Crazy Little Thing Called Love: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy you won’t be able to put down

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Charlotte Butterfield 2017

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Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Charlotte Butterfield 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.

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Source ISBN: 9780008216535

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008216528

Version: 2017-07-19

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Also by Charlotte Butterfield

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

Leila heard Jaipur before she saw it. The melodic whirs and clunks of the ceiling fan above her blended with loud shouts, incessant horns and revving engines from the market traders below.

This wasn’t part of The Plan. Nothing about The Plan led to her waking up on Christmas Eve in a strange bedroom in Jaipur. This was actually as far away from The Plan as it was possible to be. She might also have lost the ability to open her eyes; she wasn’t sure yet and wasn’t ready to test it.

The irony was, yesterday had started so well. Or maybe it was the day before, she had no concept of days or time anymore. Using her air miles to upgrade herself at the check-in counter at Heathrow had been a spur of the moment inspired decision. She blamed the festive spirit that blanketed the airport’s departures hall. Surrounded by rosy-cheeked loved ones jetting off on their magical Christmas mini breaks, who wouldn’t have agreed to a little upgrade? After all, it wasn’t every day you crossed the world to be reunited with your soul mate, so if you couldn’t treat yourself then, when could you? Leila had never turned left at the plane’s doors before. She had graciously accepted two, maybe five, glasses of champagne on the flight, enjoyed a three-course meal on a real plate with real cutlery and arrived in Mumbai ready for the surprise romantic reunion with her boyfriend Freddie, who was working there for three months.

Except he wasn’t there.

Leila felt a bit sorry for the woman behind the reception desk at Freddie’s Mumbai office who told her with undisguised pity that Freddie had moved to the Jaipur office a few weeks before. She could feel the receptionist taking in her carefully-put-together reunion outfit, noticing the plastic piece of mistletoe that Leila clutched in her hand thinking it would be such a romantic way to greet him, then looking down at her suitcase.

‘Jaipur?’ Leila had replied, with an enthusiasm that was fast evaporating into the smoggy city air. ‘Wow, looks like I’m going to see more of your wonderful country then,’ and after giving the woman a bright fake smile and a cheery wave, she had wheeled her suitcase out of the building and onto the bustling street. Her gusto faltered a smidgen more when she headed back to the airport only to be told that there were no flights to Jaipur, just a 15-hour train ride.

‘It’s an adventure, think of Freddie,’ she’d chanted in her head, while giving over some hastily changed rupees in exchange for a bowl of biryani on the station platform.

Her stomach started making the rumbles of discontent about an hour into the journey, and after stepping over legs, bags, bodies and even more legs, bags and bodies, she found the toilet. In her previous life of just a day ago she wouldn’t have even considered stepping into this cubicle, common sense and bowel control being two of her former major assets. Yet thanks to her delicate constitution, the urine-soaked box quickly became her spiritual home for the next three hours or so.

Somehow she’d finally found her way back to her seat, curled up into a ball and fallen asleep. She’d stumbled out of the station in Jaipur. Her eyes felt heavy, her stomach was in cramping knots and her appearance in complete juxtaposition with the business class luggage label adorning her suitcase, which had now lost a wheel, because evidently fate had decreed that this day wasn’t bad enough. A flashing neon hotel sign adjoining the station had beckoned her. She couldn’t remember getting to the room, but had vague recollections of handing over her credit card to a bloke behind a desk.

And now she was here. On the 24th December. Lying underneath the world’s noisiest ceiling fan. Hearing sounds of the city below that quite frankly terrified her. With no idea where in the heaving metropolis her boyfriend might be. Or why, thinking about it, he hadn’t told her he’d moved. His last email, sent a week ago, was shorter than the others, granted, but could still be classed as very positive and upbeat. She remembered feeling a slight pang that he’d ended the email with Cheers, Freddie, rather than his previous sign offs that were variations of Yours, Hugs, Big Kiss, XOXO, which she was sure were edging ever closer to the L word.

They’d been dating for four months, which, ok, wasn’t a huge amount of time for deep feelings to form, but when you knew, you knew. She’d met him at the horse races, which sounded a lot posher than it actually was. When she’d accepted her client’s invitation to join them at Cheltenham for the day, she’d envisaged a box, a silver tray with unending rounds of canapés being passed around and fancy hats. In reality she was shoehorned into a minibus with fourteen men who started drinking even before the bus pulled out of Victoria coach station at 9am.

Freddie was sat directly behind her and kept pulling bits of her hair out of her bun somewhere around Oxford. She’d swung around in anger ready to launch into a spit-laden tirade only to see the most piercing blue eyes smile back at her. As much as she tried to act stern, her remonstration was laced with flirty overtones. ‘Please don’t do that, I don’t like it,’ she’d said.

‘Please don’t wear your hair like that then,’ he’d fired back. ‘You’re far too cute to have a hairstyle like a granny.’

Cute. He’d said she was cute. She’d have preferred beautiful, stunning, even hot, but cute was ok. Cute was better than sweet. At five foot three, she’d even had a man pat her on the head before as he passed by in a pub, which admittedly ended in her throwing her wine over his retreating back. But when Freddie had called her cute, she didn’t mind. In fact, as she swivelled around in her seat to face him, the rest of the journey was a lot more enjoyable. They’d spent the whole day together drinking, laughing, placing bets, shouting for the winners, and when his hand rested on her thigh on the journey home, she didn’t move it. And when he escorted her home that night and she invited him in, and they sat on her sofa, she didn’t move it either. And by then it was even higher up.

Two busy months of dating followed: pubs, parties, back to her flatshare, pubs, parties, back to hers, they’d settled into a sociable pattern that was rudely interrupted by his boss asking him to decamp to Mumbai, Jaipur, wherever the heck she was, for three months. It was a huge deal, this secondment. What a responsibility, of course she could excuse him a certain amount of brevity in his email correspondence, what type of girlfriend would she be if she didn’t?

Her neck gave off an audible crack when she moved her head, and she knew she couldn’t put off opening her eyes for much longer. As soon as she did, she looked up and shot out of bed faster than she’d ever moved before. The fan was attached to the ceiling by a threadbare wire that was making the four sharp blades sway in a large circle right above where her face had just been.

While she waited for her heart rate to return to normal, she ran her toothbrush under some bottled water and thought that at some point in the future, this was going to make great dinner party conversation. ‘So how did you two know you were destined to be together?’ one of their new friends, probably someone from the Montessori nursery their kids would inevitably go to, would ask, and Freddie would ruffle her hair and say, ‘when this beautiful, crazy woman risked her life chasing me across India,’ and they’d kiss over the marinated scallops presented in their shell and everyone would go ‘ahhh’.

Yes, she thought decisively, this is a pivotal moment in our relationship, now I just need to find him.

The near-death experience with the fan meant checking out of the hotel was a necessity so she had no choice but to drag her suitcase behind her, over the pot-holed pavement, spilt food and animal excrement in between the hordes of people pouring into and out of the station next door. The noise of the traffic was deafening, and yet above it Leila heard the strains of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You belting out of a nearby shop and it gave her the steely determination to see her mission through.

Leila looked down at the piece of paper that the receptionist in Mumbai had scribbled the address of the Jaipur office on. ‘Excuse me’, she said, touching the sleeve of a man standing chewing something by a faded orange rickshaw, ‘Do you know this place?’ She offered him the scrap of paper. He stared at her. Then looked down at the writing, his head moved, and he motioned for her to get in the cab and swung her suitcase into the tuk tuk after her with practised ease.

He perched on the saddle in front of her and started peddling into the oncoming traffic. ‘Jesus! Oh my God! Careful, what the—’ Leila’s expletives were drowned out by the chorus of angry horns surrounding them. They slowed to let a couple of goats weave between the traffic prodded by a child with a big stick and no shoes. The rickshaw finally stopped outside a large, modern building and the man pointed. She gave him a fistful of rupees, the denominations of which she hadn’t got the hang of yet. He started dancing on the spot, making her realise that she might have just given him enough to feed his family for a year.

After a brief exchange with yet another commiserative receptionist, Leila found herself back on the street clutching yet another piece of paper with yet another hastily scribbled address on it. Apparently Freddie had called in sick today.

Of course he had.

Because nothing on this god-awful trip could be that easy. Of course he couldn’t have been at his desk and come down to see her in that fancy lobby and twirled her around so her feet left the floor.

Her long black hair was stuck to the back of her neck, but she didn’t want to put it up as Freddie loved it down. The humidity had also made her make-up quite literally slide off her face in the last three hours, but none of that mattered, she was ten minutes away from seeing her future husband.

Room 114 was at the end of the corridor. There was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, but Leila knew Freddie wouldn’t mind being woken up by her, even if he was sick. Her heart pounded. This was the moment. This is when he would realise how serious she was, and that he loved her. Her fingers brushed the mistletoe in her pocket as she knocked on the door a couple of times, then heard his voice angrily shout, ‘It says do not disturb!’

‘Freddie, it’s me!’

She could hear commotion inside the room, a table perhaps being knocked over – probably in his hurry to get to the door – voices suddenly coming to an abrupt hush – the TV no doubt being muted. Then the door opened a fraction and Freddie peered around it, wearing a dressing gown.

‘Layles!’ She hated him calling her that, always had done, but never found the right time to tell him. Now wasn’t the time either.

‘Freddie!’ She paused, waiting for the door to open more, or for him to invite her in, or for him to come out, or anything other than the two of them looking at each other through a two-inch gap. ‘I’m in India!’ She added completely unnecessarily.

‘So you are! Wow! Um, how did you find me here Layles?’ Still the door remained barely ajar.

She sighed and gave a self-deprecating laugh, ‘I’ll save that story for later, it’s a cracker. Now open the door, let me come in!’

Freddie looked very quickly over his shoulder and shifted a little, ‘Um, you know what, now’s not really a good time…’

‘Your office told me you were sick, don’t worry, I won’t pounce on you, I promise, I’ll just keep you company until you feel better. It’s Christmas tomorrow, maybe you could then call the office and take a couple more days off and we can make up for lost time, I’ve missed you so—’ Her words tailed off as she saw a movement in the slither of room she could see behind him. ‘Is there someone in the room?’ she asked, pushing the door tentatively against his weight behind it.

‘No, of course not! Why don’t you wait downstairs and I’ll just get dressed and come down?’

Then a cough came from behind him. A woman’s cough. Leila pushed open the door with a force she hadn’t known she possessed and saw a topless blonde sat on the bed pointing the remote at the TV. Leila’s suitcase came crashing to the floor as her hand let go of the handle to fly to her mouth.

‘Layles, I can explain.’

‘I really don’t think you can Freddie.’

‘But I—’

Leila put her hand up to stop him talking. ‘You know what Freddie?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I may be naïve and gullible and a romantic, and yes, an eternal optimist, but even I, in my sleep-deprived, stomach-cramping, starving state, fail to see how you can charm your way out of this one. Now excuse me, I have a train and then a plane to catch.’

She shouted over his shoulder to the woman, who had thankfully covered up her bare breasts with a cushion, ‘Good luck love, you’re going to need it.’ And she picked up the wobbling suitcase and strode off down the corridor.

‘Layles, wait!’ Freddie shouted from the doorway.

Leila kept walking, her head held high and shouted back without turning around, ‘Bye Freddie. And for the record. I fucking hate the name Layles.’

Chapter 1

A month later

Expensive does not necessarily mean best. Leila knew that. She was a landscape gardener, and would pick an everyday peony over a rare orchid any day and twice on Sundays, but when it came to chopping off over a foot and a half of her hair, opting for a hairdresser with an eye-watering price list seemed sensible.

The scissors hovered menacingly over her head. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ Leila nodded. ‘Never been surer.’ A pause. ‘No! Wait! Yes, I’m sure. Go ahead. No, stop!’

‘Too late.’ The stylist held up a long black ponytail. ‘Oops.’

Between the shaping and feathering and smoothing, Leila was placated to hear the stylist make encouraging sighs and clucks. When she’d finally finished the dramatic elfin cut, and spun her round to face the mirror, Leila took a sharp intake of breath. This small act of defiance had instantly elevated her from sweet to striking in less than an hour.

‘Why in God’s name haven’t I done this sooner?’ Leila said out loud, more to herself than the stylist who had gathered a few of her colleagues over to witness the transformation. She couldn’t stop touching her neck, and her ears felt weird, sort of breezy. But she couldn’t get over how big her eyes were, and her cheekbones, which had previously been hidden under two curtains drawn either side of her face were sharp and sexy.

‘Whoever he is you’re doing this for, is a very lucky man,’ said a voice under a head full of foils next to her.

‘Oh no, there’s no man. Or woman.’ Leila quickly added after an attractive girl with a nose piercing placed her hand on the back of her chair. ‘Just fancied a long overdue change.’

Being an empowered woman of the world, she ought to have been affronted at the wolf whistles that followed her down her street from the house on the corner that was having its attic converted. She did at least roll her eyes at a couple of women she passed as if to say, ‘I know, neanderthals, right?’ while allowing herself a little smile as she let herself in her front door. But then pretty much every time she stuck her key into the lock and pushed open the newly painted sage green door her mood was instantly lifted. She’d only moved in two months previously, and it was the first time she’d lived alone. And, thankfully, as she’d been given the key while Freddie was away, he had never set foot in it so it was completely free from toxic memories of any of her exes.

The flat was tiny, even by London standards, but at least it was all hers. It was in the basement of a tall Victorian townhouse. There was a steady stream of boots and shoes passing her living room window, which she oddly loved. She’d often choose feet-watching over TV at weekends, making up stories about the wearers of the footwear that ambled past, often in twos, or groups. You could always spot a first date by the nervous tottering and inappropriate height of heel. She loved the couples who walked in step with each other, placing right after left in perfect harmony.

When the estate agent showed her round, strategically placing himself over the largest of the damp patches in the hallway, he was understandably twitchy. It had been on their books for a while, and the vendor was getting desperate. He needn’t have worried. Leila looked right past the discoloured walls, and due to her height, the low sloping ceiling in the galley kitchen didn’t even make her duck. As soon as she’d glimpsed the private garden leading off the bedroom she was sold. It was a walled courtyard more than a garden, but in Leila’s mind it already had trellises of trailing wisteria and honeysuckle. She imagined vibrant earthenware pots adorning every ledge and a small raised bed with a herb garden. And now, two months after she moved in, it had exactly that. The patches of damp had been gotten rid of too, and whitewashed walls made the formerly neglected cellar bright and welcoming. There was just about room for a double bed in the bedroom, but little else, so she’d designed a double bed on six foot stilts and one of the craftsmen at work had made it for her. So she ascended a ladder to bed every night, freeing up the whole of the floor space underneath for her desk that was placed in the middle of the room looking out onto the garden.

Her shopping bags made a loud clunk as Leila dumped them onto the kitchen work surface reminding her almost too late of the two bottles of wine that were in them. She then set about making the salad and marinating the chicken that she was going to serve her sister Tasha for lunch when she arrived.

It was the first time Tasha had seen the flat, despite only living two stops down the tube line. But when one of you owns a basement shoebox in Bayswater and the other a five-bedroom, three-storey townhouse on High Street Kensington, of course you’d choose to dine at the latter. But Leila wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. Apart from the disastrous two years she’d lived with her ex-boyfriend Luke, whose table habits were so vile she never invited anyone round, she’d always shared her kitchen with an endless stream of flatmates, who commandeered every available pan or plate come meal time. This was, and it made her feel ashamed to admit it, the first time she’d cooked for her sister in thirty-two years.

The knocker sounded. That was another purchase that made Leila feel very grown up. One of the first things she’d done after moving in was take a screwdriver to the shrill doorbell and ceremoniously bin it, replacing it with a smart brass knocker like the one the Banks family had in Mary Poppins.

‘Welcome, welcome to my humble abode,’ Leila wrapped her sister in a big hug and stood to one side to give Tasha enough room to squeeze through the door.

‘Ooooo, I am loving the hair! Amazing! You’re actually really pretty! And this is so quaint! And the neighbourhood isn’t as rough as I thought it would be.’

‘I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere Tash!’

Her sister laughed, ‘Sorry, that came out completely wrong, let me rephrase. I just mean, wow, you look incredible, it’s really nice around here, and from what I’m seeing of your flat while standing on the doormat, it looks really lovely.’

‘I would say that it’s bigger than it looks, but after the tour which will take all of, oh, seven seconds, you’ll know that’s not true.’ Leila ushered her older sister into the living room, which was lined with books and pictures. Big vibrant canvases jostled for position next to black and white photographs, and vintage movie posters.

‘It’s very you.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, your personality shines through everywhere you look. I love it.’ And Tasha meant it. She hadn’t had much of an input at all into the decoration of her own home. As a well-meaning surprise, her husband Alex had thrown an obscene amount of money at one of London’s most well-connected interior designers who had transformed the once tired townhouse into a glittering show home. The end result was stunning, just if not exactly to her taste; but there was no way she could have acted anything other than over-awed and incredibly grateful at the big reveal, such were Alex’s good intentions.