My Future Husband

by Karen Clarke

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

When Sasha meets Elliot a month before her wedding to Pete, the news he brings seems incredible. He claims to have arrived from the future, explaining that their timeline was knocked off course in 2010, preventing them from meeting, and begs her to find him in the present day. But Sasha?s wedding plans are underway and though she?s curious, Elliot turns out to be feckless, rebellious, and engaged to a glamorous and pregnant Belle. He?s not remotely her type and is instantly suspicious of Sasha?s motives for tracking him down, convinced his disapproving father has sent her to spy on him. Sasha decides to ahead with her wedding, but a previous connection with Elliot?s father finds her doing the catering at a dinner party at his house. With the help of her best friend, Rosie, she soon discovers that Elliot has sadness in his past, and that Belle is up to no good . . .

Release date: December 4, 2014

Publisher: Corsair

Print pages: 293

Sample

I lumbered into the kitchen, clutching my head.

‘Last night went well.’ Pete bit into a slice of toast, and I winced as the sound reverberated around my skull. ‘Your parents should celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary more often.’

I grunted at my fiancé’s poor attempt at a joke, still massaging my temple with one hand while I fumbled shut my dressing gown with the other.

‘Sasha’s hungover,’ he observed, to the empty kitchen. He did that sometimes – referred to me in the third person.

‘I can’t be hungover, I only had one glass of wine,’ I said grumpily. He was far too perky for someone who’d slept on Mum and Dad’s two-seater sofa, contouring his solid frame to fit the chintzy cushions.

I’d refused him access to the bedroom, worried he’d keep me awake with his night-time mutterings, rendering me unfit for work.

Instead he looked in rude health, in a neatly ironed light blue shirt that perfectly matched his eyes.

It was me who was pasty and out of sorts.

‘What’s wrong?’ Pete peered at me, concern creeping across his forehead.

‘I don’t know.’

I had leapt out of bed at 5 a.m. to text a reminder to my friend, Rosie, to buy balsamic vinegar for a starter we were preparing later. I remembered bashing my head on the open wardrobe door, and reeling around in the dark. Maybe that was why I felt so . . . weird.

‘I think everyone enjoyed themselves,’ I managed, stifling a jaw-splitting yawn. It wasn’t like me to be dopey in the mornings. I was used to being up bright and early, sourcing ingredients for my catering business, but today my eyes felt gritty – as if someone had chucked sand in them.

‘What about you?’ Pete smoothed his already tidy dark hair with his hand and adjusted his tie. ‘I didn’t see much of you last night.’

How could he not remember I loathed karaoke with a passion bordering on dangerous?

‘Oh, you know me,’ I said, sluggishly flicking the kettle on, not really wanting to remind him. ‘I think I prefer the organizing more than the actual party.’

I suppressed a groan as the floorboards upstairs creaked, indicating my parents were up. I couldn’t face an inquest into who’d said what the night before, and why Carol Pilling from next door had turned up to the party without her husband in tow.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Pete sounded alarmed as he watched me shuffle to the sink, still cradling my head.

‘I’m fine,’ I lied, as slow and stiff as an arthritic old lady. ‘God, I look rough,’ I added, catching my breath with shock as I saw my reflection in the window.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Pete said loyally, eyes twitching to my hair and away again.

‘I’m not. Look!’ I pointed to my head. My honey highlights had faded, yet I’d only had them done the week before. Worse than that, my hair was standing around my head in a frenzied halo, as though I’d been writhing all night.

Puzzled, I tried to flatten it then eased out a hand to the toaster. Perhaps a hot buttered muffin would revive me. As my fingertips connected with the metal casing a shock pulsed through my arm and jolted me backwards.

‘Sasha!’ Pete was beside me in an instant, fussing with my arm.

‘Why is there so much static in here?’ I said, nursing my hand, which felt hot. A buzzing noise started up in my head, as if the shock had disturbed a wasps’ nest in there.

‘Maybe there’s a storm coming.’

While he examined my fingers, I squinted past a regiment of spider plants jostling for space on the windowsill, and looked outside. It was late February and the sky – as far as I could see – was a stretch of arctic white, while the branches of the oak tree at the end of the garden were bending in the wind.

Hardly tropical weather.

‘I didn’t make a fool of myself last night, did I?’ Pete’s tone was light, but I sensed the anxiety behind his words and poked him in the chest, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

‘Just don’t give up the day job,’ I joked feebly, peeling away and forcing a smile to lips that felt dry and swollen. Pete was a solicitor, and the serious nature of his work meant he needed to let off steam now and then. Some men drank or played football; Pete preferred singing – badly. ‘I don’t think your mum was impressed,’ I added, recalling Mrs Treadwell’s sour expression – as if someone had planted a parcel of dog poo in her lap. God knows why she’d bothered turning up to the party. It wasn’t as if she liked me or my family.

She probably wanted to bitch about how common we were to her friends, and brag about how she and Pete’s dad, Roger, had celebrated their milestone anniversary on a wildlife safari in Africa.

‘It’s not really her thing,’ Pete admitted, casting me a final, worried glance, before shrugging his jacket on and fetching his briefcase from the hall. He rummaged around for his car keys, while I abandoned the muffins and picked up the phone to call Rosie.

‘It’ll be so nice to finally get our own place,’ he added. ‘It’s silly us having bits and pieces in two places and neither of them ours.’

It was an old argument and one I didn’t fancy resurrecting. ‘Won’t be long now,’ I said, smiling, though it hurt my cheeks. There’d been a flu virus going round. Perhaps I was coming down with something. ‘We can put a deposit on one of those new builds on Church Street after our honeymoon. Dad’s offered to help.’

Pete’s face fell. He hated relying on my family’s handouts, but neither of us could manage easily on the meagre money we earned, and I’d rather have gouged my own eyes out than ask his mother for help.

‘Don’t look like that,’ I said.

He came over, grasped me round the waist and planted a kiss on my lips. He smelt freshly showered, with an undercurrent of toothpaste. ‘Loving the nightwear,’ he said, a twinkle creeping back to his eyes as he slid his hand underneath my dressing gown. ‘Especially how it’s clinging to your . . .’

‘Go to work,’ I said, pushing him away as Dad wandered into the kitchen, stretching and blinking owlishly behind his glasses. Mum followed, flushed and youthful without her make-up, her greying hair brushed into soft, bouncy curls. She visibly paled when she saw me.

‘Sasha, you look terrible,’ she said, clutching the worktop as though she’d encountered a zombie.

‘Thanks a lot,’ I huffed, but my heart wasn’t in it. I hadn’t the energy to be offended, and anyway she was right. I did look grotesque, despite having laid off the alcohol the night before to ensure the party went smoothly. I wondered briefly if someone had spiked my drinks.

‘Go and have a bath and I’ll make you some scrambled eggs,’ she said, springing into action and whipping a pan from the cupboard.

Nausea rose – and not just because Mum was a terrible cook, capable of burning water.

‘There’s no time,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve got clients to feed. I have to go to work.’ The thought was ludicrous when I felt incapable of brushing my teeth, but I never took time off. Even when I’d broken my ankle the year before I’d soldiered on regardless.

‘Surely Rosie can hold the fort for a day?’ Dad’s look of concern matched Mum’s.

‘No.’ I shook my head, which felt as weighty as a block of concrete, and once Pete had reluctantly left for work I lumbered upstairs on all fours and shoved my pyjamas into a peculiar, crackling heap of static in the laundry basket.

Maybe a nice hot shower would help.

It didn’t.

I had such a violent headache I crawled back to bed, dripping wet, to sleep it off and didn’t wake up until lunchtime.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ said Rosie, crunching the van into gear. ‘When I rang earlier, your mum said you’d collapsed on your bed wearing nothing but a towel, and were snoring like a bear. She couldn’t wake you up.’

‘I wasn’t snoring,’ I protested, though my throat felt suspiciously sore. ‘And please stop shouting.’ I snapped my seat belt on with a superhuman effort.

‘I wasn’t.’ Rosie peered at me. ‘You look awful,’ she observed, her blue eyes widening. ‘Your cardigan’s on inside out, and what’s with your hair?’

‘I don’t know.’ It kept drifting about with static no matter how much I attempted to smooth it down. ‘I think I’ve got a virus or something.’

‘One that’s made you look like you’ve been shocked by twelve thousand volts?’

‘Very funny.’ I thought of the jolt I’d had off the toaster earlier. My arms felt too leaden to consider putting my cardigan on the right way round, and panic stirred. What if I’d contracted a rare and incurable disease right before my wedding?

An image flashed up of family and friends at my funeral; Pete, heroic and handsome in a black suit and bow tie, sobbing into a handkerchief. (Did they even exist any more?)

‘It should have been her wedding day,’ Mum was saying, a tissue pressed to her nose, leaning heavily on Dad who was puffy-eyed with grief and wearing a top hat.

‘She was the sister I never had,’ wept Rosie, prostrate on the ground, bashing the earth with her fists. ‘There’ll never be anyone like her.’

‘Her cupcakes changed my life,’ my old headmistress cried – the one inadvertently responsible for setting me on my chosen career path. Though surely she’d be dead by now? She’d seemed ancient back then.

‘Sash, are you sure you’re OK?’ Rosie’s voice intruded, making me jump. ‘Maybe you should have stayed in bed.’

‘Don’t be silly, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ I mentally shook myself, blinking furiously. ‘How did you get on this morning? Did you get my text?’

‘Mrs Thing was in a right mood,’ Rosie said, and I tried to concentrate on her words over a weird popping sensation in my ears. ‘She insisted she’d ordered mushroom risotto for her do tonight, and that your goat’s cheese tarts were too moist.’ Her short, spiky blonde hair quivered with outrage. ‘She knows she ordered boeuf bourguignon. I honestly don’t know why we bother with the old witch.’

‘Because she pays well,’ I pointed out. Mrs Thing (she had an unpronounceable surname) threw regular soirées to impress her work colleagues, and luckily for us was a terrible cook.

She was also our most uncooperative client.

‘She wanted to know where you were, so I told her you’d had an emergency call from a VIP, who’d heard about your famous duck breasts.’

‘I would be famous if I had duck breasts,’ I sniggered.

‘The ones with pomegranate and mint sauce, I mean.’

I rubbed my eyes and stifled a massive yawn. ‘What did she say?’

‘She wanted to know who the VIP was, but I said we were bound by a confidentiality agreement, and couldn’t disclose any names.’

She grinned, her annoyance apparently forgotten, and I couldn’t help smiling back. Her inventiveness came in useful at times, so I could hardly complain. I didn’t have Rosie’s imaginative streak, and stuck to what I was good at – cooking and baking, and organizing everything to within an inch of its life.

‘So all that food we prepared yesterday was wasted?’ I said, as her words finally filtered through the fog in my brain. ‘We can’t afford to throw stuff away, Rosie.’

‘Of course it wasn’t wasted.’ Rosie flashed me a ‘what do you take me for?’ look. ‘I explained the tarts would be perfect once they’d been warmed, and that mushroom risotto was passé – everyone has it. Rustic is the new nouvelle cuisine.’

‘What does that even mean, Ro?’

She shrugged. ‘Not sure. I heard someone say it on Masterchef.’

My mobile beeped, and I fumbled it out of my bag. It was a text from Pete: ‘Hope you’re feeling better. Working late 2nite, love u xx’.

I smiled, then gasped as Rosie swung the steering wheel and shot past a tractor, narrowly missing getting hit by a lorry thundering the opposite way.

‘For God’s sake!’ I didn’t have the energy to prepare for impact, like I normally did, and fell silent as we reached our destination – an office block in town.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Rosie said, after parking haphazardly and switching the engine off.

‘Why are we here again?’ Her oval face was swinging alarmingly in and out of focus, and there seemed to be two of her.

‘Blimey, Sash, it’s not like you to forget.’ Rosie leapt out of the van with indecent vigour, and swung open the doors at the back. ‘Maybe it’s the wedding. All that preparing has finally sent you doolally.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I mumbled again, heaving myself out onto the icy pavement like a heavy parcel. A cold wind slapped my cheeks, and the buildings loomed over me.

‘It’s a retirement party,’ Rosie reminded me, her voice strangely muted. ‘Remember those mini pork pies and sausage rolls and steak pies you baked? You said there should be a doctor on call, in case everyone had a heart attack?’

She frowned as she took in the sight of me sitting on the kerb. I seemed to have lost all feeling in my lower limbs.

‘Sash, what’s going on?’ Rosie dashed over and squatted in front of me, displaying a generous slice of cleavage under her ‘Dining In’ shirt.

‘Is it thundering?’ I squinted at the sky, clutching my forehead. ‘Forked lightning!’ I pointed.

Rosie swivelled round. ‘What are you talking about?’ She stared at me, anxiety creeping into her eyes. ‘There’s no thunder.’ She laid a hand on my forehead and her arm jerked back. ‘Wow!’ she said, pressing the air in front of me, a crease between her eyebrows. Her eyes looked more vividly blue than usual. ‘It’s like there’s some sort of force field around you. You’ll be making computers go wrong and watches stop next.’

‘You’ve been watching too much Doctor Who,’ I tried to say. It came out as ‘Beenotchingmuchdhoo.’

Rosie leaned closer, sniffing the air near my face. ‘Have you been drinking, Sash?’

‘’Course I haven’t!’ There was three of her now, all dancing about like terrible TV reception. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ I stood up, wobbling precariously.

Glancing round, I noticed anxious faces pressed against shop and office windows, and realized we’d attracted quite a crowd on the pavement.

‘Disgusting,’ someone said, and Rosie shot them a fierce look.

‘Actually, she’s been working all night,’ she said loudly, squaring her shoulders. ‘Dining In, catering for your convenience,’ she added. Never one to miss an opportunity, she dug a wedge of business cards out of her pocket and began handing them out. ‘Dinner party, anniversary, birthday, romantic meal – if you’re too busy to cook, too lazy, or simply don’t know how, or you can’t afford fancy restaurant prices, give us a call and let us do the hard work for you.’ She reeled it off without even drawing breath, and a few people nodded, clearly impressed.

‘Might just do that.’

Magically, my headache began to recede and the fuzziness and ear-popping eased. Even my hair seemed to settle, and the landscape shrank back to proper proportions.

‘Rosie, for God’s sake,’ I said, beckoning her over. ‘What are you doing?’

She looked at me, her pink-glossed mouth falling open. ‘Wha—?’

‘We haven’t got time to tout for business,’ I scolded, grabbing her elbow and marching her briskly to the van as fat snowflakes whirled down around us. ‘We’re catering for a retirement party, remember?’

The following evening I stood in front of my bedroom mirror feeling back to my usual self.

I was in full wedding regalia; Mum’s timeless dress – a sculpted, ivory column with intricate beading and a scooped neckline – stupidly expensive silk stockings and cream, high-heeled peep-toes that made me two inches taller than Pete. For once I didn’t care.

Not bad, Sasha, not bad at all. If I squinted, I was pretty sure I looked almost like a model, albeit slightly fatter. As I studied myself a fuzzy, butterfly-filled warmth ran through me, and my peculiar twenty-four-hour bug – or whatever it had been – was forgotten.

At last this was really happening. After all my snobbishness about the Perfect Partners website, it had found me the man I was going to marry. Not that I liked to be reminded of how I’d met Pete. It sounded a bit desperate. Trouble was I’d spent so long concentrating on building up the business I hadn’t left time to meet anyone special. And then I struck gold with Pete, with his pleasingly symmetrical features and steady job. A welcome change from some of the losers I’d dated.

Growing up, I wasn’t the type to dream of a big, white wedding, but apart from work I’d barely thought about anything else for months.

I wanted to practise my vows again, so there’d be no fumbling on the day.

‘Darling Pete . . .’ I murmured, tottering forward towards the full-length mirror, picturing his soft, blue gaze. ‘I, Sasha Enid Clayton, take you, Peter Graham Treadwell, to be my law-abiding . . . lawful . . . oh bollocks.’ I lurched over to the dressing table, heavy silk catching between my knees, and scrabbled about for my notes, just as an unexpected gust of wind blew them across the room.

The overhead light dimmed, then sprang back to life, and my scalp tingled.

Weird.

Unsettled, I remembered my ‘illness’ the day before and wondered if I was experiencing some sort of strange aftermath.

Glancing round for the source of the draught, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye – a sort of shimmery effect on the wall, like flickering torchlight.

Fear clutched my throat as I strained my eyes, not sure if I was seeing things.

Was that . . . ? Was there a man standing by my bed?

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’

‘Jesus wept,’ he said when I’d finished screaming, unplugging his fingers from his ears. ‘I’m not that scary, am I?’

I screamed again, my frazzled eyeballs taking in little snapshots. He was tall, lean, and dressed in black like an assassin. Dark-blond hair swept back off his forehead, and his eyes were a brackish colour – like pond water.

‘Finished?’ he said.

The shock of a well-spoken intruder in my bedroom was enough to shut me up. Clearly taking this as a sign of peace, he sat on my bed and stared up at me.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, grinning and shaking his head so his hair flopped forward. ‘It actually worked!’ He flapped his arms and legs, as if checking they were still attached.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I demanded, finding my voice at last. It was squeakier than I would have liked. ‘Where did you come from?’

My words seemed to galvanize him and he suddenly lunged towards me. I staggered backwards, almost upending the dressing table.

‘What do you want?’ I searched for possible weapons but could only see my great-grandmother’s silver-backed brush, which I grabbed despite its pathetic-looking bristles. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

He paused.

He was older than I’d first thought – late forties at a guess. Fine lines fanned out from his eyes and his stubble was peppered with grey. Through it I noticed a film-star dimple on his chin.

‘How did you get in here?’ I whispered, eyeing the door, which was firmly closed. So was the window, which was strange given the gust of wind that had blown my notes away. My eyes instinctively searched the room and spotted them nestled by my jeans in the corner.

‘Are you Sasha Clayton?’ he asked seriously, leaning forward. My fingers tightened around the hairbrush. How the hell did he know that? I began to wonder if one of Mum’s charity cases had somehow broken into the house and been laying siege under my bed. Although he didn’t look like the usual kind; he was far too well dressed for a start.

‘You seem familiar,’ he murmured, and I was suddenly aware of how odd I must look in my wedding outfit – like Miss Havisham before she was dumped. ‘Kate Winslet!’ He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘That’s it! She gave up acting after her fifth Oscar, you know. Went into farming.’

I tried to ignore the tiny part of me that was a little bit flattered by the comparison. ‘My parents are downstairs,’ I lied. Mum was at a salsa class and Dad was dismantling a vintage car in the garage, despite the freezing weather.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, rather smugly. ‘They’d have been up here by now, after all that screaming.’

Bloody hell.

‘What are you wearing?’ He refocused sharply, taking in the wedding paraphernalia strewn around the room.

‘My wedding dress.’ Fear was starting to give way to annoyance. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

He paused and stared at me intently until I felt my face flush. ‘You’re getting married? Shit!’ He leapt up and gripped the bridge of his nose. ‘When?’ he said urgently, reaching for my arm and shaking me.

‘Ouch!’ I frantically wriggled away from him.

‘When?’ he demanded again, taking a step back but staring at me in panic.

‘Not for a few weeks,’ I replied. His reaction was freaking me out. ‘I was having a trying-on session, with my friend, Rosie.’ I gestured at the door, desperately willing her to reappear. ‘She’s just popped out, for biscuits.’ Crap. Now he knew that we were alone.

He released his breath in a whoosh. ‘What year is it?’ Did Dad have a crazy cousin I knew nothing about?

‘It’s 2012,’ I said, my heart ricocheting madly around my chest.

‘Ah.’ The man was nodding sagely, as though we were at a dinner party. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains what? What are you talking about?’

‘Listen, Sasha . . .’ He paused and rubbed a hand over his stubble, eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know how to put this.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m doing this all wrong. I’m Elliot Frobisher.’ Before I knew it, my hand was in his, being vigorously pumped up and down.

‘Now please listen, Sasha,’ he said, his manner becoming brisk. ‘What . . . what are you doing?’

‘Looking for my phone,’ I said through chattering teeth, feverishly scattering the contents of my bag on the bed. I was obviously still unwell and having a nightmare. ‘I need to call someone.’

‘No you don’t,’ he said, reaching over and grabbing my mobile. He peered at the screen. ‘Anyway the battery’s dead.’

I darted to the window. ‘HEEEEELLLLLLLPP!’ I yelled, banging my hands on the glass. Maybe I could shin down the drainpipe. Did we have a drainpipe? I squinted into the blackness.

‘Sasha, please,’ Elliot appealed. ‘I haven’t got long. Just try and forget how weird this is and listen to me, for one minute.’

I turned, breathing raggedly, and met his gaze. It crossed my mind that he might have hypnotized me. I stared at the greenish flecks surrounding his pupils and felt myself grow dizzy.

‘I’m from the future . . .’

‘What?’ I leapt back as though he was on fire.

‘Twenty thirty-four,’ he said gravely, his eyes not leaving mine. ‘You were never supposed to meet Pete, let alone marry him.’

‘How do you know Pete?’ For a split second I couldn’t remember what my fiancé looked like, then his lovely face swam into view.

‘You were meant to meet me,’ Elliot went on, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘Two years ago. At a fundraiser you were helping to cater for my father.’ He paused. ‘You run an outfit called Dining In, don’t you? With your best friend, Rosie Miller?’

This was too weird. ‘How do you know all this?’ I looked round, half expecting to see a camera crew, my heart still beating painfully fast. ‘Is it a joke?’

‘No joke.’ He shook his head. ‘Your mother, Margaret, is a retired primary school teacher. Your father, Lionel, runs a shop called You’ve Been Framed, and you’re an only child. You’ve lived in this house all your life, you’re twenty-eight, and you nearly died of an asthma attack when you were six.’ He reeled off the facts on his fingers as though he’d learnt them for an exam.

‘Oh God, you’re a stalker.’

‘LISTEN! We didn’t meet that night because there was an electrical storm. A lot of power cables came down. Do you remember?’

How could I forget? It was our landmark job; the one that put our catering business on the map, only a lot of people didn’t turn up because of the storm.

‘I was one of the guests that didn’t make it and the timeline got knocked off course,’ he said.

My stomach did a triple somersault. ‘The what did . . . What?’

‘We went our separate ways and that was that. I ended up . . . well, where I am today. Miserable and broke and married to a woman I can’t stand.’

I shivered, sinking into my wicker chair. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Look, the reason I’m here is to ask you – to beg you – to find me and convince me that you and I should be together. We’re soulmates, you see,’ he said, hunkering down in front of me as though he was proposing. He looked me straight in the eye. ‘You can’t get married.’

I stared at him, breathing unsteadily. ‘Are you insane?’

‘I know what it must sound like,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I probably wouldn’t believe me either.’

I twisted away. ‘Do you really think I’m going to leave my fiancé?’ I whimpered, wondering if I should go along with it to get him out of my room. If he was mad, there’d be no reasoning with him.

‘I’m not mad.’ His eyes implored me. ‘I’m telling you, that’s what was supposed to happen. My grandmother saw us. Together. Happily married.’ He lowered his voice. ‘In a vision.’

In spite of myself, I was reeled in by his stare. ‘A vision?’

‘I know, I know, it’s a long story,’ he said, getting up and pacing the rug by my bed. ‘She’s psychic. When you meet me you’ll know how unlikely it is that I would believe in anything like that.’ He hesitated.. . .