Appleby Farm (46 page)

‘That was sneaky,’ he tutted.

‘Oh, come on.’ I laughed. ‘We need to send them today or they won’t reach England until after we’re back.’

For a few minutes we sat in silence while we penned our postcards home. Correction – I was silent, Harry alternated between whistling under his breath, umming and ahhing, and complaining that he hadn’t sent a postcard to his parents since he left school.

As soon as mine was finished, I laid it on the table triumphantly and picked up my beer.

‘I’m done.’

Harry was still deep in concentration, pen poised.

‘Come on, Graythwaite, what are you writing –
War and Peace
?’ I teased.

Not that I minded; he looked completely gorgeous in his swimming shorts and I was more than happy to sit and look at him unobserved.

He tossed his postcard on to the table, took a long swig of his beer, shielding his eyes from the sun as he grinned at me. ‘Done.’

‘Can I read it?’ I asked, interested to see what he’d said about me to my prospective in-laws.

He lifted a shoulder lazily, which I took as a yes, so I reached out and pulled it close enough to read and laughed as he murmured ‘nosy’ under his breath.

‘Oh,’ I said inadequately, brushing a stray tear from my face.

Harry stood up and leaned over me. He planted a soft kiss on my lips.

‘Will that do?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Harry Graythwaite,’ I smiled, as he scooped me up and carried me into our room, ‘that’s absolutely perfect.’

As always, thanks and much love to my family, Tony, Phoebe and Isabel, for all your cheering and flag-waving during 2014.

Appleby Farm
covers topics that I really had no clue about and so I owe a huge debt of thanks to hordes of people for their kindness and generosity of time. You know how at the end of
The Archers
, they always mention an Agricultural Consultant? Well, I had lots of them in this book! My sincere thanks to David Prince of Wood Farm, John Hardy of Jericho Farm and Geoff Brown of Bluebell Dairy. And an extra special thanks must go to Charlotte Sharphouse and Joe White from the wonderful Old Hall Farm, a working Victorian farm in the Lake District which inspired the setting for
Appleby Farm
. Any farming inaccuracies are completely down to me!

To Gina McLachlan, thank you very much for planning out poor Uncle Arthur’s health issues!

Thanks to Chris Hanbury for your musical knowledge of cheesy wedding first dances and for coming up with the name for Harry’s band.

Many thanks to Julie Gregory, who let me cuddle one of her chickens (Mrs Fluffybum to be exact) and who showed me where her hens like to lay eggs. And a second thank you to farmer David Prince, whose egg-eating dog gave me an idea for a storyline!

Thank you to my agent Hannah Ferguson for your wise words of encouragement throughout the year and for keeping me writing when times were tricky. And editor extraordinaire Harriet Bourton, you clever clogs, you! Without your initial spark of an idea, this book wouldn’t have happened at all!

As a marketing bod myself, I know how much hard work goes on behind the scenes to make things look effortlessly successful and so I consider myself truly fortunate to work with such an enthusiastic, supportive and passionate team of people at Transworld. Yes, I’m looking at you, Bella Bosworth, Sarah Harwood, September Withers, Laura Swainbank and Helen Gregory. Thank you, lovelies!

Finally, to some very special people. I am writing this after completing the
Appleby Farm
cover reveal promotion. Thank you to the wonderful bloggers and reviewers for your constant support and excitement for my books, it is a pleasure to know you: Jill Stratton, Dawn Crooks, Janet Emson, Louise Wykes, Ananda and Marina from
@ThisChickReads
, Erin McEwan, Jody Hoekstra, JB Johnston, Kim Nash, Sharon Goodwin, Kirsty Maclennon, Catriona Merryweather and Sonya Alford. You ladies are the best!

Enjoy an extract from another charming modern love story from Cathy Bramley

A takeaway, TV and tea with two sugars is about as exciting as it gets for thirty-something Sophie Stone. Sophie’s life is safe and predictable, which is just the way she likes it, thank you very much.

But when a mysterious benefactor leaves her an inheritance, Sophie has to accept that change is afoot. There is one big catch: in order to inherit, Sophie must agree to meet the father she has never seen.

Saying ‘yes’ means the chance to build her own dream home, but she’ll also have to face the past and hear some uncomfortable truths …

With interference from an evil boss, warring parents, an unreliable boyfriend and an architect who puts his foot in it every time he opens his mouth, will Sophie be able to build a future on her own terms – and maybe even find love along the way?

Read on for a sneak peek at the opening chapter!

I woke up on the floor, wedged between the bed and bedside table. My hip bone was bruised, my skin was mottled with cold and I had pins and needles in my arm. Painted across my face was the smug smile of a woman who hadn’t got much sleep the night before. Getting up was a priority; I was freezing and I really didn’t want Marc to wake up and find me down here.

It took a full thirty seconds of grunting, shuffling, inelegant flailing of limbs and a carpet burn to my right buttock to wriggle free. Not a pretty sight.

I sighed with pleasure at the slumbering, golden-haired Adonis taking up the entire width of the mattress. He looked so peaceful. He was certainly a deep sleeper; he hadn’t even woken up when he’d pushed me out of the bed.

Silently, I opened the drawer, took out the card I’d lovingly made for him with my own fair hands and slid it under the pillow. Then I slipped back under the duvet and perched on the edge, savouring the heat from his perfectly honed body. I propped myself up on my elbow and gazed at him.

It was Valentine’s Day and I had a boyfriend.

I couldn’t help grinning.

Last year – and the year before that, come to think of it – I had been single and I’d had to hibernate for a full twenty-four hours until the dreaded day was history and I could stop feeling marginalized by society. In fact, since Jeremy a few years ago – I shuddered at the memory of my controlling ex-boyfriend – I hadn’t let anyone get close. But Marc was different.

He and I had been together for nine months and last night was the first time that he had stayed over. I’d invited him to before now but he had a stall on Sneinton market and usually had to get up for work really early and said he didn’t want to wake me. But last night he’d said he didn’t have to be there until nine, so he might as well stay. How romantic – to choose Valentine’s Day as the first time to wake up next to me!

Right, let’s get the party started.

I coughed lightly but there was no response, not a flicker of his golden eyelashes.

I coughed more sharply and this time he stirred and stretched, threatening my precarious position on the edge of the bed, and I grabbed hold of his arm.

Oh, those biceps!

‘Morning, princess.’ He yawned and gave me an almighty slap on the bottom.

I knew this was his idea of being affectionate but it was hardly the most romantic wake-up call. I replied with my own delicate yawn, and smiled in what I hoped was a ‘Sleeping Beauty awakened by a True Love’s Kiss’ type manner.

He picked up his watch, swore under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

I flopped onto my back and pulled the duvet up, enjoying the extra room in the bed. Also enjoying the view of muscles rippling across chest as he pulled his jeans up over firm thighs. What a man!

Oh no, I was a bit slow on the uptake there, he was getting dressed! That wasn’t first on my agenda of love.

Marc looked down at me, his face suddenly serious. Oh my giddy aunt! He was working up to something.

He cleared his throat. ‘Sophie, we need to talk.’

He sat back down on the bed and reached for my hand. Darting eyes, heavy breathing, serious face … If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was going to propose. Hold on a mo – it
was
Valentine’s Day, what if …?

‘Wait!’ I yelled, making Marc flinch.

If he was going to propose, I didn’t want to be lying on my back like an invalid. I pushed myself up to a semi-sitting position and rested my arms on top of the duvet.

Oops! Never flatten your arms against your body. It adds at least thirty per cent to the surface area of each limb. I read it in
Heat
magazine in a feature on how to look good in photos.

I raised my arms off the duvet and smiled brightly.

Marc frowned. Poor love; this sort of thing must be so nerve-racking. Shame really, in this day and age all the stress shouldn’t be loaded onto the man. Still, the woman usually ends up organizing the wedding, so it sort of evens itself out in the long run.

‘Sorry! You were saying?’ I nodded at him encouragingly.

Marc exhaled and gazed at me with his baby-blue eyes. That was the look of love. Right there.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, princess, but …’

What the fudge?

I gasped, but the nerves-induced accumulation of saliva in my throat created a strangled sort of gurgle. My spit went down the wrong hole and I started to choke. Not attractive, nor in the least bit timely.

Marc, determined to finish now he was on a roll, carried on slashing my newly minted dreams of married bliss into ribbons, while simultaneously slapping me on the back. Hard.

By the time I had found the wherewithal to hold my hands up, beseeching him to stop, he had all but finished his ‘Dear Sophie’ monologue.

The message had been clear, but what had he actually said? Straining to hear over my own ear-splitting wheezing, I had only caught one or two words. I must have misheard; I thought he used words like ‘different things’, ‘boring’, ‘freedom’ and ‘nice’.

He backed away from my single bed, from me and from our relationship towards the bedroom door, holding onto my fingers until the last possible second. It was quite a poignant moment: if I hadn’t been puce and completely hoarse, I might have said something profound. But other than to wail ‘Why? Why?’ at him, words completely failed me. So I stayed silent, doomed to for ever hold my peace.