Chapter Twenty-Six
LYNSEY JAMES
I was born in Fife in 1991 and have been telling people how to spell my name ever since. I’m an incurable bookworm who loves nothing more than getting lost in a good story with memorable characters. I started writing when I was really young and credit my lovely Grandad – and possibly a bump on the head from a Mr Frosty machine – with my love of telling stories. I used to write my own episodes of Friends and act them out in front of my family (in fact I’m sure I put Ross and Rachel together first!)
A careers adviser at school once told me writing wasn’t a “good option” and for a few years, I believed her. I tried a little bit of everything, including make-up artistry, teaching and doing admin for a chocolate fountain company. The free chocolate was brilliant. When I left my job a couple of years ago, I started writing full-time while I looked for another one. As soon as I started working on my story, I fell in love and decided to finally pursue my dream. I haven’t looked back since.
When I’m not writing, eating cake or drinking tea, I’m daydreaming about the day Dylan O’Brien finally realises we’re meant to be together. It’ll happen one day…
To the best mum in the world, thank you for my love of books and words and for accepting the fact that like Lucy, even though I can’t sing, I do sing.
Dad, aka Norman Wisdom, you make me laugh every day. I’ll never forget when you flooded the house (it’s immortalised in print, so there’s no denying it!)
Kyle, you’re a wonderful brother and a great friend.
Dixie, my furry baby, my life wouldn’t be the same without you.
Jenny Marston, you’re my best friend, agony aunt and my all-round favourite person. Without your friendship, support and encouragement, I wouldn’t be writing these acknowledgements now. I’d also like to thank the Marston family – Linda, Dennis and Rory. Thank you for being my Essex family and being incredible.
Lisa Dickenson, you freaking rock! Don’t ever change!
Cress McLaughlin, for all your fantastic words of encouragement, THANK YOU.
Daniel Riding for your incredible friendship and support. You are amazing!
Danniella, thanks for all your help with Yorkshire dialect.
Ann Troup, for your wonderful advice, fantastic conversations and being my friend.
To all my fantastic blogger friends, none of this would happen without your support. You guys are superstars.
The team at HQ Digital – Victoria, Clio, Sara and everyone else – without you guys, I wouldn’t be able to share my stories. You helped make my dreams come true.
And as always, none of this would be possible without YOU, the person about to embark on this book. Thank you for reading it, I hope you enjoy it.
This book is dedicated to everyone who told me I couldn’t or wouldn’t write a book. You were right; I’ve now written two.
There are worse things you can do than spontaneously burst into song at your nana’s funeral.
I can’t think of what those things might be, but I’m sure there must be some.
At least I’d chosen to belt out a classic – Big Yellow Taxi – although I definitely sounded more like Peggy Mitchell than Joni Mitchell. I’d been up giving a eulogy about my Nana Lily, who’d recently passed away, and had come to the part where I said ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’ The rest of the lyrics followed – with surprising accuracy, I might add – before I had a chance to stop myself.
I gave the final chorus everything I had (which, admittedly, wasn’t much) then took a bow. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I bowed. The stunned congregation who’d come to say goodbye to my Nana Lily stared open-mouthed at me, shocked at the assault their eardrums had just taken. A few polite people clapped uncertainly, most just whispered amongst themselves. I guessed they were wondering which loony bin I’d been released from.
As my cheeks flushed crimson, I scurried to my pew and sat next to my mum and dad, who were desperately trying to suppress smiles.
‘What did you think?’ I asked, dreading the answer.
Dad didn’t reply right away. A noise that sounded like a mouse being strangled escaped from his mouth as he tried to get his giggles under control.
‘It was… different, Lucy. I think Nana Lily would’ve loved it anyway!’ Mum said, trying her best to look sombre and serious and failing miserably.
She shook her head and hid her face behind her hymn book so people wouldn’t see her laughing at her own mother’s funeral. It didn’t matter really, since about half the people in St Luke’s Church were now doing the same thing.
Well done Lucy, you absolute banana.
I shuffled down in the pew and screwed my eyes tightly shut. My best friend and flatmate George put his arm round me and gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze.
‘Oh Lucy, you’re such a daft little hedgehog,’ he said. His lush accent came straight from the Welsh Valleys and was my favourite sound in the world.
I shouldn’t even have been here. I’d left this place behind a long time ago and for a very good reason. Now here I was, back in my old hometown of Luna Bay, Yorkshire, and faced with everything I’d spent eight years running from. George had come for moral support and to make sure I actually turned up.
‘Don’t want you running off to become a sheep farmer in Scotland, do I? I need to keep you around to stop me from making terrible life choices,’ he’d said.
Once upon a time, my life had been perfect. OK, so not quite perfect but pretty darn amazing nonetheless. Then last week happened. I’d been assigned a wealthy man’s fiftieth birthday party and everything had gone horribly wrong. He’d been having a secret affair with a twenty-five-year-old Australian lady named Cynthia and the whole party learned about it in pretty spectacular style. When I’d been off fetching Mr Marshall to do his birthday speech, she’d switched a montage of his finest moments for a video of them having noisy sex in a grungy motel off the M25.
Naturally, my boss Helen hadn’t been amused.
‘He’s talking about suing us, you know. He isn’t a happy man,’ she’d said
