Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B

About the Author

PORTIA MACINTOSH has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.

After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead.

Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real-life experiences to show what it’s really like being a woman today – especially one who doesn’t quite have her life together yet.

Readers Love Portia MacIntosh

‘What more do you want except the next book!’

‘It usually takes me a bit of time to get into the author’s style of writing, but with Portia it was easy reading’

‘It was the perfect, lighthearted read – great for relaxing by the pool’

‘It was a great book couldn’t put it down!’

‘Another warm and witty read perfect to curl up on the sofa and immerse yourself in. I love the Macintosh style!’

‘Thoroughly enjoyable and I did find myself struggling to put it down’

Also by Portia MacIntosh

The Time of Our Lives

Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop

Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

You Can’t Hurry Love

The Accidental Honeymoon

It’s Not You, It’s Them

Truth or Date

Drive Me Crazy

Bad Bridesmaid

If We Ever Meet Again

One Way or Another

Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B

PORTIA MACINTOSH

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2020

Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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.

E-book Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008328856

Version: 2019-12-24

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Portia MacIntosh

Also by Portia MacIntosh

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Bambi Brambles-Brown & Teddie Charles Bear.

Chapter 1

Mrs Gia Delaney’s wedding has been the wedding to end all weddings.

Seriously, if you’re planning your wedding right now I probably wouldn’t even bother because today has been a day that would put most royal weddings to shame. Gia’s nuptials made Meghan Markle’s look like nothing more than a piss-up down the pub!

She had a swan ring bearer, for crying out loud. How do you even coerce a swan into performing such a duty? A cute dog or trustworthy relative, sure, those are things that can be worked with, but a swan? I’ve never met a swan that didn’t want to kill me. Still, I booked it for her, like she asked me to. Being chief bridesmaid left me standing awfully close to the angry bird (not the bride, although she does seem especially hot-headed today) and I was absolutely petrified. It sure will look good in the pictures, though.

Gia and her husband Kent, the spoilt son of a dotcom millionaire who managed to survive the 2000 tech bubble burst (because people will always want, ahem, adult material, but that’s nothing to talk about at a wedding), have gone all out, all day.

The wedding ceremony took place at an enormous castle, belonging to a friend of the family who is something like ninetieth in line to the throne. It’s gorgeous, like something out of a fairy tale. Honestly, it’s like the kind of building you usually only see in romcom movies – or horror movies, depending on whether the venue is playing host to a lavish wedding with a Matthew McConaughey-type groom or a petrifying poltergeist with a smoky glow and chains hanging from it.

Speaking of dripping with chains, Gia’s bling is like nothing I have ever seen in real life. It’s the kind of diamond necklace you would expect to see the likes of Margot Robbie wearing on the red carpet at the Oscars – and even a mega star like her would only be borrowing them. Honestly, it’s all I can look at right now. Then again, I am jammed into a toilet cubicle with her, carefully holding her dress up while she has a wee. I didn’t really realise, when I agreed to be her right-hand woman for the day, that I would be taking on many of the duties of her actual right hand, but these are the kinds of things we do for our best friends, right?

‘Are you having a nice day?’ I ask her.

‘God, Lola, seriously, it’s amazing,’ she says. ‘I knew it was going to be amazing because, you know, I planned it, and because Kent has spent a fortune on it. Like, honestly, you could buy a house with the money we’ve spent. Not one that I would live in though.’

I laugh. Even when she’s on the toilet, Gia is a snob. She’s my snob though.

‘You deserve it,’ I tell her.

‘Thanks, babe,’ she replies. ‘And thanks so much for all your help with the planning – I can’t wait until I can return the favour for you. Any chance Patrick will be popping the question soon?’

‘Gosh, I doubt it,’ I say with an awkward chuckle. ‘We’ve only been together for nine months, and we hardly see each other with him being away for work so much. Things are going great, we just need to work on our schedules … but anyway, when I do get married – if I get married – then you will absolutely be right there by my side, and you can hold my dress in the air while I use the loo.’

‘Thanks so much for this,’ she says. ‘You can get these … I don’t know what to call them, sort of weird pant things that you can wear under your dress, that you can kind of bundle your dress up in while you use the lav.’

‘That sounds like a really good idea – why didn’t you get some?’ I ask.

Well, money was clearly no object, and I don’t mind doing this for her at all, it just sounds like a much better system, with much less awkward eye contact.

‘They were a little … granny pants-esque,’ she says. ‘Very ugly. I’d rather have my bestie do it.’

‘Aww, thank you,’ I tell her, only a little sarcastically. ‘It’s the closest I’ll come to wearing a dress like this anytime soon.’

‘You look hot in your bridesmaid dress,’ she tells me, as I sort out her dress by the sinks. ‘Patrick won’t be able to keep his hands off you.’

‘He looks amazing in a suit, doesn’t he?’ I say. I’m not usually one for boasting, but Patrick looks incredible when he’s all dressed up.

‘If I weren’t just married,’ Gia jokes as she washes her hands. ‘Right, let’s get back out there, get some more champagne.’

‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

Gia and I have always enjoyed the finer things in life. Our friendship was formed over £12 cocktails and lengthy shopping trips. We would frequent the Sky Bar, an exclusive rooftop cocktail bar in London, which is where Gia met Kent – it’s also where I met Patrick. Gia is basically my brunette counterpart. She’s like the sister I never had. It actually made me a bit emotional today, watching her get married. I’ve never had a friend I felt so close with and I was genuinely delighted. I was so proud of how beautiful she looked; like wow, that stunning babe is my best friend, and I’m helping her celebrate the best day of her life.

Gia kisses me on the cheek before getting back to her rounds, circulating, checking on all the guests, thanking them for coming.

This quick break in bridesmaid duties allows me to hurry over to Patrick, to steal a quick kiss.

‘Hey, handsome,’ I say as I sneak up behind him at the bar, wrapping my hands around his waist.

‘Hey there, sexy,’ he replies. ‘God, look at you in that dress. Every time you walk away, when I see you again I convince myself more and more that we should sneak off upstairs to our room, see how you look out of it.’

I feel myself blush, just a little, as a massive grin spreads across my face.

Patrick is so confident and it’s ridiculously sexy. He’s self-assured, but in the best possible way. It’s like he knows who he is and what he wants and he’s not afraid to get it. On the first day we met, he just walked over to me, bought me a drink and asked me to go on a date with him. He reckons he just knew that I would say yes – and I did. Imagine having that much self-confidence! I know all the right things to say and do when approaching the opposite sex but I could never have that level of self-possession fuelling it. Patrick has so much it’s spilling out of his pockets – and he has so much to spare, he isn’t concerned with picking any up.

I unsubtly bite my lip. I am more than tempted to take Patrick up on that offer; he looks so good today. His pompadour haircut is so stylish, as is his trendy, neat beard. He’s tall and muscular and there’s just something about his posture … so relaxed, but so confident.

I do wonder, as you do when things are going well with someone you are seeing, whether or not Patrick is the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. I would absolutely love to get married one day – though I’d probably be a little more low-key than Gia is being. I’m not exactly shy, and I know that you are supposed to be the centre of attention on your wedding day, but even so, this is a little much for me.

I got a real lump in my throat, watching her and Kent exchanging the vows they had written for each other (or paid a professional writer to pen, in Gia’s case) and it made me wonder what I would say about Patrick, if it were us. Only in a just-wondering-to-myself kind of way – there’s no way we’re ready to get married anytime soon. With Patrick working as a stockbroker, and spending a lot of time abroad, I don’t get to see him as much as I would like. We’ve got a trip planned in the not too distant future, just a little break away, but it will be some much-needed time alone together. I worry about him, working so hard all the time, travelling so much, doing such a stressful job. He loves it though; he loves the risk and the action – somehow this only makes him seem sexier to me.

‘How are you doing?’ Patrick asks me. ‘Are you having fun?’

‘I am,’ I say. ‘So, so much fun … I’m really hungry though. I was so nervous when we were eating – I think I was worried I might spill on my dress or something else classically clumsy me.’

‘I hear they’re doing the rounds with dessert items,’ Patrick tells me. ‘And apparently the disco is about to start, if you fancy a dance?’

It isn’t long before Gia’s favourite song, ‘Stop’ by the Spice Girls, starts playing.

Gia charges towards the dance floor, a champagne glass in her hand, without a care in the world. Her dress cost more than most people’s annual salaries, yet she’s carrying herself without a care in the world; she may as well be in her pyjamas. Whoever said money can’t buy you happiness obviously never tried to eat a three-course dinner in a dress most people couldn’t afford to dry-clean – I know I couldn’t. I’m going to lock it away in its protective box as soon as I take it off.

My gaze shifts from Gia to the waiter behind her, carrying a mountain of profiteroles around. And they’re not just normal profiteroles, they are salted caramel profiteroles – I know because I helped Gia choose them, and they are incredible.

‘I’m going to grab some dessert, then we’ll dance, OK?’

‘Can’t wait,’ Patrick replies.

Gia has put so much time, effort and money into making today the happiest day of her life. She really has thought of everything. There is one thing she hasn’t considered though: that her best friend might fall flat on her face on the dance floor.

I was making a beeline for the profiteroles, heading across the dance floor – not dancing, I hasten to add – balancing on the pin-like heels I’ve been wearing all day (the ones Gia insisted I had to wear, even though I said they weren’t the easiest of shoes to walk in), and I was doing a great job of balancing on them until about ten seconds ago, when I stacked it in front of everyone. Still, I suppose you can see the red soles now that I’m laid out on the floor, which was the main reason Gia wanted me to wear them in the first place.

Patrick comes running over and tries to help me up, but as soon as I try to move my leg, I cry out in pain.

‘Shit, shit,’ I blurt out.

I watch as one of Gia’s aunties ushers one of her young cousins away from me, her hands placed lightly over their ears.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just … I’ve never felt anything like it … It’s … God, I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘We’d better take you to hospital,’ Patrick says.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to go to hospital,’ I insist, trying to get up, but this only makes me cry out again.

I look for Gia in the crowd around me. There she is, with a face like thunder. Hell hath no fury like a bride upstaged at her own wedding. I swear, the way she’s looking at me, it’s almost as if she’s jealous. Like she wishes it were her, sprawled out on the floor, trying not to cry all over her £1,299 bridesmaid dress (for some reason, I think Gia thinks reminding me of the price might encourage me to get up quicker, but I can’t). If she knew how much pain I were in, she’d be happy where she was, even if everyone’s eyes are off her for a fleeting moment.

It takes a few people to help me up from the floor and it is the most pain I have ever known in my life.

I feel bad for Gia. I know that she knows I can’t help it, even if she does look upset, but it’s bound to ruin her day a little, having her best friend carted off to A & E. I’ll just get it checked out and try to get back here ASAP. I hate hospitals but I’m sure it will be just a quick in and out. I’ll find out that I’m a big baby, I’ll walk it off, I’ll be back on the dance floor in no time.

I’ll probably get my flats on the way back though.

Chapter 2

‘OK, Lola, you are not going to like me now,’ the radiographer tells me.

I didn’t realise I liked him before. Well, what’s to like? So far all he’s done is talk to me like I’m a clumsy child and ask me a bunch of personal questions about my menstrual cycle.

‘I’m going to have to move your leg into the right position for the x-ray,’ he tells me through an incredibly forced smile.

‘OK,’ I say, taking a deep breath. I already know how this goes. It’s been two hours since I fell, and the majority of those two hours have been spent slowly transporting me to the hospital, because the slightest movement of my leg causes me the worst pain I have ever felt in my life.

The radiographer begins moving my leg into position.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He sounds like he means it.

‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ I reply.

‘It’s OK, you have a free pass in here,’ he assures me. ‘And I’ve heard much worse.’

That’s fortunate, because I know much worse. I wish I’d had a free pass to swear on the journey here. I kept getting these stabbing pains in my leg, and every time it happened, I couldn’t help but drop S-bombs, and each time I did, you could guarantee there was a child lurking around. We had to apologise to a lot of parents on the way here – at the hotel, as the paramedics did their best to carefully get me off the dance floor and into the ambulance, and then at the hospital as they wheeled me to A & E.

‘Well, I can see the problem here,’ he finally says after taking my x-rays. He doesn’t say much more than that though. I wait with bated breath, until he comes over to move my leg again, making me (as) comfortable (as is possible right now) in my wheelchair.

‘You’ve broken your leg,’ he tells me.

‘What? Really?’

‘Really,’ he replies.

I mean, it is very painful, more painful than anything I’ve ever felt in my life, but I didn’t think it was broken. In fact, after I fell, the first thing I did was insist that I didn’t want to go to hospital. Even when we arrived here, and the nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale from one to ten, I gave it a six and turned down painkillers because I didn’t actually think it was broken. I thought I was just being a big baby.

‘You’re not actually a doctor though, are you?’ I say. ‘You could be wrong?’

The radiographer’s eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t trying to offend him, I just meant that, maybe he could be wrong? He has to be wrong. I really, really can’t have a broken leg right now.

He wheels me across the room, in my wheelchair with my leg sticking out in front of me, sticks my x-ray on the wall and flicks a switch. As the x-ray comes alive, my hope dies.

‘See that there,’ he says, pointing to a bone that is broken clean in half.

‘Yes,’ I reply softly.

‘That’s your fibula,’ he replies. ‘And yours is screwed.’

‘Are … are you allowed to say that?’ I ask, a little taken aback.

‘Everyone gets a free pass in here,’ he replies moodily.

I guess I must’ve offended him when I said he wasn’t a doctor. I wasn’t being sassy with him, I was just really hoping he might be wrong.

As he wheels me along the corridor, I spot Patrick.

‘Hey,’ I call out.

‘Hey, what’s cracking?’ he asks, looking up from his iPhone.

‘Her fibula,’ the radiographer tells him. ‘You can take her the rest of the way back.’

‘Thanks for all your help,’ I call after him guiltily.

‘You’ve broken it?’ Patrick asks me in disbelief.

‘Now that I think about it, I did feel a sort of … popping sensation.’

‘Christ,’ he replies. ‘Well, let’s get you to the doctor, get you patched up.’

I puff air from my cheeks as Patrick wheels me back to the minor injuries unit. We’ve had nine amazing months of going out on lovely dates, enjoying romantic evenings in, entire days in the bedroom … This is our first trip to A & E though. I suppose all couples have to have one eventually, right?

‘I still don’t understand how you did it,’ he says.

‘I just lost my footing,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t exactly diving for the bouquet. It’s these silly bridesmaid shoes Gia made me wear.’

Patrick sighs. ‘Women and shoes,’ he says as he wheels me back to see the doctor.

‘So, it’s broken,’ the doctor says, appearing from behind the curtain. ‘Fancy that codeine now?’

‘Yes please,’ I reply.

Now I know I’m not going to be able to shift the pain with a bag of ice and a couple of days off my feet, give me all the drugs.

‘Here we are,’ she says, handing me two paper cups: one with a tablet and one with water.

I knock it back.

‘So, you’ve broken your fibula, I’m afraid,’ she tells me. ‘I’m just going to run your x-ray by the orthopaedic surgeon, see what he says.’

‘OK,’ I reply. My heart is in my mouth.

‘Surgeon?’ I say to Patrick. ‘Am I going to need an operation?’

‘Calm down,’ he insists. ‘We’re … it’s going to be OK.’

Is it?! It doesn’t seem like it is.

I can’t help but notice Patrick’s bedside manner – or lack thereof. He isn’t being very patient or reassuring. He isn’t rubbing my shoulder or holding my hand. He seems deeply uncomfortable with the hospital generally. I suppose some people are just like that.

‘OK,’ the doctor says as she reappears through the curtain. ‘So, we’ve had a chat and, as you’re relatively young, an operation probably isn’t necessary. You should heal just fine in a cast.’

I can’t help but take issue with her use of ‘relatively young’ – I’m only thirty-two, for Christ’s sake. Don’t tell me I’m on the verge of old, brittle bones yet!

‘OK,’ I reply.

‘I’ll get you a prescription for some codeine to take home, OK?’

‘OK,’ I reply.

Why does everyone – myself included – keep saying OK? This is absolutely not OK, and repeatedly saying it’s OK isn’t going to make it O-bloody-K.

My cast goes much higher up my leg than I expected it to. It’s big, and bulky, and I hate the way it smells. It certainly doesn’t match the stocking on my other leg.

I notice Patrick staring at it with a look of discomfort. He winces, as he watches me shuffle to find comfort in my wheelchair.

Patrick wheels me out into the hospital reception. It must be quite late now. All I want is to sleep. If I sleep, things might feel easier in the morning.

As he manoeuvres me through a doorway he catches my wheelchair on the frame. The jolt sends a wave of pain around every nerve ending in my body. I turn my head to look at him, only to realise he’s looking at something on his phone while he pushes me with one hand.

‘Patrick!’

‘Sorry, sorry, it’s work,’ he says.

It’s always work with him. Being a stockbroker is, apparently, a twenty-four hour a day job. I say apparently because I honestly have no way of knowing whether this is true or not. Aside from the most basic knowledge of stocks, I don’t really get what he does. I just know that it makes him very angry, and he’s always on his phone. So perhaps it is a twenty-four hour a day job, perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on him.