Eight Perfect Hours

by Lia Louis

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

'The sweetest, most romantic, most heartwarming book!' MARIAN KEYES

'An absolute dream of a book, I couldn't love it more' LINDSEY KELK

'I read Eight Perfect Hours in one sitting, I couldn't bear to put it down' JODI PICOULT

'A beautiful, intricately woven story, so romantic and so charming' BETH O'LEARY

What if you fell in love...

... and then he disappeared?

When Noelle and Sam's lives collide one snowy evening, they spend eight perfect hours stuck side by side believing that they'll never see each other again.

But soon their lives become entangled in ways they never expected - and it's going to change everything...

Don't miss the latest, hotly anticipated love story from Lia Louis! Perfect for fans of Beth O'Leary, Josie Silver and Cecelia Ahern.

Praise for Eight Perfect Hours:

'Lia Louis has become a must-buy author for me!' JODI PICOULT

'A dream of a modern love story. This feel-good read is sprinkled with magic... romantic perfection' HOLLY MILLER

'Every page was a joy to read. So gorgeously written, hilarious and full of warmth' JESSICA RYN

'An utterly delightful novel from one of the most charming voices in modern romance. I loved it' LOUISE O'NEILL

'Eight perfect hours of escapist, romantic, life affirming bliss' GILLIAN McALLISTER

'Funny, sweet and romantic' DEBBIE JOHNSON

'Perfectly poignant and beautifully romantic. I adored it' ALEX BROWN

'I adored it! Exactly the sort of love story I was craving' PAIGE TOON

'Beautifully observed, intricately plotted perfection, full to the brim with her usual wit and warmth and bursting with that magic that no one else quite manages to conjure up' LAURA PEARSON

Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

Chapter One

chapter one
To Noelle. My girl. My best friend.

Here it is. A letter from past me, to future you. God, it’s so strange writing this, knowing fifteen years from now, you’re actually going to be reading these words. The Future Noelle Butterby! I wonder where you’ll be, and who you’ll end up becoming. I suppose that’s what this is for—to write down our predictions and hopes for each other. (And you’d better have put Leo DiCaprio in my letter, Elle, and not just a date and a measly kiss goodnight either. I’m talking sweaty car scene in Titanic, with added Boyz II Men songs and less iceberg-related deaths, obviously.)

Now. On to my hopes for you, Future Noelle, and I have plenty.

Firstly, I hope you’re so busy that you almost forget to come tonight—to be there when they take the time capsule out of the ground. I hope you arrive straight off a plane from… LA, maybe? Indonesia? Oh! What about Queensland, land of hot scuba diving instructors? Well. Wherever it is, all I know is you’ll be so well-traveled that your kids will be named after cool, faraway villages nobody’s heard of and you’ll be the sort to slip into French mid-conversation “by accident.”

Secondly, I hope your life is full of love. Yeah, yeah, I know, classic cliché, classic me, but I do. Bursting with it! Butterflies, goose bumps, can’t-eat, make-you-puke love. I’d mention your soul mate—the one on the other end of your red thread—but I don’t want to make your eyes roll so much they get stuck in the back of your head, because you want to be able to look at the man. Because he’ll be totally hot. A charmer too. And so tall, he’ll give you a neck ache. Maybe he’ll even have to shop for special shoes because his feet will be that big. Only the best for you, my friend. Just wait and see.

I hope you find that job that doesn’t feel like work.

I hope you eventually nail the pizza dough recipe we screw up every single weekend.

I hope you ride that hot-air balloon, that you spend a summer night sleeping outside somewhere under the stars (no tents). I hope you take that all-night sleeper train. But mostly, I hope you’re happy, Noelle Butterby. That by now, you see what I see—all that power and kindness and light—and you’ve let it rip from inside you. Shown the world that you are here.

And lastly (because the size of the paper and envelope they’ve given us is so small, it’s an actual joke), I hope wherever we are, we’ll keep on talking to each other, no matter what. And remember, at least when we can’t be together, we just have to close our eyes and pretend.

Love you, Noelle.

Always,

Daisy x

I’m not exactly sure where I thought I’d be at this moment in time. If you’d asked me fifteen years ago, said, “So, Noelle, where do you think you’ll be on March the ninth, fifteen years from now?” I’m sure I’d have probably said something like, “happy, settled down,” or “like something out of those Park Christmas catalog adverts, I expect. You know. Nice house, smiling sweater-wearing husband, one of those posh corner sofas.” One thing is certain, though, I wouldn’t have expected this. Me, alone, stranded in my car at a standstill on a snowy motorway, my phone dead, tears removing my makeup quicker than any fancy product ever could. And my heart, breaking just a little. A bit of a mess, really. Of all the things I might’ve expected tonight, being a mess certainly wasn’t one of them. Not even close.

I might’ve known this evening was set to be a disaster—“go to shit” as my brother, Dilly, would say. The unexpected slow-drifting snow, and in March of all months, the painful, stop-start traffic, the phone charger port in my ancient car dying again, arriving over a half hour late despite leaving home right on time and having, for once in my entire life, planned the journey bloody meticulously. Someone a little more superstitious might say they were all tiny warning signs or something—hints of things to come. Desperate little waves from the universe to “turn back now, Noelle!” and “Halt! I know you think it’s only right that you go tonight, and I know it’s been fifteen years, but trust us when we say it’ll be shower-of-arrows levels of deflating and you’re far better off turning around now and spending two days’ wages in that little drive-through Krispy Kreme and eating several dozen all the way home.” But despite myself, I was optimistic. Totally sick with a belly full of nervous eels, yes, of course, but I was hopeful. Even a little excited. To see my old college again—the place we spent two whole years, before we all turned eighteen and went off out into the world. I’d see old classmates grown up, old classrooms, the cafeteria in which we ate greasy chips and countless rubbery baked potatoes. I’d finally get to read the letter Daisy wrote to me before she died, too, and collect her camera; her final gorgeous moments captured safely on the film inside. Plus, I might see Ed again. We’d talk. Maybe even get a drink together, talk about where we went wrong—where we went to shit.

Snow flurries faster against the windshield of my car now, like an upturned snow globe. We haven’t moved for ages. I’m not sure how long it’s been exactly, but it’s been long enough to send a text to Mum to tell her I’m stuck in traffic before my phone died in my hand, and long enough to read Daisy’s letter under the lemon-syrup glow of my car’s interior light. There’s been plenty of time to cry, too, and so much so I’ve had to blow my nose on the neon-green microfiber cloth we keep in the glove box to demist the windows, hoping no other drivers witnessed it. It was seeing Daisy’s handwriting that did it—the tiny Cs for the dots on the Is like new moons—and hearing her lively, smiling, almost musical voice in my head as I read. The little jokes. The mention of the red thread—a quote she’d read in a book and talked dreamily about for weeks. And seeing it all in black and white: everything I haven’t done.

Behind me, a driver beeps their horn pointlessly, causing someone else to do the same. As if it’ll help, as if it’ll even have the slightest influence on the lines and lines of bumper-to-bumper traffic. A hot surge of panic bubbles up inside me. I swallow it down.

Surely we’ll be moving again soon. There must be hundreds of us here on the dual highway—thousands even, all with homes and places and people to get to. They won’t leave us here for long before clearing or sorting whatever’s causing this, will they? The taillights of the car in front of me go out, as if answering, “Yes. Yes, they will, actually, Noelle,” and again, like fizz in the neck of a bottle, the panic rises in my chest. I turn up the radio.

The camera wasn’t there. That’s something that hasn’t helped with the tears situation, either, the fact that Daisy’s camera full of twenty-four undeveloped photos wasn’t there in the time capsule. And granted, lots of things weren’t there tonight, including half of the attendees who’d sent in their RSVPs for the reunion, the photographer from the local paper, and the barbecue and beer tents the college had advertised. The snow and traffic had thwarted everything. But I know Daisy had put her camera in her plastic envelope along with her letter before it was buried all those years ago, and I’d known just from the weight of it when they handed it to me tonight, that it wasn’t inside.

“I’m afraid we haven’t unburied everything, because of the weather,” the new head of history said, sleeves rolled up, her cheeks a flustered cranberry red. “A lot of envelopes are in this time capsule, but the rest are in the other one, which is still in the ground and will be until we reschedule the reunion, unfortunately.” The hall behind me echoed and chattered with disappointed ex-students catching up with old friends with plastic cups of cheap wine, condensing lifetimes into ten-minute anecdotes, flapping about the weather, about canceled trains, about what a shame it was that the night had been ruined by snow.

“I know. It’s just—the camera was in here,” I said. “Inside this envelope.”

“I see,” the woman said. “As I said, it could be in the other vessel.” She handed me a pen and clipboard then. “If you leave your details here, we’ll let you know when we reschedule the event. And if we find anything.” And that was it—a scribble squashed on the bottom of a wonky register of names, before someone in a high-vis jacket pushed to the front to say they were going to close the doors in ten minutes. And it was then, turning away, heart sagging, my letter and Daisy’s envelope in my hand, that I saw Ed. Twenty-six and a half months since we broke up—since he got on that plane to America and flew almost five thousand miles away from me—there he was. Mere meters away in the college lobby, among bewildered ex-students and chattering voices, golden-skinned and bright-eyed and fresh in that intangible way people are after coming home again. New experiences and new places written all over them, a sheen on their skin. And he saw me immediately. Our eyes stuck like glue. And… nothing. Not a nod. Not even a tiny, awkward smile—just a frozen, icy moment before he turned and the automatic doors swallowed him up. Twelve years of memories together, of Sunday roasts and Christmases and mini breaks and watching me bleach my stomach hairs, and I wasn’t even worth a smile you’d toss a stranger in a supermarket, apparently. God. Beyond depressing. Doughnuts. I should’ve chosen the bloody doughnuts.

Snow relentlessly tumbles outside, and as if synchronized, the sea of orange brake lights illuminating the slushy road ahead starts to go out one by one, like blown flames. Drivers giving up, engines killed.

“A tune now,” says the DJ on the radio, “to warm us all up. And what a swizz we can never have this at Christmas, eh, because it really is coming down out there.”

And he’s right. It is. Snow. Proper bloody thick, settling snow. And there is my phone, dead beside me, a black mirror on the passenger seat. No way of being able to pass the time scrolling on Instagram or Twitter, or replying to my friend Charlie’s text about Ed (“the man is a colossal prick, Noelle. A spineless little dweeb”), no way of dissecting it like two cut-price detectives, the whole non-exchange. And of course, no way of calling Mum—calling anyone for that matter. I try the charger cord again. Of course nothing happens.

I let out a pointless “Shiiiiiiiiiit!” and cover my damp, hot face with my hands. A Harry Styles song plays on the radio—something about strawberries on a summer evening—and I could laugh at the irony of it, the temperature gauge at minus-five staring brazenly back at me, cars bumper-to-bumper on the road ahead, iced like buns. I can’t be stuck here. I can’t. Mum. What will I do about Mum if I’m stuck here for longer than an hour or two?

It takes twenty tense minutes for the traffic sign ahead to light up its cheery Broadway letters to spell M4 CLOSED. MAJOR DELAYS, two minutes for the tears to start again (and for the demisting cloth to enter stage right again), and another five minutes before there’s a rap of knuckles on my passenger window.