One long weekend, p.1
One Long Weekend, page 1
ONE LONG WEEKEND
SHARI LOW
To my grandmothers, Sadie Hill and Betty Murphy.
Two irrepressible forces of nature who taught the rest of us how it’s done.
Forever loved and missed.
CONTENTS
Note From Shari…
On This Journey, You’ll Meet…
Friday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Saturday
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
Sunday
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
And Finally…
More from Shari Low
About the Author
Also By Shari Low
About Boldwood Books
NOTE FROM SHARI…
Dear you,
Hello again! Thank you for picking up another of my books, or, if it’s our first meeting, welcome! I hope you enjoy the words that will fill the pages you’re about to read.
I just wanted to say a little bit about how this book came to be, as it isn’t the story that I thought I was going to write this time around. But, as with so many of my novels, real life threw in a curveball that consumed my mind and took my imagination off in a new direction. Most things that happen to me, good or bad, find their way into my writing, and, well, this was one of those events that chipped a little piece off my heart.
In September of last year, I was flying from my home in Glasgow to Los Angeles. I’d barely slept for days, because I was juggling lots of fun things – the launch of One Christmas Eve, edits on One Year After You, and writing two new books – while also dealing with some not-so-fun stuff: some family health issues, two devastating bereavements and building work on my home that had me living in cold, dusty rubble with only a microwave for company for almost a month. It’s a (not so) glamorous life.
When the taxi came to take me to the airport that morning, I’d been awake for twenty-four hours, and I’d packed my case in a chaotic, sleep-deprived rush at some point between typing words, fulfilling promotion commitments for the new book, and chucking out all perishables from the fruit bowl and the fridge.
I say none of this for sympathy, only to set the scene for my huge mistake. Giant. One of the most colossal errors ever.
I never wear jewellery when I travel, so, as always, I popped the things I love most into a little black velvet pouch. Seven rings. Three of them were just costume jewellery, but they nestled beside the wedding set my husband bought me to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, another precious ring that I was gifted more than thirty years ago, and… I still can’t even type this without tears… a smoky Quartz stone on a gold band that belonged to my late and oh-so-beloved grandmother, Betty. I’m not materialistic. I’m not particularly a jewellery person. But those four rings were among the few possessions in life that I truly adored.
I tucked the pouch into the back compartment of my handbag and that’s when the mistake happened – I didn’t zip the pocket. Instead, I chucked in my passport, purse, hairbrush and a dozen other things, closed the magnetic catch, and off I dashed to the sound of the taxi-driver’s beeping horn.
You can probably guess what happened next, so at this point I’m going to hand this story over to one of my favourite characters, my darling Val. It seems fitting that she tell this tale.
Over the years, Val has popped in and out of most of my books and her huge, fierce, loyal heart was inspired by the gran who wore that smoky quartz on the hand that once held mine. What unfolds in these pages is Val’s journey, not mine, but I’ll share my own ending in the final chapter.
In the meantime, I’ll let Val take it from here. And, dear readers, if you’re travelling with anything precious, zip that handbag.
With love,
Shari xx
ON THIS JOURNEY, YOU’LL MEET…
Val Murray – a much-loved mother, grandmother and pal, blessed with broad shoulders, a huge heart and an endless supply of empathy, care and caramel wafers.
Carly Morton – Val’s niece and one of her favourite people. Happily married to her second husband, Sam, but struggling with a nest that was abandoned when her sons Mac, 22, and Benny, 20, flew off to chase their dreams.
Carol Cooper – former model turned social media influencer, wife to Carly’s brother Callum (and, yes, their names are all way too similar – it causes no end of confusion for their elderly relatives) and mother of their twins, Charlotte and Toni, 23.
Sophie Smith – primary school teacher, daughter of an overprotective dad, Sid, sister to Erin, and currently single – although she has plans to change that relationship status this weekend.
Erin Smith – Sophie’s sister, works in marketing and social media for a London-based lingerie brand.
Ash Aitken – Sophie’s ex-boyfriend, the only love of her life so far, and the one that got away.
Alice McLenn – mother of Rory, wife of Larry McLenn, a cleaner who does two shifts a day and somehow manages to find glimpses of joy in a solitary life with a husband she despises.
Larry McLenn – Alice’s husband, a former politician whose public disgrace destroyed his career and devastated his family.
Rory Brookes (McLenn) – Alice and Larry’s son, forensic accountant at the Fieldow Financial Group, married to the very glamorous Julia, currently weathering yet another personal storm.
Julia Fieldow Brookes – Rory’s image-conscious, estranged wife and daughter of his boss, Roger Fieldow.
Roger Fieldow – Rory’s esteemed boss, mentor, founder and CEO of the Fieldow Financial Group.
Albie Pratt – fledgling stand-up comic and Rory’s friend since high school.
Dr Richard Campbell – chief of the ED (Emergency Department) at Glasgow Central Hospital.
FRIDAY
3 MAY 2024
1
VAL MURRAY
I wondered if dropping my phone into the biscuit jar and ramming on the airtight lid would make it stop ringing. Some kind of mental block meant I couldn’t remember how to make the damn thing switch off (why wasn’t there just a simple on/off button?) and I’m not one to make dramatic gestures like throwing it at the wall or crushing it under the heels of my blue furry mules, because then I’d need to buy a new one. Wasting money like that is against my religion. Thoust shalt not spend hard-earned savings or pension on modern tat like swanky phones or designer bags. However, ludicrously expensive tickets to see Tom Jones in concert on the other hand… Well, those were an investment in personal wellbeing.
The thought brought a memory that sent a lump straight to my throat. My husband, Don. At a million parties. Over forty odd years of marriage. Singing ‘It’s Not Unusual’. With actions, that deep sexy voice of his, and a cheeky sparkle in his eye because he knew he was making me laugh. A sparkle that had been dimmed by Alzheimer’s disease a few years ago, and then extinguished altogether just over a month ago, when he passed away in my arms.
Suddenly, the pain of the memory was more brutal than the dread of talking to someone, anyone, on the phone, so I answered. ‘Hello?’
‘How many times did you think about throwing the phone out of the window before you answered, Aunt Val?’ My niece, Carly, had always had an uncanny ability to know what I was thinking and she wasn’t far off. I’ve been this lassie’s official aunt since Don and I married more than four decades ago. I was more than happy to take the daughter of his older brother under our wing. She wasn’t even in high school then, and now she’s in her fifties, so the dotted line between blood family and in-law has long been rubbed out.
‘None,’ I answered, sliding into my usual chair at our well-worn oak slab of a dining table. Nowadays, they’d call it ‘artisan’ or ‘reclaimed’, but the truth was, it was just much loved and ancient. ‘I was going to put you in the biscuit jar.’
‘I gained two pounds just visualising that,’ Carly shot back, making me smile.
My niece was one of my favourite people left on this earth, but for once, hearing her voice didn’t de-escalate my feelings of anxiety by a single racing heartbeat. That’s how it had been every single day since my Don died. Thudding heart, sleepless nights, interspersed with paralysing dread that would shut down my body and mind cell by cell until I could barely function.
In my adult life, there had been three losses that had almost broken me. The first was when my daughter, Dee, was mowed down by a drugged-up driver when she was barely thirty. The second was when my best pal, Josie, died suddenly, only hours after we were dancing up a storm, drinking champagne and giggling our heels off at a wedding. And the third was right now, only weeks after saying goodbye to the love of my whole lifetime.
Don passed on the first of April. April Fool’s Day. Even then, he had to have the last laugh. Ever since, well-meaning folk have repeated all the clichés. Th at grief is the price you pay for love. That time will heal. That it’s better to have loved and lost… But all that stuff just makes me grit my teeth and scream inside my head that they obviously didn’t know Don Murray, because none of that trite stuff applies here. Instead, there’s just an agonising, brutal hole in my heart that physically aches, even when I’m doing my best to go through the motions of day-to-day life.
‘Aren’t you in the taxi yet?’ Carly asked, causing a fresh ripple of tension to creep across my shoulders. The taxi. That one that would take me to the airport for the flight to London, where she’d lived since she was in her twenties.
‘No, I’m all packed and ready, but I’m still in the house.’
Her question sent my gaze to the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten minutes past eight o’clock. Bugger. The taxi was booked for eight o’clock and I’d completely lost track of time.
‘They usually text to say the taxi is here, but hang on…’ The heels of my peep-toe mules clicked on the laminate floor as I bustled down the hall of the terraced home I’d lived in since we tied the knot. It wasn’t unusual back then to get married when you were barely out of school. In those days, most of my pals had swapped their parents’ house for their teenage marital home. Changed times now and that was a good thing. There weren’t many of those teenage marriages that went the distance, and some of the ones that did were just two people locked in a contract that they didn’t have the strength, the energy or the resources to leave. I’d been one of the lucky ones, got a good man that I’d adored until the day he died, and a house we’d managed to buy off the council back when Spandau Ballet was top of the charts. It wasn’t anything grand, but it had been the happiest of homes when we were raising our family here and I knew I’d never swap it for anywhere else.
I immediately felt the heat of the unusually warm May morning as I pulled open the front door and looked down the path to the left, to the parking area at the end of the terrace, where a stout, red-faced bloke was clambering out of a red Skoda with a taxi sign on the door. Damn it, he’d probably been there since eight o’clock right enough. And he didn’t look pleased to have been kept waiting.
I’d lived all my days in Weirbridge, and it was the kind of village where everyone knew each other, so nine times out of ten, I recognised the local taxi drivers. Not today. I’d never seen this bloke before.
He put his hand to his eyes and squinted as he peered along the path, then gave me a wave and pointed at his watch.
‘Been here ten minutes,’ he bellowed, and I immediately mentally deducted a couple of pounds from his tip for the edge of aggression in his voice.
‘I’m sorry – I’ll be right there,’ I hollered back, before hurrying back inside.
‘I just lost an eardrum,’ Carly groaned, still on the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll let you go, Aunt Val, but I’ll see you in a couple of hours. I’ll be in the arrivals hall. And, Val…’ She occasionally dropped the ‘Aunt’ and I didn’t mind in the least. ‘I’m so glad you’re coming.’
‘Me too, pet,’ I said, and hoped it was convincing. Sometimes the truth was just better left unsaid. I wanted to tell the rude taxi driver to bugger off. I wanted to go back inside. I wanted to go upstairs and climb into my bed. And I wanted to stay there until the skin grew back over the open wound in my chest, caused by the violent removal of my heart. But I couldn’t do any of those things because I’d promised everyone in my world that I’d go to London. ‘I need to go. I’ll see you soon, pet. Love your bones.’
‘Love you back,’ I heard, right before I clicked the phone off and dropped it in my bag on the console table in the hall.
I could feel my pulse racing, my hands shaking, and the dull headache of too many sleepless nights. I tried to drown it out by having a strong word with myself. Right, Val Murray, get organised. You’re not going to sit here and wallow. You can do this. Pull your big strong woman knickers up and let’s go. Because, really, there are no good options.
In the kitchen, I put my mug in the dishwasher, checked the back door was locked and the heating was off. Although it was May, I still kept it on timer to come on for an hour in the morning just to take the chill off now that I didn’t wake up to the warmth of my Don’s big arms around me.
Back in the hall, I grabbed my coat from the rack at the door, a pale blue jacket to match my heels and my trademark eyeliner (the eighties and Princess Diana’s make-up style would never be forgotten as long as I was alive), set the alarm my son, Michael, had installed a decade ago, slung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my large check-in case, my small cabin trolley case and steered them out the door, locking it behind me.
I hadn’t even reached the end of the path, when a glance caught the Neighbourhood Watch sign attached to the street lamp post a few metres away. My pal, Nancy, had put it there years ago, as some kind of ninja-psychological deterrent after some toerag had broken into Don’s shed and stolen our Christmas decorations and his brand new Flymo. I may or may not have expressed a fleeting hope that the thieving bugger would take his toes off with the damn thing. Okay, I did.
Suddenly, a domino line of thoughts collided into each other in my mind. What if someone broke into my home while I was in London? Those nasty bastards could override all sorts of alarms these days. What if they took my valuables? Not that I had much. Just the big telly Don bought to watch the football, and a few pieces of jewellery and…
Stop. Rewind. A few pieces of jewellery.
‘Are you coming or not?’ the taxi driver barked, as he spotted me frozen to the spot at the end of the path. Another couple of pounds off his tip. Especially as I knew that, quite rightly, he’d already have added a waiting charge on to the fare. I didn’t mind that in the least as it was only fair and the man had a living to make, but there was no excuse for rudeness. In better days, I’d have been more than a match for this bloke, but today I didn’t have the energy for conflict. Sod it.
‘Just coming, sunshine,’ I shouted back with a hint of sarcasm and then, leaving my cases where they were, I bolted back into the house, reversing my actions from a few moments ago. Door unlocked. Alarm off. Handbag dropped on the console table. Back along the hall. But this time I veered to the stairs on the right, and went up them at the speed of a caffeinated ferret. It was suddenly inconceivable to me that I’d even been thinking about going anywhere without the people I’d loved most in my life. Or, rather, the pieces I had left of them.
I opened the lid of my old mahogany jewellery box that had been my mother’s before it was mine. Not that either of us had ever had anything of value to put in it, but still. Lifting a tangle of multicoloured beads and costume earrings that dangled to my shoulders, I unearthed the little pad with the four rings I treasured more than any other material possessions in my world. Burglars could have the telly. Hell, they could have the ten-year-old sofa or the air fryer that I still couldn’t work. But they weren’t getting the ring Don had first proposed with, when we were barely out of high school. Or Don’s wedding band. Or the beautiful white gold ring with the diamond D that we’d been paying up for months after we bought it for Dee for her twenty-first. Or the emerald cocktail ring that had belonged to my beloved pal, Josie.
