One Day to Fall in Love

by Molly James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

'With a novel plot, this fun romcom is a must-read at the beach this summer. Perfect for fans of Paige Toon and Sophie Kinsella' CANDIS

Escape to Torquay this summer with Molly James's charming and magical romcom.

The clock is ticking, don't let love run out . . .

When the love of her life falls for someone else, Rena finds herself desperately scrolling for a solution. That's when an ad for a new dating app pops up:

24 hours to fall in love ❤️ A guaranteed love match by the end of the day or your money back.

Fueled by heartbreak and tequila, Rena signs up and prepares for her life to change. What she doesn't know is that she is bound to repeat this day over and over again, until she finds her perfect match. One day they said, but there was no mention of how many times that day would play out . . .

Praise for Molly James:

'Joyful, wise and enormously good fun' TASMINA PERRY

'An utterly gorgeous story that had me totally hooked. Without a doubt the best book I've read this year' HOLLY MARTIN

'Skip to the End was a feel-good feast from start to finish. The story felt original, perfectly-paced, and heartfelt. I can't wait to devour more books by Molly James' LISA DICKENSON

'A lovely, heartwarming story about finding your happy ever after - I rooted for Amy from the start and finished with a big smile on my face!' VICTORIA WALTERS

Release date: August 1, 2024

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Where does all the unused love go?

I roll my eyes, sending a micro cascade of glitter from my lids to my cheeks. That’s what you get for taking a break from tonging beach waves into your hair to gaze at the actual ocean.

I should’ve just jacked up the party tunes and taken another swig of mango margarita. Instead, I’m now wistfully leaning on my window frame, watching the translucent teal water slosh, froth and slap the seawall.

‘Things are about to get stirred up . . .’ I can almost hear my grandmother predicting, with a faint air of glee.

Part of me wants to rush down and revel in the salty bling – the spatter and surprise of ‘mermaid kisses’ on my skin has been a favourite sensation since childhood.

But then my attention is drawn to the couple pausing for a giggly smooch before they run across the road to the fairground. My insides wrench as though lunging to grab a piece of what they have. And so the question repeats in my mind: Where does all the unused love go?

I wish I could believe you develop ever greater reserves of it – all the more to adore someone with – but it doesn’t feel that way to me. It feels as if I’ve amassed an obscene amount of reward points only to discover they’ve all expired due to account inactivity. And this makes my heart feel small and insignificant and under-used.

Except for when I think about Dylan.

Then it soars.

At least until I remember he doesn’t feel the same way.

Not quite. Not yet.

While I wait for Cupid to adjust his sight line – just a hair to the left – I continue to read secret love messages in the velvety latte art he slides my way each morning, pretending I’m inhaling the lavender steam when in reality I’m catching my breath as his shirt gapes and his glinting chain swings away from his trace-a-finger-down-me chest. As he pushes back his tumble of hair, and the curls catch in a way that frames his face to even greater advantage, I feign gazing dreamily at the blue-sky marina view. But when he joins me on the terrace and beckons me into a hug, I succumb to the fantasy that we’re engaging in a lovers’ tryst on the French Riviera, as opposed to palling around on the lesser known English one.

This man has no idea how much space he occupies in my heart, or the massive kick I get when people mistake us for a couple, which has happened consistently in the six years since we met. Sometimes he’ll correct them, like if his actual girlfriend is present. I never do. I just bask in the togetherness and the fact that other people can see what he has yet to. I’ve told him a few times that he’s the best part of my day, my happy place, but he’s always accepted this in an ‘Aw, shucks!’ friend’s way. Though there was one moment when I thought that was going to change: exactly one year ago, at his fortieth birthday party.

His cafe was strung with a million fairy lights, mochas had given way to mojitos and I was following the glide of a seagull as it ascended each layer of the vista, from the quayside shops a-jostle with shell souvenirs and vinegary chips, past the mismatched buildings stacking up the cliffside, all the way to the Victorian villas at the top.

‘Rena – don’t move!’ Dylan startled me as he approached.

For a second I thought there was a wasp getting high on my myriad hair products but then he added, ‘The light has turned you to pure gold!’

As he held up his phone camera and began to click, he smiled at me in such a way that released all the carefully contained love from my eyes, sending it flowing directly into the lens.

‘Wow,’ he husked. ‘Come see.’

Our faces aligned, just a tilt away from a kiss. For once I didn’t recoil at what I saw. Instead of my usual exaggerated grin and spooked eyes, I looked relaxed (aka gently drunk), with an amber glow to my irises I’d never noticed before. Suddenly it didn’t seem utterly impossible that someone like Dylan could love me.

‘Beautiful!’ he breathed.

If only he could have stopped there. Instead, he had to add, ‘Perfect for your new profile shot on Fumble.’

My eyes closed as I expelled a sigh, the night air turning sharply cool as the sun bowed out.

‘I know it’s a disheartening process,’ he soothed, misinterpreting my slump. ‘And I understand that you needed a break after Shakespeare but we have to get you back out there. Just last night Celine was saying—’

‘This is Celine’s idea?’ I challenged.

‘She was just saying she couldn’t understand how you were still single.’

My lips pursed. I wasn’t sure how to take this. On the one hand, I actually like Dylan’s girlfriend and I’m so grateful that she’s not weird about him having a close female friend. On the other, I can’t help but wonder if this was her way of telling me it’s time for me to find a boyfriend of my own, and to stop borrowing hers.

‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Time to get back out there?’

I shook my head. ‘Not ready.’

‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, this is how you get ready. You wouldn’t run a marathon without training first.’

‘Are either of us best suited to exercise metaphors?’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘How about coffee? Is my latte art better now or when I opened the cafe?’

‘When you started it looked as if someone had frisked you mid-pour.’

‘Exactly. And the reason you can now differentiate between my cactus and my penis design is practice. You need to practise dating to warm up for the love of your life.’

I wanted to tell him that wasn’t the problem; it was the big RESERVED FOR DYLAN sign on my heart. Instead, I insisted we should be focussing on his big milestone birthday, and handed him a small gift-wrapped box.

‘Is someone being a naughty girl?’ Celine appeared out of nowhere, curling a slender hand around Dylan’s bicep.

‘I . . .?’

She pointed to the package before I started defending other sins. ‘We said presence, not presents!’

We. Urgh.

‘Oh, it’s just a joke thing,’ I dismissed her comment. ‘Not a real gift.’

‘Actually, I’d say it’s more of a life essential now you’ve hit the big four-oh,’ Nat chimed in, coming to my aid with a knowing nudge.

‘Well, don’t keep us in suspense,’ Celine insisted. ‘Open it!’

Dylan dutifully removed the wrapping and revealed a personal alarm pendant designed for seniors having a medical emergency, while also looking like it could be a new Apple or even sci-fi device.

From him I got the hearty laugh I was going for, but Celine’s words chilled me to the bone: ‘That’ll come in handy when we’re in the nursing home!’

My knees buckled.

‘Why do you look like someone just shot you in the stomach?’ Nat hissed as she gripped my elbow, preventing me from falling.

Only when we reached the furthest point on the terrace did I cry out, ‘That was going to be my slot!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The nursing home! I always thought if I just waited long enough, I’d outlast all the girlfriends and we’d end up there together.’

Nat looked stunned. ‘That was your plan?’

‘And a fairly decent one, I thought, until tonight – eventually companionship would trump sexual desire.’

‘I’m sorry, your idea of winning at love is to be parked side by side at Shady Pines with matching crocheted blankets?’

‘But think of the fun we’d have reminiscing about our whole lives!’

‘That’s if you can remember any of it. What if you have dementia?’

‘We’d still get on, because we always have!’

‘Oh, Rena.’

‘I know, I know!’ I swatted irritably, leaning out over the moonlit yachts, wishing I could send my heart on a round-the-world trip just to get a breather from this longing.

‘Look, I get why your crush is constantly getting refuelled – I saw him taking photos of you just now. Anyone would think he was equally smitten.’

I looked up at her. I wasn’t imagining it.

‘But you can’t wish away the next forty years of your life.’

‘I’m not wishing anything away,’ I countered. ‘I’m just playing the long game.’

‘No.’ She took a firm stand. ‘It’s time to come up with a new plan. You have to face the fact that he’s happy with Celine.’

‘I’m not saying he’s not happy, I’m just saying he would be happier with me!’

‘That only works if you both think that.’

‘Could you please keep your reality checks to yourself?’ I reached for an abandoned cocktail. ‘Do you really want me to go back to online dating?’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Nat looked aghast. During my last foray she tracked my phone and kept a dossier on each suitor so it would be ready for the police when I, inevitably, became the Tinder Swindler’s next victim.

‘I have to do something,’ I continued. ‘My best friend is a rubbish wing woman, she scares away all the prospects.’

‘You’d think with all the people that come through your doors at the theatre . . .’

‘I know, but they’re only ever here for a night or two. Though twenty-four hours with Giovanni Pernice might do the trick.’

‘Remember when you got all in a fluster over David Suchet?’

‘I’m telling you, there is something powerfully magnetic about that man.’

Nat pondered for a minute. ‘I could see if Mark has any single friends?’

‘Now you’re just being silly.’

No one dislikes Nat’s boyfriend more than me.

He came into her life via a stag party paddleboard tour she was hosting. She spins the story to make him sound gallant for stepping up and protecting her from the lewd advances of his mates, but I’m pretty sure it was less about respect and more about him wanting to claim Nat for himself. At the time she was in an ad campaign for a new hotel spa and he loved pointing out her jacuzzi bikini pic on the bus shelters along Fleet Walk. Even I can’t deny they are a head-turningly attractive couple, but their relationship dynamic really vexes me – the way she dials down her Nat-ness around him, assuming the decorative role he has assigned her. She insists any shortcomings are compensated for by his mum’s Sunday dinners. (I went once and the roast potatoes were exceptional, all crispy bronzed on the outside and silky soft on the inside, but I spent the whole time wanting to reach my foot over to Mark’s chair and kick him off his smug perch.)

The strangest part is that in every other aspect of life Nat is a truth-blurter and never lets anything slide. Mostly I find this bluntness refreshing – I always know exactly where I stand and what is going on with her. Once in a while I could do with a softer approach but she’s not the type to indulge. There’s no cooing and appeasing, no ‘Oh, he’s probably just super busy with work!’ Or ‘He really likes you, he’s just scared of his feelings.’ She’ll come right out and say, ‘He’s not interested. You need to move on.’

And yet, when it comes to her own love life there’s this massive six-foot-two blind spot. I would say Mark can do no wrong, but he does do wrong, all the time, and she lets him get away with it. At this point, I honestly don’t know what it would take to get her to see the light.

I always hoped that she’d get together with her fellow paddleboarder, Ravi. Not only is he a stunner with a triangular torso and raven hair twisted into a topknot, he has a bountiful heart, donating his free time to water therapy for kids with autism. Last time we saw him in action, I tutted: ‘I don’t know how you are not in love with that man.’

‘I love him as a work colleague,’ Nat had shrugged, adding, ‘If you’re so enamoured, why don’t you go out with him?’

I sighed. ‘Trust me, if I was someone who could pull off itsy-bitsy board shorts I’d be all over him like a rash. Or should that be a rash guard?’

But here we are a year on – Ravi is still single, I’m still ‘Chris Pining’ for Dylan and Nat is still ensnared with Mark. At least he’ll be late to the party because his work trip flight doesn’t get in for another hour or so. I had thought this would leave us free to get ready with a mix of our favourite playlists, alternating between her surf vibes and my show tunes, but apparently Nat is held up.

I head into the kitchen to add a tangy Tajín rim to her margarita glass and then do the one thing guaranteed to make me feel worse: I open my dating app.

I had no idea how many men weren’t my type until I signed up for online dating. I’d catch myself muttering, ‘No. No. Oh god, no. Oh, bless, no,’ as I swiped. Adding, ‘Seriously?’ when confronted with the guy who elected to take his profile selfie in the dentist’s chair. Blue paper bib and all.

Other days I’d feel inadequate for not being the spontaneous, skydiving supermodel of some keto dynamo’s dreams.

Once I tried altering the settings to conjure a Dylan clone, right down to age, body type and star sign (Leo). Nat twigged straight away. ‘It’s like Dylan robbed a bank and these are the suspects the police called in.’ I explained it was my way of being expedient – as if I could simply transfer my love for him onto a lookalike. Obviously that didn’t work, people having their own personalities and all. The man himself said I was being too picky, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask to want to experience a flicker of recognition in your heart, a shimmer of possibility . . . Oh, and preferably no notification that he has been removed from the app due to ‘fraudulent behaviour’. Three times that has happened!

Now, this one is funny, I decide as I return to the present day.

I’m a carefully written, fact-checked essay on the streets and an unmoderated comments section in the sheets.

Unfortunately I’m not enamoured by his pics, which makes me feel shallow and thus undeserving of any love.

I sigh, swiping onward. Okay, this is more my speed: Every time I go to the beach I get this weird feeling women are dressing me with their eyes.

I chuckle, feeling along the counter for my drink.

‘What’s up with your hair?’

‘Gahhh!’ I clutch my chest, falling against the fridge. I was so absorbed with Ricky from Teignmouth’s chest hair I didn’t even notice Nat coming in.

‘I hate to tell you this, Rena, but the one side straight, one side wavy look only works for Instagram hair tutorials.’

‘Oh!’ My hand goes to my head. ‘I got distracted mid-tong.’

‘By what?’

‘Nothing.’ I flush, tucking my phone away. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I ran into Ravi on the way here. I have news!’

‘What kind of news?’

She takes my hand and leads me to the sofa, gives her cascade of hair a flip and then announces, ‘Dylan and Celine have had an almighty row and she’s not coming to the party tonight!’

My heart judders in disbelief. Finally, a chink in their seemingly flawless relationship! I know I shouldn’t be happy but I can’t help but feel a zing of hope. And then I frown – I can see why this news might excite my delusional self, but why is Nat so fired up?

‘This is your window of opportunity!’ she continues. ‘This is the night you get to tell him how you really feel!’

‘At his party? With throngs of other people vying for his attention?’

‘You can’t risk leaving it a moment longer – you know he barely leaves a breath between one girlfriend and the next and the last thing we want is for him and Celine to reconcile.’

I sit back, still trying to wrap my head around this intel. ‘Do you know what they were fighting about?’

‘Ravi didn’t say. He only told me so we wouldn’t make a big deal about her not being there.’ Her eyes narrow at me. ‘You don’t look convinced?’

‘Well, I suppose I always hoped he’d be the one declaring his undyings.’

‘Never going to happen.’

‘Oh, cheers!’

‘You know how easy-going he is – he’ll just trundle on with Celine or whoever strays into the cafe, never knowing the wonder of you, unless you step out of the friend zone and spell it out for him.’

‘I can’t even fathom how I would do that.’

‘Which is why I’ve brought this.’ She retrieves the tall gift bag she had set on my side table.

‘A ceramic lamp base?’ I frown as she flourishes a white china column painted with cobalt-blue swirls.

‘I can see why you’d think that,’ Nat concedes. ‘It’s actually a seven-hundred-pound bottle of tequila.’

‘Seven hundred pounds?!’ I reel. ‘Does it come with its own mariachi band?’

‘No, but it’s “añejo”, so apparently one shot is the equivalent to a bottle of wine.’

My eyebrows dart skyward. ‘That’s some truth serum right there.’

‘It’s the one thing of value my dad left me.’

‘You don’t want to save it for a special occasion?’

‘What could be more special than seeing my best friend find true love?’

‘Okay, now I know something is up.’ I cross my arms. ‘Spill!’

‘What?’

‘I know there’s more. Why are you suddenly encouraging me to pursue the very thing you’ve been telling me to get over?’

Her mouth opens and closes. This can’t be good. Nat is as direct as they come. Instead, she turns her back on me and goes in search of my vintage gold-rimmed shot glasses. ‘Let’s have a slug, shall we? Test it out?’

I want to protest but the moment the silky amber-hued liquid makes contact with my tongue, I feel an other-worldly warmth steal over me.

‘It’s so caramelly!’

‘With notes of clove and marmalade,’ Nat educates me.

‘I didn’t know tequila could be like this!’ I swoon, taking another sip. ‘Mmmm, divine!’

‘So, what do you think? Are you ready to bare your heart and maybe a smidge more cleavage to Dylan?’

I adjust the V of my silk dress and then grab her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go now before I lose my nerve!’

She holds me back.

‘What?’

‘First let me fix your hair.’

When people ask how Natalie and I met, I say we got chatting at Torquay train station, as opposed to the true story: my dad attempted to pick her up on the train service from London.

As he helped her onto the platform I barely batted an eye – older rockers and younger models, a tale as old as time. But when Dad introduced me as ‘Rena from the Princess Theatre’ and volunteered my chauffeur services, I realised they weren’t together, he just wished they were.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said, putting me in an impossible position. I had to drop him off first at his gig soundcheck and then, apparently, I would ‘be delighted’ to take her to her hotel.

To her credit, she did protest but there were no taxis at the rank and when I caught her eye, an inner twang told me she needed a good deed. So I ferried her up Torquay’s most populated guest house street, getting further away from the sea and into Fawlty Towers territory.

When she stepped out of the car and looked up at her tatty, net-curtained accommodation she looked so crestfallen. ‘No wonder it was such a bargain.’ She tried to tough it out, thanking me for the lift and trundling her case up to the glass up to the glass front door. There was a note taped to it announcing that if you’d been so remiss as to not order your cooked breakfast three weeks ago, you should count your blessings that you would be assigned a miniature box of Frosties and a pouch of long-life milk.

‘I can’t let you do it!’ I blurted.

‘What?’

‘Get back in the car. Let me take you somewhere nice.’

She hesitated and then complied. ‘All I wanted was some sea air.’

‘The hotel I have in mind is set away from all the madness – you’ll be able to relax there.’

Again, I noticed her eyes take on a glassy sheen. She couldn’t seem to speak but confirmed with a nod.

On the way to the Osbourne Hotel I learned the reason Natalie seemed a little ‘on the verge’ was that her boyfriend had dumped her that morning.

I did a double take. ‘And you got straight on a train to Devon?’

She nodded. ‘I used to come here as a kid. As soon as the thought entered my head it gave me this sense of purpose. But obviously I didn’t think through every detail. Life rarely lives up to the fantasy, does it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I smiled and directed her gaze to an elegant, creamy-white Regency crescent overlooking six acres of palm-studded grounds, facing a squint-inducing sparkle of sea.

‘It’s actually not too fancy or pricey on the inside, I just felt this view would be a tonic.’

‘Oh, it is!’ She sighed, all tension leaving her brow as she pushed her sunglasses into her hair, not wanting to miss a ray. ‘If I could, I’d move here tomorrow!’

‘What’s stopping you?’ I asked, feeling oddly invested in her happiness. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Hair stylist.’

‘Plenty of salons here.’

‘Oh no, if I moved here, I’d be a paddleboard instructor!’

‘Really?’ I laughed.

She nodded. ‘If you’re going to be by the sea, why not go all in?’ And then she stepped out of the car, gravitating towards the tiered terrace of bright flowers and happy hotel diners. ‘Can you join me for lunch? My treat, to say thank you for saving me from what I imagine was some pretty hideous carpeting?’

I expected to say no, because I say no to everything that isn’t related to my work at the theatre, but instead my voice enthused, ‘I’d love to!’

For the first half an hour Nat wanted to know everything about what it was like to grow up here, as opposed to just visiting for two weeks in the summer.

‘Were you always trailing seaweed and shaking sand out of your shoes?’

‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘Of course, you’re picturing it all in sunshine. It gets extra squelchy and muddy in the winter and the sea is slate grey.’

This just seemed to make her swoon more. ‘I’d get little mittens for my kids, and bright yellow wellies!’

We were just comparing childhood crazy golf memories when the waitress brought over a bucket of champagne on ice, courtesy of two admirers. Nat told her to send it back without even looking to see who it was from.

The waitress faltered. My eyebrows raised.

She turned back to me. ‘You were saying?’

‘I, er . . .’ I frowned, leaning in. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little rude?’

She turned back to the waitress. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you – Rena was just taking me back to Pirate’s Bay in Paignton—’

‘I meant to the guys,’ I laughed.

Nat rolled her eyes. ‘Please tell them we appreciate the gesture but we’re not looking for company. Unless you are?’ She turned back to me.

‘Well, it has been a while.’

‘I don’t think they’re your type.’

‘But you haven’t even seen them!’

Nat looked back at the waitress. ‘It’s the two guys in the far corner, right? One is considerably more drunk than the other. One or both are married. I’m guessing they’ve already made about a dozen inappropriate comments to you?’

The waitress nodded dumbly.

Turns out that Nat had trained herself to scope out possible ‘incomings’ the minute she walked into a room, an occupational hazard of being Chalk Farm’s answer to Sofía Vergara.

‘I can’t even imagine what that must be like,’ I told he. . .