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- Herausgeber: Louise Chandler
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Her world was already on fire when he walked back in.
The pandemic ripped Violet's life apart: parents gone, boyfriend lost to delusion, and a forced retreat to her grandparents' isolated holiday home. Just as she grapples with the wreckage, Roman reappears – an undeniable spark she'd tried, and failed, to extinguish twice before. This third encounter isn't a coincidence; it's a collision.
But this time, the stakes are impossibly high.
Roman isn't alone; he carries a life, a past, and complications that cast a long shadow over their undeniable connection. Violet feels the pull, the dangerous familiarity of sparks that promise more than just a fleeting flame.
Violet is drawn to his flame, a dangerous warmth in the cold of her new reality. But she knows this kind of fire doesn’t just burn...it incinerates.
Is a love that feels like destiny worth a fate that promises devastation? Or is the most dangerous thing not the fire itself, but the man who commands it?Violet knows that when sparks fly this fiercely, someone is bound to get burned.
Will Violet risk everything for a love that promises to devastate her? Or will she finally walk away before the flames consume them both?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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As It Was
Table of contents
Playlist For Reading
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
Epilogue
landmarks
Title page
Table of contents
Book start
Playlist For Reading
A Playlist for the Story
Here is the complete, chapter-by-chapter playlist to accompany your reading experience. These songs are either what I've listened to during writing or what I feel speaks for the characters or their situation in that moment.
Chapter Song TitleArtistPrologue What If I Never Get Over YouLady ADon't Stop Me NowQueenI Bet You Look Good on the DancefloorArtic MonkeysChapter 1Landslide Fleetwood Mac Chapter 2Take Me Out Franz FerdinandChapter 3Mr. Brightside The KillersChapter 4MykonosFleet FoxesChapter 5Don't Look Back in AngerOasisChapter 6Me and Mrs. JonesBilly PaulChapter 7TraitorOlivia RodrigoChapter 8Before You GoLewis Capaldi Chapter 9FeverPeggy LeeWicked GameChris IsaakChapter 10HallelujahJeff BuckleyWreckedImagine Dragons Chapter 11Breathe MeSia Chapter 12Comfortably NumbPink FloydAnother LoveTom Odell Chapter 13Earned itThe Weeknd Chapter 14Fast CarTracy Chapman Chapter 15Lost on YouLPRunning Up That HillKate BushChapter 16Sex On FireKings of LeonChapter 17Flightless Bird, American MouthIron & WineChapter 18Slow Dancing in a Burning RoomJohn MayerChapter 19Behind Blue EyesLimp BizkitChapter 20Young And BeautifulLana Del ReyChapter 21Tainted Love Soft CellChapter 22You Do Something To MePaul WellerChapter 23The Sound Of SilenceDisturbedChapter 24Little LiesFleetwood MacChapter 25WingsBirdyChapter 26ArcadeDuncan LaurenceChapter 27FallingHarry StylesChapter 28Rolling in the DeepAdeleChapter 29Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)GreendayChapter 30Slow HandsNiall HoranChapter 31Fall At Your Feet (Acoustic)James BluntBlack VelvetAlannah MylesChapter 32The Night We MetLord HuronChapter 33The StorySara RamirezChapter 34PompeiiBastilleChapter 35CloserNine Inch NailsChapter 36ExileTaylor Swift ft. Bon IverAs It WasHarry StylesIrisGoo Goo DollsEpilogueViennaBilly JoelDog Days Are OverFlorence + The MachinePrologue
Teenage Dreams
I’ve always been drawn to him. It’s a gravitational pull I can’t explain. Three times our orbits have collided by pure chance, separated by years of silence, and each time the pull is there, undeniable and fierce. This last time, though, was the strongest. And for the first time, it wasn't just about us. Before I knew it, I was in too deep, tangled in a web where someone was guaranteed to get hurt.
I always knew it would end this way. It had to. There was no other path.
Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift back, back to where it all began. The memories are still as vivid as the day they were made.
I was thirteen when we first met on a family holiday. I liked him instantly, but he was already busy practising his kissing skills on one girl while making eyes at another. For a split second, his gaze caught mine from across the pool, a flicker of something curious and unguarded in his blue eyes, before he turned away. To him, I was just another kid, the furthest thing from his mind. We kept in touch for a little while after, but teenage lives move fast, and we soon lost contact.
When I was sixteen, my parents moved us to a new town, a move that ripped the bottom out of my world. I was uprooted from my friends, my school, and worst of all, my grandparents. I had to start again, and being the new girl at sixteen wasn't fun. I was lonely, isolated, and friendless.
It was the same town Roman lived in, my holiday romance that never was. Years had passed without a word, until one day, a message popped up on social media. Are you the same Violet I met on holiday years ago?
I told him we’d moved to his town. In an instant, we reconnected. Just like that, I had my first friend.
He was eighteen, cool, and could drive. He went to uni and was even hotter than I remembered. Every word that fell from his mouth was smooth; I was mesmerised. The spiky brown hair was the same, and his blue eyes still held a power that made me look away, embarrassed. He was so confident, so self-assured, and I was thirteen all over again, gawky and shy.
We became good friends, spending months just chatting. He was single, but I was terrified to confess how deeply I was into him. He was the popular boy who played in a band, the boy everyone in town knew. I was just the awkward new girl people only started talking to because of him.
Then, to my surprise, my luck changed and I got a boyfriend. It didn’t take him long to notice how my voice changed whenever I mentioned Roman’s name. He asked me straight out if I was into him. I tried to laugh it off, but my face betrayed me. As quickly as it started, it was over. I was an outcast again. But I still had Roman.
At seventeen, I finally plucked up the courage fuelled by cheap wine. My fingers trembled as I sent the text: I want to kiss you.
To my utter shock, he replied almost immediately. I’ve wanted to kiss you for ages.
Me? He wanted to kiss me?
And so it began. Neither of us wanted a relationship, but any time we were alone, we ended up locking lips. Soon, kissing led to heavy petting, and eventually, to more. We’d occasionally end up in brief relationships with other people, but as soon as they were over, one of us would call the other, and we’d fall right back into our old habits, our nights always ending in a bedroom.
We never had sex. We tried, several times, but Roman would get nervous. "I don't want you to think I'm like 'Two-Minute Jim' from American Pie," he'd say, embarrassed. I never laughed. It would have been cruel, and besides, I desperately wanted to take that final step. I’d seen him without his clothes on. He worked out, and I practically drooled every time his shirt came off.
I wasn’t a virgin, but I wasn’t experienced either. From what he said and the rumours I’d heard, I knew Roman had plenty where I lacked. So I found it both confusing and deeply flattering that a mere touch from me could make him so flustered that he’d… finish.
After a while, I started to develop real feelings. I knew the deal was ‘friends with benefits’, and I tried to be okay with it. He introduced me to his friends as ‘my friend Violet’, so I didn’t feel like a dirty secret, exactly. But all the ‘benefits’ were kept strictly behind closed doors. He’d be out with his friends, and I’d get a late-night text, asking me to meet him or if he could come over. I started to wonder if I was just a convenient secret after all.
My parents loved him. He was charming, and they remembered the cheeky kid from that holiday years ago. My mother constantly asked why we weren’t a proper couple. I was too embarrassed to tell her he didn’t want a relationship, at least, not with me.
The summer I turned eighteen, the dynamic shifted. He was going into his third year of uni, and I was about to start my first, three hours away. We never talked about me leaving. I just assumed he wasn't bothered. I can laugh now at how stupid and insecure I was.
I’d started a part-time job and finally made some real friends. I’d bump into Roman on nights out, and more often than not, I’d leave with him. But there was never any kissing, never any touching, in front of our friends. I was getting fed up with being the girl he only came to when he had no better options.
One night, after far too much to drink, I was in a packed bar with some new work friends. I saw Roman walk in with his mates. The group I was with knew him and waved him over. Roman’s eyes met mine across the room, and a slow smile spread across his face. He was wearing a pale blue linen shirt that clung to his body in a way that highlighted every muscle. A familiar heat rushed through me.
I found myself on my feet, walking towards him, no idea what I was going to do or say. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, mine was on his.
I felt him respond instantly, his tongue slipping past my lips to dance with mine. The kiss was soft and hungry all at once. His hands found my waist, pulling me tight against his body. I tangled one hand in his hair, the other curling around his neck. The kiss seemed to last forever. When we finally parted, we both breathed, “Hi,” at the same time. We smiled, and then we kissed again.
That was the night we went public. All my fears of being his dirty little secret vanished. We spent the rest of the night holding hands, kissing, and dancing in front of everyone. I was stunned that out of all the girls in that bar, I was the one he was with. I watched other girls approach him, and he’d be friendly, polite, and then he’d grab my hand, pull me close, and introduce me.
Always, “This is Violet.” I’d gone from “my friend Violet” to just “Violet.” Everything had changed, and yet nothing had.
I left with him that night, our mouths locked in a series of drunken kisses all the way to the taxi, and all the way back to his house. We giggled as we crept up to his bedroom, trying to be quiet for his parents. I’d been in his room many times, but this time felt different.
He sat on the bed and held out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me onto his lap, my knees straddling him as he kissed me again, deeper this time. I started to unbutton his shirt, my fingers fumbling. Finally, I slid it off his shoulders. He smirked at me. We weren’t here to talk.
Before I could react, he’d flipped me onto my back and was on top of me. One hand stroked my face while his other ran up my leg to the inside of my thigh, pushing aside the black lace of my thong. A gasp escaped my lips as his fingers slid inside me, wet and slick. I kissed him with more force, a low moan vibrating in my throat as my hips pushed instinctively against his hand. His mouth left mine to tug at my dress, and I helped him pull it over my head, leaving me in just my bra.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed. I laughed, a little nervously, and started to work on his belt buckle. He stopped what he was doing to help, pulling his jeans down but leaving his black boxers on. The outline of his erection strained against the fabric. I reached out, palming him through the thin cotton.
“Oh, shit, fuck, slow down,” he whispered, his voice tight.
Tonight, I thought. Tonight has to be the night. The thought alone was driving me wild. I moaned again as his fingers slipped back inside me, moving in and out with a steady rhythm. He hooked his thumbs into my thong and pulled it down my legs. Before I could even pretend to protest, his head was between my legs. His warm breath ghosted over my inner thigh before the wet heat of his tongue swiped across my most sensitive skin. I grabbed his pillow, shoving it against my mouth to stifle the sounds that were trying to escape. I didn’t want his parents to hear this.
His tongue worked its magic while his fingers moved inside me, and the heat built into a roaring fire. My hips rose to meet him as he moved faster. I gripped the sheets, trying to hold on, but it was too late. The heat exploded, my body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me.
I was panting when I finally removed the pillow. Roman moved up the bed and laid his head on my chest.
“Did you enjoy that?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Let… me… catch… my… breath,” I panted back. He laughed and rolled to lie beside me.
The single bed wasn’t ideal. I propped myself up on one elbow and leaned over to kiss him. He rolled me back under him, pressing his body against mine. I could feel his hardness through his boxers and reached down to stroke him again.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice a low groan. I ran my hand up and down his length as he kept mumbling, “Fuck,” over and over. I pushed him gently onto his back and shuffled down the bed. His eyes met mine as I dipped my head and took him into my mouth, flicking my tongue over the tip.
“Fuck, no, no, no!” Roman shouted, jumping up without warning.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.
He grabbed his shirt, clutching it in a ball at his groin. “Fuck!” he shouted again, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed.
I knew what this meant. It happened every time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at me. “I thought this time… I don’t want you to think I’m ‘Two-Minute Jim’.”
“I don’t,” I replied softly.
“I don’t know what it is about you. You make me nervous like nobody else. I don’t have this problem with anyone else. I want to fuck you so badly, and every fucking time you touch me, I just… go.”
I didn’t know what to say. We’d had this conversation before, but I was no closer to understanding it. I’d heard the stories. I knew inexperience wasn’t the issue.
“Maybe I’m the problem?” I finally whispered.
He shot up, moving next to me and cupping my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. “Violet, don’t ever say that. There is nothing wrong with you. My God, look at you. You’re incredible. Any guy would be lucky to get one chance with you, never mind all the chances you’ve given me.” I was shocked. I’d never heard him talk about me like that. “Why would you think you’re the problem?”
I chewed the inside of my lip. “I don’t know… I guess I didn’t think you were really into me. Tonight was the first time you’ve even touched me in public. I felt like a secret.”
Roman sighed. “I wasn’t trying to hide you. I’m sorry if it felt like that. I’m not the kind of guy who brags about the girls I’ve been with, and I know you can be shy. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “My friends know we’re more than friends. I haven’t told them details, but…”
“But what?”
“I know I’m going to sound like a dick, but I told them you were off-limits.” He looked away, clearly embarrassed. “Tommy liked you. He wanted to ask you out, and I told him to back off. He said I’d never been possessive over a girl before, especially one I claimed I didn’t want a relationship with. And then you got with Derek… seeing you holding his hand, kissing him… it wound me up. I wanted to break his neck.” He laughed, but it was humourless. “I must have complained about him a lot, because Tommy finally asked me what the deal was. I told him we were… more than friends. I don’t think he believed me until tonight.”
“Wait, you were jealous of Derek?” I laughed, the absurdity of it hitting me. Roman—cool, calm, collected Roman—had been jealous.
He kissed me, silencing my laughter. “Why is that so funny?”
“Because I’ve always felt like an imposter around you and your friends. Like I wasn’t cool enough or pretty enough to fit in.”
“Don’t think like that. It’s never been true. I know tonight changed things, and I don’t know where this is going, especially with you leaving for uni. But tonight, in that bar, I realised I was the luckiest guy there. I don’t want to go back to being a secret. I liked holding your hand, kissing you in front of everyone. But if you want to go back to how it was, I get it.”
I didn’t want to go back. But I was leaving. “This can’t be anything more than what it was,” I said softly. “Just… a bit more public, maybe?”
He grabbed my hand. “Exclusively friends with benefits who aren’t dating,” he said, a real smile returning to his face. He got up and pulled a grey t-shirt from a drawer, handing it to me. “You can wear this to bed. Unless you’d rather sleep in your underwear,” he smirked.
“Sleep? I always go home,” I said, confused.
“You’re right. But it’s 3 a.m. If we’re going public, we might as well start somewhere.”
I pulled the t-shirt over my head and laid down. He curled up behind me in his tiny single bed, pulling my back against his chest and wrapping an arm around me. We fell asleep like that, tangled together.
I woke at 8 a.m., desperately needing the toilet. Roman was still asleep. I looked at my clothes in a heap on the floor and then around the room for something to wear. I didn’t want to do the walk of shame in last night’s dress.
I crept down the hallway as quietly as I could. After using the bathroom, I was creeping back out when a woman’s voice stopped me dead.
“Violet?”
“Shit,” I muttered. “Oh, hey, hi, Mrs. Collins,” I said, turning to find not only Roman’s mum standing there, but his dad too. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I nervously tugged at the hem of Roman’s t-shirt, willing it to grow a few inches. His parents exchanged a look I couldn’t read.
“I didn’t know Roman was having anyone over,” his mum said, her voice neutral. “He’s never had a girl stay the night before.”
“Now, Kay, you’re embarrassing the poor girl,” his dad interjected.
“Yeah, Mum, you’re embarrassing me, too,” a sleepy voice said from behind me.
I turned to find Roman standing there in nothing but his tight black boxers, his hair a tousled mess. My eyes widened. I glanced from him to his parents and back again, my face burning.
“I’m going to get dressed,” I squeaked, and fled back to the safety of his room. I could hear them talking in the hallway, followed by laughter, which only made my cheeks burn hotter. Roman came back in a minute later, grinning.
“I almost thought you’d run off, but then I saw your dress on my floor. It looks good there,” he said, kissing me. “I told them I’m driving you home and getting you a McDonald’s breakfast. Is that okay?”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you. I don’t think I could face them right now.”
“Are you kidding? My mum is probably planning the wedding.”
Things continued like that for the next three months. Not quite a relationship, but more than just friends with benefits. We held hands in public. We kissed a lot. When I left for university, we saw each other on weekends for the first few months, but gradually, life got in the way. We both met other people. Our calls and texts became less frequent, until eventually, they stopped altogether.
That was the end of the second time our worlds collided.
And we never did get to have sex.
Chapter 1
The Winds Of Change
A global pandemic was not on my five-year plan. As a government worker, I’d spent the last year working from my rented one-bedroom flat in Glasgow, a home that was starting to feel more like a cage.
I’d dropped out of university in my second year, much to my parents’ disappointment. I hated the course, but I’d stayed in the city, landing a temp office job before eventually finding a government role I genuinely enjoyed. The flat itself was compact and expensive, and when the country first went into lockdown, the loneliness hit hard.
Since uni, I'd adopted a 'work hard, play hard' philosophy, finally shedding my teenage awkwardness. My work colleagues were a lifeline, and I kept in regular contact with my parents, though visits were rare. Just as the pandemic hit, they retired and moved to France.
Their move was a surprise. They had always planned to retire to a village about ninety minutes from Glasgow, where my grandparents had owned a holiday cottage that I’d inherited a few years ago. I hadn't used it since they passed, instead renting it out to help with my expenses. My parents were a bit resentful they hadn't been given the cottage, and I suspect that’s what prompted the move to France.
The cottage held a wealth of memories, including being the place I first met my teenage crush. Even now, at twenty-five, thinking about him still gave me butterflies. The village was a popular holiday spot, but it had isolated itself during the pandemic, remaining a rare, illness-free bubble where visitors were prohibited.
On top of the lockdown loneliness, my latest relationship had ended. Jason and I had been together for two years, but true to form, the cracks in my taste in men began to show as soon as we were forced into close quarters. He’d stay over a few times a week, bringing with him a fresh batch of conspiracy theories. The daily arguments quickly became exhausting, until we both agreed we’d become different people. I knew we were never a long-term thing, that I’d been settling for someone who was a decent person but completely wrong for me. Still, on a miserable, rainy day like today, the solitude was hard to bear.
Ordinarily, I liked my own company, but I’d reached my limit. There’s only so much TV you can watch, only so many books you can read. The tipping point came when my landlady called to say she was moving back into the flat, which meant I had to move out. I had no idea how I was going to find another place. The property market was stagnant, and while I’d been saving for a deposit on a small house, I was nowhere near ready to buy. I poured myself a large glass of wine, put on some Fleetwood Mac, and called my best friend, Amy.
"Hey," she answered. "Oh no. What's wrong? I hear Fleetwood Mac."
I had to laugh. Amy knew it was my go-to playlist for difficult days. If the music and wine weren't working, she knew it was serious. I gave her the rundown: another ridiculous conspiracy text from Jason, a stressful workday, and now, my landlady kicking me out.
"Shit, Vi, that's a lot. Have you got enough wine?" I could always count on Amy to find the humour. "But seriously, that’s rough. We both know Jason's an arse, so just block him and remember how selfish he was in bed." I smiled at that. "About the flat… I know you said you don't have enough for a deposit, but I could lend you the rest."
Amy had a good job and earned twice what I did, but I’d learned my lesson about borrowing money from friends. "Amy, we've talked about this. It's not that I don't appreciate it, it's just…"
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "Look, if you won't take it from me, what about selling the cottage? It's not making you any money right now, and you never use it. Or you could go stay with your parents in France."
I considered it for a second, then recoiled. The thought of living under the same roof as my parents, even for a few days, was unbearable. "It's a nice idea, but I could never sell it. Too much sentimental value. And one of us would probably end up buried under the patio if I had to stay with them. Sorry, I'm just grumpy. I think I'm just going to have a self-pitying cry into my wine."
I asked about her day, and we chatted until my bath was ready. I lit some candles and sank under the bubbles, my wine glass newly refilled. I knew I couldn't part with the cottage. Besides, it probably wasn't in any state for a quick sale. My mind drifted, the steam from the bath blurring the edges of my tiny Glasgow bathroom and transporting me somewhere else entirely.
I pictured the cottage, nestled in its own little clearing. It wasn't just a house; it was a feeling. The memory of sitting on the wide wooden porch with my grandparents was so clear I could almost feel the worn, sun-warmed planks under my bare feet and hear the gentle creak of the swing seat. The air there was different—clean and sharp with the scent of pine from the dense forest that stood like a silent guardian right at the edge of the garden. Behind the cottage, the beautiful, dark waters of the loch stretched out, so still on summer mornings you could see a perfect reflection of the mountains.
From the cottage, a ten-minute walk down a rambling path, shaded by overhanging oaks, led to the small local primary school. It was a quaint, single-storey stone building that looked more like a large house, serving the children from the village and its even smaller neighbour. Walking twenty-five minutes in the other direction, the path opened up and you reached the village itself.
It was impossibly picturesque, a cluster of whitewashed and stone cottages with slate roofs, huddled together between the forest and the loch. There was the pub, The Angler’s Rest, with its low ceilings and the constant, low murmur of fiercely loyal locals. Next to it, the village shop, its bell tinkling whenever the door opened, smelling of newspapers and fresh bread. Then there was the modest café, which served bacon rolls in the morning and turned into a cosy bar in the evening.
On the opposite side of the loch, connected by a narrow stone bridge, was the holiday village. It was a different world. Brighter, louder, a sprawling complex owned entirely by the Grant family. They had started with one holiday home and now presided over an empire: a modern hotel, a restaurant with panoramic loch views, a swimming pool, a chaotic soft-play area, a small bowling alley, flashing arcades, and multiple bars. In the summer, the place was teeming with life, a constant buzz of tourists and locals enjoying the nightly entertainment.
I could almost smell the cinnamon from my gran’s kitchen, a scent that for me was the very essence of the cottage. Cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate for breakfast were a staple. In the evenings, the air would be thick with the scent of barbecues and the sweet, woody perfume of the smoke from the log burner. It was always a wonderful escape from the city. We spent most school holidays there, and I often thought about the other kids we met, especially Roman. I wondered what his life was like now. I’d searched for him on social media a few times but never found him. Last I heard, he’d moved to Dundee to become a teacher.
My mind wandered back to the cottage itself, that charming, three-bedroom stone house. I remembered the feel of the cold, iron latch on the front door, the way the light streamed through the living room window in the afternoon, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. I remembered waking up to see my grandad reading the paper on the sofa and my gran in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, telling me what was for dinner.
A wave of comfort washed over me. It felt wet. I realised I’d fallen asleep and was starting to slip under the water. I jolted awake. The water was lukewarm, the candles had burned down to stubs, and my wine glass was empty. I grabbed a towel, climbed out, and headed straight to bed. I pulled the duvet up to my chin, expecting a restless night.
To my surprise, I slept deeply, drifting through dreams of the cottage. I woke feeling content and decided to go for a run before work. Running always cleared my head, and this morning was no exception. I felt lighter than the night before.
I laced up my trainers, chose a playlist, and set off for the nearby park. It was drizzling, but I barely noticed. I tried to let the music take over, but my thoughts kept returning to the cottage. What was my subconscious trying to tell me? I didn't want to sell it, so why were these memories so intense? Before I knew it, I was back in my hallway, gasping for breath, having just set a new personal best.
I showered quickly, made some toast, and booted up my laptop. The day was a blur of virtual meetings until lunchtime. As I was getting some ham from the fridge, my phone rang. It was Amy.
"Hey, just making lunch, what's up?" I said, putting her on loudspeaker.
"About the flat situation," she began. "I was thinking. I know you won't move in with me or take my money, and you won't sell the cottage. But what about living in it for a while? Just hear me out. Okay, it's not Glasgow, and it's miles away from me, which is a major drawback. But, on the plus side: more space, no rent, your work won't be affected, and you could save a fortune for your deposit. I could visit at weekends, you could stay with me… what do you think?"
I listened, properly this time. It was an option I hadn't even considered, but she was right. It made sense. It would need a lot of work, but if I could get decent Wi-Fi and work remotely for a few more months, it was feasible. I did the mental maths.
"I'd have enough for a deposit in maybe six or eight months if I moved there," I said, thinking aloud.
"See! It's a plan! It doesn't have to be forever," Amy said excitedly.
"It'll need a lot of work before I can move in. I've only got six weeks."
"I'll help! And I bet Robbie will too. In fact, he'll be thrilled." I could hear the smile in her voice.
Robbie was a local from the village, our age. We’d spent most of our summers together, and he'd taken an immediate liking to Amy. Unfortunately for him, he was far too much of a 'country bumpkin' for her to see him as anything more than a holiday fling. But she was right. He’d definitely help. At least I’d have one friend there.
"Road trip this weekend?" Amy asked.
"Okay, yes. We can go and check it out." Amy squealed down the phone.
I wasn't decided, but financially, it was a sound plan. I wanted to see the state of it first. I shuddered at the thought of winter there; the village was notorious for getting snowed in. I’d let the holiday village owners act as agents for the cottage, so I clicked on their website to find the listing. I knew they’d taken new photos last year when I’d replaced the master bed.
I found it. The outside looked the same: aged brick, with a wrap-around wooden porch that had definitely seen better days, the paint peeling in places. I grabbed a notepad and started a list. Most of the furniture looked okay. The solid oak dining table needed a sand and a paint, as did the downstairs walls. The photos were professional, well-lit, but they couldn't hide the truth. It looked so drab, nothing like I remembered. It felt cold and unloved. Guilt pricked at me again. As I scrolled through the photos, my list grew.
My lunch break was definitely over. I sent a quick text to Amy with a link to the photos. Fancy a trip to B&Q tonight? Want to get some supplies for the weekend.
On it, she replied instantly.
Of course she was. Home decorating was her dream career. I could already picture her with a stack of colour swatches, every room planned out before we even got there. The thought made me laugh. I spent the rest of the afternoon in meetings, my mind wandering to the cottage. By the end of the day, I’d made my decision. I was going to make this work. I was going to make the cottage my home until I had my deposit. I’d already cleared it with my manager, who was happy for me to work remotely until next spring.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a spark of excitement. This was my cottage. I could do whatever I wanted with it. It was mine. I looked at the time, grabbed my jacket, and just as I did, I heard a car horn outside. Amy. Right on time.
