A Flicker of Hope in Lily Vale Village (Lily Vale Village #10)

Chapter One

‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

The question comes out a touch incoherent due to the morsel of buttered toast I’ve just stuffed in my mouth.

In all honesty, it would be inaccurate to call this toast; it’s more like slightly warmed bread.

The toaster here at the dentist’s office is ancient, along with the limescale-riddled kettle and smelly old microwave, but I’m starving, so I’ll take whatever breakfast I can rustle up.

Thankfully, my bestie Lucy understands me well enough, and she takes a deep breath before squealing so loud that the speaker of my mobile crackles. ‘I’m getting married!’

I gasp and choke on a buttery crumb, coughing uncontrollably as I desperately fight for breath.

‘Alicia?’ Lucy’s concerned voice interrupts my fit. ‘Are you alright?’

Eyes streaming, I manage to dislodge the errant crumb and splutter out a response. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ I cough once more, my throat scratchy and raw. ‘Erm, well, congratulations! That’s wonderful news.’

‘Isn’t it? Oh, Leesh, I wish you could have been there, it was the most romantic proposal ever. He got down on one knee in this beautiful garden in front of the whole village and said the sweetest words, it was just perfect.’

It sounds sickeningly perfect, like something from the dreamy romance novels she writes for a living.

Lucy truly deserves this, more than anyone I know.

Her last boyfriend was a cheating scumbag - at least her beau of three years, Alex Preston, seems a decent guy.

Since Luce moved from London to the tiny village of Lily Vale, I’ve met him a handful of times, and I’ve got to say, they seem well-suited.

Alex is kind, courteous and pretty much worships the ground Lucy walks on.

What girl doesn’t dream of a man like that?

Well, I don’t, but that’s a different story.

‘Oh Luce, I’m just so happy for you.’ I nibble at my bottom lip, suddenly seriously thankful that we’re not face to face. ‘I really am.’

‘Thanks, hun, I’m happy for me too!’ Lucy giggles. ‘We’ve already set a date, it’s the second of August.’

‘Next year?’

‘No, this year. I couldn’t bear to wait, so we’re tying the knot in two months!’

‘Oh, gosh!’ I laugh through a gasp. ‘Wow, you two don’t hang around!’

‘No, we do not! It means there’s loads to sort, and that leads me nicely onto one thing I’ve got to ask you.’

Head tilted, I listen close. ‘Sure, anything.’

‘Will you be my maid of honour?’

Stunned, I fall silent, the only sound being the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

Years ago, Lucy was the receptionist here at Farley Dental, and that’s when we struck up a friendship. Since she left the city, I’ve really missed her, but I know she’s living her best life in the countryside with her now-fiancé.

We’ve stayed in contact - she’s visited my flat and I’ve travelled to Lily Vale once or twice, and we message almost every day - but I never imagined she’d want me to be her maid of honour, the most crucial member of her bridal party.

Especially since she knows better than most how terrible I am at planning …

‘Alicia!’ The thunderous voice comes from the treatment room, just down the corridor from the office. ‘Alicia, where the bloody hell are you? I need the dental charts for Mrs Thorton, stat!’

‘Coming, Mr Farley!’ I call back. ‘Luce, I’ve got to go, can I phone you later?’

‘Of course, sorry to bother you at work. Mr Farley sounds crosser than usual.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it, you know what the old windbag is like-’

‘Alicia!’

Hastily, I hang up and sift haphazardly through the patient files, searching for the letter ‘T’.

Ah, there it is!

Clutching the manila folder, I race down the corridor and into the treatment room, where an anxious Mrs Thornton is sitting in the chair. My boss snatches the folder from my hands and leafs through it.

‘No, no, this is Mr Thurton’s x-ray, not Mrs Thorton’s!’ He sighs irritably, rubbing hard at his forehead. ‘You can’t keep making these mistakes, Alicia, it’s really not on.’

‘I’m sorry, I just -’

‘I don’t want to hear your excuses, just find me the correct chart, please.’

Shamefaced, I scuttle out of the clinic in search of the right file.

It’s humiliating to be yelled at in front of a patient, and yet, Mr Farley isn’t exactly wrong in his assessment.

I’ve worked here for about five years, and still, I have on average ten mishaps per day.

Some might be as minor as picking up the wrong x-ray, but others have been a little more serious, like the time I got a bit trigger-happy with the water pick and squirted poor Mr Rogers in the eye.

It doesn’t make sense; I totally breezed through the training when I started working here, and considering I just sort of fell into this job - as one does - I do take pride in what I do.

I try really hard to keep a cool head in stressful situations, and when I’m handling routine cleanings by myself, everything tends to go swimmingly.

It’s only when Mr Farley is breathing down the back of my neck or bellowing my name, I get all flustered and confused.

Thankfully, I managed to locate Mrs Thornton’s folder, and while Mr Farley is showing her the x-ray of her bicuspids, I busy myself in the corner, sorting the various dental tools neatly on a chrome tray.

Trying to be useful, I bring them over to Mr Farley, but I trip over my shoelace and send the tools clattering to the floor.

‘For goodness sake!’ Mr Farley roars, making the poor patient flinch. ‘You’ll have to go sanitise them. No, no, don’t do it now, just get me some fresh ones!’

I scramble to my feet, my whole body burning. I wish I weren’t such a clumsy fool, no wonder Mr Farley shouts himself hoarse each day. The trouble is, the more he shouts, the more nervous I become, and when I get nervous, I make mistakes. It’s a vicious cycle that’s near impossible to break out of.

*

After several hours of file sorting and helping patients rinse out their mouths with that yucky blue stuff, it’s finally time to clock out. Swinging my handbag over my shoulder, I wave goodbye to Denise on reception and run to catch the train home.

It’s a good forty minute ride so I brought a book to read, but it’s a steamy romance, and I feel awkward flicking through the pages when I’m sandwiched between a sweaty man in a too-tight business suit and a sweet old lady.

Instead, I pass the time by twiddling my thumbs, wishing I’d thought to bring a pair of headphones so I could at least listen to music rather than the mechanical thrum of the train.

Even though it’s summer so it’s still light, the short walk going from the station to my flat is always a bit iffy, I feel as if someone might tail me back home, or I might run into an unsavoury character.

And trust me, there are plenty of unsavoury characters about, a girl has to be careful, even in broad daylight.

I dash across the street to my door and fumble with the key, yanking hard at the handle to get it to shift.

I’ve told my landlord how stiff it is and yet, he won’t do a thing to fix it.

Thankfully, it gives way after a few moments of pulling and I bolt inside the building, still slightly paranoid that someone might have followed me.

My flat is one of three in a large old Victorian townhouse, and worst luck, I’m on the middle floor, so I get all the noise from both upstairs and downstairs.

As I check my mailbox for letters (nothing but junk mail today) I sniff and wrinkle my nose.

All of us tenants pay a maintenance fee each month for cleaning, and yet it always smells musty and damp in the communal areas.

Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen a cleaner around here before, perhaps the landlord simply pockets the cash himself and doesn’t bother to hire anyone.

The stairs creak unnervingly as I traipse up to the second floor.

I step inside my flat, shut out the sour stink of the hallway and breathe in the fresh, familiar cotton-lemon aroma.

I must own about fifty scented candles, and I light them so often, their fragrance has permeated the once stale air of the tiny flat.

I fish out a matchbox from the junk drawer and light the wicks of the three large ones clustered on the windowsill.

Instantly, the small room is filled with fumes of fruit and fresh laundry, and I sigh in contentment.

People say candles are an impersonal gift, but I beg to differ, I think scent is very personal, and I’m a sucker for citrus and clean, soapy smells.

I hand-poured most of these myself, its a hobby of mine that’s endured over the years since I was a teenager.

Favourite hot pink mug at the ready, I boil the kettle for a nice cup of tea and preheat the oven.

I did the big shop yesterday but I can’t be bothered to prepare anything proper, so I’m treating myself to a lovely four cheese pizza and half a bag of oven chips.

While my dinner cooks, I take my cuppa over to the sofa and curl up against the faded grey cushions.

The TV buzzes as I attempt to settle into an old spy movie, but I can’t concentrate, there’s something on my mind.

I need to call Lucy back - but what am I supposed to say?

Of course I want to celebrate with my dear friend, though I can’t say I’m jumping for joy at the prospect of her becoming someone’s wife.

It’s sounds exceptionally silly (particularly since she moved away three years ago), but I’d always coveted a future where Luce and I would remain city girls forever - both of us single, loving life and partying every weekend.

I don’t even party that much now, it’s so expensive out here, but a girl can dream.

Seems as though that wistful dream, à la Sex and the City, has died.

Besides all that, being a maid of honour is a big responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m up to the task.

We live miles apart now, how on earth am I expected to help her plan her dream wedding when I can only get to her every so often?

I don’t even have a car, so I can’t drive down on the weekends.

I’m at the mercy of the Great British railway system, which is famously unreliable.

Tapping the screen of my mobile, I mull over what to do.

More than anything, I want to be there for my friend, but I’m not the right person for the job.

I love Lucy to bits and I want her to have the best day ever, and with me at the helm - planning the hen do, liaising with the other bridesmaids, keeping her calm - well, I just don’t think it’s possible.

I’m absolutely rubbish at this sort of thing, and Lucy knows it.

I suspect she’s only asking me to be her maid of honour because we’ve been through so much together and she’d feel bad if she didn’t.

But she’s moved away now and got new friends, I hear about them all the time whenever we catch up, I’ve even briefly met a few when I’ve visited her, though I can’t say I remember any of their names.

I’m sure one of them would be better suited to the role.

My finger hovers over Lucy Middleton in my contact list, but I can’t quite bring myself to make the call.

It would sound awful to decline her request, she’d think I don’t care about her or her special day.

But it’s the complete opposite , I can’t stand the thought of mucking things up for her and having everyone else in the wedding party hate me for being such a dozy cow.

I still remember what a disaster Mum’s sixtieth was - my helpful-as-always brothers decided to leave the planning to me, and it was a complete shambles.

I’d somehow got the dates confused so when we all turned up to the restaurant in our glad-rags, the private room I’d booked was in use, I left Mum’s present at work and to make matters worse, I dropped the cake in the gutter as I struggled to get out of the taxi in my tight midi dress.

Since there was no party venue, all the guests went home so Mum, my brothers - Kevin and Sam - and I ended up ordering pizza back at my flat.

Mum swore she didn’t mind a bit and looks back on that evening with fondness, but I could see in her eyes how truly disappointed she was, and it broke my heart.

I can’t do that to Lucy too, not for her wedding.

There’s a guilty sort of tugging in my chest as I slide my phone into my trouser pocket, deciding to ignore its existence for the evening.

I’m sure Luce won’t mind waiting a day or two for my answer, after all she’s probably so busy with work and wedding planning and whatnot.

I repeat this like a mantra as I munch through my pizza … though I can’t quite force myself to believe it.