Love, Almost Read online

  LOVE, ALMOST

  Hayley Doyle

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Copyright © Hayley Doyle 2021

  Cover design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Hayley Doyle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008365776

  Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008365783

  Version: 2020-11-12

  Dedication

  For Cheryl.

  Epigraph

  But of all these friends and lovers,

  There is no one compares with you.

  — In My Life, John Lennon & Paul McCartney

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Three months earlier

  ‘YES!’ I say to Jack.

  Perhaps too enthusiastically.

  We’re three days into our first holiday together. Beside a chaotic dual carriageway, an old lady lays out pop-up gift cards – intricately handmade and just thirty baht each – on the entrance steps to a modern shopping mall. The mall towers above us, LED-screen advertisements for international brands beckoning us to come inside. Jack and I gaze at one particular familiar logo. There we stand, stationary, as thousands move frantically around us. We’re caught in a time lapse. The hot sun scorches through hazy white clouds. I haven’t even held Jack’s hand today; I’m just too hot and bloated. My pounding head and racing heart is a constant reminder that we hit it too hard, and now our bender is laughing back at us and yelling, ‘I told you so!’

  It’s safe to say that Bangkok’s intense speed has knocked us sideways.

  ‘Yes,’ I repeat. ‘Please.’

  ‘You sure?’ Jack asks. ‘I mean, we’re on the other side of the world and I don’t want you to think I’m not very cultured—’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I snap, before he talks us out of it.

  ‘Really, Chloe?’

  ‘YES!’

  The golden arches lure us in. We order a feast. As we eat, we comment on how immaculate the restaurant is, how piping hot the fries are, how although it’s McDonald’s, it somehow just tastes better here than it does at home. Yeah, that’s how hungover we are. I finish my meal by scooping up a fallen droplet of Big Mac sauce with my finger. Jack sips the dregs of his Coke like a child, releasing a burp for his grand finale.

  ‘S’cuse me,’ he says.

  ‘We’re disgusting,’ I say.

  He’s laughing at me, and I know why; my Liverpool accent has come out in full force, as it does when I’m tired – or in this case, hanging. Mocking me, he scrunches up his face, and, making his voice high-pitched, repeats the word ‘disgusting’.

  It’s a terrible – inaccurate – impression. I narrow my eyes.

  ‘Feel better?’ he asks, in his own voice. He calls it ‘Home Counties’. I call it posh.

  ‘So much better.’

  Last night, in between haggling at Patpong night market for fake designer boxer shorts and swerving ping-pong shows, we had done shots in bars. Back at our hotel room, Jack had raided the minibar while I ran a bubble bath. We had had sex in the bath, followed by sex on the balcony. Dressed in fluffy white robes, I had blended aquatic shades of blue onto Jack’s eyelids with my eyeshadow palette and finished them off with a flick of black eyeliner. His tremendous bushy beard had made the overall look grotesque, but to me, he was beautiful. It must have been three in the morning, yet the moon shone on, so out we had wandered again, eating pad thai from a street food vendor who also happened to serve beer. I had bought (another) small wooden frog from a young boy loitering, selling a tray of trinkets.

  ‘We’ve got about twenty minutes to get back to the hotel before the junk food crash hits us,’ Jack says, his infectious smile creating a deep dimple in his left cheek. ‘We need our bed.’

  He leans across the table, reaches out his hand and tenderly wipes something from my chin. It might have been a dab of salt, or it could well have been a huge dollop of ketchup, but I don’t care. The simple touch of his thick skin on mine makes me fuzzy, almost giddy. There’s nothing more appealing than the thought of getting into bed with him right now, stripping off my dress – which is more of a loose cotton rag with holes cut out for my head and limbs – and pressing my body against his strong, sandy-haired chest, nuzzling into his neck.

  ‘Come on, hun. Let’s go,’ I say.

  Back outside, I rummage in the embroidered pouch slung across my bare shoulder on a long shoelace strap. It’s from Patpong and the perfect size to carry around holiday cash and lip balm. I fish out one hundred baht, hand it to the lady selling cards, and pick out three designs. The lady throws in a fourth card and bows her head. I repeat her actions and thank her very much.

  ‘Chloe, over here!’ Jack calls.

  A small crowd has gathered a few feet away. ‘Look at this bloke,’ he says.

  Sitting inside a discarded supermarket trolley is a local man, unamused. His feet are bare, but his shirt and trousers suggest a blue uniform of some sort, perhaps for service at a hotel. Directly behind the man is a larger-than-life statue of Ronald McDonald with his giant yellow hands pressed together in the wai greeting, his red smile as bold as the
food sitting heavily in my gut. The man seems to have found a perfect little spot to take a break, although he’s interrupted by a couple of passers-by who ask if they can have a selfie with him. He nods repeatedly and they all pose tight, gesturing double peace signs.

  ‘I’ve got to get a pic of this,’ Jack says. He digs into his khaki canvas man-bag, another Patpong purchase and one that he has not stopped admiring, wondering why he’s never bought anything like it before. I can already see it being slung into his wardrobe, never to be seen again; because believe me, he won’t be using that commuting on the London Underground.

  Jack ushers me to get into the picture.

  ‘No way,’ I cower behind his broad back. ‘Leave him be.’

  But raising his hands, Jack frames the picture in portrait and … snap! I glance over Jack’s shoulder and he’s nailed it. Clear, colourful and precise; not a photo bomber in sight. The man is looking directly into the lens. Ronald McDonald looms in the background, a God-like presence. Bangkok has been captured: a moment of honesty within the bizarre.

  Jack shows the man, who gives a thumbs up, and then he shows it to me properly. It’s a truly great photograph.

  ‘That could win a prize,’ I say.

  ‘We should get it printed and hang it on our wall,’ Jack says.

  Stopping amidst the choppy sea of fast-paced pedestrians, he’s head and shoulders above most, his thick sandy hair a foot above my recently bleached bob. He slaps his hands high onto an imaginary wall, pretending to see his photographic creation hung up there.

  ‘Our wall?’ I ask.

  ‘Let’s live together.’

  In the short time I’ve known Jack, I’m used to his outspoken thoughts, his confident remarks. They’re never arrogant, yet always strong, supported by his big physique and naturally bellowing voice. He’s the big, friendly giant, and it seems like my innermost desire is coming true; he’s mine.

  ‘A couple of months ago we didn’t even know each other,’ I remind him, but there’s a chuckle in my voice. I’m making him aware of what others might say, rather than airing my own concerns. To be honest, I don’t have any.

  ‘Move in with me, Chloe.’

  ‘You want me to move to London?’

  ‘We’ll save a fortune on train fares.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘And we’ll see each other seven days a week.’

  ‘Hmm. I might get sick of you, hun.’

  ‘Doubt it. I’m far too adorable.’ Oh, how true this is. ‘I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?’ Jack booms, announcing this question to the whole of Bangkok, his arms outstretched like a preacher. I take the opportunity to cuddle into him, sliding my arms around his back as he wraps me up completely. We squeeze each other tight. It’s a done deal.

  Jack and I are going to move in together. This isn’t a pair of kids making an immature decision, swept up in the magic of youthful lust. We’re in our mid – well, late – thirties. We know what we want.

  ‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he says, not for the first time.

  ‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.’

  We meander back to the hotel, a mellow glow encasing us. We have absolutely nothing to do today. And there’s nothing better than doing nothing with Jack.

  Nothing at all.

  1

  I’m rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the front door slam.

  ‘In the shower!’ I yell, stating the obvious. Our flat is small and our shower is noisy. We don’t have a bath. I have to brush my teeth sitting on the loo to avoid feeling claustrophobic: yeah, that’s how small it is. But we have perks. Our fridge has an inbuilt ice machine and our kitchen door opens out onto the low-level shared patio, making ours the only flat in this redbrick Victorian house with direct garden access.

  I don’t know where Jack’s been. He wasn’t home when I got in from school a couple of hours ago and he’d left his phone by the blue Marrakech dish where we keep our keys on the bookshelf in the hall. Wherever he’s been, I hope he’s brought me a Kinder Bueno. Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.

  I apply conditioner and leave it to work its magic while shaving my legs and under my arms. It’s a lot of effort to look effortless when it’s hot, but needs must. The whole country is experiencing a heatwave and we’re heading out to sit in the basement of a pub in Greenwich. I can’t imagine there’ll be any air-conditioning and sweat will be dripping off the walls, so I need to wear next to nothing. We’re going to a comedy night – one of the comedians on the bill is a best mate of Jack’s. I’ve not met this mate before, but apparently he’s close to the bone: you either find him hilarious or utterly offensive.

  Through the transparent shower enclosure, I see the bathroom door open just a little.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask, making the mistake of rubbing my eyes with shaving gel on my fingertips and squirming at the sting. ‘Jack?’

  Jack doesn’t respond.

  I rinse my face, turn the water off and grab a towel. The bathroom door is slightly ajar.

  ‘Jack?’

  As I wrap the towel around myself, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, the screech of a bar stool against the laminate floor tells me he’s in the kitchen. Maybe I should drop the towel, give him a proper welcome home surprise: do a little shimmy-shake. But I expose myself involuntarily when I scream and the towel falls to the ground.

  ‘Who are you?!’ I hear from the man standing before me.

  I scramble to cover myself, shaking.

  ‘Who the hell are you?!’ I manage.

  He’s about twice my age, edging on seventy, but in good shape and a little taller than me. Smart, silver-haired with an impressive hairline, cleanly shaven and wearing a light blue shirt with tailored shorts, he’s pale, but doesn’t look ill. His mouth is hanging open so wide that I can see his gold and silver fillings. I’ve seen his photo – it’s on the fridge, beside where he’s standing now, held up with a magnet of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – except he’s decades older in real life. The shape of his green eyes behind his spectacles is eerily familiar. I know exactly who this man is. He’s Jack’s dad.

  Gripping the towel around me with a tight fist, I wipe my free hand dry and offer it. ‘I’m Chloe.’

  John seems reluctant to accept at first, and we exchange the flimsiest of handshakes as he looks around the flat at anything other than my almost naked body. His focus falls upon last night’s dirty dishes. Jack made bolognese. I’d made a lame attempt to start washing up, filling the saucepan with soapy water and letting it soak: remnants of minced beef and chopped onions float around like dead fish.

  ‘Sorry, the place is usually a bit cleaner than this,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ he mumbles, a soft northern lilt in his voice, although I know he’s lived the majority of his life down south. He removes his specs, rubbing his eyes with just his thumb and index finger. ‘Uh – who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Chloe …’

  ‘Ah, yes. Chloe.’

  ‘It’s nice to finally meet you; although I wish I was more suitably dress—’

  ‘Wait. I – I can’t recall knowing about a – erm – Chloe.’

  ‘Jack never mentioned me?’

  ‘He … He – erm – never …’

  ‘Are you okay? Mr Carmichael?’

  ‘It’s John. Call me John, please.’

  I go to the sink, turn on the tap and fill a glass that’s been draining on the side. ‘Drink this,’ I say.

  He thanks me with a nod and drinks fast, dribbling onto his shirt. I pretend not to notice and turn around to look at the photo on the fridge: Jack on his dad’s shoulders on a beach in Majorca.

  ‘It’s such a coincidence,’ I say. ‘I went to the same resort with me mum and dad when I was little, so I recognised that beach straight away. Jack said you stayed in a villa, but we were on a package holiday. Imagine if we were there at the same time, though. Wouldn’t that be hila
rious? It was 1989, I think. Can you remember when this was taken? Jack’s rubbish with dates, isn’t he?’

  ‘Chloe,’ John says, solemnly. ‘Jack’s dead.’

  ‘Y’what?’

  I’m still looking at the photo. An uncontrollable rush of giggles empties from within me. I don’t know how to stop them spilling out of my mouth. Did he just say that Jack was dead? Dead? How is that even possible when his bolognese leftovers are still stuck to the plate by the sink?

  ‘I’m sorry to break the news,’ John says. ‘I presume you were his – erm – girlfriend?’

  ‘I am,’ I catch my breath. ‘I am his girlfriend. What’s going on? And why don’t you know who I am? Is this some sort of prank?’

  ‘It’d be a pretty cruel prank, my dear.’

  I must turn around. I must stop looking at this fucking photograph.

  But when I do, I don’t like what I see in John’s face. It’s broken. And this is nothing to do with age. Tears are streaming from beneath his specs, rolling down his cheeks. He dabs them with a white cotton handkerchief. I love how men from that generation always have a handkerchief.

  ‘Jack’s dead?’ I ask.

  John nods.

  ‘I promise I didn’t mean to laugh just then.’

  John nods again. He knows.

  A breeze floats in through the open window above the sink. On a day as hot as today, it should be embraced, but I begin to shiver. John steps forward – perhaps to try and comfort me, or maybe he’s decided to close the window – but his foot knocks one of the two bar stools. A stack of textbooks lying haphazardly on the seat falls to the ground between us, loose papers fluttering down in slow motion like white birds. I go to pick them up, but hesitate to ensure my dignity is intact. John gets to the books first. He lays them on the breakfast bar, one by one, reading the titles quietly aloud.

  ‘Macbeth, Blood Brothers, An Inspector Calls …’

  ‘They’re mine,’ I tell him. ‘For work.’

  ‘You’re an actress?’

  ‘No, a teacher.’

  ‘Ah, English literature?’

  ‘Drama,’ I say, apologetically. I don’t know why. ‘I’m covering someone on mat leave.’