Summer with the Sullivans

Chapter One

The thing about dropping a full tray of drinks onto a table full of businessmen in expensive suits is that it happens in slow motion. The tray starts tilting, your grip starts slipping, and there’s just enough time to think "Oh, bollocks" before gravity takes over and ruins everyone's day.

Including the day of the unfortunate waitress that had, up until fairly recently, been holding said tray of drinks.

"You're fired," Tony had said, not even bothering to look up from wiping red wine off his precious leather banquette. "Clear out your locker and don't come back."

Sasha Fox stood in the unseasonably sweltering heat outside Bella Vista, former workplace, current scene of her latest career disaster, and wondered what cosmic force she'd offended this time.

The July sun beat down mercilessly on the Manchester pavement, making the air shimmer like a mirage.

She'd managed to keep this job for nearly four months, which was practically a record. Not that it mattered now.

She trudged through the sticky afternoon heat toward the flat she shared with Ambrose, her uniform clinging uncomfortably to her back.

A group of tourists clustered around a bus stop, fanning themselves with maps and looking miserable in the oppressive weather.

At least they were going somewhere. Sasha felt like she was going in circles, just like she had been for the past three years.

The thing was, she genuinely didn't know what she wanted to do with her life.

Everyone else seemed to have it figured out: careers, five-year plans, pension contributions.

Sasha, on the other hand, had managed to accumulate an impressive collection of jobs she'd either quit or been fired from: shop assistant, receptionist, dog walker, coffee barista, and now ex-waitress.

She was twenty-eight and professionally directionless, which was both depressing and embarrassing.

She pushed through the front door of their Victorian terrace conversion, grateful for the slightly cooler air inside, and immediately knew something was wrong. Ambrose's voice carried down from upstairs, high-pitched with panic and accompanied by what sounded like drawers being violently ransacked.

"Shit, shit, shit. Where are my good swimming trunks? The blue ones, not the ridiculous pineapple ones Sophie bought me for Christmas…"

Sasha climbed the stairs, dodging a flying sock. "Having a breakdown, are we?"

Ambrose Sullivan appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking like he'd been electrocuted. His usually perfectly styled dark curls were sticking up at odd angles, and there was a wild look in his blue eyes.

"Sasha! Perfect timing. Crisis. Major crisis.

" He grabbed her arm and dragged her into his room, which looked like a hurricane had hit a very expensive clothing shop.

"I need to be on a train in three hours and I can't find anything and my entire family is going to know I'm a complete disaster and—"

"—and breathe," Sasha said, kicking aside a pile of shirts to sit on his bed. "What's happening? And why does your room look like Harrods exploded?"

"Cornwall," Ambrose said, as if that explained everything. "The usual summer tradition. Two weeks at the estate with everyone pretending we're still living in 1953 and that Grandmother isn't slowly turning into a judgmental raisin."

Sasha had heard about the Cornwall house, some massive pile that had been in the Sullivan family for generations, complete with grounds and staff and probably a few ghosts for atmosphere.

The sort of place where people said things like "shall we dress for dinner?

" without irony. Not that she’d ever been there, or, indeed, had any desire to go there.

There were enough Downton Abbey knock-offs on television without having to live the life.

"Right," she said slowly. "And this requires panic packing because…?"

"Because I completely forgot until Archie rang an hour ago asking if I was bringing anyone this year, and when I said no, he got that tone in his voice, you know the one, like he's adding it to his mental list of ways I'm disappointing the family legacy, and then he called me a coward, and then he said that grandmother was asking questions, and then… "

"And then what?"

Ambrose sat heavily on his suitcase, which immediately popped open and expelled half its contents across the floor. "And then I might have said something about finding a girlfriend to come with me."

"Ah." Sasha surveyed the chaos with new understanding. "A girlfriend who doesn't exist. And will never exist, given how incredibly, stupendously, amazingly gay you are."

"There is that," Ambrose said miserably. "Everyone except grandmother knows, but everyone except grandmother also says that grandmother can’t possibly know. She’s a mad old bat and controls all the purse-strings. I think they’re afraid of her cutting us all off.

Or dropping dead when she hears. Not that it’s been a problem up until now, since I’ve been single for the past year. "

"Two years," Sasha corrected.

"Two years, thank you for that, very helpful…"

"Could be worse. Could be three years like me."

Ambrose stopped his frantic pacing and looked at her properly for the first time since she'd arrived. "Rough day?"

"Got fired. Again." She flopped backwards onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Apparently dropping an entire tray of drinks on the monthly sales meeting is 'unacceptable customer service.'"

"Bastards," Ambrose said loyally, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Look, I know this is terrible timing, but I don't suppose you'd want to… no, forget it, stupid idea."

Sasha propped herself up on her elbows. She'd known Ambrose for three years, ever since they'd met at some dreadful house party where she'd been hiding in the kitchen eating crisps and he'd been hiding from a girl who'd been following him around all evening reciting poetry.

They'd bonded over their mutual desire to escape and had been best friends ever since.

She'd moved into his spare room six months later when her previous flatmate had decided to become a yoga instructor in Thailand.

And despite the fact that Ambrose was clearly loaded, family money, she assumed, though he was too polite to flaunt it, they got along brilliantly.

"What kind of stupid idea?" she asked.

"The kind where I ask my best friend to pretend to be my girlfriend for two weeks so my grandmother doesn't drop dead or leave my entire family destitute."

Sasha stared at him. "You want me to be your fake girlfriend."

"I want you to save me from two weeks of my grandmother asking if I've met anyone nice and my mother trying desperately to change the subject." He looked at her hopefully. "It would just be hand-holding. Maybe the occasional bit of couple-y behavior. Nothing weird."

"Nothing weird," Sasha repeated. "Apart from the lying to your grandmother whilst everyone else around knows exactly what’s going on?"

"Apart from that, yes."

The afternoon heat was making her brain sluggish, but even so, Sasha could see several problems with this plan. "Your family have met me exactly zero times. Won’t it be weird? And won't old grandma think it's odd that you're suddenly producing a serious girlfriend out of nowhere?"

"I'll tell her we've been taking it slow.

Very modern and sensible." Ambrose was warming to his theme now, his panic being replaced by the sort of desperate optimism that had gotten them both into trouble more times than she could count.

"You're perfect, actually. You're funny and smart, and she’ll love you. "

"I'm unemployed and have no idea what I'm doing with my life."

"You're between opportunities and exploring your options."

Despite herself, Sasha was starting to see the appeal. Cornwall in July sounded infinitely better than Manchester in July, especially when Manchester involved job hunting and facing the landlord about next month's rent. "What's in it for me?"

"Two weeks at a country estate with a swimming pool, a beach, full board, and no responsibilities except occasionally holding my hand?" Ambrose sat down beside her, pulling his most winning smile. "Come on, Sash. When was the last time you had a proper holiday?"

"Define proper."

"Somewhere that doesn't involve a youth hostel and packet noodles."

She had to admit he had a point. Her last holiday had been a long weekend in Blackpool that had mostly involved hiding from the rain in various pubs. "Your grandma won't buy it. I don't exactly scream 'suitable girlfriend for the heir to a country estate.'"

"You scream 'exactly the sort of person Ambrose would fall for,' which is much more important. And true, because if I was going to get a girlfriend you’d be exactly the kind of girlfriend I’d like.

" He grabbed her hands, his expression turning serious.

"Look, I know it's mad, and I know it's asking a lot.

But I'm genuinely desperate here. My grandmother is eighty-three and still asking when I'm going to settle down and give her great-grandchildren.

She's not going to be around forever, and I just… I want her to think I'm happy."

There was something in his voice that made Sasha look at him more carefully. Ambrose was usually the picture of easy confidence, sailing through life with the sort of charm that opened doors and solved problems. She'd never seen him looking quite so vulnerable.

"This is about more than just avoiding awkward questions, isn't it?"

"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment, staring down at their joined hands.

"It's just… everyone else has their act together, you know?

Victoria's the golden child with her career, Archie's got the estate to inherit, Sophie's got her veterinary plans.

And I'm twenty-eight, and the most significant relationship I've had in the past two years is with my personal trainer. "

"Your personal trainer is married. And male."

"Exactly my point." Ambrose looked up at her with a rueful smile. "I just want to show up and not be the family disappointment for once. Just for two weeks."

Sasha felt her resolve wavering. The thing about Ambrose was that he'd never asked her for anything significant before.

He'd let her move in when she needed somewhere to live, had lent her money when she was between jobs, had listened to her complain about her complete lack of direction without ever making her feel pathetic about it.

He'd been the best friend she'd ever had, and he was looking at her like she was the only person in the world who could help him.

Plus, it was bloody hot in Manchester, she had no job and no prospects, and the alternative was spending the next two weeks applying for positions she didn't want and probably wouldn't get anyway.

"Hand-holding," she said finally. "Nothing more."

"Nothing more," Ambrose agreed, though his relief was so palpable she could practically see it radiating off him like heat shimmer.

"And you're buying the wine on the train."

"Obviously."

"And if your family hate me, I'm blaming you entirely."

"They won't hate you," Ambrose said, already moving toward his wardrobe with renewed purpose. "They're going to love you. You're charming and funny and—"

"And completely out of my depth," Sasha finished. "I don't know the first thing about being posh, Ambrose. I'm going to use the wrong fork or call someone by the wrong title or… or something equally hideous."

"You'll be brilliant," he said firmly, pulling clothes out of his wardrobe. "Just be yourself. Well, yourself, but slightly more in love with me."

Sasha watched him pack with the growing certainty that she was making a terrible mistake, but it was too late to back out now. Besides, how hard could it be to pretend to be in love with her best friend for two weeks?

The answer, she suspected, was about to become painfully clear.