Written In The Stars

by Sarah Ball

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

Synopsis

Fans of Sophie Kinsella, Alexandra Potter and Mhairi McFarlane will love this charming read from the bestselling author of Nine Months. Do you believe in fate? When Gemma Sinclair and her best friends were fourteen, they sealed up letters containing their hopes and dreams (along with a packet of Lovehearts and a picture of Jason Donovan) in a time capsule. Now thirteen years later, Gemma stumbles upon the unopened box and the uncanny predictions her old friend Miranda had made about their futures. She had predicted the restless Fay wouldn't find it easy to settle down, that beauty therapist Nikki would wear a white coat and that nursery teacher Gemma would be surrounded by children not her own. Gemma is inclined to dismiss this all as mere coincidence, especially as she has long since lost contact with Miranda. But when her commitment-phobic boyfriend, Adam, surprises her with a proposal, Gemma is both excited and alarmed. For though Gemma has always thought Adam was her Mr Right, Miranda had also warned her not to marry the first person who asked her . . .

Release date: December 6, 2012

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 326

Sample

I knew that Adam hadn’t planned to say it. It wasn’t one of those moments where the man takes his beloved out for a meal and drops a ring in a glass of champagne when she’s nipped to the loo. And it wasn’t down on bended knee, eyes brimming with tears, either. Instead, it was a rainy Saturday at Alton Towers.

We had driven up for a day out, wanting to go before the kids broke up for the summer and the queues doubled in length. It was years since either of us had been to a theme park and from the moment we arrived its lively atmosphere took over and we regressed to a teenage state of mind. We messed around, teasing and chasing each other, laughing at everything and snacking on junk food.

It drizzled for most of the morning but we didn’t mind, our clothes were damp anyway from going on the water rides and the weather had kept away a lot of the crowds.

The sun made an appearance after lunch, warming us up as we made our way to an area of the park where some of the biggest rides were. I had managed to avoid the white knuckle rides until then. I wasn’t a fan. I couldn’t see the point when they just scared me sick, gave me big hair and distorted my face until I looked like a Wallace and Gromit character. Fortunately Adam didn’t seem to mind; there were plenty of other things to do, but the moment he saw Air glinting impressively in the sunshine as steam rose up from its metal railings, he decided that we had to go on it.

It looked like my idea of a nightmare; a ride where you hung in a Superman-style position and shot around the track as if you were really flying, sometimes only a few inches from the ground. Just watching other people on it was making my knees weak.

Adam was relentless in his pleading, convinced that I would love it once I’d tried it. Eventually, after much mental anguish, I gave in. I didn’t want him to see me as a cowardly, girlie type and decided that if Adam thought I was a brave, try-anything-once kind of girl he might just find me irresistible.

When the restraints came down and the ride tilted us forwards into a hanging position ready to start, Adam looked over at me.

I could feel my cheeks growing red as the blood began to rush to them and my curly brown hair was hanging all over my face. I was just dangling, petrified, and trying desperately hard to think like Lara Croft. A voice on the tannoy warned ‘Prepare for Air’, as the floor dropped away and we were bathed in blue light.

Adam was looking at me really strangely. He was smiling, making me wonder if he was going to take the mickey out of my new upside appearance, but he didn’t. Instead his face softened and he reached out for my hand. Then, out of the blue, he called out, ‘Will you marry me?’

I didn’t hear what the voice-over said next. Instead, Adam’s words were echoing around inside my head, trying to find a space in my consciousness to lodge into and failing abysmally. My face must have been a picture of shock as my mouth was gaping like the tunnel that lay ahead of us. The couple dangling next to us must have heard as they were leaning forward, looking at me with expectant faces.

The ride was about to start, I had to give him an answer. ‘Oh God, Adam … Yes!’ I said at the same time as the voice-over said ‘Now!’

Suddenly we were off, about to be flung down a steel track at speeds of up to seventy kilometres per hour, as Adam had delighted in telling me whilst we were waiting in the queue.

I couldn’t keep hold of his hand. My instinct was to clutch the rubber grab-handles until my knuckles went white. I couldn’t even look at him as I’d squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to block out the sight of the ground below me. I couldn’t think straight, the gravitational force on my body was too overwhelming and adrenalin was flooding through my veins. I knew I’d heard Adam correctly but it wouldn’t sink in. It was so unexpected. Getting him to talk about the future was usually an impossible task. He’d get fidgety and start scratching himself, as if he were having an allergic reaction or something. We weren’t even living together yet. Adam rented a tiny, one-bedroom house that was stuffed from floor to ceiling with his things. He needed somewhere bigger but he always put it off. I had a feeling that was because when the time came he’d have to decide if we were buying together or separately and it was easier for him to stay put than answer that question.

A minute into the ride I managed to prise my eyes open and sneak a peek at him. He was laughing, arms stretched out and a look of elation on his face. I closed my eyes again, the image of Adam staying in my mind, and I had that same feeling I get when I take a sip of Baileys on an empty stomach; a deliciously warming sensation, spreading through my body like a velvet drug. It was an amazing feeling knowing Adam wanted to marry me.

When the ride finished the man next to Adam shook his hand, congratulating us. We thanked him then walked jelly-legged away from the crowds, holding hands tightly until we were out of earshot from passers-by.

What if he didn’t mean it? I wondered, coming back down to earth. What if he’d been carried away on an adrenalin high and regretted saying it as soon as the words were out.

‘Did you mean it?’ I asked, preparing myself to laugh blithely and say ‘me too’ if he said no.

‘Of course I meant it.’ He laughed, squeezing my hands tightly. ‘Did you?’

I nodded.

‘It doesn’t mean we have to do it straight away though, does it? We can just take our time. Play it by ear.’

Here we go, I thought. I knew it was too good to be true. ‘But it’s official, right? We can tell people and stuff?’

‘Sure! If you want to.’ He grinned at me. ‘Come here.’

We held each other tightly and I wished I could freeze time, convinced that I’d wake up and find that the whole thing had just been a bizarre dream.

Lying awake I listened to the sound of Adam breathing. It was eight o’clock on Saturday morning, the first day of the bank holiday weekend, and I had been lying awake for almost an hour and a half. Why was it I was never this awake on a workday? Usually it took three hits of the snooze button before I could even lift my head off the pillow and then I would fumble around with glazed eyes, my head in a cloud of early morning fug until I arrived for work. As soon as it was possible for me to lie in until lunchtime then order pizza from the comfort of a king-sized bed, I turned into Brer-bloody-rabbit and woke up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I looked over at Adam, who was still unstirring from a heavy, dreamless sleep. There was something endearingly masculine about the way he slept. He would lie out on his back and that would be it. No fidgeting, duvet wars or sleep pedalling (Adam’s term for my restless feet, which I unconsciously rub together under the covers).

I gently lifted up the duvet, careful not to wake him and peered down his body. As I suspected, the brain was unconscious, but the body, clearly, had its own mind.

Glancing up again I spotted Adam’s new suit hanging from the wardrobe door handle and slid out of bed, feeling naughty, to fetch the jacket off its hanger.

It felt cool and silky against my bare skin and I held the lapels, rubbing the fabric between my fingertips. It drowned me of course – Adam’s broad shoulders required jackets the width of most doors – but I liked the way it made my own body feel tiny by comparison. The jacket only just skimmed the top of my knees, and it hung heavily on me as I walked over to Adam’s side of the bed. I slowly pulled the duvet off him and he moaned, his eyes flickering as he began to wake up.

‘Hey,’ I whispered, lying down next to him and placing a leg, seductively, over his hips.

‘Mmm.’ He smiled lazily and reached out for my bottom.

We kissed for a minute then he broke away. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone eight.’ I snuggled into his neck, my hand exploring his body.

‘I’ve got to get up.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I whispered naughtily.

‘No Gem, really. The lads will be here at nine and I’ve not even packed my bag yet.’ He started to sit up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Oh, you’ve got ages yet.’

As his eyes began to focus, he looked at me, blinking. ‘Are you wearing my jacket?’

I grinned.

‘You’ll get it all dirty.’

‘Promises, promises …’ I nibbled his ear.

‘Oh Gem, not this morning. You wore me out last night, and you know I haven’t got time.’

I pouted. ‘You might not want me, but your body does.’

‘I do want you, you daft moo. Just not right now.’ He got out of bed and stretched, scratching his chest.

‘But you’ll be gone all weekend. Don’t you want to make the most of it while we still can?’

Adam feigned boredom. ‘Yeah, yeah, been there, done that.’

He went to give me a playful pat on the bum but I pushed him away, tutting. ‘Sometimes you can be really … mean!’ I finished lamely and waltzed out of the room.

‘If you’re making a coffee I wouldn’t say no,’ he called after me, laughing as I started down the stairs.

I sighed to myself, disappointed that my plan hadn’t worked. And surprised, of course, because a plan to tempt Adam into full sex was usually a challengeless task. I did have dubious motives though. This morning Adam was leaving for a friend’s stag weekend in Glasgow with a group of lads from work. I had been hoping that he would leave the house so sexually gratified that he wouldn’t be tempted by some big-breasted jezebel sitting on his lap tonight. And there was bound to be one, if not a whole room full.

Richard, Adam’s friend who was getting married, is an architect. His office being in the courtyard of buildings where Adam also works, restoring period features for houses. I really liked Richard, and his fiancée Jules, but Richard’s choice of best man was not one of his greatest ideas. Grant is a lecherous type and a bit of a sexist. The sort that describes a woman with his hands and tells endless jokes about why they have small feet. I was so used to his crude and lairy behaviour that the only thing to ever shock me about him was that he’d managed to convince Richard he’d make a reliable best man. I only hoped that after this weekend, he wouldn’t live to regret it.

‘Why do guys always have to go away for the whole weekend when there’s a stag do?’ I had protested when Adam told me the plan a few weeks back. ‘It used to be a night out with the lads then a curry on the way home. Now it’s all Dublin, Paris, Edinburgh … It’s not a proper stag occasion unless you’ve crossed an English border and taken over some unsuspecting old lady’s B&B for three nights of debauchery. I just don’t get the point of it all.’

Adam just looked amused and wrapped his arms around me. ‘Don’t you trust me? Is that why you don’t want me to go?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ I sighed, although I wasn’t sure I meant it. Adam had never given me any reason to doubt him, but with Grant in the organisational hot seat for the weekend, anything could happen. And some of Adam’s friends were a worry. They were typical lads: hard-drinking, rugby-playing, commitment phobics who, although they individually came across as pretty nice guys (Grant excluded), collectively they morphed into a pack of animals. They egged each other on constantly and Adam always became louder, cockier and more indifferent when he was with them. And he never, ever, called me ‘hun’ when they were within earshot.

I couldn’t put my foot down and stop him from going, and I wouldn’t want to. I had my pride. Instead I tried not to appear overly concerned and told him not to get any seedy ideas for his own stag night, whenever that might be.

It’d been three weeks since our trip to Alton Towers. Three weeks and not much has changed, I thought as the kettle flicked off, revealing the sound of Adam having a shower in the bathroom above. There was no ring on my finger and no date under discussion. We joked about it sometimes, and talked about ‘when we’re married’ as if it was a long way off yet. It didn’t feel official somehow and I would have felt fraudulent bulk-buying bridal magazines and making a big announcement to my parents. I had, however, told my best friends Nikki and Fay.

Years ago, when we were little, we had promised each other that whenever one of us got married, the other two would be the bridesmaids. We would dress up in my mum’s old net curtains and walk up the garden path together, using the bird bath as our altar. None of us wanted to play the groom – where was the fun if you couldn’t have a big puffy dress? And so we would use Thomas, the toddler from next door, who didn’t seem to mind so long as he got a Penguin biscuit for his efforts.

We were always talking about the future, planning to live next door to each other and have babies at the same time. The future seemed simple then, like in the Disney books. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love with boy, evil family members tries to throw a spanner in the works, boy slays a few animals, defeats the evil family member and whisks girl away to a castle with untold riches, a squashy four-poster bed and some cute little talking pets. Of course as we got older the plan kind of changed somewhat and weddings seemed less and less likely, but the bridesmaid plan stayed our faithful pact.

When I told them about Adam, neither of them could contain their excitement. They wanted details; how it happened, who I’d told, how I felt, had it changed things? It was one of those events that really required a get-together to discuss it at length, and so a girlie reunion was planned for the weekend Adam was in Glasgow.

Adam walked into the kitchen wearing a fresh white T-shirt and a pair of indigo jeans. His skin glowed honey brown and a subtle hint of aftershave followed in his wake, teasing me as he walked past to fetch his boots.

I had dressed quickly whilst Adam was in the shower and felt grubby by comparison. I needed to go home and freshen up before Nikki arrived. ‘Are you all packed then?’ I said.

He nodded, straightening up from having tied his laces and gestured to the door, where he had left an overnight bag.

‘Right, well, I’d better leave you to it.’

‘I’ll call you.’ He glanced at the window as he spoke, looking for a car.

I knew he wouldn’t call until he returned and couldn’t help feeling deflated. Adam must have noticed and moved towards me for a hug.

‘How about we meet up on Monday? If there are any jeweller’s shops open for the Bank Holiday we could maybe go and look for a ring. If you want to? Make it official.’

I broke into an involuntary smile. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, that’d be great.’ He put his arms around my waist and lifted my feet off the ground. ‘And of course it helps to ward off the competition, you know, let the other guys know you’re a taken woman.’

I smiled flirtatiously. ‘I’m not a taken woman, yet.’

‘You will be,’ he said, sitting me on the kitchen table.

A horn beeped outside and Adam looked out of the window. ‘Right. That’s them. I’d better go. We’ve got miles to drive.’ He kissed me fleetingly and fetched his bag. ‘Will you lock up on your way out?’

I pulled a face and hopped down off the table to look outside. There was a blue mini-bus parked across the street with the engine idling and half-a-dozen of his friends crammed in near the window. They reminded me of the monkeys at Bristol Zoo.

‘Come on laddy,’ one of them yelled and the driver beeped the horn again.

Adam walked down the short path towards them and a couple of his friends called out to him whilst the others moved up to make a space on the back seat.

I waited for Adam to look back at me and wave but he didn’t, and as the van pulled away down the road, I thought I spotted a blow-up woman float into view in the back window.

After leaving Adam’s house I took a detour out to the village where my parents lived. They were away for a few weeks and I had promised them that I would call in and check on the house every couple of days. It seemed like a good idea to get it out of the way then and there so that I wouldn’t need to break up my weekend with the girls.

My parents’ house is in a village called Langley Green, about five miles south-east of Bath. It’s a picturesque village set in a stunning valley, split by both the river Avon and the canal which wind their way out from Bath to Bradford-on-Avon. When I was younger I would cycle into the city down the path that followed the canal, stopping to watch the boats and when I was a bit older, the students, boating or cycling past me. It’s a tiny village. When I lived there I found it isolated. I wanted the vibrancy of the city and couldn’t wait to move away. Once I had moved away, I found myself being drawn back. There was something in its tranquillity that I found restorative. And then there’s the space. No parking problems or narrow, car-lined streets where there wasn’t enough space to swing an alley cat, let alone do a three-point turn in a mini-cab. Driving down the country roads was like stretching out after a fitful sleep.

The family home was a little pre-war semi on Midsummer Lane, which had barely changed since I could remember. We moved there when I was six after my brother, John, had moved out. He was fourteen when I was born and at twenty he moved to Australia to become a tour guide. That’s where my parents were now, visiting John for the first time in three years. They had offered to pay for me to go with them but I declined, knowing they couldn’t afford it now that Dad had retired.

Walking through the front door I was hit by those old familiar smells. The most detectable being beeswax polish, lavender and a faint hint of burnt bread (Dad refused to buy a toaster).

I bent down to pick up the morning’s post and carried it into the kitchen, propping it up in front of the kettle, and then I took a jug from the cupboard under the sink, filling it up from the tap to water Mum’s plants. I wandered around the house, hearing only the sounds of my footsteps on the wooden flooring in the dining room and the ticking of the clock in the hallway. It was eerie being there without my parents. It was never usually this quiet. Even when Dad had snuck off to the garden or the loft, Mum would be making enough noise for both of them, banging around, annoyed at him, or calling out, reminding him about jobs he hadn’t done. I didn’t think there were any plants upstairs but went to check anyway, peeping around the doors of the bedrooms. When I got to my old room I couldn’t resist going inside. It wasn’t quite as I had left it when I moved out, eight years ago. Mum had redecorated with fairly neutral pastel shades and plain walls. The posters had long been taken down but the furniture was still the same and the cupboards were stuffed full of my old things. Dad was always asking when I was going to clear them out, as he was angling to use the room for himself. He’d call it a study but I doubted he would ever get any studying done. Most likely he would put a desk and a big leather chair in it then just sit about reading the daily papers. Basically the same as he did when he excused himself off to the bathroom but without the smell of bleach and the need for cold legs.

Mum wouldn’t have it though. ‘It’s Gemma’s room and it always will be,’ she would say firmly. ‘What if she ever needed a place to go? Or John, what if he came back and needed a room? I want them to feel that they can always return.’

Not likely, I thought. I knew John was relieved as I was to get away from their constant bickering, from being torn between feeling sorry for Mum when Dad ignored her and sorry for Dad when she was hassling him. I loved them both but together they were emotionally exhausting and incredibly frustrating. I never argued with her though, because I knew how much Mum missed me and was comforted by having my things lying around. I also suspected that if Dad made himself a den in here Mum would never see him again except for mealtimes and seasonal celebrations.

I sat down on the bed. It seemed tiny now: a child’s bed. It faced a wall of fitted cupboards and I got up and walked over to them, opening the doors wide. It was full of things I’d left behind. There were some dog-eared teddy bears that I had never grown sentimental about, some old books, videos and knick-knacks, schoolwork, old letters. Lots of junk really. I wasn’t surprised that Dad wanted me to sort it out. I took down a cardboard box from the top shelf. It was full of letters from Fay and Nikki that we used to pass to each other in lessons. I rummaged around inside and my fingers located a pendant I had been given from a boy I’d met in Lyme Regis. I didn’t think it was worth much; it looked as though it had fallen out of a cracker, but looking at it now, it had an innocent charm and I smiled to myself before putting it back. I picked out a letter at random and read it.

Dear Gemstone,

Having such a stress, Justine Arnold’s been giving me nasty looks all morning. What’s her problem? Perhaps her body is so tight it’s giving her a wedgy!

Think we should meet up at the reccy after school. T said he’d be there. Oh my God!!

N xx

It was from Nikki, written on a screwed-up piece of lined paper that looked as though it had been ripped out of a textbook. I laughed out loud, trying to remember who T was, but there were so many boys at school that Nikki had fancied it would have been impossible to remember them all. I put the box on my bed, deciding to take it back and show the girls. We could have a laugh at the ridiculous things we used to say and get up to and reminisce about old times. With my curiosity sparked, I decided to go through some other bits and pieces and see what else I could find.

An hour later and I felt almost fourteen again. I had been so immersed in old memories that I’d completely lost track of time. I was surrounded by old boxes and my hands felt dry from the dust that covered them. There was a stack of old photos I’d uncovered that I’d forgotten all about until then and a textbook that I had got my classmates to sign on the last day of term. I collected them all together and put them in the box with the old letters, ready to take back with me and then began to pack the things away.

I lifted up a heavy box full of A level notes and tried to push it back onto the high shelf above my head. As I slid it back it stopped, as though something on the shelf was in the way. I pushed it harder but it still wouldn’t go so I put it down and fetched a chair, planning to climb up and see what it was.

I still wasn’t high enough to see onto the shelf and the lighting was limited. I ran my hand along the shelf, wrinkling up my nose and squinting as the dust was disturbed and went in my eyes. In the far corner of the shelf I touched what felt like a metal box and closed my fingers around it, bringing it down to look at.

Stepping into the bedroom to hold it to the light, I gasped at what I saw. It was an old cash box that Dad had given me years ago. He often gave me old stationery and bits and bobs from his office and I recognised this as one of them. It was matt silver and made from heavy metal, with smooth rounded corners and was about the same size as a child’s shoebox. It was locked, with no key attached; I had no idea where that would be now. Over the lock was a blob of molten wax about the size of a fifty pence piece. The seal around the lid had been taped over and over with Sellotape which had now faded to a dirty yellow colour. Scratched onto the lid were the words: DO NOT OPEN TILL 1 JANUARY 2000 ON PAIN OF DEATH.

‘Oh my God!’ I whispered, smoothing my fingers over the writing. ‘This is brilliant.’

I hadn’t thought about the box for almost ten years, but as soon as I touched it, I remembered the day we sealed it up as though it had just happened.

It was New Year’s Eve, 1989. Fay, Nikki and I had planned our first New Year celebration without parental scrutiny. My parents were going to a function with a visiting colleague from Gloucester. They agreed to let us stay in the house so long as we let the colleague’s daughter, Miranda, stay with us. I pulled some faces. From what Dad had said about his colleague he was strongly religious and a bit serious. I imagined that his daughter would be the same and would spoil our party atmosphere.

She was a year older than us, at fifteen, and to say she was a little off-the-wall would be putting it mildly. She arrived eccentrically dressed in a black all-in-one and an old grannie’s shawl, which got a raised eyebrow from Nikki. Her long black hair was pushed off her face with a silk scarf that was tied at the back of her neck, making her look like a gypsy. For someone we had never met she was amazingly confident, breaking the ice quickly by producing a pilfered bottle of vodka from under the shawl as soon as our parents had left.

We played Now That’s What I Call Music 15 and danced around the living room until I was dizzy from exertion and first alcoholic experience. We talked at length about the turning of a decade. It was exciting for us all, we were teenagers and our lives were changing drastically. In the 80s we were children, in the 90s we would become adults. The possibilities were endless. The last ten years of the millennium woul. . .