception area.
‘God, I’mreally sorry. I...’ Feelingbad, I turn to my rescuer.
But my words die away as I find myself staring up into a handsomeface – in particular, a pair of vivid blue eyes the colour of cornflowers – andmy mind goes blank. And all that emerges is a mumbled, ‘Um...yes.’
The blue eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Och, no problem. GladI could be of assistance. Are you okay?’
I swallow hard. The owner of the eyes apparently bears me noill will whatsoever – despite the nine-and-a-half-stone of solid woman thatjust accidentally skewered his foot like a chicken kebab on a barbecue. ‘Erm...yes, fine, thanks.’ My voice sounds oddly breathy, like I’m auditioning for apart in a soft porn movie or something.
He blinks a few times. ‘Are you sure? Can I get you a glassof water? A seat?’ His voice is a deep rumble with a delicious hint of aScottish accent.
‘No, really.’ I shake my head, still feeling quite dazed.
My rescuer is tall, with hair the colour of darkly gleaming chestnuts,and a pair of solid broad shoulders that fill out his mid-blue suit jacketperfectly. It’s the sort of physique that’s well able to rescue a damsel indistress, which is strangely how I’m feeling right now. Pathetic, I know. Notlike me at all.
I’m a strong, independent woman and I gave up men a year agoafter seeing my then boyfriend, Geraint, leap over the net and wrestle his glamtennis coach to the ground. I’d turned up to surprise him but they were so focusedon achieving their own personal grand slam that they didn’t even notice I wasthere. I was never into tennis but it was clear to me that the score was loveall, so I dumped him in a text and that was that.
