The Night We First Met

Clare Swatman

Description

'A beautifully written tale of enduring love' Rowan Coleman

One night in December, Marianne Cooper is running away from a party. Having found her boyfriend in a passionate clinch with someone else, she can’t get away fast enough.

That same night, twenty-two year old Ted Green is trying to make the hardest decision of his life. What he really needs is someone he can confide in.

When Marianne meets Ted, with the lights of London shining around them, the night becomes one they’ll never forget. Because this night might just be the start of a love story to last them a lifetime. But as Ted watches Marianne leave in a black taxi, all he can think is he should have asked for her name and phone number.

In a story spanning twenty years, join Ted and Marianne as they navigate life’s twists and turns, joys and heartbreaks, while all the time wondering - will fate ever bring them together again… Perfect for fans of Sophie Cousens and Isabelle Broom.
'I loved The Night We First Met by Clare Swatman. Warm, romantic and wonderfully written, it's an emotional and thought-provoking read with such relatable characters.' Debbie Howells
'The Night We First Met is a beautiful love story that vividly evokes time and place, transporting the reader to a snowy London night and a chance encounter that changes the lives of two people irrevocably. It takes us on a nostalgic and emotional trip through the past twenty years, and leaves you rooting for everyone who is brave enough to follow their heart and not their head.' Victoria Scott

Praise for Clare Swatman:

'The Night We First Met is a breathless story of enduring love that will fill your heart and give you hope.' Laura Kemp

'The Night We First Met is such a special book, filled with broken and relatable characters, who you can't help but love. Just Gorgeous!' Emma Cooper

'The Night We First Met' is a gorgeously romantic, sliding doors love story about how The One will find you in the end.' Katy Regan

'Heart-breaking and life-affirming in equal measures, Before We Grow Old is the tender story of a chance meeting between former childhood sweethearts Fran and Will, and is packed with secrets and revelations. Through her beautiful writing, Clare Swatman delivers a powerful lesson in learning to love with your whole heart and accepting the same, no matter what life throws at you.' Sarah Bennett

'Irresistible . . . A delightfully bittersweet story that will appeal to fans of One Day' - Sunday Mirror

'Wonderful' - Sun

Sujets

• Mashups
• Wholesome
• Conflict Resolution
• Feminist
• Holidays
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Suspenso
• Gran Londres
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Dating
• General officer
• Woman
• New Year
• Greater London
• Feminism
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Holiday
• Clean
• Central London
• Contemporary
• Family Life
• Romance
• Suspense
• Christmas
• Grand Londres
• Fiction
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 08 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781802806656
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE NIGHT WE FIRST MET


CLARE SWATMAN
For Serena, with love
CONTENTS



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

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue


Acknowledgments

More from Clare Swatman

Also by Clare Swatman

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1
13 DECEMBER 1991, 10.30 P.M.



Ted

It’s bitterly cold on the last day of my life, the snow dropping in scrappy flakes and smothering the city in a blanket of quiet white.
I watch it from the window, five floors up. It’s peaceful up here. The heating has gone off and I shiver, but I don’t dare put it on again. I’m taking enough liberties sleeping on Danny’s sofa without costing him more cash too. But he won’t have to worry about me taking up space for much longer.
Because after tonight, I’ll be gone.
I puff out my cheeks, stamp my feet on the carpet and turn away from the window, away from the cars streaking past below and the Londoners going about their everyday business, and sling my battered rucksack over my shoulder. I’ve been thinking about this for far too long now, it’s time to just get on with it.
I’ve always been logical, methodical. Which means that, even while thinking about the best way to end my life, I have made lists of people who might be affected, trying to work out whether I’d hurt anyone, and how I could get it over and done with while causing the least amount of drama. And it certainly feels as though I’ve finally come up with the best, most simple solution: to just slip away into the night, sink into the Thames and quietly disappear. The only people who will notice my absence are Danny, when his sofa is empty again, and my father, who probably won’t find out for a few weeks anyway when he rings to check up on me from his flat in Spain.
So that’s that.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly. Since returning from the Gulf, I’ve really tried. For the last eight months, I’ve done everything I can to stop the nightmares, to block the terror, and feel normal again. But nothing’s worked. So I’m not being flippant when I say this is for the best: one less person taking up space in the world. It’s the easiest thing for everyone. Including me.
Minutes later, I’m at ground level, walking along the road, head down, blinking away the snow that’s driving into my face. My coat isn’t thick enough and my skin burns where the wind whips through the fabric, but it doesn’t matter. Soon, I won’t feel anything, so it’s good to feel something for now. I spot the headlights of a bus approaching and quicken my pace to beat it to the bus stop. I’m not exactly on a tight schedule, but it somehow feels important to get on this bus and not have to sit and wait for the next one. Just in case I change my mind.
I make it on and clamber up to the top deck, drop my bag on the seat next to me and pull out the glass bottle that’s been my friend these last few months. I tip my head back and take a deep swig, feeling the amber liquid burn my throat as it slides down, the warmth spreading to my arms, my legs, my fingertips. Booze has been the only thing to numb me enough to get me through each day, and now it’s helping me to keep my mind off what I’m about to do. I polish off the rest of the bottle, and when the bus reaches my stop, I stand and stumble, almost falling before I manage to grab the yellow handle and pull myself upright. A woman a few rows down turns her head and watches me, then shrinks closer to the window away from this mad man who’s clearly drunker than he should be.
The fresh air hits me like a hammer in the face and I stand still on the pavement for a few moments as the bus drives away. The lights strung alongside the Thames whip back and forth violently in the breeze, and I notice it’s stopped snowing now, the piles of filthy slush along the edge of the pavement the only sign that it ever was.
On jelly-like legs, I cross the road. The traffic’s light down here at this time of night, too late for pub closing time, too early for the early bird commuters. The yellow lights of black cabs blur as they crawl past, hoping for custom. I reach the other side and approach the barrier separating me from the mighty strip of water below. It’s dark and choppy, the lights from the buildings lining the river reflected in shards and flashes, glinting like diamonds in candlelight. I can’t think about how cold it will be, how much my body will resist as I walk slowly into the murky depths. Instead, I feel inside the pockets of my jacket and my hand hits the ragged edges of a small rock. I’d collected a few large stones and small rocks when I was still trying to decide between the oblivion of freezing water, or the escape of pills. I chose this way in the end so that Danny didn’t have to walk in and discover my body. It didn’t seem fair after everything he’s done for me.
And so here I am. I peer down at the black water again, at the small semi-circle of sand and rubble that abuts the river wall from where I’d planned to walk out. Can I really just walk into the river and let the weight of the water take me down? I had thought it would be easy, but now I’m here, confronted by the river itself, doubts are starting to creep in. I glance to the left, and then to the right, up at Waterloo Bridge. Maybe that would be easier after all. A quick jump from the railings of the bridge, and that would be it. Over. No time to change my mind.
I push away from the wall, walk towards the bridge and trudge up the graffiti-covered concrete steps. The wind is stronger up here and bitterly cold. I pass the occasional person, dressed for a night out, but otherwise it’s eerily quiet. I walk halfway along the bridge then stop, wrap my fingers tightly around the white metal railings and study the scene. The black river in front of me, the Royal Festival Hall to my left, empty and silent like a sentinel at this time of night, Charing Cross Station to my right. The barrier between me and the drop only reaches just below chest height – it would be so easy to just leap over and let go.
I glance left and right again, making sure no one is watching me. The coast seems clear, so I press my trainer into the bottom railing and swing my right leg over, dropping my foot until it reaches the curved narrow ledge of concrete below. My left leg follows and I grip the rail even more tightly, my fingers numb from the cold. I try to turn slowly round to face the water. I need to be clear what I’m doing, where I’m going, it seems important somehow to face up to it. And then I lean out, letting my body tip forward forty-five degrees, the wind whipping me gently back and forth, my arms straining to hold me up, keep me rooted to this life.
I breathe in deeply. I have to do this. It’s all planned. I can’t keep going on like this. Come on, Ted, stop being so pathetic . It’s funny – perhaps not funny, but certainly significant – that it’s my father’s voice I hear now, egging me on. Not because I believe for one second that he’d want me to do this, but because it’s always his voice I hear when I can’t do something, when I’m struggling. Not to encourage me, but to shame me into it.
Pathetic.
He’s right. I am pathetic.
I’m about to let go when there’s a sudden movement to my left. I turn my head quickly. There’s a fairy next to me, clambering over the railings. I shake my head. Am I hallucinating?
I blink, but she’s still there, standing next to me now on the wrong side of the railings, teetering wildly over the chasm, her wings flapping ridiculously, her foot slipping perilously close to the edge of the tiny platform. A halo bops above her head, attached to a piece of wire, and her hair covers her face so she has to release one hand to push it away before replacing it quickly.
What the fuck is going on?
I stare at her and she keeps her eyes on me, her gaze steady.
‘Hello,’ she says. Not ‘stop’ or ‘wait’ or ‘don’t’. Not even a wobble to her voice. Just a firm ‘hello’ as though it’s perfectly normal for her to be chatting to a man hanging off the edge of a bridge in the middle of the night.
I can only manage a nod.
‘Could you—’ She tips her head towards the pavement, her hands turning blue beneath her lacy gloves. ‘Do you think you could come off there?’
Just like that. Completely calm.
And that’s what makes me wonder whether, actually, I should come off here after all.
‘Can – can you just stand up straight?’ she says.
She reaches over to grab my arm and I snatch it away, then I swing wildly to the right, my whole body weight being supported by just one arm. I don’t know what I want to do now, but I am absolutely certain that I don’t want this young woman to witness me ending my life. I know what that can do to a person. And so, slowly, I swing round to face the railing and pull myself up to lean against it.
‘Thank you,’ she says. I’m so surprised by her serenity that I don’t know what to say, so I just shrug. Fairy Girl is watching me, a deep crevice between her eyebrows, her face pale beneath the glitter that keeps catching in the streetlight. She looks frozen.
We stand in silence for a moment, both of us on the river side of the bridge. I don’t know what to do next, and I search her face for signs that she might have a clue. I don’t think there’s a rule book for this sort of thing, so slowly, I lift my foot onto the railing and pull myself back over to the other side, then help her to do the same. Then we both slump onto the damp pavement, our backs against