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

  I couldn’t find a flat here at first, which is how I ended up in the Acton place, but it’s why I wanted to work in the bookshop. And that’s how I met Henry and of course that’s how I ended up living here. So it all worked out.

  Mum was happy of course because Angela was nearby. She said she’d worry about me less if she knew there was a friend I could go to in an emergency, but not long after I moved here, Angela moved to Spain with a man she met on Twitter.

  I do love it here though. The shops, the cafes, the park, the cinema. It’s far enough from Central London that it has its own distinct personality, but I can still be in the West End in less than half an hour. I’ve never regretted coming here. My only regret was that in the three years I’ve been here, I hadn’t met him. But now I have.

  I haven’t actually told anyone that the park, the dream, is why I chose to move here. Not Henry. Not even Freya. I know they’d think it was insane. And I know it is a bit mad, I know it is. But it made sense to me. And it makes even more sense to me now that I’ve met him. Obviously I was meant to come here. Obviously this was all meant to be.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m in the park, but then I’m suddenly on the other side of the railings, crossing the road towards the coffee shop. It’s the one I went to with Dan, but Dan’s not with me. And the coffee shop isn’t actually opposite the park. There’s a huge queue. I know I need to catch the Tube and I know there’s one leaving imminently, but I have to get a coffee first. And then I notice some pastries in the display case and I really want one of those too and I’m not sure if asking for a pastry will take too long or if the woman serving will just get me the pastry while my coffee’s happening. I reach for my purse in my bag to see if I’ve got the right change – that’ll be quicker – but I can’t find my purse. I hold my bag open and rummage through it, but it’s full of crap: books, a bottle of wine, loads of random bits of paperwork, an apple, my old yellow Converse that I spilled coffee on. I’m at the front of the queue and I can hear the Tube coming, so I give up on my coffee and run for the Tube instead: into the station, across the ticket hall, through the barriers, down the stairs, onto the platform, and I just manage to jump onto the train as the doors close behind me.

  And then I wake up.

  * * *

  I get off the Tube at Westminster and walk across the bridge. I love this part of town. I love the Thames and the Houses of Parliament, the tour buses and black cabs. Even the dozens of tourists, bumping into each other and posing for photos against the balustrade, the London Eye in the background. I’ve been in London for a while now, but being near the river always makes me feel a bit giddy. I really live in London. Me!

  I’m hyper aware that Dan could be anywhere, watching me as I walk to the spot where we arranged to meet, and it makes me self-conscious. I’m wearing comfy and flat ass-kicking boots in the hope that I won’t fall over and make a tit of myself, but I’ve also got on my favourite skirt and coat to give me a confidence boost. Even so, I’m still absolutely bloody terrified.

  I dodge a guy selling tourist tat from a folding table, and walk down the steps from the bridge to the front of County Hall and then along the South Bank. The sun is actually shining today and even though it’s still a bit chilly, the bars and cafes are buzzing. There are a few stalls set up selling international food and my stomach rumbles at the smell of dim sum. I couldn’t eat any breakfast – too nervous.

  I look at every man I pass – and every man who passes me – in case it’s Dan, and I’m struck by how none of them are as good-looking as he is. And none of them look as friendly. I’m looking forward to seeing him. And feeling sick to my stomach at the same time. Nice.

  As I get closer to the London Eye, my stomach’s churning so badly that I consider turning down the side of County Hall and just going home. Or at least to the nearest public loo. Henry’s right, I can’t really have dreamt Dan. Dreams don’t really come true. I’ve probably made the whole thing up because I’m embarrassed about only having had one relationship. Or because I’m lonely. But then I think about not knowing. Always wondering. And I keep walking. There’s a woman sitting on the low wall next to a coffee cart and as I pass her a man walks up and she stands and hugs him.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says.

  ‘I only just got here,’ she says into the side of his neck.

  I want that. I want someone to look forward to seeing me. To hug me when I arrive. To know that I’m always late or early or that I never go anywhere without a book and take brown sugar in coffee, but white sugar in tea. I want that. I keep walking.

  There are little knots of people pretty much everywhere I look, but I can’t see Dan. I check my phone – it’s one o’clock. The time we arranged to meet on the steps to the Aquarium. I stand at the bottom step, my back against the wall, and look up and down the path. By the time I spot Dan, he’s almost right in front of me – I don’t know how I missed him. He’s wearing the same black coat, but it’s open and I can see he’s got an orange V-neck jumper on over a white T-shirt and faded jeans. He looks good. The jeans are tight and I can see he’s got big thighs. I wonder if he runs. Or maybe he swims. Swimmers have the best bodies, Freya told me that. Although she was talking about women swimmers (she had a fling with a woman on the Australian team during the 2012 Olympics). But it’s probably the same for men.

  ‘Hey!’ he says, his face breaking into a huge smile.

  I smile back, even though my face feels frozen. ‘Hi.’

  He puts one hand on my shoulder and leans in to quickly kiss me on the lips. My breath catches in my chest.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I was just picking up the tickets.’ He gestures behind him.

  ‘For the Aquarium?’ He didn’t say that’s what we were doing, but I assumed so when he suggested meeting here.

  ‘No, for the London Eye,’ he says. And then his face falls. ‘Shit. You’re not scared of heights or anything, are you? I didn’t even think. It’s just that I’ve never actually been on it and I’ve been meaning to, but I didn’t want to go on my own. And someone told me it’s romantic. Although it doesn’t really look it right now.’

  He cranes his neck to look up at it again, but I stop his flow of conversation with a hand on his arm. ‘No, that’s fine. Not scared. I haven’t been on it either. That’s perfect.’

  * * *

  Dan bought express tickets so we don’t have to queue for long. This is a good thing because I’m too nervous to think of much to say. Instead we read the signs, nod at random details about the other people in the queue – a small girl with a bag shaped like a penguin, the words ‘See you when you get there’ tattooed on the back of a man’s neck – and watch each pod glide up into the sky.

  ‘This is so cool!’ Dan says, once we’re in our pod.

  It really is. The pods are huge and hold twenty-five people (we read that in the queue). A few people have gone straight for the seating in the middle, but most are standing at the glass and looking out. I can’t believe I haven’t made time to come on it before, but you just don’t really do the touristy things so much once you live here. I should actually try to do more. I look up. The sky is blue with just a few wispy clouds. It’s a perfect day.

  We climb higher and it’s actually much slower than I was expecting it to be, so slow that I can hardly feel it moving at all. I look back at Westminster Bridge and spot the guy with the tat table. I watch him getting smaller. No, he’s not getting smaller. I’m just moving higher.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Dan says, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘It looks like a model village down there.’

  He points and I look and see a tiny train crossing the bridge. No. Not tiny. Far away. Very far away.

  ‘I love the Gherkin,’ Dan says and I look over at that instead. It still looks big. Not as big as it should be, but still big. I put my hand on my chest. I can feel my heart racing.

  ‘Oh wow!’ Dan says, pointing down. ‘How cool
is that? There’s a carousel. We should go on that.’

  I look down. I shouldn’t have looked down. I see grass. And teeny, tiny people. And water. Oh god, water. I look up and that’s not actually better because above us is another pod. People inside a glass ball. On a wheel. Over water.

  I can’t breathe. My chest is tight and everything’s dark and I can’t breathe and I’m dying. I lean forward and my head bumps the glass. It makes a dull thud.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dan says. ‘Shit, no. Obviously not. Just breathe.’

  That’s great advice. If I could breathe, I would breathe. But I can’t. Because of the whole ‘I’m dying’ thing.

  ‘Count to three as you breathe in and three as you breathe out…’

  One. Two. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. My hands are clammy and pressing against something cold. I touch my head to it too. Nice and cool. One… two… shit.

  ‘Focus on your senses. What can you hear?’

  Focus on my senses? Is this still Dan? Or do they have like a first aider in here. Someone who knows about these things. Someone who’ll press an emergency button and get me out of here.

  I try to focus on my senses, but it’s hard to do when I’m actually dying. My life’s not flashing before my eyes though. Maybe because it’s too boring. I read that when your life flashes before your eyes, it’s actually your brain desperately searching through your memories to find something that will help in the current situation. There’s nothing in my life that could possibly help in this situation. My brain’s probably scrolling through old episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race or Grey’s Anatomy.

  ‘What can you smell?’ someone says.

  Aftershave. Something that smells a bit like tobacco, maybe? And lemon? I don’t know. And rubber. I can smell rubber. And… something really familiar. Like mango and vanilla? It’s a Solero. Someone’s eating a Solero.

  ‘What can you taste?’

  Metal. Pennies. Blood. That’s adrenaline, I know. I think I did actually learn that from Grey’s Anatomy. Good work, brain.

  ‘Do you think you could come and sit down?’ the voice says.

  I grab at the glass – is it even glass? Maybe it’s plastic, oh god – and my nails screech against it. I jerk backwards and immediately feel large hands on my upper arms.

  ‘It’s OK,’ the voice (Dan?) says. ‘You’re OK. Come and sit down. You’ll feel better when you’re sitting down.’

  Everything’s still black and that’s the worst part. Was it a power cut? No, it’s the middle of the day, a power cut wouldn’t make a difference. I don’t understand why it’s so dark.

  ‘Do you think you can open your eyes a little?’ the voice says.

  Oh.

  I open one eye the tiniest bit and immediately see the Thames spread out in front of me. In front and below. Really far below. So far below. I clamp my eye shut again.

  ‘Well done.’ The hand has moved down to my hand now and is holding it, rubbing over the back of it with a thumb. I really hope it is Dan, otherwise this guy is way over-familiar.

  ‘You’re doing great. Everything’s OK. Just breathe.’

  I can breathe, I realise. I am breathing. Clearly I was breathing the whole time or I’d be dead by now. But it didn’t feel like it. It felt like I was dying.

  ‘What happened?’ I whisper. My voice sounds croaky.

  ‘You’re having a panic attack,’ the voice says. ‘It’s OK. You’re OK.’

  The voice is Dan’s, I’m pretty sure. I would open my eyes and check, but I don’t want to.

  ‘Breathe,’ Dan says. ‘You’re looking better. You’ve got some colour in your face now. You were white as a sheet for a bit there.’

  I nod. I nod and I breathe and I open my eyes and stare down at my boots. My kick-ass boots. They must be embarrassed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for helping.’

  ‘We’re almost back down,’ he says. ‘You’re doing great.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. But I’m not going to look. ‘OK.’

  * * *

  My legs aren’t working properly. I’m shaky and unsteady and feel like I could just collapse to the ground any second. In fact, that sounds like a plan. Lie down, curl up in the foetal position, forget any of this ever happened. Dan helps me over to a bench in front of County Hall, his arm tight around my waist.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dan says again.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks. I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘You don’t need to be,’ Dan says. ‘You had a panic attack. It could happen to anyone.’

  ‘How did you know what to do?’ I ask him, thinking of his reassuring voice, his reminders to breathe, to focus on my senses.

  He shrugs. ‘My sister has them sometimes.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Good. No, I don’t mean… not good about your sister. Good that you knew what to do. It really helped.’

  ‘No problem. You want me to grab you a cab or…’

  I glance at him and then back at the Thames. It looks so unthreatening from here – it’s not even choppy, whereas when I was up there…

  ‘I’m OK to get the Tube,’ I say. ‘I think.’

  ‘No, no. You’re not doing that. Unless I come with you.’

  ‘No, you don’t need to do that. It’s far.’

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Just the Northern line, isn’t it? S’fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can text Henry to meet me at the station?’

  ‘You should do that, yeah, but I’m still getting the Tube with you. No arguments.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  I stare out at the water, mentally checking over my body for signs of stress. My heart is still racing slightly and my hands are a bit shaky, but I mostly feel fine.

  ‘Maybe not just yet though,’ I say. I text Henry, but I don’t tell him about the panic attack – I know he’ll only worry – I just ask him if he’ll come and meet me. He replies

  No problem

  almost immediately.

  Dan and I sit in silence for a while and I wonder if he wants to bolt. Leave the panicky weirdo here and leg it.

  ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ Dan says, pointing at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. So not yet then.

  I nod. ‘I never really get used to it. Every time I come down here it strikes me again.’

  ‘That was one of the first reasons I wanted to come to London,’ Dan says. ‘We came with the school when I was eleven. And I got obsessed with Big Ben. Whenever anyone I knew went to London, I’d ask them to bring me one back. I had a whole row of them on a shelf in my room.’

  ‘That’s so cute! And it is pretty gorgeous. I love the Shard,’ I say, leaning forward to see if I can see it from here, but I can’t.

  ‘There’s a nice restaurant up there,’ Dan says, also leaning forward. ‘We could… wait, no.’

  ‘No heights,’ I say, wincing. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘All future dates at ground level. Noted.’

  My stomach flips a little at the prospect of ‘future dates’. I haven’t put him off by being completely mad. That is good to know.

  After a few minutes – and much checking from Dan that I really am one hundred percent OK to walk, we get up to head to Waterloo. I stumble a bit as we step up onto Westminster Bridge and Dan grabs my elbow.

  ‘See!’ Dan says. ‘You’re not OK!’

  ‘I am! I promise. Wobbly paving.’ I demonstrate by waggling the paving stone with my foot.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

  I look up at him. His hand is still on my arm. And it suddenly strikes me that this is him. This is the man I’ve been dreaming about. This is the man I was meant to meet. Maybe it doesn’t matter that I made a show of myself. Maybe it doesn’t matter that, so far, it hasn’t worked out as smoothly as I expected it to. It’s still meant to happen. Dan is still meant for me.

  I turn slightly towards him and I see his gaze flicker down to my mouth and then back up so he’s looking right into my e
yes. I want to say ‘Kiss me’ like a heroine in a romance novel. Or something cheesy like ‘Is it raining, I hadn’t noticed’ but it isn’t raining. And if it was, I’m sure I’d have noticed. My boots aren’t waterproof.

  I’m still staring at him and he’s still staring at me and he has to kiss me now, he just has to – we’ve been standing like this for too long for him not to. He smiles a little and then his fingers are on the side of my neck, his thumb brushing over my jaw. And I think, this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for for ten years. And it’s about to happen. A bus goes past and lets out one of those deafening gas brake sounds and Dan and I both laugh.

  And then we’re kissing. Or at least he’s kissing me. I’m not sure I’m contributing much because I’m kind of stunned. His lips are soft and he’s kissing me gently, his mouth really just grazing mine. I sigh and then his tongue slides across my bottom lip and his hand tightens on the back of my neck and we’re kissing properly.

  And part of me is thinking about how this looks. How romantic it must appear. We’re on Westminster Bridge! The Houses of Parliament are behind us, County Hall and the London Eye are just to the side, the Thames is flowing beneath us. I wonder if tourists are taking photos. If I’ll be able to find them on Instagram later. I wonder what the hashtag would be.

  But Dan’s still kissing me and I’m thinking about hashtags. I focus my attention back on him. His lips. His hands – the other one is on my waist, inside my coat, I don’t know when that happened.

  I tentatively slide my tongue alongside his and I’m surprised at how not-weird it feels. It’s not amazing – my knees aren’t weak and I’m not about to climb him like a tree – but it’s good.