It Had To Be You: An absolutely laugh-out-loud romance novel

  It Had To Be You

  An absolutely laugh-out-loud romance novel

  Keris Stainton

  For my sister Leanne, who, while I was writing this book, kicked cancer’s ass.

  Contents

  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

  If You Could See Me Now

  Hear more from Keris

  Also by Keris Stainton

  A Letter from Keris

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  I’m in the park. It’s a bright day – the sun is golden and warm – but raindrops are glinting on the grass and the black iron railings are shiny. A taxi whooshes past. I see him in the distance and I immediately know he’s mine. Or, if he’s not mine yet, he’s going to be mine. He’s walking towards me along the path, but he’s not looking in my direction, he’s looking over towards the row of shops opposite. I breathe in the scent of freshly cut grass, coffee from the Greek cafe, garlic and tomatoes from the pizza place with the flashing neon sign.

  I’m not moving, I’m just watching, staring, and he still hasn’t looked at me, but I know that he’ll be happy when he sees me, I can feel joy bubbling up inside me. But not just joy: warmth and safety and love.

  He turns away from the shops and sits on a bench – his long legs stretched out in front of him – and tips his head back, turning his face up to the sun.

  And I walk towards him.

  Chapter One

  ‘Do you have a book about bodies?’ the man says without actually looking up at me.

  Behind the counter, I frown, trying to remember where I’ve seen one. ‘I think there’s a book about anatomy in with—’

  ‘No.’ His long fringe hides his face. He lowers his voice, even though there’s no one else in the shop. ‘Not like that. Bodies. Like… naked bodies.’

  ‘Oh.’ My cheeks heat as I realise what he means. ‘Yes. They’re actually just behind me here.’ I point to the high shelves in the back corner and he heads in that direction, without looking up. I hope he doesn’t crash into any of the display tables.

  ‘I think there’s a book about anatomy,’ Henry whispers, mimicking me.

  ‘Shut up.’ I glance over at the customer, who has taken down one of the huge, glossy art books and is flicking through it on a nearby table, his body curled over it like a comma.

  ‘Not quite as bad as the time that woman asked you for the clitoris book,’ Henry says. ‘But a good Level Three blush.’

  I’m twenty-five years old. I really shouldn’t still blush when someone says ‘clitoris’. And the ridiculous thing is that Henry blushes every time he repeats the clitoris story and yet he does it anyway to tease me. (And he’s twenty-six.)

  ‘You’re the one who heard “Simply Jesus” as “Simply Cheeses”,’ I say. I mimic him: ‘Is it by Nigella Lawson?’

  Henry snorts. ‘That guy was so offended.’

  ‘Not as offended as the pregnancy perv.’ But that was because Henry had chased him out of the shop and he hadn’t even properly fastened his trousers back up.

  A few minutes later, today’s probable perv passes us as he leaves, head still down, the bell on the door jingling behind him, but he seems to have remained clothed at least.

  ‘I’d better go and check he’s left that book as he found it,’ Henry says.

  ‘Ew. I’ll make us a tea then.’

  The kitchen isn’t a kitchen at all, it’s basically a cupboard at the back of the shop, so I carry on talking to Henry as I put the kettle on.

  ‘You were in my dream last night,’ I tell him, as I take my ‘My life is a romantic comedy (minus the romance and just me laughing at my own jokes)’ mug out of the cupboard.

  ‘Stop, Bea,’ Henry says. ‘I’m blushing.’

  ‘Not like that,’ I tell him, dropping a teabag into the mug. ‘We were on the Tube, but you were driving it and I was up there with you talking to you, but you kept saying I was distracting you, so I said I’d drive and I did, but it wasn’t a Tube any more then, it was a bus, but the windows were all steamed up and I couldn’t see where we were going.’

  ‘I think that means you feel like you have a lack of control in our relationship,’ I hear Henry say.

  ‘Seriously?’ I poke my head out of the cupboard. ‘I mean, that could actually make sense, but—’

  Henry laughs. ‘No! I think it means you ate the last of the good cheese when you were watching Master of None last night.’

  I did do that, he’s right. I roll my eyes. ‘Very helpful. Thank you.’

  ‘I have always wanted to drive a Tube, though.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s why we always sit at the front on the DLR.’

  ‘We should do that this weekend. It’s been ages.’

  He heads back behind the desk so I can see him from the kitchen.

  ‘You didn’t have your usual dream then?’ Henry asks. ‘I thought you had that every night.’

  He means my recurring dream. About a man in the park. Everyone knows about it. Everyone takes the piss out of me about it.

  ‘Not last night, no,’ I say. Even though I did. ‘And I don’t have it every night. Just most nights.’

  Once the kettle’s boiled, I open the fridge and find that we’re out of milk. Again. Even though there’s a big sheet of paper with ‘Use the last of the milk? Buy more!’ written on it (I wrote it and put it there), no one takes any notice. I don’t understand it. If you use the last of the milk – and you know you have because you’ve managed to wash out the plastic bottle and put it in the recycling box – WHY would you not go and get more? I could understand it maybe if the shop was far away (although that would still be selfish, obvs) but it’s practically next door. Next door but one, in fact. So it literally takes two minutes to get there and back.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.

  ‘We should just start drinking it black,’ Henry says. ‘Lazy bastards.’

  I leave the milk-less tea and grab my coat off the hook on the back of the door.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own?’ I ask. The shop’s empty, but we always ask each other this, it’s become a running joke.

  ‘I think I’ll probably manage,’ Henry says, sitting down behind the counter and opening a copy of the Observer that Craig, who works weekends, has left behind.

  It was raining when I got here an hour ago, but when I step out of the shop onto the street, I realise the weather’s changed completely. It’s a little chilly, but the sky is clear blue and the sun is bright. The road is wet and shiny and I take a couple of steps back as a black cab whooshes past – the pavement’s narrow here and I’ve been splashed before.

  The g
rocer’s is quiet – I’ve missed the early rush and I’m too early for the lunchtime rush. Zeta is behind the counter. She’s staring down at her phone, her thumbs flying over the keyboard, but looks up at me and smiles. I head towards the back of the shop for the milk, stopping to consider an avocado and maybe some tomatoes for my lunch. But I’ve got a Tupperware of pasta so I should leave them till tomorrow. I grab an apple for myself and an orange for Henry and pay Zeta. As I’m leaving, her boyfriend passes me and I turn back and watch him pick Zeta up and swing her around. They’re so cute together, but Henry always says their PDA is enough to make the fruit go off. I suspect he thinks they’re cute too – I’m convinced there’s a romance-loving heart hiding somewhere inside his cardigan – but he’d never admit it.

  * * *

  ‘Split,’ Henry whispers to me, gesturing subtly at the couple who come into the shop just after lunch. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, looking over at them. The man is much taller than the woman. He’s wearing a leather jacket and he’s got a messenger bag across his body. The woman is wearing a tea dress over leggings and yellow Converse, the same as mine. She’s turning the card carousel and he’s reading the back of one of the popular paperbacks, but I can’t see which one.

  ‘He rolled his eyes when she said she wanted to look at the cards.’

  ‘So? Maybe they’ve looked at cards in like ten shops already? Maybe he’s sick to death of cards.’

  ‘But eye-rolling is aggressive. In a relationship.’

  I roll my eyes and then grin. ‘They seem cute.’

  We always play this game when couples come into the shop – trying to predict whether they’ll stay together or split up. We started playing it after a couple came in who seemed loved-up at first – she had her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, which I hate, but still – but then later he held up a copy of one of the arty ‘anatomy’ books and called ‘Remember when yours looked like this, eh?’ across the shop to her. When she came to pay for the Nicholas Sparks book she was buying, she said, ‘Sorry about him. He’s a prick.’

  * * *

  ‘What about this one?’ today’s woman says, holding a card out to the man.

  ‘I literally couldn’t give a shit,’ he says, without looking up from his book.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Right?’ Henry says. ‘I kind of want her to chuck him right now.’

  I smile. That’s the only problem with this game: we never know who won, we never get to find out which of us was right.

  ‘I don’t understand being with someone who speaks to you like that,’ Henry says, once the couple have left. She didn’t buy the card. He bought the book.

  ‘Maybe he’s having a bad day and he’s usually an absolute sweetheart,’ I say. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Or if he treats her like that in public, what’s he like in private?’ Henry counters.

  ‘Maybe we should’ve written her a note. Like, “you don’t have to stay with him if he’s always this mean”.’

  ‘We should just get cards printed up with “Dump him” on them,’ Henry suggests. ‘We could stick them in the books.’

  ‘All the books?’ I say. ‘Bold.’

  ‘We could make different cards,’ Henry suggests, as he starts peeling his orange. ‘Get them printed for all eventualities. You know, like “Maybe try deodorant”.’

  I wrinkle my nose on reflex. We have more than one customer who ‘negatively impacts the odour of the store’, as a secret shopper report once worded it. Right now, thanks to Henry, it smells of citrus and the woody cologne he wears.

  ‘They wouldn’t all have to be negative,’ Henry continues, warming to his theme. ‘‘Nice shoes” or “Great hair!” or “Yes, your kids are annoying, but all kids are annoying sometimes and you seem like a great mum”.’

  ‘Specific,’ I say, smiling. ‘Or maybe more cryptic? Like “Maybe not” or “Reconsider”.’

  ‘“Repent!”’ Henry says so loudly that I the older woman who’s been perusing the self-help section glances towards us with a worried expression.

  ‘Maybe “You’re doing amazing, sweetie”,’ I say. ‘Because who doesn’t want to hear that?’

  Henry stares at me for a second, his eyes looking a little unfocused behind his glasses. ‘I actually like that idea.’

  I grin at him. ‘Right? Not sure head office would approve though.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Bastards,’ I agree, mildly. They’re actually fine. We barely hear from them. The one customer leaves. Henry goes to make us another cup of tea.

  Chapter Two

  Henry and I walk home from work together, but when we get back to the flat he heads straight into his room, like he always does. After a day in the shop, I always want a beer or a glass of wine and a chat with one of our other housemates, but Henry seems to need at least a half hour alone to decompress. I’d found it weird at first, but I’m used to it now.

  ‘Someone left the breakfast dishes again,’ Freya says from the sink, her back to me.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask her, stopping behind her and resting my chin on her shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t know it was you. I just knew it was someone. And someone left the breakfast dishes again.’

  That’s the main downside about all of us sharing a kitchen – people don’t do their dishes and sometimes they nick other people’s food. Between home and work, I spend way too much time stressing over other people’s bad kitchen manners. We take it in turns to cook most nights and it works out really well, but the dishes are a constant problem. Henry’s been trying to talk his dad, who’s our landlord, into getting us a dishwasher, but nothing doing so far.

  I kiss Freya on the cheek and say, ‘Leave them. I’ll do them.’

  ‘I’m nearly done now,’ she says. ‘Get a drink.’

  The kitchen and the bathroom were the only rooms we were all meant to share when I first moved in here. There are five other rooms – it’s a three-storey flat above a cafe in a Victorian terrace – and when I moved in they were all occupied. Freya and I both have back rooms. Even though it’s his dad’s place, Henry has a really tiny room next to the front door. When I moved in, Adam and Celine were in one front room and Henry’s cousin was in the other. After he’d gone, we interviewed a few people, but didn’t like anyone and finally realised that we just didn’t want anyone new, so Henry’s dad said we could all pay a bit extra in rent and convert the upstairs bedroom into a lounge. It was the best thing we ever did.

  ‘What are you making?’ I ask Freya, as I grab myself a bottle of Corona from the fridge.

  ‘Corned beef hash.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I say, shoving one of the dining chairs back against the wall so I’m out of the way. I sit down and stretch my arms over my head, feeling my back stretch and my spine click. Even though the shop’s not busy, I spend most of my time standing and it’s always good to sit down when I get home. The beer helps too.

  The front door slams and Celine bursts into the kitchen, throwing her bag down on the table and yanking her jacket off.

  ‘Is Adam home?’

  She hangs her jacket – caramel suede, expensive – over the back of one of the chairs, then runs her hands through her long dark hair. I didn’t think I’d like Celine when I first met her and I absolutely admit it’s because she’s so gorgeous. And smart – she’s a lawyer specialising in copyright. She’s totally intimidating. But she’s also lovely and funny and kind and I’m an idiot. She’d actually be the perfect housemate if it wasn’t for her and Adam’s rows. And then the making up. The making up might actually be worse than the rows – Freya, Henry and I have discussed it, but we’re undecided.

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t know. Only just got home.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ Freya says, turning from the sink to the cooker.

  ‘Ugh, he’s such an arsehole,’ Celine says. She opens the fridge, gets a beer and al
most breaks the wall-mounted opener she smacks it so hard.

  ‘Bad day?’ Freya asks, stirring the contents of a pan with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Bad fucking life,’ Celine says. She takes a long swig of her beer then says, ‘I think it’s over this time.’ She peels her false eyelashes off and drops them into her bag.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. I’m not worried. She’s said it before. Loads of times.

  She shrugs. ‘He’s been ignoring me all day even though we’ve talked about him doing that before. He knows I hate it. I don’t care if he tells me he hasn’t got time to talk, but he needs to tell me that, not just ignore me!’

  ‘What if he, ah, hasn’t got time to tell you?’ Freya asks.

  I bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from laughing.

  ‘Listen, if he’s got time to go to that fucking noodle place with his dickhead mate at lunchtime, he’s got time to text me. Knob.’

  She opens the fridge, pulls out a head of lettuce, a packet of tomatoes and a red pepper, drops them onto the dining table and starts making a salad in an incredibly aggressive way, the knife screeching against the glass chopping board.

  ‘Would you rather peel the potatoes?’ Freya says. ‘I’m not sure the lettuce can survive that kind of abuse.’

  Celine puts the knife down and crunches into a slice of pepper.

  ‘Should it be this hard?’ she says, looking at me and then Freya and back to me again. ‘I don’t know if it should be this hard.’