99 Days With You

by Catherine Miller

Genres: General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

A heart-breaking yet uplifting novel about the redemptive power of love and how the end isn't the end at all... Fans of Jojo Moyes and Diane Chamberlain will lose their hearts to Catherine Miller's stunning story.
Emma and Nathan couldn't be more different. Emma lives a quiet life. She looks after her disabled mother and lives vicariously through the well-thumbed pages and cracked spines of her beloved books. Nathan spends his days fifteen thousand feet above the ground, soaring through the air as a sky diving instructor. After a lifetime of having a recurring dream that he would die at twenty-seven, he treats every day like it's his last. But when they meet in a hospital waiting room, they are both terrified, nervous and alone. And they have one fatal thing in common… As fate throws Emma and Nathan together, everything is about to change.
“Equally heart-breaking and uplifting… Make sure you have a large box of tissues to hand!!'” STARDUST BOOK REVIEWS

Release date: June 19, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Emma Green didn’t normally start her mornings like this. The usual ritual was pretty set in stone: her alarm set to assist her mother’s daily drug regime, limiting the time she had for getting ready herself. But today she was lingering, stark naked, in front of the full-length hallway mirror, her long, dark brown hair covering her shoulders while the rest of her remained bare.

It was okay. Emma knew her mother’s mobility prevented her from stumbling upon her nude daughter. In fact, stumbling stopped her mother from doing a lot of things. Living, mostly.

Emma turned to view herself in profile. This way, with her left side to the mirror, there was nothing to see. She looked normal, though admittedly with a little bit too much body fat for someone still in her twenties; the only kind of workout she got these days was lifting her mother’s legs into her bed at the end of the day.

The clock in her head, used to the many demands on her time as she got ready for her job each morning, reminded her not to dilly-dally. She turned once more – away from her reflection, to avoid another frontal view. She didn’t need a second look from that angle to know something was amiss.

With her right side now in profile, Emma braved a peek. Sweeping a finger along her skin, she traced the curve of her breast. It reminded her of the head of the antique doll her mother kept in her bedroom, its strange unblinking eyes always keeping watch on her.

Emma reversed the sweep. The roundness uninterrupted. The difference to her other side so abundantly apparent. Blinking, she stared at the mole nestled near her areola. The flat nipple. The one that hadn’t perked up for three days.

Just this once, Emma was ignoring her policy of being prepared for all weather conditions. After the naked showdown in front of the mirror, she tied her hair up in a loose bun and got dressed, opting for a flimsy blouse. It didn’t stand a hope of being suitable for the rain. Even so, she tackled the stroll to the bus stop, oblivious to the chilling winds that would normally freeze her to the bone.

Today, she was stone. She wanted to feel what it was to be cold. Truly cold. Not wrapped in the many layers she would ordinarily wear when the wind was so icy, threatening sleet or snow at any moment.

On the short walk up Timberley Drive, she embraced the sensation. How those layers had stopped her living, if it was only now she was experiencing the bitter cold for the first time. The hairs on her arms stood on end – and oh my, how abundant those hairs were now she could see them fully – and her teeth chattered, but how she wished she’d done this before.

Only it wasn’t working. And the chillier she got, the clearer it was that even the ice-cold wind and the rain weren’t enough to make her nipple bud into life.

By the time she finally turned the corner onto the main road and reached the bus shelter, she’d never felt more alive. Maybe now she would appreciate those crazy people who wore shorts even when it was pouring with rain.

Glancing down, she peered at the sodden blouse clinging to her bra: the left breast with its pronounced response to the cold, the right steadfast in its decision not to react.

‘You alright, love?’ An elderly lady, shopping trolley in tow, was braving the rain in a weather-beaten coat. It must be nearly nine o’clock if the bus-pass brigade were out. That meant she was late to work. She was never late to work.

Normally she would engage in polite conversation, but today she couldn’t bring herself to respond.

‘It’s just you look like you’re on the walk of shame.’ The old lady giggled. ‘I do hope he was worth it, love. You shouldn’t be dressed like that in this weather. You’d best get yourself home soon, dear, before you catch a cold.’

With that, hot tears cascaded like a waterfall Emma was powerless to stop. Her breath caught and she gasped in a lungful of freezing air so sharp she let out the yelp of a wounded animal.

‘Oh my, sweet. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. No man is worth any tears,’ the lady said, offering comfort in all the wrong places.

Emma gathered herself together. ‘Thank you,’ she replied, not really sure what she was thanking her for but looking for something polite to say before she fled.

It was no good. Emma wasn’t going to be able to face work today. She needed to do the thing she’d been putting off. She would get in touch with her GP. She would stop burying her head in the sand.

Running away with her face to the sky, she didn’t care if she tripped or if anyone saw her. She wanted the rain to drum on her skin. She wanted to feel the elements.

She wished this was a walk of shame. That this morning she’d left the toasty comfort of a double duvet, having spent the night under the crush of a man’s body. That she’d left a note offering her phone number, but not really expecting any kind of follow-up. That she’d been brazen enough to take to the streets with smudgy make-up and stale perfume, with barely a thought to her one-night stand.

Instead (and she was pretty certain about this) she would be the woman who would lose her right breast before she would lose her virginity.

It was a rule for Nathan Foxdale that life should be lived hard and fast and without fear. Though the secret truth was that Nathan loved the fear. That rush of adrenaline he got every time he jumped out of a plane wasn’t the buzz of being alive; it was the ever-present dread of The End. The not wanting to waste a day. That was the fear: that if he wasn’t living life to the full, he was in danger of not living at all. That fear was what had propelled him to spend years travelling the world. It was what had eventually led him to settling back in the UK, for the skydiving he loved.

It had been a while since he’d done a solo jump. His job usually involved having someone strapped to his chest, embarking on the adrenaline high of their life. It didn’t matter the person, their terror was always palpable, some needing far more reassurance than others.

This morning, AirFly had four instructors and only three clients, so he had a rare chance to parachute without having to guide someone through those anxious moments of flight and the awkward manoeuvre towards the open door, 15,000 feet above the ground.

It was Derek giving the pre-jump talk today. It was always an overload of the senses for those taking part. While they were trying to listen to critical information about how to land their jump safely, they had other instructors circling them, ensuring all the safety checks were complete; that goggles and leather hats were on correctly and straps were done up right.

Nathan was always able to sense the tension in the air, and even though he had done this hundreds of times, every single time he was aware of the overwhelming presence of that feeling. It was part of the lure of this job. Not only did he get to enjoy the adrenaline highs of what he did, he also got to absorb the static energy created by the anticipation.

He knew the talk off by heart, having given it himself more times than he cared to think about. Today he concentrated on enjoying the experience, taking his time over getting ready for once.

He hauled his jumpsuit on and carried out the safety checks on his own parachute. The other instructors were both close friends of his: Tim and Antonio. They’d all been on the jumping circuit a while and it was a tight-knit community. Sitting at the reception desk behind them, Leanne, Tim’s girlfriend, was keeping the business ticking over. It was a fairly tight ship, but then it had to be, given the kind of work they were in.

Finally, happy the parachute was as it should be, Nathan shifted it onto his back and secured the fastenings.

‘Ouch!’ He said it out loud without meaning to, causing the entire group of instructors and clients to shift their attention to him. It even gave Leanne cause to move from her usual spot at the reception desk.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, her face full of concern.

‘I’m fine. Just caught myself.’ Nathan rubbed his chest.

‘Do you need me to get the first aid kit?’

‘Honestly, I’m fine.’ He wasn’t really sure if he was, but he didn’t want any fuss.

Derek, the owner of the company and the oldest instructor, came over to check everything was okay. Leanne returned to her desk.

‘You alright, mate? Not like you to flinch at pain.’

Nathan rubbed his chest. The ache hadn’t subsided. ‘Nipple hair,’ he lied.

Derek grinned widely. ‘There I was thinking you lads were all waxed and buffed these days. Put some ice on it if it’s hurting. You can sit this one out.’

‘Nah, I’m good. I just wasn’t expecting it.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Derek gave him a stern shift in the eyebrows expression before heading back to his client, who had the appearance of a lad about to pee himself at any moment.

Nathan wasn’t sure, but he nodded all the same.

Now with a bit of space, he loosened off the straps and rubbed his pec some more. But the more he rubbed, the more he became aware of the source. A lump. It was small. Barely noticeable. But when his straps had been tight against his chest it’d been beyond any pain he’d felt before.

‘You ready, Nathan? Time to move,’ Derek called over in his direction, the last part of the tutorial completed.

‘Sure,’ he said, tightening his straps, careful not to set off the same pain he’d caused himself last time.

Despite having jumped more times than there were days in the year, he’d never lost count. Perhaps it was poetic that this was number 666. Maybe today’s would be the last.

Each element of the skydive experience was always the same: the plane’s ascent; the safety checks; the tension in the air; the order they went out of the plane; the things they said to their clients. It was all normal, the sky remarkably clear and blue for a January day.

Nathan was to go last, with no client strapped to his chest, shitting their pants. He liked to think that was a joke, but it had been known to happen. He was glad not to have anyone with him. The weight of that small lump pressing against his chest was quite enough.

It might just be a pimple. A spot that had reared its ugly head while he wasn’t looking. But he knew it was more than that. Even without taking his clothes off to have a proper look, he knew something wasn’t right. After all, wasn’t this the thing he’d been waiting for all his life? It was always just a question of how the end would come. And here it was, in a neat, no-bigger-than-a-pea parcel.

When it came to the skydive, Nathan hesitated at the open door, like he always did. That sudden rush of air was enough to remind anyone what it was to be alive. That moment was the reason he did this job: he needed that affirmation.

As the aircraft juddered its way through the clouds – that impossible reality of a metal machine high in the sky – he did the count to three in his head and, as always, jumped on two. It was a bit of a cruel thing he did with all his clients – making them jump just before they were ready. It was his theory that if people always waited until they were ready, half of life’s possibilities would slip out of reach.

For a few moments, he was dragged like tumbleweed through the air, the push of the wind against his limbs threatening to disorientate him.

It was the glorious sound of the air surging past him that Nathan loved. Everything about it shouted that parachuting towards the earth wasn’t something anyone should do. That it was an act that should be beyond human capabilities. It was a sound unlike any other and it was only as he familiarised himself with it once again that the orientation of the earth became apparent.

In a beat of a second the clouds would part and the view below would become clear, the canvas of the landscape his to enjoy. There was nothing in the world that he knew to be so isolating and yet so exhilarating all at the same time. He was on his own, soaring through the sky, and for a moment, he closed his eyes and drank in the sensation. Before the descent got out of control, he spread his body out to steady himself against the wind that gushed hard against him.

Even in those moments of freefall, the pain radiated from his chest. The small insignificant lump he’d not known about an hour before created more noise than the wind he was sailing in.

This was when he should be counting.

The descent.

Knowing when it was time.

The right moment.

To open his eyes.

To yank the cord.

Let the rush of the unfolding parachute pull him skyward.

The move that saved him.

Every time.

The hospital letter had told Emma to bring someone with her. It was an obvious statement, given what she was facing. What it didn’t state was who to bring in the eventuality you didn’t have anyone to fill that role. She had always been the carer, not the cared for.

Of course, her mother would have come with her, if Emma had told her about the appointment, but it was an unnecessary worry at the moment and getting Carole to the hospital in her wheelchair would have added to the stress of an already anxious day. Besides, it might still be nothing.

Other than her mother, there was no one else on the happy-for-them-to-see-my-boobs-be-ultrasounded list. She’d considered her closest friend, Alice. But as she had her dad to care for and a younger sister to keep in check, she didn’t want to add to her burden at this early stage. So it was a me, myself and I moment. One that she was taking for the team, even if it was making butterflies appear in quarters they’d never been before. Right now, every inch of her torso was aware of how hard her heart was beating, pushing itself to the limit in this unfamiliar environment. It would have been nice to have someone here with her, but some occasions were just better ventured into alone. She didn’t think company would help her find the sense of calm she was hoping for.

Looking for distraction, she lifted a faded copy of Woman’s Fortnightly from the paltry offerings on the waiting room table. She hated to think how many patients had leafed through the pages before her, but she was desperate. The clock on the wall was driving her mad with its insistent ticking. A constant reminder of how long she was going to be left wondering what was wrong.

The only other person waiting was a man similar in age to her. With his ruffled dark hair, he appeared to have come straight from work, wearing what looked like mechanic’s overalls. He was handsome, with a rough-and-ready air, and seemed strangely out of place in the sterile waiting room. Presumably he was supporting his partner or mother or sister in their moment of need, during their breast clinic appointment. It was good that someone was here with an uncomplicated source of support. If only she’d managed to locate the same.

‘Where’s Robot Wars Monthly when you need it?’

He was speaking to her. Emma generally tried to avoid conversations with strangers. Partly it was down to her job at the library. There, she had to talk to strangers; it was part of her role. But the more years she’d worked there, the more she’d come to appreciate that a good percentage of strangers were weirdos. Or perhaps that was just where she worked.

‘I’d say it’s a bit specialist. Maybe lower your expectations and hope they have The Sun.’

The potential weirdo laughed. A features-creasing-up laugh, like she was actually funny. ‘You think they’d cater for men a bit more, wouldn’t you?’

‘Ermmm…’ She’d not really considered the quality of the reading material, or whether it met with equality standards.

‘I guess they don’t expect us here for appointments.’

Emma was rather flummoxed to be engaging in conversation with a good-looking man about the quality of the reading material at the breast clinic. It wasn’t something she’d envisaged happening as part of today’s visit. ‘There must be lots of men coming to support their relatives. Maybe you should bring in your stash of Robot Wars Monthly. They’re clearly in need of donations.’ As she said it, she fanned the pathetic pages of the magazine, which was barely holding together.

‘I think you’re right. I’ll add it to the top of my list of things to do.’ He said it without sarcasm and the thought made her smile, even if she was pretty certain he’d made the magazine up.

He glanced around the waiting room, looking like he was at as much of a loss as she was. ‘So, what magazine are you going to be donating? We need a bit of balance if the men are going to have plush new ones to read.’

She could have made up any title. Something exotic and exciting. Something racy. Something glamorous. But rather than embellishing her life, she told the truth and named the only subscription she had delivered. ‘Carers United.’

‘Are you here with someone then?’

‘I wish.’

‘Oh. It’s just – the carer thing… I thought, maybe… It’s just, you seem young to be sitting here waiting for an appointment.’

‘Apparently not. Although hopefully it’s nothing.’ Even though this wasn’t a cancer clinic, they both knew what might be discovered behind these doors. ‘So, who are you here with?’ She didn’t want to think about what was to come.

‘You.’

God. Definitely a weirdo. ‘I mean who have you come with?’

‘Me.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She’d heard of wedding crashers. Maybe even funeral crashers. But an appointment crasher was a new level of strange. There wasn’t even a food buffet to try and freeload from.

‘I’m the patient.’

‘Oh.’

‘Turns out men have boobs too.’

‘And you’re here by yourself?’ Emma didn’t know why she sounded so surprised when she was in the same predicament.

‘Yeah. Tur. . .