Meet Me at Apple Blossom Lane

Chapter 1

New Year … same old ridiculousness. Actually, no. Much worse ridiculousness. But as a renowned professional love coach, Alyssa wasn’t about to type that into Instagram.

Deep breaths. Just smile. She forced a grin, moved her phone screen to where the disco lights made her look a little less garish, and snapped a few selfies. Surely one of them would do.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy a New Year’s Eve party, exactly.

She just wished they were a bit earlier in the day, so she wasn’t tempted to wedge her eyelids open with crispy breadsticks or try not to yawn into her sleeves.

And they’d be better if everyone wasn’t dribbling drunk, yelling songs about not forgetting auld acquaintances (who were probably better off disremembered) and slurring nonsense about how much they ‘loved’ each other.

(They honestly didn’t.) Oh, and she couldn’t deal with fancy dress.

Though she did have a really good reason for that.

Nor karaoke – which was an awkwardly touchy subject.

And now she thought about it, those popper things were a tad frustrating.

She pulled a clump of stringy paper from her hair.

OK, so in fairness, she probably didn’t love a New Year’s Eve party.

But nobody liked a fun sponge – so she’d learned to pull up her positive pants and play her part.

Her boyfriend, Arnaud, deserved that much.

He’d put so much into planning the party for his family and friends, in his gorgeous Chelsea house where they both lived.

He’d forked out for a grand marquee with proper heating and twinkly lights.

A dance floor. A band, a stage, flowing cocktails.

Objectively speaking, he was a sweet guy.

She almost felt guilty that she’d politely declined to get down with the quirky creature costumes.

Her pink chiffon could arguably pass as a jellyfish, if you squinted a bit and you weren’t at all familiar with marine life.

‘Ma petite puce.’ Arnaud arrived at her side and planted a kiss on her cheek, even if it was a tad drooly after his umpteenth French martini. She’d become used to being called his little flea, which was apparently a term of endearment.

Music boomed around them, the band playing something by The Killers. Guests chatted loudly, a few still bopping around, dressed as everything from bumblebees to monkeys. The air smelt of expensive perfume and the remnants of quail egg blinis.

She smiled at Arnaud, put down her drink, and rearranged the wonky ears on his giraffe outfit.

He was tall, blond and good-looking, and always had a twinkle in his eye.

They’d been together for nearly two years, and he was definitely a catch.

Noticing the phone she was still clutching in one hand, he slipped into place beside her, ready for a joint photo.

He was great like that too. He knew it looked good for her brand if she was in a stable relationship, just like it was handy for him to have a girlfriend with him for work schmoozing and those slightly dull golf dinners.

As much as she cared for him, she chose her relationships for convenience, and she’d always been honest about that.

It wasn’t her fault if she was a love coach who didn’t believe in love – even if she didn’t dare let that catastrophic truth out of the bag.

‘You’ve thrown a brilliant party,’ Alyssa said kindly, as she uploaded something sparkly and upbeat to social media, wishing her heaps of Instagram followers a happy new year. Was it rude to ask him if people might be leaving soon so she could peel off her scratchy false eyelashes and get to bed?

‘It’s only just beginning,’ said Arnaud, pulling her into a hug. He was particularly clingy this evening.

Alyssa felt her heart sink. It was nearly one a.m., and most of the canapés had been scoffed hours ago. Hadn’t they done their hosting duties?

‘Will you dance with me?’ His big brown eyes looked hopeful.

Oh God. He meant smoochy dancing, didn’t he?

The band was moving on to the slow songs, and she hated all that stuff.

He knew that about her. Though with the drinks and general revelry, perhaps he’d forgotten.

He’d been busy all night, mingling, dancing, bringing people together.

She’d fluctuated from being politely on his arm, overseeing logistics, to hiding in a quiet corner to check in with her social media.

Some might say the latter was superficial, but it was her work.

And it didn’t hurt to have a pocketful of online acquaintances for when real life wasn’t your cup of tea.

‘Need to powder my nose!’ she said quickly, even though she wasn’t actually having a T-zone crisis. She pointed towards the nearest bathroom and shrugged apologetically, trying not to feel too bad about those puppy-dog eyes.

Though when she got back from the bathroom, things had gone from inconvenient to mildly disturbing.

Arnaud was up on the stage where the band had been, only now the karaoke machine was back on and he was bellowing love songs and scanning the room, presumably for her.

Which was fine if you were into that sort of thing.

But if drunken love songs gave you flashbacks to the worst night of your life, they could make the room spin.

She made to turn away, but he spotted her.

‘Alyssa! Ma chérie. Mon coeur.’

His heart? This did not sound good.

‘Come onto the stage. Let me sing to you.’

About what? She was perfectly fine down here.

And suddenly the faces in the room were looking at her expectantly.

Several safari animals began cheering. Somebody kicked off one of those unhelpful rhythmic claps.

What was this all about? Arnaud had paid for perfectly good entertainment.

He didn’t need to start singing badly or to drag her into his merriment.

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ She held up a hand, trying to look breezy, even if she felt more like she was being whipped by a strong wind. What had they put in her sparkling water?

‘Awww, she doesn’t like too much affection,’ Arnaud crooned to the crowd. ‘But sometimes, I cannot help it. She is my everything.’

Alyssa blinked a few times and arranged her face into a smile, though she could already sense it cracking.

What was he doing? Had he lost the memo?

Was his right mind on a mini break? She knew that for most people, public displays of affection – and private ones – were entirely normal, rather than moments that instigated an internal meltdown.

But perhaps most people hadn’t been publicly and irrevocably stung before.

And now Arnaud was holding out a hand to her, willing her to join him, and someone dressed as a hairy black tarantula was trying to jostle her towards the stage.

As a coach, she had coping mechanisms for times like this.

But as a frustratingly flawed human, most of them flew out of the window when it came to herself.

Instead, it was as though her world was spiralling, sucking her back to that awful night.

The night, twelve years ago, when she’d been standing on a stage in front of almost everyone from her hometown, dressed as a big sponge turtle.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, as though her current actions might change history.

But back then, the words had already been said.

She still felt the scar of them. Because she’d declared what she’d naively thought was her true love to her childhood sweetheart, when he’d been secretly making offspring with her so-called best friend.

A double kick in the soul. It was a night she never spoke of and did her best to block out.

She reached out to steady herself, her hand landing in a plate of congealed cod’s roe.

Arnaud was laughing gently into the microphone, like her sudden clumsiness was the most adorable thing. Which was what made it so much worse when he told the room he loved her, and he wanted to make her his wife.

His wife? Her stomach churned.

She’d always been clear that love and marriage were not part of her package deal.

If he’d known about that fateful night when she’d made a massive fool of herself, he wouldn’t be doing this.

As for marriage. From everything she’d seen, it could be as precarious as a cheap wedding cake topper with sickly icing.

But now wasn’t the time to start thinking about cake.

‘I said I love you, ma chérie. Do you love me too? Will we get married?’

She’d get married when pigs grew wings.

Alyssa tried to straighten herself, assessing the situation. As proposals went, this seemed impromptu. No ring, no getting down on one knee. Arnaud would probably regret it when his hangover slid in. But she knew how rejection felt. How could she do this with minimum destruction?

‘Fish finger disaster!’ she blurted out, holding up her food-smeared hand as she backed away from the crowds, her belly still lurching. ‘Actually, I feel a bit …’ She pulled her best queasy face and darted back in the direction of the bathroom.

It didn’t take long before Arnaud was knocking on the door, asking if she was OK and how long she’d been feeling sick. She could hear him telling one of the hired waiters to start clearing the marquee and handing out coats. Well, that much was a relief.

She could have stayed hidden in the toilet, pretending she was too ill to come out.

Or she could have said: ‘Yes, yes, I love you too, my feathery little duckling.’ But it wasn’t fair to lie to him.

And she’d been in enough relationships of convenience to know when it was time to conveniently end it.

For all of her many faults, she wasn’t cruel.

So, taking a breath she opened the bathroom door.