Seven Summers Later

by Laila Rafi

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

1. Be professional
2. Do not talk about the past
3. Do not fall in love all over again...

Seven years ago Safiya ran away from her life, breaking not only Murad's heart but her own too.

Safiya Saeed is rebuilding her life. Her life imploded in front of her and now she's working at the worst restaurant in London. Until a mishap ends in her losing her job and forces her to reach out to her family for help . . .

Murad Aziz has built a name for himself. He works with the Saeed family and doesn't do complications. And he might do anything for his job, but being thrown on a project with Safiya in Italy? Now that's more complicated than he'd like.

Quickly, the two draft up rules to maintain professional boundaries but it's not enough to stop the past from sneaking up on them. And for Safiya, Murad makes her happier than she's been in a while - and Murad? Well, he never quite got over her.

But surely some rules are meant to be broken, aren't they? Well at least just for the summer...

Release date: July 24, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

‘Food for table eight ready.’

‘Saf, table four are asking for the bill.’

‘Excuse me, can we get some more of the—’

Two hours.

Just two more hours until I can go back to my tiny but quiet room and flop face down on the bed. It’s been one of those days which I wish had ended at least six hours ago. Worst bit? I wasn’t even supposed to be working today, but Flavio Sousa – our tyrannical acting manager – called me in. Why didn’t I say no? Because I need this job and I could definitely do with the extra money.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I know it’s either Mum trying her best to not invade the boundaries I set up after I came back from Nairobi – and failing – or Vaneeza, my ever patient best-friend, awkwardly asking if I’ll be able to transfer her the rent today. I really need to get that done.

I haul in what I hope is an energising breath, readjusting the plates of lamb tagine and a couscous salad on my arm before picking up a bowl of Moroccan lentil soup, and then I back out of the kitchen into the main restaurant, narrowly missing a little boy as he runs past me. He’s been doing that since he came into the restaurant with his parents and it’s driving me nuts.

He’s just a child, I remind myself, just a happy, if slightly wild child.

A child, who should have his little backside firmly glued to a chair, but is instead running through the restaurant like it’s his personal playground with nothing more than half-hearted protests from his parents, who are too busy in their own conversation. ‘Georgie. Buddy, what did we say about running indoors?’ Or, earlier, there had been, ‘Georgieee. Honey, what did we say about sitting in the way where people need to pass?’ Honestly. It didn’t matter what they said, he obviously wasn’t listening.

A much-welcome breeze washes over me and I look in the direction of the main door of the restaurant which opens to the bustling high street and suppress a groan when I find Haroon Saeed of all people standing there, giving me his signature grin when he spots me.

I deposit the plates I was holding on table eight and close the distance towards him. ‘What are you doing here, Harry?’ I hiss at my cousin, folding my arms across my chest for good measure to show him I mean business. Sadly, it doesn’t make an iota of difference to him as he shrugs irreverently.

‘Waiting to be seated. I’ve heard great things about this place.’ His brow furrows in concern as he eyes the space around him, presumably taking in the cacophony of noise and customers.

‘Really Harry? From who?’ I narrow my eyes at him knowing perfectly well that he’s not heard anything good or bad about this place and that’s not why he’s here.

He looks at me and after three seconds caves. ‘Fine. I might have wanted to check in.’

‘At my place of work?’ I pick up a menu and walk Harry over to the table furthest away, giving Flavio an uneasy smile so he doesn’t suspect anything, ‘This isn’t on, Harry. I wouldn’t come to your workplace—’

‘First things first, dear cousin-sister of mine, I don’t have a workplace. And this was the only way I was guaranteed to find you. Kids these days are better at using their phone than you are. When the phone rings, you’re supposed to swipe the screen and then hold the phone to your ear and—’

‘I don’t have time for your silliness right now, Haroon. Here, look at the menu. I have a job to do because I actually have a workplace.’ I thrust the menu at him and, after giving him a glare that would make our grandmother proud, I make my way towards a table where the customers are ready to settle their bill.

I get shunted from behind and turn to see the same child give me a toothy grin before he zooms off again. Please just sit down, I pray silently, but my prayers go unanswered as he rushes around nearly knocking me over, his parents completely oblivious.

I can see Harry trying to wave at me from the corner of my eye, but I ignore him as I make my way towards the bar to get drinks.

‘Saf,’ Melissa flags me down. ‘I just need to use the loo. Be a babe and take table six their drinks with yours please.’ She bounces on the balls of her feet, a desperate look in her eye.

Reluctantly, I nod and load all eight drinks on the tray. I make my way through the tiny gaps between the tables, noticing Harry, who is still trying to wave me over, mouthing something as he does. My eyes narrow as I try to lip-read and make sense of it and then—

Crash.

In life, there are sometimes those dreams … nightmares, actually. The ones which make the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up and wake you up at 3 a.m. with a pounding heart and beads of sweat on your upper lip. This is one of them. My hair is standing on end, my heart is pounding and sweat has not only beaded on my upper lip, a droplet of it slides down my spine. Except this is no dream. It’s a very real nightmare.

Georgie, who had plonked himself right in between the tables, was hitting the tiled floor, using a spoon as a makeshift drumstick. With my attention on Harry, I spotted him a little too late and lunged to the side to avoid falling on top of him and went down – with the drinks and my dignity – like a sack of potatoes. The resounding crash sends a shiver down my spine. It’ll probably hound me in the afterlife – it was that bad.

My elbow hits the floor and pain shoots through my limbs. ‘Ow,’ I whisper. And then, for a moment – just one peaceful moment – everything is quiet, like the restaurant has frozen in time. I stare at the mahogany brown walls, the lights hanging from the ceilings, the dated artwork, until my eyes land on Harry’s face. I wince as I manage to sit upright, glancing to my side. Thankfully, Georgie seems unharmed. He stares back at me with wide eyes for a whole five seconds until his bottom lip protrudes, trembles and then he lets out an ear-splitting wail, as though all those glasses have crashed on his head, making me wince again.

‘Georgie,’ I bargain, softly, like I used to with my younger cousins before one of them complained to our parents after we’d been play-fighting with each other. ‘It’s OK. You’re OK. Look I’m the one with all the drink on me.’ I hope to get him to quieten down whilst inside I’m ready to bawl my eyes out along with him.

Flavio – the complete pain in my neck that he is – bustles over and starts flapping around Georgie and his parents, while Harry swiftly makes his way towards me. ‘Saf. Are you hurt?’

The other waitstaff on the floor give me sympathetic looks, quietly relieved it wasn’t them I’m sure, and stand frozen as Harry helps me up.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just bumped my knees and elbow.’ I rub my aching elbow as I look at the carnage around me. It’s a mess. Smashed glass and liquid everywhere.

Flavio brings a yellow cone which says CAUTION and sticks it next to me. He apologises to the parents, all of them ignoring me and focusing on Georgie before Flavio turns towards me and then speaks through gritted teeth in a voice loud enough that only Harry and I hear him. ‘Go home, Safiya. You’ve done enough.’

Harry offers to drop me off at my flat and the car ride is unusually quiet. Every so often, I sigh, reliving the last embarrassing – and painful – hour of my life, while Harry clears his throat.

I drag myself to the flat I share with Vaneeza, my best friend since before either of us could string a sentence together, and pour myself a glass of water. I’ve only taken a few sips when Vaz walks in, her Pomeranian, Biscuit, following closely behind her.

‘Heyyy,’ Vaz says, in a voice she reserves for Serious Chats. ‘Did you make the transfer? Because nothing’s come through on my side.’ She leans against the small table under the window, waving her phone in the air.

I groan at the question. ‘Shit, no. I meant to but—’

Vaz frowns as she massages her temples. Guilt begins to grow in my stomach, wishing things were different – that I was different. ‘We spoke about this, Saf. I can’t afford to cover our rent for the next month and you said you’d take care of it. You know I would if I could, but—’

‘I know and I will. Let me do it now. I was going to do it while on my break, but then I got asked to cover for an extra ten minutes and it slipped my mind.’ I pull my phone out of my back pocket and see all the notifications lined up – the top, most recent one an email from Flavio.

To: Safiya Saeed

From: Flavio Sousa

Subject: Notice of Dismissal

Dear Safiya,

I am sorry to inform you that you will no longer be employed at this restaurant effective immediately—

My stomach drops as I scroll through the email. ‘Oh no.’

‘What is it? Is everything OK?’ I hear Vaz ask in the background, but I don’t respond as my eyes flit over the email.

Biscuit comes and sits in front of me, her shiny eyes on me when I look down at her. She barks and then whines softly before lowering her head to the ground.

‘I’ve been fired.’ I hear myself whisper the words and a wave of nausea washes over me. ‘Apparently, Georgie’s parents complained – adding to the list of mounting complaints against me. Whatever those might be.’

‘What?’ I block out Vaz’s shrieked question but feel her take the phone out of my limp fingers. ‘Let me see. Oh, Saf.’

I pull out a chair on autopilot and lower myself into it, dropping my head into my hands. What on earth am I going to do? I needed that job and without it … I close my eyes as a sense of defeat and fatigue washes over me.

You’ve got a false sense of superiority, Safiya. No actual substance, just a bucketload of pride. Do you think anyone else would want you?

Ejaz’s words reverberate through my head, drowning out the noise around me. My ex-husband never spared a moment in which he could point out my flaws. I thought I had brushed them off, but they’re always there at the edge of my subconscious, poking and prodding, and now I wonder if perhaps he wasn’t as much off the mark as I keep trying to convince myself he was. My family try to reassure me that he was talking rubbish, the little I shared with them, but I’m beginning to find it hard to believe that. All I have to show for myself is one failure after the next. Failed marriage? Tick. Unsuccessful professional career? Tick. Fractured relationships with family? Tick, tick, tick. And now I’ve just been fired from my waitressing job before I could complete the probation period. How abysmal is that?

I need to pay Vaz and with no job, how am I going to manage that? She’s already helped me for the past three months to take care of my share of the rent – given that I couldn’t afford the full amount and have anything left to actually feed myself. She was quite clear that this month she would need more of a contribution from me – as was only right. At the grand old age of thirty-three, I should absolutely be taking care of my own share of the rent and rates, except I have no idea how I can afford it now.

The doorbell rings and Vaz goes to answer it, leaving me with my thoughts.

I know I could go home. My parents would be happy to have me back in a heartbeat – in fact they’d be over the moon, as would Daadi, my paternal grandmother – but just the thought of that has me feeling like I can’t breathe. I can’t go home. Not like this.

But with no job, no money and nothing to fall back on, what the hell am I going to do? And I can’t cause Vaz any more trouble than I already have, I love her too much to do that to her. I could ask my parents or even my brother for financial support, but the very thought makes my toes curl.

I can’t take a step backwards like that, not after everything I’ve had to fight through. All it will do is confirm everyone’s belief that I need taking care of. I see the way they look at me. Poor Safiya. And I don’t want to be that anymore. I want to be more like how I used to be. I just need a bloody break.

I feel my shoulder being squeezed and I glance up to find a remorseful Harry looking down at me. ‘Vaz told me what happened. I’m sorry, Saf.’ He frowns. ‘It’s my fault. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.’

I heave a tired sigh. ‘Yeah. Me too. And it’s not your fault.’ I drop my head into my hands once more and I feel Biscuit’s paws on my knees as she stands on her hind legs, whining softly. I give her a scratch behind the ears and she barks joyfully, making the corners of my mouth twitch upwards into a slight smile.

‘Right.’ Vaz clasps her hands together with a determined look in her eye. ‘Here is what we’re going to do. I’m going to put the kettle on. You are going to change out of those clothes.’ She points at me and swings her finger over at Harry. ‘And you’re going to open those chocolate-flavoured goodies you’ve just brought back with you and we’re going to come up with a plan.’

If there’s anything Vaz can do, it’s rouse motivation. Or fear. I showered, and had a little therapeutic cry, before changing into comfy pyjamas. Harry is sitting next to me on the sofa, his brief guilt having worn off as he dips his third chocolate digestive into my tea.

I shoot him a glare. ‘Get your own.’ I scoot away from him, while Vaz sips her tea from her precious cup and saucer.

The anxiety after receiving Flavio’s email hasn’t quite dissipated. I still don’t know quite what I’m going to do, but I need to come up with something, that’s for sure. And if there is anyone I can do it with, it’s Vaz and Harry.

‘Hey. Cheer up. It was a shit job. So, blessing in disguise, really.’ Harry quirks his brow.

I know he feels bad but it’s really not his fault and he’s not wrong – it was a pretty crap deal. I did it because both the restaurant manager – the actual manager – and I were desperate and it satisfied both our needs at the time. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I really wanted to do. In fact, I’m still not.

Biscuit, who had been snoozing in Harry’s lap, jumps down, clearly annoyed at the lack of attention, and makes her way to her dog bed, while Harry moves closer and throws his arm around me, giving me both a sense of comfort and familiarity. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Saf. I promise. I know you said it’s not my fault, but still. By the way, I like what you’ve done with this place. It could do with a lick of paint, but the touches you both have added are nice.’

I groan as Vaz gets her chance to jump onto the same old topic. ‘And guess who’s behind it all?’ Vaz says, pride in her eyes. ‘That wall hanging? Saf. Those gorgeous coloured cushions and the throw? Saf. This rug? Saf. Those pieces decorating the mantel piece?’

‘Let me guess. Saf?’ Harry says with a cheeky grin and I elbow him. His comforting presence moving into annoying territory as it inevitably does with my six brothers. Well, technically I’ve got one brother and five cousins, of whom Haroon Saeed is the youngest.

‘I know what you’re doing and it won’t work. I don’t do that stuff anymore. I only did it here to spruce this place up. The walls are literally grey, for God’s sake. It’s quite obvious I can’t do it on a professional level. Any suggestions I made to Flavio about making changes to the interior of the restaurant were met with a firm refusal. After he had scoffed at the idea, of course.’

‘And since when is Flavio’s unwanted opinion any authority on the subject? You’re Safiya bloody Saeed. Of course you can do it,’ Vaz retorts.

‘I said no, Vaz.’ My voice is harsh and I regret it as soon as I say it. The guilt instantly claws at my insides. ‘Sorry, hun. I’m just …’ I can’t even justify myself, and sensing the state of my mind, Vaz comes and sits on my other side, while Harry scoots closer again, laying a reassuring hand on my knee.

Vaz puts her arms around me. ‘Don’t be sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed, knowing how you’re feeling this evening, no thanks to Foul Flavio.’

I snort out a laugh, unable to stop. Soon, Harry and Vaz are too, thinking up other names for Flavio. An annoying man who had nothing better to do than constantly pick holes in anything I did because he had taken an instant dislike to me. All I did was tell him that the capital of Morocco was Rabat and not Marrakech. Maybe I should have left him in blessed ignorance.

We put on the TV, watching the next episode of Love Island with frequent breaks for commentary. I try to ignore my problems and put them aside for tomorrow, but anxiety stirs in my belly.

Do you think anyone else would want you? The words echo in my head. The self-doubt, the heartbreak, the regret – it all comes rushing back, until Harry’s raucous laugh snaps me out of it and I decide I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Seven summers ago, I didn’t think I’d be back here. I definitely didn’t think I’d be living with Vaz and watching reality TV with Harry. I’m surrounded by people I love. People who gave me a second chance without batting an eyelid and would probably give me a hundred more, and I owe it to myself to do the same.

I am Safiya bloody Saeed after all.

‘It’s just not the same anymore,’ Antonella sighs, holding onto the stem of her wine glass. We’re sitting in a small, darkly lit wine bar – one of Antonella’s favourites. ‘You used to hire someone and not worry that they weren’t going to do the job. Or – what’s the word? – half-arse it.’ Her rich Italian accent comes through and I cover my mouth to hide the smile. Antonella’s in her mid-sixties and hearing her say words like half-arse will never not make me laugh. ‘It’s not funny, Murad.’

‘I know. It’s not,’ I say, genuinely, and lean in. ‘But it’s not the end of the world, Antonella. The skeleton of the place is sound, and it’d be a dream for someone to design. Now we just need to find that someone. And that’s on me. Not for you to worry about.’

‘Hmm.’ She pouts, taking a sip of her white wine, clearly sceptical.

‘I tell you what. I’ll speak to my friend, Zaf Saeed. He’s also in the property business, so he might have some contacts we could use.’

She nods. ‘Fine. I trust you, I do. But I really want this one to go through, Murad. We’ve made a loss on the last two properties we’ve sold. We don’t need this one to break even. We need to make a profit.’

I nod. While I know she doesn’t hold me personally responsible for the losses, it doesn’t stop me from feeling personally responsible for them. I need to do better for this project, otherwise she’d be well within her rights to refuse to work with me altogether.

‘You have my word, Antonella. I’ll bring in a cracking deal for this flat. But before that, we need to get it finished, so let me get that done. Try not to let it worry you – at least not yet.’ I grin at her and throw in a wink for good measure and she shakes her head.

‘Always the charmer, ready to pour oil over troubled waters.’ She takes another sip of her wine and starts talking about an impending visit to her home town in Southern Italy. I have my ears on our conversation, but my mind is trying to figure out how to get our current project done satisfactorily because failure is not an option – not for a third time.

It’s bad enough that we made losses on our previous two projects, but for her to raise it as a concern … it makes me feel a sense of inadequacy – a feeling I thought I had shaken off a long time ago. I could have done better, but I failed both her and myself. Sure, the property market fluctuates, I know that, and as a property developer I make allowances for such fluctuations. But my skill is in trying to beat these market trends. To offer buyers something that transcends what the market dictates as valuable or economically viable.

I can’t mess this up. Not again.

‘Hey Mum.’ I answer the phone as I switch the engine off and get out of my car.

‘Murad. How are you? I’ve not spoken to you in what feels like forever,’ Mum says, trying to invoke guilt.

‘Really? My phone records will probably show your forever to be three days in my universe. We spoke on Tuesday, Ma.’

‘That was hardly anything. Are you coming up this weekend?’ I hear clanging in the background, suggesting my mother has probably got her phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder and is pottering about in the kitchen. Mum considers it a waste of time not to multi-task.

‘No. I’ve got some work that needs my attention and if I come to Birmingham, you, your daughter and your granddaughter will make it impossible for me to manage anything.’

‘It’s called love, Murad. We all love you. And Sumi’s only three. She doesn’t understand the concept of work being more important than her.’

I sigh as she mentions my niece, twisting her little knife of guilt between my ribs. ‘I never said work was more important than her. I’m just saying—’

‘I know, darling. I’m pulling your leg.’ I can hear the smile in her voice and the concern that laces it with her next sentence. ‘You sound stressed. Everything OK?’

I haul in a deep breath as I take in the fresh autumn air and turn my collar up against the slight breeze that’s picked up since this afternoon as I make my way towards Zaf’s office building. ‘I’m fine, it’s just work stuff. How are things at your end? How’s Meerab and the new little man doing?’

‘They’re fine, as is everyone else. Except Sumaira, of course. She’s still put out that Irfan was supposed to be a sister, not a brother. She insists we take him back with the receipt.’ Mum chuckles as I hear the tap go on in the background. My poor little niece is having trouble adjusting to the advent of a little brother in her life. She’s trying her best to have someone take him off her pudgy little hands.

‘Poor Sumi. I might come up next weekend and take her out for some quality uncle-niece time.’

‘That would be lovely. In fact, you can meet my friend’s niece who’s come from Singapore while you’re here. Sumi really liked her.’

‘No, Mum.’ I hold back a sigh.

‘Can you at least hear me out?’

‘Not really. You’ve got nothing to say that I’ve not heard – and soundly rejected – before. I’ve said countless times that I’m a grown up thirty-four-year-old man and I don’t need you to set me up with every. . .