Untitled novel 2026

by Jill Mansell

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Venice. Moonlight on the canals. A luxury cruise. The perfect setting for romance. And for long-kept secrets to come out.

Disa has come to Venice to meet someone. A few weeks ago, she didn't know that Molly existed. Now, she has a decision to make that could change the younger woman's life.

Jamie can't help it that women always fall for him rather than his kind, generous mate Leon. One of them got the looks, and the other didn't. But what if Jamie gets the girl Jamie wants for himself? It's never happened before. And Jamie has no idea how to handle it.

Kayla's come on holiday with a friend. The last person she expects to run into is her ex-husband Guy - and his glamorous new girlfriend. She'd never be tempted back to the man who let her down - would she? Under the Venetian sun, good sense can go out of the porthole . . .

A delicious, satisfying new romantic read from Jill Mansell - the Queen of Feelgood Fiction.

Release date: January 22, 2026

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Bristol

Disa O’Toole flipped the switch and flooded the garage with light. What a mess; she should probably be ashamed of herself at having left it like this for so long.

But time really did fly when there was a job needing to be done that you didn’t want to do. Plus, knowing her luck, there were spiders the size of Pringles waiting to leap out at her the moment she started prising open boxes and sorting through the contents.

The air was dry, dusty and tinged with the scents of motor oil and household paint. It had been twelve years since her husband’s death and life as she’d known it had screeched to a halt. Having promised never to leave her, after nearly forty years of marriage Declan had skied down a mountainside and crashed at high speed into a tree, doing just that. One broken promise, one bereft widow and a house full of stuff she’d had no idea what to do with meant she’d hired a man to pack everything away into storage boxes and stack them up out here in the double garage, to be dealt with when she eventually felt up to it.

And at long last, today was the day. Disa wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans and prepared herself to begin the world’s most tedious task. She tore the strip of packing tape off the lid of the first box with a satisfying rrrrrrrrrip and a flourish, sending a fine spray of dust into the air. This one contained books, chiefly non-fiction, nothing she would ever want to read. The whole lot could go to the charity shop.

Next.

Two hours later, ploughing through the assorted contents of yet another crate, she came to a fat padded envelope with Income Tax Receipts 2009 written across it in Declan’s instantly recognisable scrawl.

Since the charity shop was unlikely to welcome these with open arms, Disa chucked the envelope onto the bonfire pile, then reached over and retrieved it, because while HMRC stuff might be deadly dull, she didn’t want to destroy anything that might be important. And what if there was something vital tucked away in there, like long-forgotten Premium Bonds or share certificates?

But opening the padded envelope revealed neither share certifi-cates nor income tax receipts. Instead, it held a sizeable collection of letters all addressed in the same flowing handwriting to Declan at the office where he’d worked.

A slow drumbeat of foreboding began to bump against Disa’s chest. The envelopes were yellowed with age, as were the letters inside. It was midday, time for a break. Carrying the package into the house, she switched on the kettle and dropped a tea bag into a mug, then thought better of it and poured herself a tumbler of gin, tonic and ice instead.

Something told her she might need it.

Outside in the garden, the spring sunshine was bright, and clusters of daffodils dotted the lawn. She took a swallow of gin and sat down on the bench in the shade of the cherry tree whose cherries were always snaffled by birds before they had a chance to properly ripen and be picked.

The first letter, written in turquoise ink, began: My darling, every day without you is . . .

Oh, Declan, no.

Again?

When she’d first found out, all those years ago, she’d yelled at him and hurled expensive plates at the wall, smashing them one after the other until the living room had been awash with shards of silver-and-blue bone china that had taken for ever to completely clear up.

This time, she had no one to yell at, no one to see their favourite dinner plates being shattered and no one to apologise over and over, desperate to reassure her that she was the only one he loved.

Which was the most infuriating realisation of all.

Leon was busy causing havoc in the kitchen, sliding across the tiled floor in his socks and singing along to Taylor Swift while making cheese on toast in his usual slapdash way.

‘Hey, Nigella.’ Jamie marvelled at the spectacular amount of mess he was creating. ‘Second week in May. What are you up to?’

Sending crumbs flying over the marble worktop as he sawed the toast into uneven triangles – always triangles – Leon said, ‘Pretty sure I’m free. Why?’

‘I need a wingman.’

‘Of course you do. To give you a helping hand with the ladies. Mate, you’re about the last person in the world to need one of those.’

‘OK, wingman slash bodyguard.’ Heading for the fridge, Jamie took out a can of lager and cracked it open. ‘My agent’s confirmed me for the Venice trip and he thinks it’s definitely a good idea to take someone with me. I don’t mind socialising with the guests, but if I’m on my own, it could get a bit much.’

‘Is this the river cruise thing?’ Leon didn’t look enthused. ‘Full of geriatrics?’

‘Apparently not. It’s a mix of ages. OK,’ Jamie admitted, ‘it’s not eighteen-to-thirty. But we’ll be on a five-star ship. And it’s Venice.’ He pinched one of the triangles of cheese on toast. ‘In the city of luuurve.’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘Nor me. We can be Venice virgins together.’

‘But why are you asking me?’ Leon made a token effort to brush the crumbs off the worktop and into the sink. ‘If it’s the city of love, shouldn’t you be taking Zoe?’

It was Jamie’s turn to pull a face. ‘We’re talking two months from now.’ When it came to dating, two months was a long time.

‘Fair enough.’ Leon nodded in agreement, then broke into a grin. ‘But you’ll still love me.’

And in a funny kind of way, he did. They’d met on their first day of university, having been randomly allocated adjoining rooms in the same hall of residence. Bouncing off each other from day one, they had become almost inseparable within weeks, despite being unalike in almost every way. Jamie, the son of a loving single mother who worked as a nursing assistant, had grown up on a small council estate on the outskirts of Southampton. Leon Spencer-Carr was the product of wealthy parents who lived in a Georgian mansion not far from Wotton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire. Clever but distractable and not excelling at sports, Leon was as clumsy and overenthusiastic as a Labrador puppy, permanently upbeat, and prone to falling head over heels for the kind of women who adored having him as a friend but that was as far as it went because they preferred men with chiselled cheekbones and irresistible mouths who treated them as if they couldn’t matter less.

Which was, coincidentally, the reason Jamie was such a hit with the opposite sex, even though he never planned for it to be that way. It absolutely wasn’t deliberate, just something that happened inside him, like the childhood sensation of being on a see-saw. The more emotionally involved the women in his life became, the more he found himself losing interest and backing off, feeling the need to slide away. And he didn’t even want to be like this. It felt like a kind of Pavlovian reaction, and a failing on his part. Which was another reason he was so glad to have a friend like Leon in his life, because women might come and go, but a best friend was for ever. It was just a shame this best friend was so messy; if Leon ever learned how to clear up after himself and occasionally unload the dishwasher, he might actually be perfect.

Jamie made a grab for a second piece of toast, but Leon intercepted the move and whisked it out of reach. ‘Would we have to share a room?’

‘They call them cabins on a ship. And no, JD wangled an extra one. If you want it,’ Jamie added. ‘If you can’t make the trip, I’ll ask Bruno or Drew.’

‘Hold your horses, give me the exact dates.’ Whipping out his phone, Leon checked his calendar and appointments diary. ‘All good, nothing I can’t switch around. We’re on.’ He high-fived Jamie, then did a triumphant sock-slide across the kitchen. ‘This is going to be so cool, you and me in a couple of gondolas racing each other down the Grand Canal.’

Jamie grinned. ‘Like the time we borrowed those canoes and almost got ourselves arrested? Maybe not. The gondoliers might not be too thrilled.’

Undeterred, Leon said, ‘We’ll do it at night when they’re asleep. Except they wear hats, don’t they? Damn, I’d look a right wally in a hat. Unlike you, of course.’ He pretended to smoulder and struck a model pose. ‘I can see it now.’

‘Don’t.’ When Jamie viewed himself in a mirror, it never occurred to him that he was good-looking; it was his face and he was used to it. Yet he also knew it had opened doors for him that otherwise might have remained closed; a successful career playing rugby for England was all very well, but it had been his physical appearance that had caught the attention of viewers on TV, opening up opportunities that hadn’t been made available to others in the team. Signed by one of the top agents in the field, he’d found himself in demand for personal appearances, ad campaigns and panel shows on TV because his quick wit and ability to poke fun at himself while also making others laugh had brought him millions of new fans. According to JD Templeton, women fancied the pants off him and men wanted to be him, which basically made him a hot property. For now, at least. Until the looks faded along with his wit, and he drifted into obscurity once more.

When he’d made a comment along these lines recently, Leon had said, ‘Mate, I’ll still love you when you’re ugly and boring. Don’t worry, you’ll always have me.’

Oxford

‘There you are!’ Hattie was in the process of placing the more valuable jewellery in the safe and closing up for the night when Kayla burst into the antiques shop, her spiky red and gold hair making her look like a cockatiel on high alert. Right now she was actually hyperventilating. ‘I hate it when your phone’s switched off. Guess what’s happened? You’ll never guess!’

Hattie gave it her best shot. ‘George Clooney turned up at your front door and you’ve got him tied to your bed. There’s no escape.’

‘What am I, sixty? I’m over George now, he’s too old. Wouldn’t say no to a Hemsworth, mind you. Anyway, you didn’t guess, so I’ll tell you. I’ve won a competition!’

Hattie blinked, taken aback. ‘You never enter competitions.’

‘I did today. And I only went and bloody won, didn’t I? I still can’t believe it.’ Kayla fanned herself vigorously. ‘I think I’m in shock.’

Kayla had a history of believing everything she was told. If a man said he’d definitely call her again after a first date, she was always surprised when it didn’t happen. If a bizarre fad diet guaranteed the loss of ten kilos in a week, Kayla would launch into it with gusto. Taking a deep breath, Hattie said cautiously, ‘How did it happen? Did someone call you out of the blue?’ If it was con artists, she prayed Kayla hadn’t handed over her bank details so they could – allegedly – send her the prize money.

‘Look at you, being all suspicious! I’m not completely stupid . . . I haven’t fallen for some scammer. I called into the radio station and got picked to enter, so I was live on air and they asked me a question about rugby, and God knows I have no clue about rugby, but it was about how many points were scored in the last season, so I blurted out a random number.’ Clutching at Hattie’s elbows, she yelped, ‘And I only went and got it bang on!’

Hattie gasped. ‘That is mad.’

‘I know! The only thing I’ve ever won before in my life was a bag of dog biscuits in the hospital Christmas raffle, and I didn’t even have a dog.’

‘What’s the prize?’ Something rugby-related, at a guess. But even if it was only tickets to a match, Kayla could sell them, and from her reaction, it might even be season tickets. At any rate, it was better than dog biscuits.

‘Nothing much . . . only a week’s holiday on a five-star cruise ship sailing around the Venetian islands. Waaahhh!’ Kayla shrieked, jumping up and down. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Venice and now it’s actually going to happen. Honestly, my heart’s still going like the clappers. It hasn’t sunk in yet.’

A holiday? Hattie’s jaw dropped. And if it was a radio competition, it had to be genuine.

She and Kayla had been friends for eight years now, since first meeting by chance at a yoga class that had turned out to be run by a sadist and not their sort of thing at all. Having got chatting during the half-time break, they’d promptly escaped to the nearest wine bar and discovered they got on like a house on fire. At the age of thirty, Kayla had been almost exactly two years older than Hattie. They found other classes to go to, enjoyed each other’s company, always had fun together and never argued. Eighteen months after that fortuitous initial meeting, Hattie’s marriage to Guy had bitten the dust and Kayla, happily divorced herself and living her best life, had been an absolute rock during the ensuing difficult months. Their friendship had been further cemented when Kayla’s mother and Hattie’s father had died within weeks of each other.

If anyone deserved to win a fabulous holiday, it was Kayla. Hattie gave her a massive hug. ‘I’m so happy for you. And don’t worry about Bandit, I can pop in twice a day and feed him, make sure he’s OK.’

Kayla hesitated, then pulled a face. ‘Thanks, but I’ll probably ask Tony from over the road to look after Bandit.’

‘OK.’ Hattie was confused; did Kayla not trust her to take proper care of her beloved cat?

‘Come on.’ Kayla burst out laughing. ‘Don’t you get it? I’ve won a trip for two people. How can you look after Bandit when you’re going to be in Venice with me?’

It took a long moment to sink in. Hattie stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Kayla’s spiky hair swayed as she shook her head. ‘Who else would I want with me? We have to share a cabin, but that’s no problem and you know I don’t snore. So let’s do it. Unless you’d really rather stay behind and feed my fussy cat instead.’

What a choice. Her last holiday had been a long weekend spent in a musty-smelling caravan in Dorset, made longer by the rain that had fallen non-stop. Giddy with joy, Hattie said, ‘We’ll send Bandit a postcard. He’ll be fine.’

Bristol

Was there a more stylish woman in this city than Disa O’Toole? If there was, Fen hadn’t met them yet. To spend time with her grandmother was simultaneously blissful – because she loved her to bits – and a tiny bit daunting, because you always felt scruffy by comparison.

Toot toot went the horn of Disa’s beloved white soft-top Mercedes as she pulled up at the kerb, and Fen marvelled at today’s outfit. The silver-blonde hair, courtesy of her Dutch heritage and cut into a long choppy bob, fell in precisely the right way to her shoulders, the colour exactly matching her high-collared shirt, loose jersey top and slender cigarette pants. There were long strings of pearls around her neck, her eye make-up was dark and her lipstick pale, and diamonds flashed in the sunlight as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

Leaving her flat, Fen ran down to the pavement and jumped into the passenger seat. Leaning over, she planted a kiss on her grandmother’s velvety cheek. ‘You look fantastic.’ But what was new? Even when Disa was up a ladder, energetically painting a ceiling while wearing faded jeans and an emulsion-splashed overshirt, she still managed to look elegant.

‘Darling, so do you.’ Disa waved at a middle-aged man across the street, put the car into gear and accelerated up the road.

‘Did you know that guy?’

‘Don’t think so. I just waved in case he knew me.’ She was accustomed to being stared at by strangers.

They reached the restaurant Disa had booked for lunch and were shown to their table. ‘So,’ Disa announced, once they’d sat down. ‘I’m booking a trip to Venice and wondered if you’d like to come with me?’

‘Oh my God, are you serious?’ Fen almost knocked over the tumbler of water she’d been about to pick up. ‘That sounds incredible. When?’

‘In three weeks. Sunday the twelfth of May, back on the nineteenth. If you can make those dates?’

Fen thought for a moment, then nodded. Working online and having the ability to be flexible definitely had its advantages. ‘Yes, I can do that. Thank you so much, it sounds fantastic. What’s brought this on?’

‘Well, I’ve been to plenty of places in my life, but never Venice. And neither have you. I watched a documentary about it the other evening and it reminded me that I’d always planned to visit. Then last night I happened to come across this advert online.’ Disa took out her phone, clicked on the bookmarked page and showed it to Fen. The holiday was a luxury river cruise aboard the SS La Violetta, mooring within a short walk of St Mark’s Square for most of the week while also visiting the islands of Torcello, Murano, Burano and Chioggia. A brief video of the ship showed it to be small but wildly glamorous, capable of carrying a hundred and twenty-five guests and with every last aspect, from the glittering Murano glass chandeliers to the luxurious Italianate furnishings, like a fabulous five-star hotel.

The prices included everything, but they still made Fen blanch when she saw them.

Observant as always, Disa said crisply, ‘Don’t even think about it. I’m inviting you, not asking you to go halves. This is my treat.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’ As if she could have afforded it otherwise. But still, what a relief.

‘I spoke to the travel agent this morning. There are two adjoining cabins left. Are you up for it?’

‘Definitely, I’d love to. Thank you so much.’ What a trip to be able to look forward to. ‘We’ll have the best time.’

‘Right, give me five minutes. I’ll make the call and book it now.’ Taking back her phone and rising from her chair, Disa left the restaurant. To pass the time, Fen took out her own phone and looked up the same website. This time, scrolling further down the page, she saw that the cruise ran weekly from late March to early November, and once a month there would be a celebrity guest on board to enhance the experience – maybe a famous chef, a popular TV presenter or an actor, that kind of thing.

Scrolling down further still to the list of upcoming dates with accompanying headshots, Fen recognised a gardening expert with an impressive handlebar moustache, the shouty host of a TV show about cars, and a successful thriller writer who’d been married six times.

The next photo stopped her in her tracks, because this time it was someone she knew. OK, not actually knew. But he lived here in Bristol, in the same part of the city that she did, and she’d seen him in person. Twice.

Then again, Jamie Hamilton was someone you couldn’t help noticing; he was never going to slip under the radar. Even if he didn’t have those striking good looks, the body alone would be enough to attract anyone’s attention. Fen wasn’t a fan of rugby, but she knew of him through his appearances on TV, on comedy panels and chat shows. The first time she’d encountered him in the flesh – so to speak – he’d been standing behind her in the queue at the local deli as she waited to pay for her Scotch egg. Unaccustomed to being inches away from someone off the telly, she’d been hyper aware of his presence, the just-showered smell of him and the mintiness of his breath on the back of her neck. Paying the cashier, she’d wished she was buying something more exotic than a Scotch egg. Then, taking a bit longer than entirely necessary to slide her credit card back into her purse while it was his turn to pay, she’d seen that he was buying two bundles of asparagus, a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar, a wedge of Brie and a ribbon-wrapped box of macarons that she knew for a fact had a price tag of twenty-six pounds fifty.

Loitering on the pavement outside, she’d watched as he emerged from the deli and strode across the street to the silver sports car parked directly opposite. Evidently when you were Jamie Hamilton, parking spaces magically made themselves available, while she’d had to drive around Clifton for ages before finally managing to leave her car down a narrow side street nearly half a mile away.

It must be a nice skill to possess.

The second time she’d seen him, he’d done something that hadn’t been terrible, but it wasn’t great either, which was the downside of being recognisable. She’d been at a friend-of-a-friend’s party at a bar on Whiteladies Road, and Amanda, the birthday girl, had been gleefully telling everyone that Jamie Hamilton would be arriving soon because she’d met him at a works event the other evening and invited him to join them tonight.

It was stiflingly hot in the bar, and after an hour, Fen slipped outside to get some fresh air. When a taxi drew up and a group of men emerged, she spotted Jamie Hamilton and felt relieved on Amanda’s behalf that he’d turned up.

The next moment, glancing at the brightly lit name of the bar above the entrance, Jamie said, ‘Hang on, I’ve just remembered something. We don’t want to go to this one.’

One of his friends said, ‘Why not? I was in there the other week. It’s fine.’

But Jamie was shaking his head. ‘There’s a party on tonight. I was invited to it by this girl. She was pretty full-on, and I know what it’ll be like if we go in.’

Another friend said, ‘No bother, there’s plenty more bars to choose from.’

Fen, leaning against the wall, hidden in the shadows, pictured Amanda’s disappointment and heard herself say, ‘She’s expecting you to be there.’

She was glad of the darkness enveloping her when they all turned to look in her direction.

The first friend laughed. ‘They always do.’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ This was from Jamie. ‘But I can’t even remember her name. We’re out tonight for a few drinks and a catch-up.’

‘It’s her birthday,’ Fen reminded him.

‘I know, she kept telling me. She was quite . . . pushy.’

‘Come on,’ said his mate, ‘we’ll find somewhere else further up the road.’ He clapped Jamie on the shoulder and made to leave, but Jamie turned back and looked at Fen, still in shadow. ‘I really am sorry about your friend. But it might be kinder if you don’t mention any of this.’ He gestured vaguely.

It would be kinder if you popped in and wished her a happy birthday. Fen didn’t say it. At least he was feeling guilty. She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell her you were here. Her name’s Amanda, by the way.’

‘That’s it.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

When he’d left, she’d headed back inside to rejoin the party and hadn’t mentioned her brief encounter with Jamie Hamilton to anyone, either then or at any time since. Whereas he’d doubtless forgotten it completely, she’d remembered every detail of their brief exchange.

And now here he was again, grinning up at her unrepentantly from her phone, due to be on board the SS La Violetta the exact same week she’d be cruising on it with Disa.

What were the chances?

Still, at least he wouldn’t recognise her.

Here came her grandmother now, attracting attention from other diners as she threaded her way between the tables. When it came to slinking, Disa could out-slink Naomi Campbell. Taking her seat, she said, ‘All sorted. The travel agent’s booked everything, including the flights.’

‘There’s going to be a famous rugby player on board with us.’ Fen showed her the page on her phone.

‘I saw that. No idea who he is, though.’ Disa wasn’t a fan of the sport either.

‘He lives here in Bristol.’

‘Does he? Rugby’s so muddy, not my kind of thing. Quite pretty, though,’ Disa added with a mischievous smile. ‘You might like him.’

Fen briefly wondered how Jamie Hamilton would feel being called quite pretty. Firmly, she said, ‘Not my kind of thing either.’

‘We’ll have fun anyway.’ Disa caught the sommelier’s eye. ‘Now, shall we order some wine, darling? Maybe Prosecco to celebrate? And let’s take a look at this menu.’

Being taken out like this was a treat Fen always looked forward to. Because she worked from home, as a remote PA, designated breaks weren’t a thing, and lunches consisted of whatever was left in the fridge being eaten in front of her laptop. It was the self-employed way. But today there were seared scallops, shiitake mushrooms in a white wine sauce and a spring vegetable risotto on offer. She was definitely having those.

When they’d ordered, and their drinks had been poured, they clinked glasses. Fen said, ‘I’m so lucky to have you. And I can’t wait for us to explore Venice.’

‘I’m glad you’re coming with me. There’s something I need to do while we’re over there and it’ll be good to have your support.’

Fen raised her eyebrows. ‘What kind of something?’

But Disa was already shaking her head. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ She took a tiny sip of Prosecco. ‘Let’s leave it until we get there.’

‘But . . . support? Is it something I should be worrying about?’

‘No, sweetheart. Not at all.’

‘Is it something nice?’

‘Until it happens, if it even happens, we won’t know. Maybe not, but hopefully yes. And that’s enough for now.’

Fen adored feel-good romantic movies. She gasped and exclaimed, ‘Oh my God, have you tracked down an old boyfriend from years ago? Or has one of them contacted you and wants to meet up? Disa, is that what this is all about?’

‘Shh.’ Disa was smiling her mysterious smile. ‘Not another word. You’ll have to wait and see.’

Three weeks later, Fen blinked as a Scotch egg encased in its cellophane wrapper came bouncing down the escalator towards her. Seriously, what were the odds when you were as big a fan of Scotch eggs as she was?

But no, only a bad person would snatch it up and keep it for themselves. She wasn’t that heartless.

Besides, she’d been seen.

‘Well held,’ shouted a male voice from the top of the escalator, as, having switched her carry-on case to her left hand, she caught the Scotch egg in her right. Waiting for her to reach him, he applauded her dexterity. ‘You saved my snack, and that makes you my hero.’

Sometimes you saw someone and instinctively liked them at first sight. He had unbrushed light brown hair, merry dark brown eyes and an engaging smile, and was wearing a stripy blue and white shirt with ancient blue jeans and trainers.

‘All in a morning’s work.’ Fen gently tossed the snack towards him, and watched in disbelief as he fumbled the catch.

‘Nooo!’ He clapped his hands to his head as it landed on the top step of the escalator and began to roll down all over again. ‘Hang on.’ Dropping his bag at her feet, he careered down the staircase running alongside the escalator and reached the ground floor just as . . .