The Man I Didn’t Marry

Praise for Anna Bell

‘Warm-hearted and hilarious. It will make you giggle and want to hug the book when you finish it. I flippin’ loved it!’

Miranda Dickinson, Sunday Times bestselling author of Take a Look at Me Now

‘A brilliantly funny, uplifting yet emotional rom-com that I just lost myself in’

Elle Spellman, author of Running Into Trouble

‘Romantic and refreshing’

Mhairi McFarlane, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘The perfect laugh-out-loud love story’

Louise Pentland, Sunday Times bestselling author of Wilde Like Me

‘Smart, witty and completely fresh’

Cathy Bramley, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘Funny, romantic and uplifting’

Cressida McLaughlin, author of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus

‘This is the fun breath of fresh air we need right now!’

Fabulous

‘Funny and touching’

My Weekly

‘Perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella’

Take a Break

‘A funny, feel-good read’

Closer

‘Romance, comedy and drama sparkle in this fun, fresh and frothy concoction’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘A fun, bouncy, brilliant tale’

Heat

‘Funny, relatable and fabulously written’

Daily Express

Also by Anna Bell

We Just Clicked

If We’re Not Married By Thirty

It Started with a Tweet

The Good Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Even

The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

Don’t Tell the Brides-to-be

Don’t Tell the Boss

Don’t Tell the Groom

ANNA lives in the South of France with her young family and energetic Labrador. When not chained to her laptop, Anna can be found basking in the summer sun, heading to the ski slopes in the winter (to drink hot chocolate and watch – she can’t ski) or having a sneaky treat from the patisserie – all year round!

You can find out more about Anna on her website – www.annabellwrites.com or follow her on Twitter @annabell_writes.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © Anna Bell 2021

Anna Bell 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.

Ebook Edition © Febraury 2021 ISBN: 9780008340810

Version 2020-12-24

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008340803

For Jessica,

For inspiring me to always be braver.

Contents

Cover

Praise

Also by Anna Bell

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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

Acknowledgements

Extract

Prologue

About the Publisher

Prologue

When deciding to go to Comic Con this year dressed as Wonder Woman, with a very short skirt and tiny corseted top, I had not factored in the possibility that we would end up in a meat market of a club afterwards. I tug down at my skirt, which seems to have become even shorter in the few minutes since I last pulled it down, before I squeeze through the dance floor, fending off bum pinches and guys trying to grind in my direction. Ugh. To think I’ve been wearing this outfit all day and I didn’t have one unwelcome advance. And yet, I’ve been in this club less than an hour and I’ve been slapping hands away left, right and centre.

I didn’t really want to come, but my friends dragged me here and I’ve only gone and lost them. Neither of them are answering their phones, so I’ve spent the last twenty minutes searching the different floors, which are so dark and full of sweaty bodies, trying to find them. You’d think that dressed as the Incredible Hulk and HawkGirl they’d be easy to spot. It’s late and it’s been a long day, and if I can’t see them on my final scan of the upstairs dance floor, I’m going to call it a night.

I look over at the people standing around the tables at the edge of the dance floor and my heart almost stops. Standing at one of those tables is Max Voss – my best friend Rachel’s brother, aka my teenage crush. I haven’t seen him in years, but he is every bit as gorgeous as he was when we were younger, perhaps even more so. I can’t stop staring. I feel like I’m 15 again, trapped in his power.

It’s one thing to be a gormless 15-year-old with an embarrassing crush; it’s quite another to be behaving the same way at the ripe old age of 28. Yet, I can’t help it. This is exactly why I don’t meet up with Rach at her parents’ house if I know he’s going to be there.

He must sense me staring at him as he looks up and our eyes meet. I expect him to quickly turn away – I doubt he’d recognise me with my hair this long and without the trademark thick glasses that I wore until I was in my early twenties – but to my utter surprise he starts furiously waving at me. I look behind, expecting to see some leggy blonde, but no one behind me is paying him any attention. He points at me again and, thanks to the rum and Cokes I’ve been drinking, I’ve got the confidence to go over.

‘Hey,’ he says, beckoning me closer and shouting in my ear. ‘You’re here.’

He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek when he talks. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him; he’s certainly never been this friendly with me before.

He puts his hand on the small of my back, causing me to melt at his touch. I reach out to hold onto the table beside me to stop my legs from buckling. I hate that my teenage crush still has such a hold on me.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

‘Come and meet Dodge,’ he says, ignoring my confusion.

He takes me by the hand, leading me to his group of friends, and places me in front of one who is dressed in a lime-green Borat mankini. Out of all the costumes that I’ve seen today, this is by the far the worst assault on my eyes. I try to ignore the hair and bits of flesh popping out from where they’re not supposed to.

Max whispers something into his friend’s ear and his friend looks me up and down; a huge grin appears on his face.

He comes towards me, holding out his hand, and I don’t know what to do other than to shake it.

The rest of Max’s friends seem to have taken great interest in what’s going on and they’ve formed a circle around me. A couple of them start to shout and sing the Wonder Woman theme tune; they’re smiling and clapping and, because it seems like a good idea after my rum and Cokes, I start to join in with them, putting my hands above my head and moving my hips to the music.

The chanting starts to change and it’s hard to make out what they are saying at first, but then I hear the word ‘kit’ and then ‘tits’. Why would they want me to strip? Unless? I suddenly stop, looking down at my outfit and thinking of Max’s reference to him thinking I wasn’t coming. The fact that they’re all men in their group. The fact that he didn’t make any reference to my name or knowing who I was. Oh God. I think he thinks I’m a stripper.

The man in the Borat mankini is nodding encouragingly at me, presumably waiting for the show to start, and I look over at Max in horror.

I watch his facial expression change from one of amusement to one of confusion.

‘Wait, I know you,’ he says, taking a step forward, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Oh my God!’ he shouts. ‘Spider, it’s you!’

I cringe at the use of the nickname he used to call me. I haven’t heard it in years. When I was younger my glasses were really thick and, if you looked through the side of them, it often looked like I had multiple eyes. Add to that my tall, gangly limbs and my flat chest, and Max had once said that I looked like a spider, and the name stuck. Heartache and pain coming flooding back, of having the kind of teenage crush that consumed every fibre of my being, only for the object of my affection to see me as a spider.

Tears start to form as the memories come in thick and fast, Max’s friends all still calling for me to strip. It’s too much. I turn and push my way through the crowds on the dance floor and down the stairs towards the exit.

‘Spider, wait!’ I hear as Max thunders down the stairs after me.

I ignore him and find myself out on the pavement, wrapping my cape around me to counter the chill in the air.

‘Spider, please. I’m sorry,’ he says, turning me round gently from my elbow.

‘You thought I was a stripper?’ I say, putting my hands on my hips. My cape billows out behind me in the wind.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, taking me by the hand and walking me away from the bouncers who are trying not to laugh at us. ‘It was the outfit. My mate Jez said he’d booked one and then you were standing right in front of us and you were looking over and I just thought… Shit, I’m so sorry. But look at you, Spider, all grown up.’

I’m aware that he’s looking at my boobs, which are squeezing over the top of my corset, and my cape is no help; no matter how many times I try and wrap myself in it, it keeps flying back in the wind.

‘Um, Max,’ I say, waving and pointing at my face. His eyes flick up.

‘Oh yeah, sorry, it’s just. That outfit. Do you always dress…’

‘I went to Comic Con today.’

‘Comic what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Are you here with friends?’

‘I was, but I lost them. I was looking for them when I bumped into you. But I think I’m just going to go home,’ I say, scanning the street for a cab.

Two bouncers struggle out of the club; they’re manhandling Max’s friend in the Borat mankini. They practically throw him into the arms of his waiting friends, who have scrambled out after him.

‘What the hell happened?’ asks Max.

‘Rodge’s just been sick on the dance floor.’

Max winces.

‘We’re going to take him home,’ says his friend.

‘I’ll help.’

‘Nah, mate, we’ve got him,’ the friend says, tapping Max’s chest. ‘You stay here.’

He gives me a big grin and then he helps prop Rodge up and they lead him down the street. It’s then that I see Rodge’s bare bottom.

‘Oh, that costume,’ I say, wishing I could unsee it. ‘Is it his birthday or something?’

‘His stag do.’

‘He came here on his stag do?’ I say, raising an eyebrow at the exterior of the cheesy club.

‘If you knew Dodge, you’d know it was pretty fitting. So, Spider—’

‘The name’s Ellie.’

He screws up his face. ‘Of course, Ellie. Shit, I’m supposed to be apologising and I’m digging myself a deeper hole. Look, I can’t remember the last time I ate, can I make it up to you by buying you some food?’

Max Voss has just asked me if he can buy me food? Didn’t I always fantasise about this moment? Play it cool, Ellie. ‘Why not,’ I say with a simple shrug.

‘Great,’ he says, turning and walking into the fried chicken shop next door. Not quite what I had in mind.

We order some chicken and chips and when it arrives Max carries the tray over to the red plastic chairs by the window. My skirt is so short that I’m concerned that my skin’s going to get so stuck to the plastic that it’ll peel off when I stand up.

‘Of all the people to bump into here, I never expected to see you in a club. Didn’t think it would be your kind of thing,’ he says, taking the cardboard boxes off the tray and handing one across to me.

‘Oh yeah, and what did you think would be my kind of thing?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, sci-fi conventions. You always were a geek,’ he says with a cheeky grin. I throw a chip at him and he laughs. ‘Ow, bloody hell, they’re hot.’

‘I know, I just burnt my fingers,’ I say, laughing.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant that, you and Rach, well, you weren’t exactly known for going out. The only time I can remember is when I had to escort you both into a party because you were too scared to get out of the car.’

‘Well, I’ve got slightly more confident in the last twelve years,’ I say, cringing at the thought. Him walking us into the party wasn’t the embarrassing part…

He gestures briefly at my chest. ‘And I see you have no need for tissue paper any more.’

That was the embarrassing part.

I close my eyes and I’m instantly transported back there. Max had driven us to the cricket club and – when Rach and I had been too nervous to walk past a group of cool boys hanging around outside – Max had walked us over. Rach and I were just saying goodbye to Max when he pulled at what he thought was a rogue bit of tissue stuck to my top, only to pull out a long strip of toilet roll that had been stuffed inside my bra.

‘I never did thank you for that night, for not laughing at me.’

When Max had pulled the first bit of loo roll from my top, it had torn and left a part of it hanging out. Instead of laughing at me, like most teenage boys would do, he’d stepped forward and hugged me to discreetly pull the rest of it out. I might have been left with wonky boobs, but at least the whole school didn’t find out I’d stuffed my bra in the first place.

‘I did what anyone would have done.’

‘No, you didn’t. It was really kind.’

‘Well, you were always at our house and you became like a sister to me.’

‘Huh, and do you still see me as that now?’

His eyes keep flitting between my outfit and my face and I can see he’s still quite drunk by the way he’s swaying.

‘That outfit’s playing tricks with my mind and I don’t know what I’m thinking any more.’

My cheeks go red. Is he flirting with me?

‘I don’t think your girlfriend would like you saying things like that to me.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Sorry, I thought Rach said a few months ago that you were seeing someone and I just assumed.’

‘Oh yeah, didn’t work out. She moved abroad,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We weren’t serious or anything.’

‘Oh right,’ I say, feeling a little awkward bringing it up. ‘So, what did you do for the stag do?’

‘Now, I can’t tell you that, but it’s been a long day, that’s for sure. We started drinking at eight in the morning.’

‘Bloody hell, how are you still going?’

‘Tactical nap at… an undisclosed location that had some comfy chairs. Plus, I switched to vodka Redbulls, so I might not sleep until next Tuesday, but I outlasted Dodgy Rodge, which is sort of an unwritten rule of a stag do.’

‘What are the other unwritten rules?’

‘I don’t think I can tell you them either.’

‘Right, I like the fact you’re creating an air of mystery for something that, to be honest, is pretty much about you guys getting as wasted as possible and going to strip clubs.’

Max laughs.

‘Were you always this funny, Spid— Ellie?’ he says quickly as I go to scowl.

‘Yeah, you were just too cool to talk to me.’ I pick up a chicken wing, planning to eat a small delicate bite, but I’ve well and truly got the booze munchies and I ravage it like a caveman.

‘That’s not true,’ he says, but we both know it is. Max was one of those kids at school – the ones that everyone worshipped, whereas Rach, his sister, and I… well, we’d struggle to find anyone that knew our names.

‘So, aren’t you like some kind of rocket scientist?’ he asks.

‘A data analyst, so not quite.’

‘Still impressive,’ he says with a head bob. He eats a chicken wing quicker than I did. ‘And do you live around here? I know Rach comes up to stay with you, but I thought you lived in Ealing or somewhere out that way.’

I’m slightly flattered that he knows where I used to live.

‘Yeah, I used to, but I got a new job and was finding the commute too long. I live in Clapham North now.’

‘Oh, not far from me. I’m in Brixton.’

Of course I know this fact.

‘Cool,’ I say.

We both look down at our food that we’ve decimated.

‘I guess we were hungry,’ I say.

‘Yeah. I needed that. So, um, did you want me to make sure you get home safely?’

‘Sure,’ I say, and as we leave to find a taxi I try and stop myself from having a mild panic attack. He’s just being polite and he’ll drop me off on his way past in a cab.

It turns out that Max wasn’t just being polite because he is now standing in my living room drinking a quick nightcap of limoncello, which was the only spirit I had in.

‘You know, it’s a really long way back to Brixton,’ says Max, stretching out his arms and faking a yawn.

‘Yeah,’ I say, agreeing, even though I know it’s a very short bus ride away. ‘You know, you can always stay here.’

‘Thanks, that would be great. Of course, I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘How perfectly gentlemanly of you,’ I say.

‘Naturally,’ he says, and he takes a step closer to me. My heart is pounding. He’s looking at me in the same way he was looking at his chicken before he devoured it.

‘But, you know, I think I’m going to have a little trouble getting this costume off.’

‘I could help you out of it.’

‘Well, that would be the gentlemanly thing to do.’

He nods.

‘It might be easier to do it in my bedroom.’

‘Of course,’ he says, holding his arm out as if to say lead the way. He follows me into my room and, as soon as the door slams shut, he launches himself at me, kissing me furiously.

We fall on to the bed and there are drunken hands everywhere running all over each other’s body. It’s not the most co-ordinated of efforts but there’s a kind of hot and heavy panting that comes from a lot of lust.

‘The costume,’ I pant.

‘Gotcha,’ says Max and he starts to wrestle the top, but it won’t budge. We sit upright and he gives the zip at the back another tug, but it’s stuck.

‘Hang on, let me have a go,’ I say and I put my arms round at the back, just as Max bends down to have a better look, and I whack him in the face with my elbow.

‘Ow, fuck,’ he says, cradling his eye.

‘Shit. Let me see, hold still,’ I say, leaping up.

He’s clutching at his face so tightly that I have to prise his fingers away to make sure there’s no blood spurting out of anywhere.

‘It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding,’ I say.

‘It fucking hurts, though.’

‘And your eye’s still there; that’s a good sign, right?’

I curse my Wonder Woman costume. I have dreamt about this moment for years and years and the one time I get Max in my bedroom I accidentally assault him.

‘I’ll go and get you some peas, OK? Stop the swelling.’

I hurry into the kitchen, find half a bag of peas and wrap them in a tea towel.

I make it back into my bedroom in record time but Max is passed out on the bed. Oh shit. I can feel my heart racing in a completely different way; now it’s in a sheer terror – what if he’s got a concussion?

I bend over to him to check his breathing and he’s lightly snoring. Do people snore if they’ve got a concussion? The clock on my desk reads 3.32 a.m.; it’s the kind of ridiculous situation where I’d usually phone Rach for advice, but I don’t think it’s quite the time to broach the subject of what I was doing in bed with her brother.

In a panic I go back into the kitchen and fill up a glass of water and I rush back to Max. I check his vital signs once more before I tip the water over his head, wincing as I do it.

‘What the…’ he shouts, sitting bolt upright and shaking the water off his face and out of his hair.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I say. ‘I thought you had concussion.’

‘No, I’m just drunk,’ he says, and he reaches out his hands and pulls me in, wrapping his soggy arms around me. He nuzzles into the back of my neck and goes back to sleep.

And I just lie there, in my Wonder Woman costume, trying to ignore the worry of the inevitable awkward morning after the night before, because I’ve got Max Voss in my bed and, even if it’s just for this moment, I feel like all my wildest dreams have come true.

Chapter 1

Four Years Later

‘Here we go,’ says Max, rummaging through my wardrobe. ‘Why don’t you wear this?’

I take off the dress I’m wearing, my bump feeling relieved to be free. It was definitely wishful thinking that, at this late stage in my pregnancy, I’d be able to slip into that dress.

I turn around to see what Max has found lurking in my wardrobe, to find him holding up a green catsuit with a big grin plastered on his face. ‘I’m pretty sure this is stretchy.’