Summer Dreams at the Lakeside Cottage

Book 0: Lakeside Cottage

by Erin Green

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

When Beth, Koo and Lulu wake up in the same hotel room, wearing each other's hen night attire, they are extremely confused - especially as they have never met before. But what begins that night is just the start of a week of surprises . . . Beth has followed the traditional path in her relationship with Dale, and now their wedding is just days away - but is it really what she wants? Koo's relationship with Judd has been anything but expected. Is she right to trust her instincts and go through with this marriage? For Lulu, the big day approaching signifies nothing but heartache as the man she loves is marrying another. Should she fight for the happiness they both deserve? The three women make a snap decision to escape to the Lake District cottage, hoping that their newfound friendships will help them make the biggest decision of their lives.

Release date: May 25, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Bath, Somerset Sunday 20 August

Beth

A searing pain slashes through my forehead. Before attempting to open my fluttering lids, I vow never to drink again. Ever! And this time, I mean it.

I need paracetamol but lie stock-­still, deciding which might prove worse. Lying here for a further ten minutes, hoping the pain will ease. Or the sheer effort and increased agony to my pounding temples, should I attempt to scramble from this bed in search of the half-­used blister pack at the bottom of my suitcase. Silently, I praise myself for remembering to pack adequate supplies; I might be methodical in my professional life, caring for museum artefacts, but I’m frequently guilty of frightening lapses regarding my self-­care. I’m too lethargic, so remain horizontal, eyes squeezed tightly shut, breathing deeply – ironic, given that I always sneak out of yoga class early to escape the meditation practice, hoping that no one notices.

I have no idea how much I drank, or even what I consumed, though I suspect I flouted the cardinal rule of mixing grape and grain. My plan had been to stick with the bubbly, knowing that copious amounts accelerate the onset of drunkenness; a state deemed necessary in order to survive one’s hen-­do. I just didn’t give much consideration to this, the resulting hangover.

After five minutes, neither my patience nor controlled breathing are helping to ease my throbbing head. This is the morning after the ‘big’ night before – I need to face reality and take action. I definitely need paracetamol, toothpaste and hot coffee before I contemplate my next move. At least the hen-­do is over and done with, which is one less thing for me to think about.

Slowly I prise my eyes open – not a pleasant task. Last night’s claggy mascara is firmly welding my eyelids shut, so I blindly pinch and pluck at the dried chunks, freeing my lashes. Trampy teenage tendencies obviously haven’t left me, despite my thirty-­four years. Sadly, my skin will pay the price for this little misdemeanour, undoing weeks of expensive facials and detox drinks; I mourn my teenage bloom, which always bounced back to a youthful healthy flush within a day. Thankfully, I have seven days’ grace in which to fully recover and bring a hint of radiance back to my cheeks. Instinctively, my thumb sweeps the inner base of my ring finger, checking my engagement ring remains in place; the gold band confirms so, which is comforting. A central garnet and diamond cluster – his birthstone romantically encircling mine – custom-­made and unique to us. It isn’t the ring I’d imagined receiving, but I wouldn’t swap it for a solitaire – not now. Or would I?

In the mellow morning light, muted by the room’s drawn curtains, I squint beneath the billowing duvet to view my silver-­sequinned front. A blurry reminder of the Charleston-­style dress I’d insisted on purchasing, while the rest of my bridal party sensibly hired theirs for a fraction of the price. Great! Last night’s outfit accompanying last night’s make-­up! It seemed a ‘classier’ option than the proverbial net tutu and raunchy basque ensemble that so many brides-­to-­be choose. But on waking, I resemble a grubbier version of Party Me – like a cheaper version of a Barbie doll for the modern era.

I wiggle my toes: barefoot. At least I had the drunken sense to remove my party heels before sliding between the sheets.

I’d opted for a single room, despite the inflated price – though my ten girlfriends have doubled up, to halve their B&B costs. I didn’t fancy topping and tailing on my final night of freedom. And boy, what a celebration! Bubbles, shots, cocktails, the obligatory ‘truth or dare’ tasks with handsome strangers, and some slightly lewd behaviour involving a five-­piece inflatable boy band, who we named The Studs, amidst much squealing and crude laughter. I might have even forgiven them for ruining my Janeite joy earlier in the day. And dancing. Yes, plenty of dancing . . . and singing . . . and . . . my memory stalls, becoming somewhat hazy. I can’t remember the night ending, but from past experience – be it big birthdays, graduations or Friday night catch-­ups – it would have been fairly late when we staggered back here, to complete an endless round of ‘goodnight, love yous’ in our usual drunken fashion before retiring to our rooms. I bet no one else fell into bed fully dressed!

Seriously, my head is pounding – I need tablets. Which means moving and starting the actual day, rather than lying here and recalling blurred scenes. The very thought ignites a wave of nausea, causing me to shudder and my mouth to go all watery. No doubt I’ll be fine after a fry-­up, a few slices of toast and marmalade, and a pot of tea. After which, we’ll all bid a hasty retreat back to our rooms to pack our overnight suitcases before our midday check-­out. Boy, this dreadful hangover makes me glad we opted for a late check-­out. We’ll scurry back and forth, cramming our baggage into tiny car boots, overloading back seats with bodies and booty, before trundling home in a three-­car procession for a hundred miles along the M3. Bath, with its beautiful Roman Spa, creamy stonemasonry and Austen vibe, will be consigned to my memory box as part of my one-­night hen party, to be recalled during girlie catch-­ups, just as we reminisce over other occasion.

Something brushes my bare foot! Worse still, it remains touching; skin on skin. My eyes snap wide open. Hell’s bells, no! I’m supposed to be the sole occupant of a single room.

I flip over on to my right side . . . to view a body lying beside me.

A woman. And she’s fast asleep. Her bare pale shoulders poke from beneath my duvet.

I draw my head back, trying to focus whilst peering through my cobwebbed vision in an attempt to name her. She’s older than me. Her wavy hair is attractively coloured, in a marbled effect of marl grey and soft lilac, surrounding a cleansed, but mature complexion. My mind runs through the names in my party: Tara? Abbie? Jules? Nope, no joy. I’ve never met this woman before in my life – yet here I am, lying beside her in a double bed. What the hell, I’m in a double bed! My gaze lifts to inspect my surroundings. This is not the single room I left last night; mine was a budget room, complete with emulsioned anaglypta and a paper lightshade, not a palatial suite with luxuriously swagged curtains, a fancy chaise longue, a dining table with matching chairs, a marbled fireplace encircled by moss-­green couches . . . and this, a huge but modern four-­poster bed.

Her bare arm lifts and flops over my contorted frame as I fight the instinct to holler.

‘Morning,’ she slurs, her eyes firmly closed.

‘Who are you?’ I ask rudely, having taken in my surroundings.

Her eyelids snap open, her arm retracts as if burnt, and her startled expression matches mine.

‘What the hell!’ she exclaims, pulling the duvet up around her neck. ‘Who are you?’

I incline my head, expecting her to answer me.

‘This isn’t my room!’ she cries, sitting upright and taking in the surroundings as I had seconds beforehand.

We both jump apart, snatching the duvet and yanking it taut between us.

‘Beth,’ I say, not offering my hand in the circumstances.

‘I don’t know a Beth.’

‘And you are?’ I ask, preparing for a similar response.

‘Koo. Koo Bournebury.’

I shake my head, not a flicker of recognition to explain her existence in my life.

‘What are you doing on my hen weekend?’ I ask, deeply perturbed.

‘What are you doing on mine?’

Lulu

The crick in my neck ignites an excruciating pain along my left shoulder, causing me to wince. Raising my hand, in an attempt to slowly roll my shoulder and ease the stiffness, I view my left arm swathed in black cloth. My eyes snap wider, adjusting to the unlit room, to find that I’m swathed in black fabric from chest to toes, with enough folded yardage to cover eight football pitches. Firstly, I never wear black. Ever. Secondly, where’s my tutu and burlesque basque from last night – not to mention that God-­awful T-­shirt I was forced to wear? My hand reaches to ease my stiffened neck, only to discover that my tangle of blonde hair is also bound in fabric. My index finger traces the edge: it’s tight, close-­fitting and cuts into my cheeks and underneath my chin. Without moving my stiffened neck, I drag the woven fabric around and into my line of blurry vision.

I’m suddenly aware of the white moulded receptacle in which I’m lying: a roll-­top bathtub! The elaborate gold taps and hand-­held shower, positioned above my bare feet, catch my attention as I grapple to sit upright. As I gain a better view, my bare heel touches the metal plughole. What the hell?

I awkwardly glance left, to be greeted by a white ceramic toilet, a washbasin and, on the opposite wall, a humongous frosted shower screen. This bathroom is spotlessly clean, devoid of all belongings – simply a plush ceramic suite with a nifty black-­and-­white geometric tiling job. Thankfully, there is nothing and no one in here, but me. Though my budget room doesn’t have an en-­suite facility, and that’s definitely not the teensy-­weensy mirror in which I applied my make-­up last night! In fact, where are my toiletries, make-­up and hair brushes?

Where’s my mobile? My handbag?

A wave of panic floods my veins; I’ve done some sorry-­ass stuff in my life, but I didn’t think this weekend would be added to the infamous list. If anything, I thought this weekend would be fairly tame; I was going to pace myself, act appropriately and go through the motions, as required of me. But no, it would seem I’ve managed to fall headlong into a situation, again! The bonus being, I don’t appear to have the usual boozy hangover or even a thick head – interesting. Is this the end result when you start the night ordering from the top of the cocktail menu and work your way down the bar list? Wrapped in all this fabric, at least there was no chance of me being cold without a blanket.

I slowly twist my chin towards the panelled door, for fear of causing additional pain, and my gaze fixes upon the gold sliding lock: unfastened. Obviously, I didn’t feel a sense of danger on entering the bathroom. Or falling asleep in the tub.

There’s silence from the adjoining room – presuming there is an additional room – and no voices coming from outside the windows with their heavy blinds. Do I call for help? Or assume I’m on my tod?

Unceremoniously, I grab the edge of the bathtub, gingerly raising myself to a kneeling position, before feebly attempting to stand. I watch in horror as a fully shrouded nun emerges in the giant wall mirror before me, wimple and all.

‘What the hell?’ I gasp, my mind reeling at the vision. My features might be staring back, but this apparition . . . this isn’t me! I’ve sinned for England – no convent would ever accept me!

Wrenching open the bathroom door, in the hope of finding reality – much like Dorothy discovering the land of Oz – I find an entirely different standard of accommodation to the budget deal I booked. Ignoring the tranquil lounge setting, in tasteful shades of muted moss-green, I view two women – either side of a ginormous four-­poster bed. The mauve-­haired woman is grimly clutching a duvet wrapped around her assumedly naked frame, whilst the younger redhead is barefoot and dressed as a sparkly flapper girl.

‘Who the hell are you?’ I demand, crossing the suite to stand at the bottom of their unkempt bed.

Both stare at me, open-­mouthed, as we form a human triangle of bewilderment.

‘And you are?’ asks the Charleston dancer.

‘I could ask the same of you,’ demands the duvet-­wrapped woman, before pointing accusingly at me. ‘And why are you wearing my habit?’

Chapter Two

Koo

‘Here’s the big question – how did we get here?’ I ask, buttering my slice of toast while the other two ladies sit opposite me picking at their cooked breakfasts.

I’m aware of the curious stares from other guests seated in the bustling breakfast room. We must be a sight to behold: a nun, a flapper girl and a blonde siren wearing a draped toga! Having regained my original hen-­do outfit, I’d happily assisted Beth in tastefully draping Lulu in a bed sheet and persuading her ‘no one will ever suspect’. She didn’t wish to sport her original luminous-­yellow tutu coupled with black fishnets in such a plush establishment – though in the circumstances, her slogan-­emblazoned T-­shirt declaring ‘Looks like a beauty, drinks like a beast!’ acts as a warning to others.

‘I have no idea,’ says Beth. ‘Though surely the main question is, what’s the rest of your hen party going to say?’ She’s looking perkier, having swallowed a couple of paracetamol provided by a kindly lady sharing our lift on the way down to breakfast. ‘Let alone our fiancés. I’ve got a phone full of text messages I daren’t answer for fear of the tongue-­lashing I’ll get. And if I reply only to the most patient and caring of my friends, who’ll no doubt listen to me, the others will start stropping, thinking it’s favouritism.’

‘And mine?’ adds Lulu, glancing around the busy room as if she might spot her wedding tribe seated across the way. Her hand instinctively reaches up to massage her stiff neck, which I assume is still giving her gyp. ‘You probably should reply to at least one, to let them know you’re safe. Though who am I to talk? My mobile’s safely stashed in my suitcase in my hotel room – because I never need it on a night out! The irony, hey?’

‘Heaven knows where my phone is,’ I add.

‘I’m not even booked into this hotel,’ adds Beth, gesturing with her knife towards the embossed ceramic salt cellar with its Royal Crescent crest. ‘My party’s booked into a B&B on a cheap-­deal special weekend rate.’

‘One of you must be – otherwise we wouldn’t have a key card,’ I say, knowing it’s not me.

‘Not me,’ mouths Beth, before we glance at Lulu, finishing her flat mushroom.

‘Err . . . eh, I’m staying at a budget, no-­frills, room-­only set-­up costing twenty quid a night, called Christopher’s . . . something or other. I assumed one of you was booked in here . . .’ Her words fade as we shake our heads in unison. ‘I’d best make the most of this breakfast then.’

Silence descends as we simultaneously munch and gather our thoughts. When did we meet up? Where are my belongings? How far is my original hotel from here? And are my hen party racing around the city searching for me?

‘Have either of you got your handbag?’ asks Beth, struggling to cut her crispy bacon. ‘I’ve got my mobile, but that’s only because I always push it inside my bra on nights out.’

‘Nothing. I’m never without my make-­up or a handbag – I feel naked,’ says Lulu, biting into a whole pork sausage speared on the end of her fork and held aloft to bite.

‘I have my purse, nothing else,’ I say, trying to ignore Lulu’s eating habits. Why she doesn’t cut it up baffles me.

Our waitress delivers a jug of hot water to replenish our large teapot and we say ‘thank you’ in unison.

‘I’m puzzled how we ended up together when we started the evening in three different hen parties?’ muses Beth, lifting the teapot lid and adding the boiling water to freshen the brew.

Finally, someone is on my wavelength!

‘Forgive me for being upfront, but I’ve never met either of you ladies before, so I could do with establishing a few basics, so to speak.’ I’m not wishing to break the pretence of friendship, having shared a bed, but needs must. Given my age and circumstances, waking up beside a stranger – especially a woman – isn’t the norm for me.

‘I agree. Maybe then we can piece a few details together,’ says Lulu, through her mouthful of food, still waving the remnants of her speared pork sausage in the air.

I take the lead, hoping one of my breakfast companions will have a light-­bulb moment.

‘I’m Koo Bournebury, forty-­seven years of age from Cheadle, in Cheshire. I have two grown-­up sons, Felix and Felipe, and have been engaged to Judd for just over a year. This weekend was supposed to be my hen-­do.’

The other two listen intently; Lulu’s brow instantly furrows. Her gaze subtly lowers to my left hand, clocking my engagement ring – a canary-­yellow diamond with additional sparkles set within the shoulders – before Beth picks up the metaphorical baton to introduce herself, thus denying Lulu the chance to linger on my bio.

‘Beth Douglas, thirty-­four years old, fiancée to Dale – we’ve been together for five years and engaged for four of those. Since leaving uni, I’ve worked as a museum archivist at Hever Castle – which I love with a passion. No children and one springer spaniel called Hugo. My hen-­do too,’ she says, quickly adding, ‘Kent. I grew up in Kent.’

We turn towards Lulu, witnessing her hesitancy. Granted, she’s wearing a bed sheet tacked together using the complimentary sewing kit found in the en suite – but still, she needs to speak up.

‘And you, Lulu?’ I prompt, having clocked her ringless left hand.

‘Lulu James, a supermarket checkout gal from Kettering. Twenty-­five, no children, no dog, no passion for my job, but I am pretty nifty on a till.’

‘Hen-­do?’ asks Beth.

Lulu blushes, tilts her head slightly, before pursing her lips. ‘Kind of. A hen party . . . but not mine. My cousin Kirsty’s, in fact. Though I am the maid of honour who planned every infinitesimal detail on her behalf – for all the thanks it got me!’

‘OK, two brides and a maid of honour – interesting,’ I mutter, more to myself than the others.

‘And neither of you remember losing your respective parties, or us meeting up?’ asks Beth. ‘Because . . . I don’t,’ she admits, her expectant expression switching between us. ‘I remember starting the night with cocktails, we moved around from bar to bar, but then . . . nothing – I’m blank. I must have drunk far more than I normally would.’

I shake my head, and Lulu copies my action.

‘How embarrassing,’ sighs Lulu, her brown eyes glistening. ‘I worked my ass off, planning and organising Our Kirsty’s big weekend, and I’m not even on it!’

‘Same here,’ says Beth, with feeling. On seeing our interest she continues, ‘I chose the world’s worst maid of honour – she was utterly useless. Please don’t judge me for admitting it, but I felt duty-­bound to pick her, and I’ve paid the price ten-­fold. She’s a dear friend who I thought would be honoured to receive the title, and step up to the plate. Sadly, she didn’t – though she wore her sparkly tiara with such pride.’

‘Nah, they rarely do. Lifelong besties automatically selecting each other never works – they often fall at the first hurdle,’ says Lulu, adding bitterly, ‘it sounds like a dream job, but actually . . . it’s the pits. The time constraints, the endless appointments, never-­ending queries, constant demands – not to mention the problems caused by friends and family who RSVP, and then say they can’t attend at the last minute. It’s like taking on an unsalaried job for a year. Two years, if you’re really unlucky! You need to pick carefully, otherwise it’ll backfire on you.’

‘Surely that depends on your bride-­to-­be?’ I ask, swimming in unknown territory. I haven’t got a maid of honour – or ever been elected as one.

Both ladies pull downcast expressions and shake their heads vehemently.

‘I assume you were delighted with your own performance?’ I ask Lulu, interested to hear more.

‘Seriously? Do you see me seated amongst thirty females sharing a family resemblance, teenage memories, or hair of the dog?’ asks Lulu, gesturing around the breakfast room with her knife.

‘Nope,’ I say, shaking my head, causing my wimple to chafe.

‘Well then! I’ve totally ballsed up – on the final hurdle, rather than the first. But how?’ rants Lulu.

Neighbouring guests are starting to glance disapprovingly in our direction, alerted by her shrill tone and choice of words.

‘And that’s what we need to figure out,’ suggests Beth. ‘Once we’ve made contact with our parties. They must be worried sick – wrong of me not to have answered before now,’ she murmurs, pulling her mobile from her cleavage and busily tapping the screen.

‘I hope mine haven’t informed the police,’ I add, knowing how security conscious my family are.

‘I hope mine have; I’ll be gutted if they haven’t even noticed I’m missing,’ says Lulu, before adding, ‘though I’ve no way of contacting them.’

‘You can borrow my phone, in a second,’ offers Beth, glancing up whilst busily texting.

Lulu shakes her head. ‘Totally useless unless you’ve got my contacts list too. I don’t know a single phone number any more, not even my parents’.’

‘Same here,’ I add. I always suspected speed-­dialling would be a slippery slope leading to this moment in my life.

‘Nobody’s?’ questions Beth, swiping her screen closed before dropping the phone into her sequinned lap.

‘Unless you count the elderly parents of my best friend from school, who still live next door,’ sighs Lulu. ‘Now, their number I definitely know!’

‘Surely, they’ll oblige with a quick nip round to your parents?’ says Beth, before turning to me. ‘And you, Koo. How about a quick message via social media to one son or the other – would that help you out?’

‘Sure – if I was on social media. I’m not one for techno-­stuff or Facebook postings. My lads take care of computers, phones and tablets for me.’

‘I used to do Facebook but not any more,’ says Lulu.

‘Scuppered then!’ sighs Beth.

‘We are – you aren’t,’ declares Lulu sulkily, turning to me. ‘I doubt you’ll ever be stuck, wearing a rock that big!’

Cheeky mare! I ignore her remark, just as Beth’s phone bleeps. I’m half expecting her to draw her mobile from her lap and begin reading the text, but no. She picks up her teacup and slowly begins to sip. We watch intently, witnessing her introspective pause. I’m not convinced there’s much tea left, given the delicate size of the chinaware, but I wait until she puts down the empty cup under our steady gaze.

‘What’s up?’ asks Lulu, obviously as curious as I am.

‘Ah, well. That’s the issue,’ says Beth, cautiously. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I want to read their replies – let alone try to explain myself.’

Beth

The smiley reception lady listens patiently, without interruption, as we huddle around her desk straight after breakfast. My petite stature makes it difficult for me to lean over the marble reception desk to stare at the booking details. Thankfully, Koo takes charge, probing her for answers.

‘That’s definitely my address, my credit card details and scrawly signature, so it’s case closed. Upon our late-­night arrival, it appears I booked the suite – for how many nights?’ asks Koo, smiling at the uniformed lady, who appears to be non-­judgemental at our plight and outlandish outfits. She reminds me of a highly polished member of cabin crew – a grounded one, if there is such a thing.

‘Two nights, madam,’ she swiftly replies.

‘And may I ask the tariff?’

I want to plug my ears, but daren’t. I rapidly assess the high-­spec decor of our suite, our breakfast experience, and the luxurious location in which we find ourselves.

‘A two-­night stay totalling three thousand and two hundred pounds, madam – including breakfast,’ comes her professional reply.

‘Oh bugger!’ mutters Lulu, drawing back from leaning over the reception desk.

‘Ouch!’ says Koo, bravely taking it on the chin.

‘Holy moly,’ slips from my lips, an expression rarely uttered by me, but fitting, in the presence of a nun.

The reception lady doesn’t flinch at our reactions, nor at the resounding bleep coming from my cleavage.

‘We’ll sort it,’ I add, patting Koo’s arm sympathetically. ‘Don’t you worry.’

‘Go Dutch, you mean?’ asks Lulu, her peaches-­and-­cream complexion paling further, if that’s possible.

‘Yeah. Don’t worry, Koo – between us, we’ve got this,’ I reassure her, secretly relieved that I’ve mislaid my purse and cards so didn’t drunkenly zap or tap that amount to my magnetic strip. Though I’ve foolishly done just that, many times before, on nights out, so I know exactly how Koo is feeling. And she’s holding up well, in my opinion.

‘Anyway,’ says Lulu, sidestepping the booking shock, ‘did we arrive together or separately?’

The reception lady scans her computer screen. ‘Three breakfasts were ordered during check-­in.’

‘That answers that then,’ mutters Lulu disparagingly.

I throw her a look; I don’t get her attitude. If we’re in this together, there shouldn’t be any passing the buck! She might be somewhat younger than us – but grow up!

‘And checkout tomorrow is at what time?’ asks Koo, suddenly coming alive, requesting the essential details.

‘Eleven o’clock,’ replies the smiley lady. Her composure throughout has been impeccable; I can’t imagine this establishment has welcomed many customers resplendent in fancy dress whilst questioning their own arrival time. Or is this kindly deference the perk of accompanying a nun?

‘Perfect,’ replies Koo.

‘Right you are,’ adds Lulu.

‘Fine,’ I say, wanting to convey complete acceptance, though I’d have little objection to it being sooner if it reduced our bill.

‘Thank you for your help,’ says Koo, before striding away from the reception area with more spring in her step than I could ever muster under such circumstances.

I hastily follow, with Lulu in hot pursuit, as my mobile chirps again.

‘Koo, please don’t panic. We’ll get this sorted between the three of us,’ I say, heading towards the lift.

Lulu is eagerly nodding but I’m not convinced that she’s fully on board with easing Koo’s dilemma.

‘I’m not worried,’ says Koo, pressing the call button. ‘Marginally baffled that I can spend such an amount and not remember a bloody thing – now, that seriously pisses me off – but I’m not worried in the slightest.’

The lift arrives immediately, offering a welcome distraction. We enter, turn and stand apart, in a choreographed manner, waiting for the doors to close.

‘Koo, it might take me a while on what I earn, but I’ll pay you back every penny. My mum says I’m not a good saver, but I’m a great pay-­you-­backer!’ announces Lulu proudly, between floors one and two.

I watch the brief exchange in the lift’s mirror-­lined interior.

‘Thanks, but please don’t worry yourself,’ is Koo’s only remark.

‘Me too,’ I add, afraid of being labelled a cheapskate based on Lulu’s renewed vow.

‘We need to. . .