The Day We Met Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Spotify playlist

  Dedication

  PART ONE: You Do Something To Me

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  PART TWO: Only Love Can Hurt Like This

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  PART THREE: Nothing Compares 2U

  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

  PART FOUR: It Ain’t Over ’Til It’s Over

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  Reading Group Questions

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Roxie Cooper lives in Yarm, a pretty little market town in the North-East. After reading Classics at Newcastle University, she realised she needed a break from studying Latin, Ancient Greek and all that serious stuff, so naturally, she became a dancer in a nightclub (à la Coyote Ugly) for a few years before going to live in Australia. When she returned, she swapped dancing on a bar, to practising at the Bar, and became a barrister for 7 years. Twitter/Instagram @toodletinkbaby.

  Listen along with Stephanie and Jamie via Spotify Search ‘The Day We Met by Roxie Cooper’

  Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen

  I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing – Aerosmith

  Common People – Pulp

  That Don’t Impress Me Much – Shania Twain

  Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now – Starship

  Only Love Can Hurt Like This – Paloma Faith

  Wicked Game – Chris Isaak

  You Do Something To Me – Paul Weller

  Crazy in Love – Beyonce

  Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds – The Beatles

  Billie Jean – Michael Jackson

  Beat It – Michael Jackson

  And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going – Dreamgirls

  Feel – Robbie Williams

  Maybe I’m Amazed – Paul McCartney

  More Than Words – Extreme

  You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me – Dusty Springfield

  Addicted To Love – Robert Palmer

  U Got The Look – Prince

  Whatever – Oasis

  I Walk The Line – Johnny Cash

  Unchained Melody – The Righteous Brothers

  Nothing Compares 2U – Prince

  Let It Be – The Beatles

  Don’t Give Up On Me – Solomon Burke

  Stop Me If You Heard This Before – The Smiths

  Purple Rain – Prince

  Thinking Out Loud – Ed Sheeran

  Wuthering Heights – Kate Bush

  It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over – Lenny Kravitz

  Be My Baby – The Ronettes

  Love Is An Open Door – Frozen

  You’re Still The One – Shania Twain

  Close Your Eyes – Michael Bublé

  More Than A Woman – The Bee Gees

  For Amanda, Sasha and Vicky – who took me apart and put me back together again.

  PART ONE

  You Do Something To Me

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday 13 October 2006

  Stephanie

  I’m not a superstitious person.

  One of those people who goes out of their way to avoid walking under ladders, saluting at magpies and all that rubbish – it’s a waste of time. I don’t think the universe really cares enough to give us a bad day just because we happened to walk under a ladder. Or making the thirteenth day of the month fall on a Friday. But people get worked up about it all, don’t they?

  If something bad is going to happen, it’ll happen regardless of what day it is; whether it’s a Friday, a particular month, or which alignment the planets are in.

  The clock in the car changes to 5.03 p.m. I’m late.

  We’ve been driving for just under an hour and surely must be almost there now. I hope so, because I can’t bear the weight of the silence in this car much longer. Well, it’s not complete silence because the radio is on. The volume is set to ‘loud enough so that the atmosphere is a little less awkward’. Aerosmith are singing about how they ‘Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing’.

  My head bounces off the headrest as we zoom down the swirly country lanes. He always drives too fast in this car – a baby blue BMW Z3. It’s his ‘James Bond’ car and he likes to show it off at every opportunity.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean it how it came out,’ Matt says suddenly, without taking his eyes off the road ahead. The car engine revs up a notch as the words leave his mouth.

  Tucking my hands in between my crossed legs, I turn to face him. I’m grateful I’m wearing sunglasses. I always feel less exposed having a disagreement or row when the other person can’t see my eyes. It feels like you’re giving too much away otherwise.

  ‘How did you mean it, then?’ I ask Matt’s side profile, in a tone which definitely doesn’t suggest I’ll be pleased with whatever answer he gives me. ‘Because it feels like you’re treating me like a kid. All of you are treating me like a child and I’m sick of it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry it came out that way, I honestly didn’t mean it to,’ he says very calmly, which makes me feel like even more of a petulant child. ‘We’re just looking out for you, that’s all.’

  ‘But I can’t stand feeling mollycoddled, Matt!’ I blurt out. ‘It’s driving me mad. You just have to trust I’ll do the right thing.’

  He listens to my words, taking them in as his eyes focus on the road. After a few seconds he nods his head and turns to look at me very briefly.

  ‘No, you’re right. Look, I’m just being overprotective because I love you and worry about you. I didn’t think it would upset you so much.’

  Reaching out, I place my hand on Matt’s, which is gripping on to the steering wheel.

  ‘I know,’ I say softly, leaning towards him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit … nervous.’

  He takes my hand off the wheel and pops it back on my knee, giving it a little squeeze.

  My fiancé. His sparkly blue eyes were the first thing I noticed about him. Big, caring eyes which creased at the corners when he smiled. He’s naturally blond, like me. People always comment on it, saying we look Swedish or something and how we will produce beautiful children ‘when the time comes’. He styles his hair into a David Beckham-esque messy do which is all the rage at the moment.

  ‘Well, that’s the last time I tell you to lay off the booze!’ Matt says, throwing a cheeky glance my way. You need to learn to live with humour in these situations, I guess.

  ‘Look, no need to worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not going to drink anything. I haven’t touched anything since April.’

  Has it really been that long? It’s weird to think that, until six months ago, Matt and I had been living the crazy, fast-paced life in London. Now we live in a quiet Cambridgeshire village, around the corner from my dad and sister. And I do mean quiet. That’s quite an adjustment to make when you’re twenty-six years old.


  I’m not quite sure how the Stephanie I know ended up here – agreeing to spend the weekend on an Art and Photography Weekend Workshop in an upmarket country house about an hour away from where I live. The old Steph would be outraged.

  It is beautiful here in the autumn, though. Although I’ve been living in London since I was eighteen, the countryside is where I grew up and it feels like home. It reminds me of my mum. I love everything about it: the colours, the crisp breeze, even the sound of it – yes, it has a sound. I want to get married in autumn, but Matt insists it has to be a summer wedding because of a whole load of reasons that aren’t really important to me – better photos, guests prefer summer weddings, they’re more of an ‘occasion’. So, next year, on Saturday 14 July 2007, I’ll become Mrs Stephanie Bywater.

  As we leave the country roads and enter a quaint village, the rapid deceleration of the car makes me feel sick. Or maybe it’s nerves. Driving past beautiful houses with oak trees in the garden, we see a sign indicating Heathwood Hall is coming up on the right.

  ‘You gonna be OK here all weekend, baby?’ Matt asks, nodding at the sign.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say enthusiastically, even though I feel scared. I haven’t been left alone for more than a few hours for six months.

  ‘Look, don’t be hard on yourself,’ Matt tells me. ‘This weekend is about relaxing and finding yourself again.’

  The sunglasses prevent Matt from seeing my eyes filling with tears.

  Don’t cry. Not now.

  ‘And besides,’ he goes on, ‘this course sounds great for you! Art, photography and … erm, all that. All the stuff you used to love doing.’

  ‘Yeah, can’t wait for the “all that” part!’ I laugh. ‘So, what are you going to do while I’m gone?’

  ‘Playing rugby tomorrow. Gym Sunday. Gotta get this body in shape. Never too early to start looking good for the wedding, Steph,’ he says, laughing, taking his left hand off the wheel and making his bicep pop. The smooth, curved lines of his toned arm are visible through his thin, long-sleeved top, which I playfully run my fingers down.

  ‘Lucky me!’ I whisper. ‘Ooh! We’re here!’

  The car indicator starts to click as we turn into Heathwood Hall. Late afternoon October light casts a low sun over the road ahead, which is lined with an avenue of old oak trees exploding with red, orange and yellow leaves. Creeping up the drive, I remove my glasses to peek at the building which slowly reveals itself. The brochure describes it as a ‘nineteenth-century Jacobean-style mansion house’. The front of the building faces out towards the rolling landscape and hills, and a pretty terrace is the feature point, hosting a beautiful fountain.

  Matt parks just outside reception which is at the side of the building and hauls all my stuff out of the boot.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, ‘have fun, and let’s get that Stephanie I fell in love with back. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too,’ I say, moving closer to him. Taking my face in his hands, he smiles at me for a moment before landing a little kiss on my forehead.

  ‘See you Sunday, call me if you need anything,’ he reels off, walking back to his car, ‘and don’t get into any trouble!’

  ‘Me? Never!’ I shout back.

  Turns out Dad has booked me into The Starlight Room here, which is also the most expensive. It’s a suite, so wildly indulgent and a bit unnecessary when you’re solo, but I appreciate the sentiment. After sitting on the four-poster bed with my coat on for fifteen minutes, staring at the fireplace, I figure I should probably get a move on.

  Jumping in the shower in an attempt to relax, I’m hoping that I’ll feel brave enough to attend the obligatory welcome drinks in the bar followed by dinner. I honestly don’t know if I can manage it. I don’t know how many times I can repeat the same snippet of small talk with people. Everyone will ask why I’m here, because everyone is here for a reason.

  I feel it coming on as soon as I step out the shower. Panic attacks have become a frequent thing in the past few months and I’ve been given various methods to cope with them, but they keep coming back. It’s the creeping nature of them I can’t stand. The slow-moving panic slides into your throat, like smoke in the dirty bars of days gone by, and once you’ve clocked it, there’s no way back. Any attempt to start breathing normally is wasted, because you just get more worked up.

  Gripping on to the sink in the bathroom to the point where my knuckles turn white, I stare hard at my blurred reflection in the misty mirror, concentrating on breathing. My soaking wet hair is scraped back, leaving my make-up free face looking pale and exposed. My skin, already hot from the shower, becomes even more so. A sticky film covers my body as anxiety gushes out of it. Every bit of oxygen in my lungs feels like it’s being squeezed out at the rate of a balloon which has been blown up and then quickly let go. What a pathetic sight. I can’t even come away for two nights on my own without falling apart.

  When I eventually get myself under control and dry my hair, I make the decision to call Matt and tell him to pick me up.

  I can’t do this.

  Big, hot tears stream from my eyes as I run around the room, trying to locate my phone. I eventually find it, but there’s no signal. I just want to go home. Taking deep breaths, I grab my coat, put my boots on and leave the room on a quest to find somewhere that gets service.

  Rushing down the sweeping staircase back to reception, I’m going so fast I almost trip up several times on the wooden steps. Reaching the bottom, I run straight to the reception area.

  And that’s when I see him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jamie

  The fire crackles and fizzes with furious intent. It’s one of those huge fireplaces you get in places like these, grand and imposing. Standing in front of it, I feel the force of its heat, which is a sharp contrast to the icy draft creeping in from somewhere.

  As I stand gazing at the sign above the fireplace, the stillness of the moment is interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. And that’s when I see her.

  She bursts into reception and we exchange a brief, momentary glance.

  Turning my eyes back to the sign above the fireplace, I sense her presence as she walks around me. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, see her fidgeting about in her pockets, looking at her phone and blowing her nose at the reception desk. She sighs, loudly. I’m unsure as to whether she’s in need of help or just an irate guest who should be left alone.

  ‘Erm, there’s nobody on the desk. I’m waiting too,’ I tell her, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Oh, right. OK, I’ll wait,’ she says quietly, turning around to face me. She tucks her long blonde hair behind her ears and wraps her coat around her more tightly. Her face is stained with tears, her big green eyes are filled with sadness. She stands with her arms folded, frowning slightly, staring at the floor.

  ‘Do you agree with that?’ I ask.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she replies, looking a little confused.

  ‘You agree with that?’ I ask again, nodding at the wooden plaque above the hearth. She looks up to see what I’m referring to. It’s a large dark piece of wood which has been ornately carved with intricate decoration. Inscribed into the wood, in gold, it reads:

  You meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it

  The tiniest of smiles appears on her face.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Sure do. You’re not a fate-believer?’

  ‘Not really. Well, I suppose I used to be, back when I was a kid. But not any more.’

  ‘That sounds like a sad story.’

  ‘Yeah, natural cynic here, I’m afraid,’ she says and shrugs.

  ‘You don’t think things happen for a reason? More a believer in coincidence, are you?’ I ask.

  She studies the sign for a few moments, unaware she’s doing a ‘thinking’ face. The sparks and pops coming from the fire are the only sounds breaking the silence.

  ‘I’m not really much of a believer in an
ything, to be honest,’ she finally says. ‘It’s a beautiful piece, though.’

  I smile, turning to look at her. ‘You think so? What do you like about it?’

  ‘It’s so intricate. The lines are so smooth in that bottom bit,’ she says, pointing up at the sign, ‘but that bit, there … the roses or flowers; how do you even carve that into wood? It’s incredible.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ I agree. ‘I actually love how it’s asymmetrical. Probably quite an unconventional move for when it was created, I’d imagine. Adds to its quirkiness.’

  ‘Yes!’ she smiles, enthusiastically. ‘Look at that bit in the middle. It looks like a Celtic design or a knot or something.’

  ‘Ah!’ I say, looking up at the intertwining lines of wood which twist around the sign, like vines, meeting at the top and forming a beautiful maze-like design. ‘That’s a true lover’s knot. It represents love, affection and friendship in art.’

  She nods in appreciation of what I’ve just said, but I can tell she’s just being polite.

  ‘Nah, you’re still not buying it, are you? Still a non-believer?’ I wince at her.

  ‘Yep!’ she laughs, looking towards reception.

  ‘Are you in a hurry to check out?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes. Well, no. Kind of. I can’t get any phone signal and I need to call someone and tell them to pick me up.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t get any phone signal in here. It’s a nightmare,’ I tell her. ‘There is literally one hotspot in the entire place you can get a signal if you know where it is. I can show you if you want?’

  ‘That would be brilliant! Thank you,’ she says, gratefully.

  I usher her outside and down the steps.

  ‘Thanks so much for this,’ she says. ‘I’m not putting you out, am I? Are you checking out or just arriving?’

  ‘Just arrived after a long drive from Manchester.’

  ‘I was trying to place your accent. I was going to say Leeds but I am awful with dialects.’

  ‘Leeds?’ I yelp, completely outraged. ‘Wish I’d never offered to help you now!’

  She laughs as we reach the terrace. It’s all lit up, the glow from the rooms inside pouring out at intervals across the façade. The huge fountain I’m taking her to stands in front of it. Beautifully ornate, stone leaves and roses adorn the tiers, weaving around the structure like snakes. A frozen young woman dances on the top holding a flute-type thing. Her dress swirls, her arms are wild.