The One: A moving and unforgettable love story - the most emotional read of 2018

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Copyright

HarperImpulse

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Maria Realf 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Maria Realf 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.

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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008278960

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008278977

Version: 2018-01-29

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: 13 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 2: 2 October 2002

Chapter 3: 12 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 4: 6 October 2002

Chapter 5: 11 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 6: 6 October 2002

Chapter 7: 10 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 8: 25 December 2002

Chapter 9: 9 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 10: 6 October 2003

Chapter 11: 8 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 12: 3 April 2004

Chapter 13: 7 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 14: 15 May 2004

Chapter 15: 6 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 16: 23 July 2004

Chapter 17: 5 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 18: 26 December 2004

Chapter 19: 4 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 20: 18 February 2005

Chapter 21: 3 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 22: 4 March 2005

Chapter 23: 2 Weeks to Go …

Chapter 24: 1 Week to Go …

Chapter 25: 4 Days to Go …

Chapter 26: 3 Days to Go …

Chapter 27: 1 Day to Go …

Chapter 28: 5 Hours to Go …

Chapter 29: 30 Minutes to Go …

Chapter 30: Here Comes the Bride …

Epilogue: Two Years Later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

A Q&A with Maria Realf

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Dedication

For Rob, my love,

Zac, my treasure,

And Stephen, my hero

1

13 weeks to go …

Finally, I’ve found The One! Lizzie Sparkes gazed at the full-length mirror in the changing room, hardly daring to believe that it was her own reflection staring back. The Grecian gown was perfect, with tiny beads twinkling along the asymmetric strap, and a delicate train skimming the carpet as though it was practising for the Oscars. It wasn’t too tight, it wasn’t scratchy and it didn’t make her look like a human doily. The only downside was the eye-wateringly expensive price, but she had decided to overlook that part. It’ll be worth it when Josh sees me walking down the aisle, she reassured herself, a lump rising in her throat. I look almost … beautiful.

She was afraid to step out from the safety of the cubicle, in case the look on her mum’s face – or Megan’s – betrayed the fact that they didn’t feel the same. They were both polite when it came to watching her try on wedding gowns, and had patiently sat through some 30 or so now, but she knew them well enough to read the signs. When her mum wasn’t keen on a dress, she blinked three or four times in quick succession, while Megan pulled a weird half-smile that made her look as though she’d had a dodgy facelift. It was a total giveaway, every time.

Lizzie drew a deep breath and swept back the purple velvet curtain. She took a slow step out into the centre of the boutique, her dark hair swishing loosely behind her like a glossy veil. ‘W-O-W,’ said Megan.

Her mum promptly burst into tears, which was a more confusing reaction.

‘Mum? Don’t you like it?’

There was a long pause while Lynda Sparkes rummaged through her overcrowded handbag, before pulling out a crumpled tissue and nearly poking herself in her right eye. ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ she sniffed, mascara smudging into her crows’ feet. ‘You look like a movie star.’

Yep, this is definitely The One …

The store manager tottered over in her nude skyscraper heels, clearly anticipating a hefty commission. ‘That dress looks amazing on you,’ she gushed. ‘It fits so well, you’d hardly need any alterations. We could maybe just take it up an inch or two.’ She bent down and folded the hem with her hands by way of demonstration, though it didn’t seem to make a great deal of difference. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’ll take it.’ The words popped out of Lizzie’s mouth before she had a chance to peek again at the price tag.

‘Excellent!’ The manager clapped her manicured hands loudly and two blonde minions, one tall and one tiny, raced over. ‘Let’s open some champagne, please, for Ms …’

‘Sparkes. Soon to be Cooper.’

‘Of course. I assume we’re all having some bubbly?’

‘You assume right,’ said Megan. She was not the kind of girl to turn down champagne at any hour, especially if it was on the house.

‘Marvellous.’ Moments later the two blondes reappeared, one bearing a tray of glasses and the other carrying a bottle of fizz. The manager made an elaborate show of popping the cork and pouring it out with a flourish. ‘Well, congratulations!’

‘Thank you,’ smiled Lizzie, edging away from the drinks so as not to spill anything down the pristine white silk. After six long months of searching, she was still in shock that she had found the dress of her dreams. Everyone kept telling her that she would know the right one when she saw it, but she’d been starting to suspect that might be a bridal myth. Last week she’d had a nightmare that she arrived at the wedding in a gown made from loo roll, which began to unravel in front of all their guests. She’d woken up covered in sweat and couldn’t get back to sleep, but Josh thought it was hilarious when she relayed the story the next morning. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll still marry you if you turn up in Andrex,’ he joked. ‘And think how much money we’d save …’

It was easy for him to laugh, of course; he’d chosen his suit after just two shopping trips and looked like a male model in it, the slimline cut complementing his lean, athletic build. ‘You’re not supposed to upstage the bride,’ she’d only half-joked when he tried it on, feeling the pressure to pick an equally special outfit increase tenfold. It was a huge relief to have finally found something so perfect.

‘I can’t believe you’re getting married!’ squealed Megan, the bubbliness of the champers already kicking in. ‘And in that fabulous dress.’ She glanced over at Mrs Sparkes, who had finally managed to stop sobbing long enough to take a sip of her drink. ‘Mrs S, we’re really going to have to get you some waterproof eye make-up.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I can manage anything else today, love. I’m completely shopped out.’

‘Fair enough, but you’ll want some for the wedding. I’ll see what I can find at work.’ Megan was a journalist for a popular style website, and was sent so many samples that her bathroom was starting to resemble the cosmetics hall at Harrods. The retail worth of her monthly beauty booty was probably twice her modest salary.

She turned her attention back to her friend. ‘You’ll need to start thinking about bridal make-up too, Lizzie – plus there’s hair, underwear, shoes, not to mention my bridesmaid’s outfit …’

‘I think I’d better get out of this dress first,’ said Lizzie. ‘Can you give me a hand, Meg?’

‘Sure, no problem. As long as I don’t have to help you to the loo on the day.’

Just then Megan’s mobile squawked like a melodramatic duck, and they both burst out laughing. ‘What on earth is that?’ asked Lizzie.

‘It’s my new email alert,’ grinned Megan, reaching for her phone. ‘It quacks me up.’

‘Oh, please stop. I swear your jokes are getting worse.’ She waited for the witty riposte, but suddenly realised her friend was no longer smiling. In fact, all the colour had flooded from her face, leaving her skin whiter than the row of wedding dresses behind her. ‘Megan? What’s wrong?’

The sound of her name seemed to snap Megan out of her trance, and she shook her curly blonde bob. ‘Nothing. It’s not important. Now, where were we?’ She put on her most lopsided smile, and Lizzie knew she was lying.

‘You were about to stop being weird and tell me what’s going on. Is everything OK?’

‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’ll fill you in later.’

‘Please fill me in now. You’re starting to freak me out.’

Megan looked around nervously, as if hoping someone might interrupt this awkward exchange, but Mrs Sparkes was deep in conversation with the manager, waffling on about her own 1980s bridal gown.

‘Megan! What’s going on?’

‘Alright, I’ll tell you, but promise you won’t stress out, OK?’

‘Stress out about what?’

There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Alex is back.’

It took all of Lizzie’s willpower not to vomit down the front of her dazzling new dress.

Lizzie tried to unlock the front door, her hand trembling so much she could barely insert the key. Megan’s words replayed on a loop in her mind: Alex is back. For years, she had wanted to hear that more than anything in the world, but as a decade had ticked by she’d slowly swept aside the shards of her old life, carefully filing all thoughts of him away in the archives of her past.

What the hell is he doing here?

He had been in such a dark place the last time she’d seen him. She wondered what he would look like now; whether she would recognise him if they passed one another on the street. Perhaps he had gained weight or gone prematurely grey; maybe his casually cool wardrobe had been replaced by corporate suits or skin-tight gym gear. I’d know those eyes, though, she thought, momentarily closing her own. I’d know them anywhere.

She finally managed to wrestle open the door, stepping quietly into the snug Surrey home that she and Josh had moved into six months ago. Her lips moved on autopilot to shout a loving greeting, but today her tongue felt as paralysed as her brain, unable to process the million questions those three little words had unleashed. She decided to head upstairs for the sanctuary of the bathroom, where she could take a moment to compose herself – or at least throw up the butterflies swirling around in her gut. But before she could creep past the bedroom, a strong pair of arms bundled her up from behind.

‘Trying to sneak past me, eh?’ said Josh. ‘And without even a kiss, too …’

Lizzie turned round and looked into his teasing brown eyes, her composure melting under the warmth of his unsuspecting smile. Confusion hit her like a right hook.

‘I … um … I’m not feeling so great,’ she said, taking a step back.

‘Was it the tacos?’ She shook her head. ‘Now you mention it, you do look a bit pale. Come here.’ He wrapped her tightly in a hug, stroking her hair rhythmically with his right hand. His skin smelled fresh, like mint shower gel, and she buried her face in his Diesel sweater, hoping to avoid further eye contact for a moment longer.

Half of her wanted to tell him the truth – the whole truth – but she didn’t exactly know where to start. They had not talked much about her ex before: it was a painful can of worms she had sealed tightly shut, and Josh seemed to have the good sense not to prise it open. He knew there had been someone else – maybe even heard the name muttered by old friends – but until now Alex was merely the whispered ghost of a boyfriend past.

‘Do you think it’s all this rushing around for the wedding?’ Josh unwittingly gave her an escape route, and she took it.

‘Maybe. I am feeling a bit stressed.’ She pulled back and rubbed her eyes. ‘There’s still so much to sort out with the flowers and invitations and everything. I think my Bridezilla hormones must be kicking in.’

Josh looked relieved. ‘Freddie said that might happen.’ His annoying best mate had only been married for nine months, but now acted like he was the world’s leading authority on weddings. ‘Maybe you need a bit of a break, like a spa weekend or something? I could do some invites, if you like.’

His concern only made her feel worse. Just calm down, she told herself. Alex being back doesn’t change anything. It’s going to be fine.

‘I’m OK,’ she said slowly. ‘I was having a funny five minutes, that’s all.’ She forced a thin smile. ‘But, actually, it would be great if you could help with the invites. Thank you.’ Wedding admin wasn’t exactly Josh’s forte, as she’d found out when it came to sending the save-the-date cards, so she appreciated the offer.

‘No problem.’ He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’

She ran her fingers through his sandy hair, which was looking adorably ruffled. ‘Well, there is one thing while you’re here …’

‘Go on.’

‘Kiss me.’

He took her in his arms and grinned. ‘Honestly, woman, I thought you’d never ask …’

2

2 October 2002

Without warning, the bedroom door flew open and Megan flounced in, forcing Lizzie to look up from her well-thumbed copy of Wuthering Heights. ‘Here’s a thought,’ Lizzie suggested affectionately. ‘Perhaps you could learn to knock. I could have been naked or anything.’

‘Like I haven’t seen that before.’

‘Yeah, well, you should probably knock before entering the bathroom as well.’

‘Whatever …’ Megan tossed her hair, making her sparkly top shimmer like something out of a pop video. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’ve had a great idea for this evening! Dominic’s asked me to this karaoke night at Ignition and he’s bringing his housemate, so I thought you could join us. Cab’s coming in 45 minutes.’ She beamed as though she’d just extended an invite to an all-expenses-paid cruise around the Caribbean.

Lizzie’s heart plummeted. Karaoke? You’ve got to be kidding. She stretched out on the blue and white striped bedspread and faked a large yawn. ‘I’m not really in the mood for another double date, Meg. No offence, but you know they never work out.’

‘They haven’t been that bad,’ said Megan, looking insulted. ‘Nathan seemed nice.’

‘He’s about 5ft 7.’

‘And? So’s Tom Cruise.’

‘Which is fine for you. But I’m 5ft 10, in case you hadn’t noticed. Without heels!’

‘Well, Eric was tall,’ she huffed.

‘True, but I’m pretty sure Eric’s gay.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He gave his phone number to our waiter!’

‘Really? I don’t remember.’ Megan could conveniently forget anything if it didn’t further her current plans. ‘Anyway, this one will be different. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t know …’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘I was kind of looking forward to just chilling out tonight.’

‘Why? There’ll be loads of time for that when you’re old!’ Megan strutted over to the beech Argos wardrobe and started rummaging around inside. ‘You’ve got some gorgeous stuff in here, Lizzie,’ she said, rifling her way along the rail. ‘What’s the point of buying dresses unless you bother to show them off? You can stay in and read tomorrow – it’s not like Heathcliff’s going anywhere.’

Just then there was a noise from upstairs, and the sound of Tom Jones singing Sex Bomb began to echo around the landing. Lizzie immediately knew what that track meant: their other housemate, a cheeky Welshman called Gareth, had a hot date in his room, and any hope of a quiet night had now gone out of the window. A triumphant smile flickered across Megan’s face.

‘Fine, I’ll get ready,’ Lizzie grumbled, rolling off the bed and plugging in her hair straighteners. ‘But you’re going to owe me big time.’

Facing the wonky mirror in the bar’s dimly lit loos, Lizzie applied a slick of lip balm and frowned at her reflection. Two tired brown eyes glared back at her in annoyance. She could have bet a month’s rent before leaving the house that she wouldn’t fancy Dominic’s flatmate, and her instincts had been spot on. Though admittedly he wasn’t the worst-looking guy Megan had ever tried to set her up with, he was clearly a complete sexist, and when he’d started on the subject of women’s sport she’d had to make her excuses and escape to the ladies.

Give it one more hour out there and then you can leave, she promised herself. Hopefully by then Gareth will have stopped his Sexbombathon, and you’ll be able to go to bed in peace.

She slipped the balm into the pocket of her vintage red tea dress, a total bargain she’d snapped up at Oxfam, then smoothed her hair and strode out of the door – smack bang into a barman carrying a tray full of drinks. Lizzie watched in horror as glasses came crashing down around them, spilling their contents everywhere in torturously slow motion. A lone Bacardi Breezer just managed to stay on the tray, wobbling defiantly from side to side like a skittle.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she winced, wondering why she’d ever agreed to leave her cosy bedroom. Her left arm felt cold and sticky. ‘I … I didn’t see you there.’

‘Evidently,’ he growled, surveying the front of his soaked black T-shirt.

‘Are you alright? I’ll pay for the drinks.’ A surreptitious check of her dress revealed that he had borne the brunt of the spillage, which was both unfair and a big relief.

He set down the tray, glanced straight at her for a second, then surprised her with a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, his voice low and smoky. ‘There’s no point crying over … well, two pints, a Hooch and what I think might have been a Malibu and Coke.’ He sniffed the top of his T-shirt. ‘Yep … coconut.’

Despite her mortification, Lizzie found herself laughing. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve always liked coconut. But I still feel terrible.’

‘Don’t. It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘What, spilled drinks or clumsy girls?’

‘Both, I guess. Are you OK?’

‘Yes – well, apart from my rubbish eyesight, obviously. I swear I’m not as drunk as you must think.’

He smiled again, and Lizzie noticed that he was quietly attractive, with unruly dark hair that flopped into striking blue-grey eyes, and a jawline scattered with stubble; not the pretentious, landscaped kind, but the sort that suggested he had better things to do than shave every morning. He was tall – she guessed around 6ft – with broad shoulders, and his damp T-shirt clung just tightly enough that she could tell he was in good shape. She was beginning to stare now, she knew, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

In the end, he moved first, gesturing to the broken glass on the floor: ‘Well, I suppose I’d better sort this lot out before someone loses a toe.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘You said that already,’ he teased. ‘Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.’ And with that he disappeared into a room behind the bar.

Realising that she hadn’t even caught his name, Lizzie was surprised by the sudden surge of disappointment inside – but not half as surprised as when the karaoke compere made his next announcement: ‘Alright, now I’m looking for Lizzie Sparkes … Lizzie Sparkes, please come up.’ Lizzie looked round frantically, hoping by freak coincidence that someone else might share the same moniker, but then she spotted Megan and the boys howling with laughter.

‘Oh, there you are, Lizzie,’ shouted Megan, singling her out with an exaggerated pointing gesture. ‘You’re on.’

Lizzie tried frantically to get the attention of the chubby compere, wanting to let him know that it was all a stupid joke, but he interpreted her frenzied waving as a sign that she was coming and began to queue up the mysterious backing track. Blind panic set in. What have they picked? The contents of her CD collection flashed before her eyes. Britney Spears? Sugababes? S Club 7? There was only one thing for it: she would have to go up there and put a stop to this confusion.

Taking a deep breath, she jostled her way up to the makeshift stage, a blush creeping across both cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake …’ she said to the host, but her voice was lost over the opening bars of the music as he thrust a microphone into her hand. Lizzie froze as she recognised the intro. It was Tragedy, a guilty pleasure she enjoyed playing on her Steps Gold CD – maybe a little too loudly if Megan had noticed – but would never dream of performing in the shower, let alone in public. The three cocktails she’d consumed earlier churned uneasily in her stomach.

Shit, shit, shit. I’m actually going to have to go through with this. The opening lines popped up on the ancient monitor in a garish shade of neon green, as if to further highlight her public humiliation.

Megan’s going to meet with some kind of tragedy when we get home, that’s for sure.

Mumbling along to the first verse, Lizzie tried to keep in time with the loud audio, her voice quivering almost as much as her legs. In desperation, she held out the microphone to the audience, encouraging her fellow students to sing along for the catchy chorus.

To her amazement, they did.

Seconds later Megan jumped up on stage beside her, tucking a straw behind one ear like a headset mic and belting out the rest of the lyrics. A group of girls near the front stood to perform the Steps dance routine in perfect unison, as though they’d been rehearsing for precisely such an occasion.