The Time of Our Lives. Portia MacIntosh

Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Acknowledgements

       Extract

       Dear Reader …

       Keep Reading …

       About the Publisher

       For Joe & Joey

       Prologue

      New Year’s Day, 2009

      I’ve always had bad timing.

      I never budget for long enough in the bathroom. I’ve missed more buses than I’ve made. I was even born late – seventeen days late, to be exact – which took me from being the creative, passionate, stubborn Leo that I think I am, to being the organised, practical, shy Virgo that I absolutely am not.

      Last night though … last night was something else. Last night it felt like time was actually against me.

      Missed connections, a case of mistaken identity – what does it matter? As the clock struck midnight, dragging me from 2008 to 2009, I realised exactly what can happen when you’re in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the wrong time.

      Yep, I’ve always had bad timing. But last night, it ruined everything.

       Chapter 1

      Now

      I’ve never been one for inspirational quotes. You know the ones, they constantly pop up on your Facebook news feed; white text on a colourful or scenic background, usually shared by some distant cousin, old school friend, or random acquaintance you don’t remember befriending – shared because it’s just so damn profound and relatable.

      ‘Don’t be a woman that needs a man, be a woman that a man needs’ emblazoned across a sunset, as though the two are somehow related, or the famous ‘Marilyn Monroe’ one: ‘If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best’ which I really don’t think anyone should subscribe too, because it basically translates to: ‘If you don’t put up with me when I’m being a bitch, you don’t deserve me when I’m being nice.’

      As much as I hate these quotes, I saw one today that felt very apt (not that I felt the need to hit the share button though). It said: ‘The friends you make at university are your friends for life’ and that one must be true because if it weren’t, I wouldn’t be driving down a dark country lane in Norfolk, on my way to my old uni friend’s wedding.

      I alternate concentrating on the road with scanning the darkness for signs of life. One of my colleagues told me there was a lot to see in Norfolk, but not here, not tonight. There is absolutely nothing to see here.

      It did cross my mind, to make an excuse – I have to work, I’m having dental surgery, I’m on holiday – but these days people book their weddings so far in advance, they don’t even give you the chance to come up with an excuse that is both polite and gets you off the hook. I had to RSVP to this thing almost two years ago. Can you imagine being engaged for two years? I can’t even imagine having a boyfriend for two years. That’s probably why I’m so anxious about this wedding tomorrow.

      Matt, the groom, is one of five people I shared a house with in Manchester during my third year at uni. It’s been ten years since we all graduated and five years since we all saw each other last.

      For the most part, we’ve always been the worst kind of millennials. With the exception of Ed, who is more than making up for our collective shortfall with his four children so far, we all stumbled into our thirties unwed and childless. The rest of us are contributing to a country with an aging population and a declining birth rate, because we’re all way too busy with our jobs and our lives, and it’s just so easy to think we can put off these things until later. But as my mum keeps reminding me, I’m losing daylight, eggs, and the figure to bag myself a decent man – all of which sound like something from a bygone era, or a sci-fi movie with a dystopian future for women. But when my mum was my age – 31 – she’d already had me and my sister, so I guess you can’t blame her for thinking I’m wasting my life.

      The problem now is that it’s so easy to compare myself to my uni friends. We all had the same start in adult life, we all got degrees and then we went off into the world (well, I didn’t go off anywhere, I stayed in Manchester) and we all got jobs in our fields. Relationship-wise, we’re all at very different stages. But while Ed is married, Matt is getting married tomorrow, Zach and Fiona are engaged (yes, to each other), and Mark (or Clarky, as he’s more commonly known to those who tolerate him) has a girlfriend, I am still single. I’m not sure that counts as a stage. I don’t really feel like I’ve left the starting line yet.

      I glance at the digital clock in my car. The red glowing numbers tell me that it’s nearly 10.30 p.m. So much for saying I’d arrive early and have a drink with my old friends. I’m sure everyone will be in bed by now, so that they can be up early for the wedding tomorrow.

      I notice car headlights in my rear-view mirror – the first sign of life I’ve seen on this road and I’m not sure if it puts me at ease or makes me feel nervous. I’ve seen too many horror movies, I think.

      The lights grow bigger, brighter, and they appear to be heading straight for me. As the car gets too close to mine, I speed up a little to try and put some space between us, but the car behind only goes faster.

      As my speed increases, so does my heartbeat and my breathing. I feel my hands begin to sweat, but I daren’t adjust the grip on the steering wheel that I’m holding so tightly, I can see my knuckles turning white.

      It all happens so quickly. Suddenly the car behind – a red sports car with a private plate – pulls out from behind me, moving onto the other side of the narrow country road to overtake me, before speeding off ahead.

      I loosen my grip as I watch its lights grow smaller and smaller until they disappear.

      Finally alone again, I puff air from my cheeks. What an arsehole, driving like that on a lonely country road at this time of night. I don’t care where he has to be, no one is in that much of a hurry that they have to drive so recklessly. I suppose I ruined his fun, sticking to the speed limit in my Polo that’s seen better days.

      The thumping in my chest slows down around the time I spot the Willows Lodge Hotel floodlit in the distance. Thank God. At least when I leave in a couple of days, I’ll be driving in the daylight. Drivers like that are almost always nocturnal, aren’t they? No sign of them during the day and then, under the cloak of darkness, they come out in their ridiculous cars to drive like maniacs. I could just about tell that it was a man in the car – a man with too little in his pants and too much in his bank, if you ask me.

      I pull into the hotel car park, turn off my engine and breathe a sigh of relief. I’d say thank God I’m here, but I’d rather be anywhere else. Well, apart from car wrapped around a tree courtesy of someone who is overcompensating for something.

      I give myself a brief internal pep talk to try and psych myself up (You can do this, Luca. You’re a