The Summer of Taking Chances

by Lynne Shelby

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Would you take the second chance you've always dreamed of? 'A wonderful fresh new talent' Katie Fforde It's been ten years since Emma Stevens last laid eyes on Jake Murray. When he left the small seaside village of South Quay to chase the limelight, Emma's dreams left with him. Now Emma is content living a quiet and uneventful life in South Quay. It's far from the life she imagined, but at least her job at the local hotel has helped heal her broken heart. But when Jake returns home for the summer to escape the spotlight, Emma's feelings quickly come flooding back. There's clearly a connection between them, but Jake has damaged her heart once already - will she ever be able to give him a second chance? Escape with this perfect, heartwarming summer romance, for fans of Sue Moorcroft and Miranda Dickinson. Readers love THE SUMMER OF TAKING CHANCES: 'I highly recommend if you are looking for a perfect summery story ' NetGalley reviewer 'A lovely escapism read ' NetGalley reviewer ' I haven't been able to put this one down! It's absolutely gorgeous and I highly recommend' NetGalley reviewer ' Enjoyable reading' NetGalley reviewer ' Great characters and a really good storyline ' NetGalley reviewer

Release date: June 4, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘Such a glamorous life we actors lead,’ I said.

Richard stacked the last of the chairs against the wall. ‘I think we’re done,’ he said.

I took one final look around the hall. Satisfied that we’d removed all evidence of the South Quay Players’ rehearsal, and the Mother and Toddlers’ Group would have no cause for complaint when they arrived at the community centre the following morning – an unwashed coffee mug lurking in the kitchen sink had caused uproar only last week – I returned the brush and dustpan I’d used to sweep the floor to the broom cupboard.

‘Emma, before we go and join the rest of the cast,’ Richard said, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

Richard hesitated, and then he said, ‘Just between ourselves, what’s your honest opinion of the committee’s choice of play for the summer show?’

‘I think it’s great.’

‘You don’t think we’re being too ambitious?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Of course, as I’m playing the female lead, I may be biased.’ The Players might be a small amateur dramatics society who shared their rehearsal space with the Brownies, a Pilates class and the WI, but the thought that in just a few months’ time I’d be performing as Juliet, my favourite Shakespeare heroine, in front of a live audience made me smile – just as much, I felt sure, as if I was acting in a West End theatre.

‘You were good tonight,’ Richard said, ‘but you’re a naturally talented actress.’

‘Thanks. You weren’t too shabby yourself.’ Richard gave an exaggerated bow, reminding me of the time he’d played Dandini in Cinderella.

‘I think I did OK,’ he said, ‘but some of the cast are mangling every line. I can see us being called in for a lot of extra rehearsals this summer.’

‘I’m not saying it won’t be a challenge to get it right,’ I said, ‘but surely it’s good to stretch ourselves as actors?’

‘I think that rather depends on why you took up amateur dramatics,’ Richard said. ‘Why did you join the Players, Emma?’

I stared at him. Where is he going with this? I thought. ‘I love acting,’ I said. ‘I always have. When I was a teenager, the school play was the highlight of my year.’

‘I enjoy acting,’ Richard said, ‘but I can’t help thinking that it stops being enjoyable when the show is a disaster because half the cast aren’t up to it.’

‘It’ll all come together,’ I said, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation appeared to be heading. These were our friends Richard was talking about. ‘It always does.’

‘Well, we’ll see. At least I get to wave a sword about.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make a brilliant Tybalt.’

‘Not that it’s the role I wanted,’ Richard said.

So that’s what this is about, I thought.

‘Henry can’t have done a better audition than me,’ Richard went on, ‘but once again he gets the lead. Obviously his being the son of two committee members had nothing to do with it.’

‘That’s not fair to Henry,’ I said.

‘He was appalling tonight.’

‘He was a bit wooden,’ I said, ‘but he’ll be fine once he’s learnt his lines.’

‘If he learns his lines,’ Richard said. ‘Given his track record, I’m not holding my breath.’ He took the keys to the hall out of his jeans pocket. ‘Let’s lock up and get to the pub. I could do with a pint.’

Having no desire to continue the discussion – it wasn’t the first time Richard had criticised Henry’s acting, and I didn’t want to encourage the habit – I picked up my coat, followed him out of the hall, through the bar area, and out of the main entrance, then waited while he locked the door. When all was secure, we walked across the dark, empty car park, and along the high street to the Armada Inn.

‘I’ll get the drinks,’ Richard said, opening the door to the pub and gesturing for me to go in first. ‘Your usual?’

‘Please,’ I said. While he headed over to the bar to fetch my white wine and his lager, I looked around for the rest of the cast of Romeo and Juliet. Even this early in the season, the dearth of places to drink or eat out in South Quay ensured that that the Armada Inn, on this Wednesday night, was crowded with holidaymakers, who stared quizzically at the horse brasses on the walls or listened to the landlord’s much-repeated story of how the pub got its name, as well as the locals who drank there all year. Among the throng, I spotted the Players’ chairwoman, Pamela, and her husband Maurice – Henry’s parents – sitting at a large table along with other august members of the committee and George, our director. The older Players, those the committee cast in character parts, were as always gathered together in the snug, drinking gin and tonic and reminiscing about the shows they’d performed when they were young. Two forty-something couples who had young children were draining their wine glasses – one quick drink after rehearsal and then they had to hurry home to relieve the babysitter. And at the far end of the room, sitting in a booth, were Lizzie, my best friend since primary school, her boyfriend Noah (who was playing Mercutio), Henry, and Sofia, a newcomer to South Quay and the Players’ newest recruit.

Edging past the tightly packed tables, I slid into the booth next to Lizzie. A moment later, we were joined by Richard, who placed my white wine in front of me and sat down next to Sofia.

‘Did you see who just walked in?’ he said. Without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘Jake.’

‘Not Jake Murray?’ Lizzie said.

Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Jake Murray’s back in South Quay?’

‘Do you know anyone else named Jake?’ Richard said.

To my disquiet, my stomach twisted into a knot. I picked up my glass, and gulped down a mouthful of wine.

Sofia looked from one of us to the other. ‘Are you talking about Jake Murray the actor?’

‘The very same,’ Richard said.

Sofia gasped. ‘Do you know him?’

‘He and I were in the same class in high school,’ Noah said. ‘Lizzie, Emma and Henry were in the year below. We all got to know each other through the school drama club.’

‘I can’t believe you know Jake Murray,’ Sofia said, half rising from her seat, her gaze travelling rapidly round the pub.

‘I was in the year above him,’ Richard said. ‘I never knew him that well.’

Sofia was no longer listening. ‘I see him,’ she said. ‘He’s buying a drink.’

As one, the others turned their heads towards the bar, and I found myself doing the same. I saw him immediately, a tall dark-haired man dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans, holding a bottle of beer, chatting easily with the barman, apparently oblivious to the sidelong glances he was attracting from most of the clientele in the pub. His shoulders were broader and his hair shorter than the last time I’d seen him in the Armada, but he was still extraordinarily good-looking – that much hadn’t changed. At that moment, he noticed me staring at him, and his mouth lifted in an achingly familiar smile. I managed to smile back, but my heart was thudding in my chest. I drank some more wine, replacing my glass on the table with a shaking hand. This is absurd, I thought. Jake Murray is nothing to me, and I’m certainly nothing to him. I clasped my hands together in my lap and told myself to get a grip.

‘Oh my goodness, he’s coming over,’ Sofia said.

I watched as Jake threaded his way across the room, stopping to exchange a few words with other people he’d have known when he lived in South Quay – the girl who was now the manager of the supermarket on the high street, the boy who’d become a garage mechanic, Sofia’s boss from the hairdressers – before coming to a halt by our table. Fighting a sudden impulse to leap out of my seat and flee, avoiding this encounter altogether, I forced myself to look directly into his grey-blue eyes.

He said, ‘Ill-met by moonlight, proud Titania.’

As if from a distance, I heard myself reply, ‘What, jealous Oberon! I have forsworn his company.’ My voice sounded more high-pitched than usual. I cleared my throat.

‘I think you missed out a line,’ Jake said.

‘I was fifteen when we did that play,’ I said.

‘I’m amazed you remember any of it,’ Henry said. ‘Hey, Jake.’

‘Hello, Jake,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘It’s been ten years, Lizzie,’ Jake said. ‘It’s good to see you all.’

‘Good to see you too, mate,’ Noah said, his face breaking into a broad grin. He raised his pint glass, Jake clinked it with his bottled beer, and they both drank. Richard held out his hand, and Jake grasped it, before transferring the focus of his attention to Sofia.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Jake Murray.’

Sofia gaped at him. ‘Oh – I know who you are. I—I’m Sofia. I’m so pleased to meet you. I love all your films. I’ve watched every series of Sherwood on TV.’

‘Thank you, Sofia,’ Jake said. ‘Good to hear.’ Sofia’s face flushed red.

‘So what brings you back to South Quay, Jake?’ Richard said. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying—’ Jake broke off to take a vibrating phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He studied the screen. ‘Sorry, I need to take this. I’ll have to catch up with you guys another time.’ Bestowing a smile on everyone at the table, he retraced his route through the crowded pub, holding the phone to his ear – his progress again marked by the turning of heads and surreptitious glances – and went out into the night. I reached for my glass, but saw that it was empty. I didn’t recall finishing my wine.

‘That was unreal,’ Sofia said. ‘I knew Jake Murray was born in South Quay, but I never thought I’d get to meet him. I wish I’d asked him for his autograph.’ Sitting next to her, out of her line of sight, Richard rolled his eyes.

‘In a place the size of South Quay, you’re bound to run into him again,’ Henry said. ‘Ask him next time you see him.’

‘Do you think he’d mind?’ Sofia said.

‘What do you think, Emma?’ Henry said.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

‘You know him better than the rest of us,’ Henry said.

‘Maybe I did once, but that was a long time ago.’

Sofia’s eyes widened, and she leant across the table towards me. ‘Emma, did you date Jake Murray when you were younger?’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Were you and he a couple?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was never his girlfriend. We were friends up until he went off to London to train as an actor, and then we lost touch.’

‘I have a vague memory of him coming home one Christmas,’ Noah said.

‘You’re right, he did,’ Lizzie said. ‘It was the Christmas break after his first term at drama school.’ To Sofia, she added, ‘The following year, Jake’s parents moved abroad, so he had no reason to visit South Quay. The only place any of us have seen him in the last ten years is on a laptop, a TV screen, or in the newspapers.’

‘I’d like to know what’s brought him back here now,’ Noah said.

‘Do you think he could be on location for his next movie?’ Sofia said.

‘I doubt it,’ Henry said. ‘If a film were being shot in South Quay, everyone would be talking about it.’

Further speculation about Jake Murray’s reappearance was interrupted by Richard asking if anyone wanted another drink.

‘Not for me,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can’t teach my class of six year olds tomorrow if I have a hangover. Ready to go, Noah?’

‘Your place or mine?’ Noah said.

‘Mine,’ Lizzie said. ‘Coming with us, Emma?’

I nodded, and got to my feet. ‘ ’Night all,’ I said. Accompanied by a chorus of ‘goodnights’ and assurances that we’d see the others at Romeo and Juliet’s next rehearsal if not before, the three of us donned our coats and trooped out of the pub.

It was cold outside after the heat and alcoholic fug of the Armada’s interior, cold enough that I was glad it took us only five minutes to walk from the high street to Lizzie’s cottage. To my surprise, as I hadn’t known that he had a key, it was Noah who unlocked the front door. Stooping in order to step over the threshold without bashing his forehead on the lintel, he went inside. Lizzie and I followed, ridding ourselves of our coats with some difficulty now that we were all standing together in the minuscule hallway.

‘Is it OK if I watch the footy highlights?’ Noah said.

‘Go right ahead,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll make us coffee.’ Noah vanished into the sitting room, and a moment later I heard the blare of televised football.

‘I won’t have a drink,’ I said to Lizzie, setting my foot on the stair. ‘I’ll go straight up.’

Lizzie put her hand on my arm. ‘Do you have a moment to talk?’

‘Of course,’ I said, following her into the kitchen and sitting at the table. Lizzie shut the door, filled the kettle, and took two mugs from the dresser, but instead of making coffee she sat down opposite me.

‘I have to ask,’ she said, ‘are you all right?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I said.

‘In a word – Jake.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said. I considered this statement, and decided it was true. It had thrown me, seeing Jake, even after all this time, but the moment had passed. ‘I admit it was a shock seeing him tonight, but only because I didn’t expect it.’

‘So you’re not going to be crying yourself to sleep?’

‘Not a chance.’ I’ve shed far too many tears over him already, I thought.

For a long moment, Lizzie regarded me in silence. Then she said, ‘Emma, I know how much he hurt you.’

I thought, You don’t know the half of it. Aloud, I said, ‘I had a crush on a boy, and he wasn’t interested. It’s hardly a Shakespearean tragedy.’

‘It was more than a crush,’ Lizzie said. ‘At least, as far as I remember.’

‘Whatever it was I felt for Jake Murray when we were teenagers,’ I said, ‘I was over him a very long time ago.’

‘You’re sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Really I am. The kettle’s boiled, by the way.’

Lizzie jumped up out of her seat, located the coffee jar, and reached into the fridge for milk.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, Lizzie.’ I left her spooning sugar into Noah’s mug – after dating him for four months, she had a pretty good idea of how he liked his late-night beverages – and went upstairs.

Considering it was almost midnight, my bedroom was surprisingly light. I went to the window, rested my hands on the sill, and looked out. The sky was clear and the moon was full. Ill-met by moonlight. A memory surfaced, the first time Jake had said those words to me . . .

I am fifteen, and I’m to play the role of Titania in my school’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Jake is playing Oberon. He and I are rehearsing our scenes on the beach, proclaiming our lines to an audience of indifferent seagulls.

‘Try it again,’ I say. ‘From the top.’ I like using theatrical language. Even when I’m not talking about the theatre.

‘Ill-met by moonlight, proud Titania.’

‘What, jealous Oberon!’ I say. ‘Fairies skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and his company.’

‘Tarry, rash wanton; am I not thy lord?’ he says. The surf is pounding against the shore, and our words are snatched away by the wind. Grey clouds are scudding across the sky.

‘Jake,’ I say, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’ I take a deep breath. I haven’t revealed this to anyone else yet, not even my parents or Lizzie. ‘I’ve decided I want to go on with my acting after I leave school. I want to be a professional actress.’ I study his face for his reaction, half expecting him to laugh – he laughs at a lot of the things I say to him. Instead, his expression is solemn.

He says, ‘I’m glad you told me that, because I feel the same. Next year, I’m going to apply to drama school.’

‘Oh, Jake,’ I say, ‘that’s so great. Just think – we could end up training at the same place.’

Jake smiles. ‘Some day, both of us could be performing in the West End or on TV.’ He does laugh then, and so do I for the sheer excitement of all that lies ahead of us. He catches hold of my hands and spins me around, and we run down the beach to the edge of the sea. Both of us breathless, we stand looking out over the white breakers to the horizon.

Jake’s attention is caught by something lying on the sand. He reaches for it and holds it up to the light, and I see it is a piece of sea glass, blue and worn smooth by the waves.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

‘If you like it, you can have it,’ he says, handing it to me. I bend my head to look at the glass more closely, and when I look up again, Jake’s eyes meet mine. In that instant, it comes to me that this good-looking boy, my friend who shares my love of the theatre, is about to kiss me. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold wind blowing in from the sea.

He says, ‘It’s time I went. I’m going out tonight.’

‘Hot date?’ I say, keeping my tone light.

‘I may get lucky,’ he says with a wolfish grin. He turns and starts walking back up the beach. Still holding the glass, I walk beside him. I remind myself that we are friends. I wonder if whichever girl he’s seeing tonight would be jealous if she knew he’d spent the afternoon on the beach with me. Probably not, I think, as all we did was recite Shakespeare.

I ask myself what I’d have done if Jake had tried to kiss me, and realise I wouldn’t have pushed him away . . .

I gazed out of my bedroom window at the night sky. We were so young, I thought. Reminding myself that I was no longer the naïve teenage girl with stars in her eyes who’d fallen for Jake Murray, I drew the curtains, shutting out the moonlight.

I surveyed my reflection in the full-length mirror on my wardrobe door. My new charcoal grey shift dress was a little severe – not the sort of dress I’d wear any place except work – but with a pair of high-heeled court shoes it did make me look thoroughly professional, I thought. I pinned on the badge that identified me as Emma Stevens, Events Assistant, and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, I found Noah, wearing the suit and tie demanded by his job at the bank in Teymouth, sitting at the table demolishing a bacon sandwich. Lizzie, also dressed for work in a blouse and skirt, her honey-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, was stashing a pile of school exercise books in her bag.

‘Morning, Emma,’ Noah said. ‘I was just saying to Lizzie that we should invite Jake over here one night for a meal.’

My heart sank. I might no longer have any feelings for Jake – I’d be a very sad case if I was still carrying a torch for him after so many years – but that didn’t mean I was entirely comfortable with the prospect of spending an evening with him in Lizzie’s cottage, talking over old times. Then it occurred to me that if my friends wanted to welcome Jake back into the fold, there wasn’t much I could do about it. They’d also been his friends once.

‘Oh, why not?’ I said. Realising I was sounding distinctly unenthusiastic, I added, ‘Good idea. Maybe we could invite some other people as well. We could have a party.’ Less chance of my having to talk to Jake if there’s a crowd, I thought.

‘This cottage is too small for that,’ Lizzie said. ‘If we’re going to extend the invitation beyond the four of us, the only other person I’d want to invite is Henry. Unless there’s someone else you’d particularly like to invite, Emma?’

‘She’s means a guy,’ Noah said, with a grin. ‘Anyone you’ve got your eye on?’

‘None that I can think of right now,’ I said. A thought struck me. ‘Jake might want to bring someone. He might have someone staying with him.’

‘You mean a girlfriend?’ Lizzie said.

‘If he has one,’ I said.

‘He’s dating – what’s her name?’ Lizzie said. ‘She had a guest role in Sherwood playing Jake’s cousin.’

‘Leonie Fox,’ Noah said.

‘That’s her,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ve seen photos of them on the internet.’

‘So it’ll either be supper for five,’ Noah said, ‘or six if Jake wants to bring his girl. I’ll cook, if you like.’

‘Now that’s a splendid idea,’ Lizzie said. ‘The evening’s looking up.’ She frowned. ‘Small problem. Jake’s back in South Quay, but we’ve no idea where he’s staying.’

‘Oh, one of us will come across him soon enough,’ Noah said. He checked his watch. ‘Shite – I’m running late.’ Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet. ‘See you, Emma.’

‘Bye, Noah,’ I said.

Lizzie followed Noah into the hall. I heard the murmur of their voices, a long silence, and then the opening and shutting of the front door. She came back into the kitchen.

‘I can’t understand why I never fancied Noah when we were younger,’ Lizzie said. ‘I always liked him, but only as a friend. Whereas now . . .’

‘Now, you can’t keep your hands off him?’ I said.

A smile flickered across Lizzie’s face. I thought of the number of Noah’s belongings that had made their way to the cottage from his parents’ house, where he still lived, and the amount of time he and Lizzie were spending together.

‘Lizzie, are you and Noah getting serious?’ I said.

Lizzie hesitated, and then she said, ‘I think – I think we could be heading that way, but it’s still early days. We’ve not been together as a couple very long.’

‘I noticed that he has a key to the cottage,’ I said.

‘Oh – I hope you don’t mind,’ Lizzie said. ‘I should have asked you before I gave it to him.’

‘If you want to give your boyfriend his own front door key, you don’t have to ask my permission,’ I said. ‘It’s your cottage.’

‘But it’s your home,’ Lizzie said.

‘I honestly don’t mind. It’d be different if you’d hooked up with a man who left wet towels on the bathroom floor or drank all the wine in the fridge, but Noah seems fairly well house-trained.’

‘He’s lovely,’ Lizzie said. She put on her raincoat, which had been hanging on the back of a chair, and picked up her bag. ‘About this invitation to Jake. Are you going to be OK with him coming here?’

‘Didn’t we talk about this last night?’

‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘Yes, we did. Sorry. I should probably stop talking now and go to work.’

‘See you later, hun,’ I said.

Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, Lizzie headed off to the red-brick primary school that she and I’d attended ourselves. Still having a few minutes before I needed to leave to catch my bus, I sat and drank my morning tea, my gaze travelling round the kitchen, taking in the old wooden dresser that Lizzie had so lovingly repaired and decorated with painted flowers, the earthenware jug she’d placed on the windowsill, filled with daffodils from her garden, and the blue and white curtains she’d made on the sewing machine her parents had given her for her seventeenth birthday.

When I was seventeen, I thought, I’d never have imagined that ten years later I’d still be living in South Quay, renting a room in Lizzie Flowerdew’s cottage. I drained my tea and sprang to my feet. I was not going to start raking over the past. I might not have the brilliant theatrical career I thought I was going to have when I was a teenager, but I had a good job, and amazing friends. My life, I thought, has turned out pretty well.

I found my bag, located my jacket in the hall, and went to work.

‘So we’ll look forward to seeing you on Saturday,’ I said to the woman on the other end of the line.

‘It can’t come soon enough for me,’ the woman said. ‘It’s meant to be one of the best days of my life, but I can’t help thinking of all the things that could go wrong.’

‘It’s our job to make sure that everything happens exactly as you want it,’ I said. ‘All you need to do is enjoy a wonderful day that you and your guests will remember for ever.’

‘I just hope my cousin Harriet doesn’t get drunk,’ said the woman.

Me too, I thought. I could remember very few weddings at the Downland Hotel and Conference Centre where all of the guests had stayed stone-cold sober until the end of the evening reception.

‘The day will be perfect,’ I said.

‘That’s what I’ll keep telling myself! Anyway, I’ll see you Saturday morning at nine o’clock sharp. Goodbye until then.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said, as the woman ended the call.

Eve looked up from her computer. ‘Bride or groom?’

‘The bride’s mother,’ I said, ‘although the way she carries on, you’d think it was her wedding, not her daughter’s.’

Eve laughed. ‘When – if – my daughter gets married, I’m sure I’ll be the same.’ She . . .