Strawberries at Wimbledon (A Short Story) Read online

  Strawberries at Wimbledon

  Book 5 #LoveLondon

  NIKKI MOORE

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Nikki Moore 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by Steve Panton

  Nikki Moore 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.

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  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008126858

  Version 2015-04-24

  To my amazing friends and fantastic family; I might not see you as often as I’d like to, but you’re always on my mind or in my heart.

  To my readers – I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Have a great (hopefully sunny) summer.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  #LoveLondon Series

  Strawberries at Wimbledon

  Coming soon from Nikki Moore…

  Also by Nikki Moore…

  Nikki Moore

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  #LoveLondon Series

  Skating at Somerset House

  New Year at the Ritz

  Valentine’s on Primrose Hill

  Cocktails in Chelsea

  Strawberries at Wimbledon

  Picnics in Hyde Park

  Strawberries at Wimbledon

  'Hey, isn't that Adam?' Lily elbowed Rayne, pointing down a packed Henman Hill next to No.1 Court and the Aorangi Pavillion, her blonde curls glinting in the mid-morning sunshine.

  Rayne dropped the cooler bag with a thud and the wine bottle inside rattled against the specially bought plastic glasses. 'Huh? No, it can't be.' She gulped. 'He's working abroad.' Or he had been the last time she’d checked on LinkedIn six months ago. The trick was not to look at his profile too often.

  Lily shielded her eyes with one hand, squinting across the sea of heads, shoulders and multi-coloured blankets. 'Really? It looked like him.' Standing on tiptoes, she peered into the expectant crowd, who were watching the introductory Wimbledon coverage on the big screen. 'Damn, he's gone.'

  'I'm sure it's not him.' Rayne replied firmly, to make it true. 'What did you even see? The back of his head?'

  'No, the side of his face. He had stubble and I know Adam never did, and his hair was different too, but still-’ Lily turned, noticing her friend's expression. 'Maybe I was wrong.' She backtracked hastily. 'It could have been anyone.'

  'Yeah.' Rayne picked the bag up, curling her fingers tightly around the woven fabric strap, and forced a smile to her face. Just because Lily's announcement had caught her off guard, it didn't have to spoil their day during the opening week of Wimbledon. It was just she'd never imagined seeing Adam again. She thought of him as a match that had been played and lost. In the past, with no chance of a replay.

  Anyway, it didn't matter. Today was about fun and friendship, about being British and making the most of whatever summer they'd have. It was about tennis whites, yellow balls, lawn courts, fruity Pimms, sunshine and laughter. It was definitely not about men. Especially ones that belonged to her uni days, and being young and stupid.

  'I know we constantly complain it's wet and windy,' Lily fanned her letterbox-red face with the latest copy of Cosmo a few hours later, 'and moan about not having proper summers, but is it me or is it too hot?'

  'There’s no such thing, it's just you,' Rayne grinned, basking on her back on the navy picnic blanket, arms cushioning her head. 'You're a complete wimp.'

  They'd decided to relax on the manicured grass until it was time to go down to the Centre Court for the Men's Singles qualifying rounds. She still couldn't believe they'd managed to score tickets. Mind you, they had joined ‘The Queue,’ at eight the previous evening and spent an uncomfortable night in sleeping bags in a tiny pop-up tent. Just as the sun was rising, a steward had woken them and told them to pack up, stow their belongings in the left luggage facilities and go through the queuing card system. The broken night’s sleep had been totally worth it for the ticket and an interesting life experience, even if she did now feel a bit grubby and jaded.

  'Gee, thanks.’ Lily stuck her tongue out in response to Rayne’s wimp comment. ‘I just don't get it, though,' she went on, giving her friend a mock dirty look, 'here I am, blonde and feeling like I'm about to bake alive and you're lying there with thick black hair, with blue eyes so dark they’re almost navy, looking as cool as a block of ice.'

  'What can I say?' Rayne replied cheerfully. 'I have many talents. Plus it also helps that I'm not wearing as much as you.' She nodded at Lily's pale peach sundress with capped sleeves, which perfectly suited her Amanda Seyfried fair looks. People were always telling Lily she bore a strong resemblance to the American actress from the Mama Mia! movie.

  'Well, just because I'm not a complete exhibitionist, unlike some.' Lily pointed at the floaty red vest top lying discarded between them.

  'I'd hardly call a bra and cut-off shorts exhibitionist.' Rayne replied lightly, aware Lily was teasing. 'I didn't realise it was going to be this hot either, and come on, a bra doesn't really show off any more than a bikini, does it?' She gestured to the turquoise lace encasing her modest chest. 'And it's not as if there's much to see.'

  She was actually hotter than she was letting on. It had to be in the high twenties, and she’d heard someone’s radio predicting that it would hit thirty degrees before the day was out. She could well believe it. A line of damp was creeping along her nape. The backs of her knees were coated with crescent-moons of sweat. Dew was pooling behind the tiny gold bar threaded through her belly button, and there was pink through her eyelids when she closed them because the sun was so bright. But she wouldn't tell Lily any of that, it was too much fun winding her up.

  'Whatever,' Lily gulped some chilled water from a plastic bottle then flicked some on Rayne, making her jump. 'You just don't care, do you?'

  'Not nowadays,' she laughed. 'Thank you, hippy, new-age parents.' They’d been loving and kind but unconventional, and although she’d rebelled against that in her e
arly teens, since they’d been gone she’d drawn strength from their example and her unusual upbringing. She made her own choices in life, and as an adult had learned to worry less about what other people thought of her and place more importance on what she thought of herself. Part of that was being comfortable in her own skin.

  Lily lay down on the blanket, twisting her long hair up in a knot away from her slender neck. 'You must still miss them.'

  Rayne nodded decisively, picturing her parents singing along to The Beatles in the cramped kitchen of the caravan they all called home, or gazing at the rolling sea off the ragged Cornish coastline, arms linked, her mum’s head resting on her dad’s shoulder. 'Always. I regret the fact they’re not here every single day. But I think they’d be proud of me.’ She frowned. ‘At least, I hope so.’

  Lily sat up, staring down at her. ‘Of course they would. Come on Rayne, it’s not like you to doubt yourself. You’ve done well. You’ve got a job you adore and a nice flat, plus a great car.’ Referring to her sporty black Mini Cooper S, with the Union Jack on the roof. ‘Not to mention your awesome friends,’ she grinned

  ‘Thanks, Lily. Yeah, I guess you’re pretty cool.’ She deadpanned, though at the same time, she couldn’t help but think that the one thing her parents had instilled in her was that you didn’t hurt the ones you loved.

  And she was guilty of hurting the one person she’d loved the most apart from them.

  She’d met Adam a few weeks past the one year anniversary of her parents’ untimely death, while still knee-deep in grief. He’d been unlucky enough to come between her and the exit route as she’d stumbled from her half-unpacked room in halls on her first day at Loughborough University, seeking fresh air followed by the student bar.

  'Hey, easy!' He steadied her as she ran into him, almost taking them both out.

  'S-sorry,' she choked, glancing up.

  His face softened at the smudges of black mascara under her eyes. 'Are you okay?'

  'Dunno. Yes. No,' she scrubbed her face with her sleeve. 'Not your problem.' She made for the exit but his arms tightened around her.

  'Are you sure that's a good idea?' he asked, glancing down at her outfit and then out of the window. Burnished red, orange and yellow leaves whipped in circles around the base of trees bearing naked, spindly branches. October had brought in autumn with a vengeance to the Midlands. ‘You’ll freeze out there.’

  'Don’t care. The alcohol will help.' Fighting her way out of his arms she stepped back, noticing his eyes flicker over her long, bare legs in the short skirt she wore. He wasn't her type, way too preppy looking in his ironed jeans and white jumper looking like he was about to go play cricket, but familiar habits were hard to shake. She put a hand on one hip and pushed her bottom lip out.

  He frowned, pale blue eyes unreadable, and ignored the opening. 'Well, you can't carry on like that every day. For one thing you'll ruin your liver, and for the other, are you here to study or party?'

  'Both,' she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest in the low cut top. Who was he, the fun police? Or maybe more like the traditional type of father who was supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow, locking you in your room and away from boys until you were at least thirty. Not that she’d had any experience of parenting like that; her dad hadn’t instilled many rules and her mum believed in giving children choices. She’d loved them to bits, but sometimes she’d craved a structure, the certainty of a routine, a house they could call their own. It didn’t matter now anyway, they were gone. She had to make a life for herself without them. Her eyes welled up. Shit, this was embarrassing. She wasn’t a crier, never had been.

  The guy stared down at her, before taking hold of her elbow. 'Come on, I'm making you a cup of tea.' He started off down the grey-carpeted hallway, towing her along behind him.

  She snorted. Tea? As if that would solve anything. Still, she was so surprised by his take-charge attitude that she let him lead her into the communal kitchen and push her down into a plastic purple chair. Watching him move easily around the space, flicking the kettle on and rooting around the modern white cupboards for mugs, she realised he was the most self-assured guy she’d ever met. The most gentlemanly too – some boys would welcome the opportunity to try and get her drunk.

  'How old are you?' she demanded, swinging back on the chair, balancing on its back legs.

  'You’ll break your neck doing that. Eighteen.’ He threw her a teasing look as he placed teabags into two mismatched mugs. ‘And I'm Adam by the way. Just in case you were wondering.'

  'I wasn’t wondering,’ she said airily, swinging on the chair again deliberately. ‘I'm nineteen.' She tacked on as an afterthought. Unable to face university straight after her parents' tragic motorway crash, she’d deferred for a year. It’d felt like the right thing at the time but now she wondered if it had been wrong. She'd squandered the last twelve months of her life, immersed in drinking, loud music and late night hook-ups. None of which had made her feel any better. If anything they’d made her feel worse.

  'Nineteen?’ Adam smirked, as he pulled a carton of milk from the fridge. ‘That’s an unusual name. Do you come from some weird sci-fi island lab where they only assign you numbers?’

  'Ha ha, very funny,’ she drawled as he went back over to the unit and rested up against it, facing her. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You're very-'

  'Confident?' he inserted, giving her a proper, wide smile this time.

  It made his blue eyes light up, and she was shocked at the tiny tingle in her lower belly, one she hadn't felt in ages. Her encounters over the last year had felt detached and meaningless. Perhaps a way to distract herself? A counsellor would have a field day with her, she was sure. Not that she planned to speak to one any time soon.

  Her physical reaction to him annoyed her. 'Bossy. Sensible.' She snapped, slamming the front chair legs back onto the floor. ‘A bit arrogant too.’

  'Wow, thanks. I’m glad I offered to make you a tea now.' He turned away. 'Sugar?'

  'Three.'

  'What? You'll rot your teeth.' But he spooned the sugar in, added milk to both teas then returned the carton to the fridge. Lining the sugar and teabag pots up exactly as they had been, he grabbed a blue cloth off the side and wiped down the counter precisely as if any speck of dirt or spillage would be an insult.

  'Whatever.' She felt bad for her comments but it was better not to apologise. Maybe he'd think she was a massive bitch and steer clear in future. The last thing she wanted was to like someone; that might lead to caring and caring could lead to pain. She was trying to deal with an indecent amount of that already, not go looking for more.

  'Tell me about it.' He turned and placed the two mugs with steam curling off them onto the beige laminate table.

  'Tell you about what?' She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and curled her fingers inside.

  He sank down into the chair opposite, staring at her, pale eyes unblinking. 'About whoever or whatever it is you've lost.'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'I recognise the look,’ he said. ‘Just talk to me.’

  'No.' She answered belligerently, but slid the tea towards her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go back to her room yet. It would mean too much time alone. Too much time to think.

  'You can. And maybe you need to.'

  'Is this where you give me a talk about how it's good to share?' she retorted. 'Throw psycho-babble at me, tell me I'll feel better for talking about it and time healing all wounds and-'

  'No,' he interrupted, his voice mild. 'This is where I offer you an out, a way of getting through this moment.'

  He talked like he was old, like he'd seen too much of life already. She wondered what his story was. You don't care, remember? Opening her mouth, she closed it again, wondering if she looked like a goldfish tipped out of its bowl, gasping for water, suffocating. But she barely knew him, and if she started bawling again she was afraid she wouldn’t stop.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She se
t her jaw, teeth clenched.

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment and she didn’t think he’d drop it, but then he shrugged and took a sip of tea. 'Okay. Whatever you want.’ His expression was full of understanding. ‘Right, we’ve established you’re not called nineteen. So, what is your name?'

  She hesitated, noticing a poster of the Arctic Monkeys taped up on the far wall, the right-hand corner loose and drooping over. She'd gone to one of their début world tour concerts a few years before. It’d been amazing, her blood thrumming with the bass of the music, heart pumping madly, grinning so widely that after half an hour her cheeks ached. Her parents had been amused by how she’d raved on about it for days, smiling at her indulgently as she babbled on, her mum leaving their latest album on her fold out bed as a random gift. That was…before.

  And now here she was, in the after. Without them. Completely alone, apart from her grandparents, who were on a world cruise, distancing themselves from her behaviour.

  'So?' Adam's voice jolted her.

  'Huh?'

  'Do you have a name?'

  ‘I, I-’ she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t gulp the grief away. It wasn’t fair. She wanted her dad here, to heave the boxes around and help her unpack. She wanted her mum here, to hug her and murmur words of reassurance, to soothe her nerves about starting uni. There were so many things that would happen in her life that her parents should be here for, but never would be. What had she ever done to deserve losing them? She had to leave. The emotions were too close, the urge to cry on this stranger’s shoulder too strong. ‘Ask me another time,’ she choked, ‘I’ve gotta go.’ She shot up from the chair. ‘Catch you later.' Spinning around, she sprinted down the hallway.

  Adam didn’t say anything. He just let her go.

  Rayne relaxed in the green chair on Centre Court, the plastic warm beneath her bare thighs in the denim cut-offs, revelling in the early afternoon sun burning high in the cloudless sky. The ball kids were shading themselves under striped Wimbledon Championship umbrellas on the side of the court and the stands were rammed, no seats unoccupied, anticipation of the forthcoming match creating a noisy buzz and ripples of energy. The crowd wore an assortment of outfits, some in casual shorts and t-shirts, others in posh dresses and beribboned sun hats. The smart ones had brought water with them and purchased red cushions to sit on. Wimbledon veterans obviously. Not like her, a Wimbledon virgin. The word made her smile. Virgin. Like Adam, when they’d met. Until one very memorable night.