The Night That Changed Everything

Rebecca is the only girl she knows who didn't cry at the end of Titanic. Ben is the only man he knows who did. Rebecca's untidy but Ben doesn't mind picking up her pieces. Ben is laid back but Rebecca keeps him on his toes. They're a perfect match.

Nothing can come between them. Or so they think.

When a throwaway comment reveals a secret from the past, their love story is rewritten.

Can they recover from the night that changed everything? And how do you forgive when you can't forget?

The Night That Changed Everything
is a funny, feel-good and bittersweet story, told in alternate chapters by Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice.

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: Rebecca

Eleven Months Later

Chapter One: Ben

Chapter Two: Rebecca

Chapter Three: Ben

Chapter Four: Rebecca

Chapter Five: Ben

Chapter Six: Rebecca

Chapter Seven: Ben

Chapter Eight: Rebecca

Chapter Nine: Ben

Chapter Ten: Rebecca

Chapter Eleven: Ben

Chapter Twelve: Rebecca

A Year Earlier

Chapter Thirteen: Ben

Chapter Fourteen: Rebecca

Chapter Fifteen: Ben

Chapter Sixteen: Rebecca

Chapter Seventeen: Ben

Chapter Eighteen: Rebecca

Chapter Nineteen: Ben

Chapter Twenty: Rebecca

Chapter Twenty-one: Ben

Chapter Twenty-two: Rebecca

Chapter Twenty-three: Ben

Chapter Twenty-four: Rebecca

Chapter Twenty-five: Ben

Chapter Twenty-six: Rebecca

Chapter Twenty-seven: Ben

Chapter Twenty-eight: Rebecca

Chapter Twenty-nine: Ben

Chapter Thirty: Rebecca

Chapter Thirty-one: Ben

Chapter Thirty-two: Rebecca

Chapter Thirty-three: Ben

Chapter Thirty-four: Rebecca

Chapter Thirty-five: Ben

Chapter Thirty-six: Rebecca

Chapter Thirty-seven: Ben

Two Months Earlier

Chapter Thirty-eight: Rebecca

Chapter Thirty-nine: Ben

Chapter Forty: Rebecca

Chapter Forty-one: Ben

Chapter Forty-two: Rebecca

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Also by Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice

Q&A with Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice

Copyright

For Rosemary Cowan and
Archibald Carmichael Cowan

Opening Night

Where's Jamie?

I have never nailed the art of arriving at a party by myself.

I should have come with Danielle. She was still trying to chivvy me into the shower as she was painting her lips coral and giving herself a
Go get 'em tiger
look in the mirror above the fireplace, but I was balls deep in
Art Deco: Design, Decoration and Detail
and told her I'd meet her here.

I hover awkwardly at the entrance to the bar. Being five foot ten makes it hard to be inconspicuous when you can't find your friends, but at least it makes it easier to scan a room, and I spot Danielle laughing with two men I don't recognize.

One chats incessantly with the look of someone who can't believe his luck and is scared that if he stops talking, she'll disappear. The other looks on shyly. Neither is in with a chance – she and Shane, her on-off boyfriend, are on again. Again.

He'll be here later.

I'm too nervous about my presentation for East House Pictures on Monday to do small talk with strangers. The old cinema in Hackney is in a state of disrepair after years of neglect, and there's a proposal to restore it next year. And if our pitch goes well, our company could be the one that gets to design and rebuild it.

I grew up dreaming about designing my first building the way other little girls dreamt about getting married. I'm only here tonight because Jamie deserves the support, and my shoulders relax as I spot him serving behind the bar. He planned to play host but I guess he underestimated how busy his opening night would be.

As I fight the crowds, I take in how different the room looks since the last time I saw it, when Jamie put his hands over my eyes as he led me into a disused railway arch, then took them away with a
Ta-da!
and explained he was opening his own bar.

I smile, chuffed he took my advice to restore the walls rather than plaster over them. They now have the names of cocktails in huge letters stained on top of the exposed brickwork in a haphazard fashion.

There's just enough room beyond the red, leather-covered booths for a makeshift dance floor before you reach the sleek back counter illuminated by low-hanging, oversized light bulbs.

Squeezing myself into a gap, I try to get Jamie's attention, but he's at the other end of the bar, chucking a bottle in the air and letting it spin, before catching it expertly in the other hand and pouring it into a Boston Shaker without missing a beat. The girl whose drink he's practically turned into a West End performance claps in appreciation. He winks. I roll my eyes.

I'm drumming my fingers impatiently on the granite surface when a barman returns with a load of empties. I'm hoping he's about to get back behind the bar, but he disappears off into the crowd.

‘Hello there.' A smiling barmaid finally appears in front of me. ‘What can I get you?'

‘Can I have a single-malt Scotch, please? One ice cube.' I glance behind me to make sure Danielle is still in the same place. ‘And a Cosmopolitan.'

Despite the fact that Jamie promised to only employ fit twenty-something models who want to sleep with him – and he wasn't short of offers from this particular brand of applicant – his new barmaid is about five foot three, round-cheeked and in her late thirties by the looks of things. I feel a rush of affection for Jamie. He's a big show-off, but a lovely one.

Something shoves me and I realize a guy has forced his way in and is holding out a twenty. I clock him look at me, double-take slightly and turn his body as much towards mine as the space will allow. The glare I give him is toxic.

‘Cheer up, love,' he tells me with a nudge, ‘it might never happen.'

‘It already has,' I reply, eyes straight ahead. ‘Earlier, a stranger invaded my personal space, called me love and offered me unsolicited advice.' I sip the whisky that has just been placed in front of me. ‘So I killed him.'

Jamie catches the last of the exchange and I can tell he's trying to suppress laughter as he serves the guy.

‘You really have to stop throwing yourself at my customers like that,' he says, pouring himself a small whisky as soon as the man is gone. ‘You'll get a reputation.'

‘Sorry, I just hate it when people say shit like that. Like anyone stands around grinning.'

‘He was just trying to chat you up. You're not an easy person to—'

‘Oh, don't start,' I warn him with narrowed eyes. ‘Let's talk about Arch 13. This is all kind of aces, Jamie. Your own bar, finally!'

‘You don't think I should have waited until the twelfth or fourteenth arch came up for rent, to be on the safe side?'

‘Nah – you make your own luck.' I look around again in awe. ‘I'm so bloody proud of you.'

His smile is humble and neither of us says what we're both thinking. It should be his parents standing here telling him how proud they are. Instead, they've stopped talking to him. They never liked him working in a bar after uni, but they tolerated it, presuming it was a stopgap before he finally used the chemistry degree they paid for to become the next Alfred Nobel. Now they've realized he'd rather be the next Tom Cruise in
Cocktail
they're not exactly cock-a-hoop.

But running a bar is perfect for Jamie. Our preference for premium booze was the first thing he and I bonded over at university. As everyone else lined up their pound-a-bottle luminous alcopops and sixty-pence-a-shot lighter-fluid vodka, I was ordering a Scotch off the top shelf while Jamie was refusing to drink his Tanqueray and tonic in a plastic cup.

‘These are on me, Erica,' Jamie tells the barmaid when she brings Danielle's cocktail. Then he turns back to me with an apologetic smile. ‘I need to serve for a bit but let's catch up later. Go mingle.'

‘Yep, we all know how I love to mingle,' I drawl, but I take my drinks and do as I'm told.

‘Better late than never,' is the first thing Danielle says. ‘You really must do something about your punctuality, Becs. It's rather annoying.'

‘Sorry,' I say with false sweetness to my best friend who has never once been on time for anything in her life. ‘But I realized my toenail colour clashed with my dress, and even though I'm wearing closed-toe shoes, I couldn't possibly go out until I'd repainted them.'

‘One day you're going to stop going on about that,' she huffs. Then, turning to the guys she's talking to: ‘Russ, Tom, this is Rebecca.'

They say hello and I fear we're stuck with them.

My fear is realized and magnified when Danielle's mobile rings and she motions to us that she's going outside so she can hear better.

‘Shane? Shane?' I hear her yelling into the mouthpiece as she retreats.

I check my own phone for messages and then when there are none, I check my work emails. Unsurprisingly, there are none at half nine on a Saturday night. When I eventually slide my phone back in my pocket, the two lads are deep in conversation between themselves. I wonder if this is what Jamie means when he says I'm unapproachable.

The barman who was collecting glasses appears with a tray laden with a beer, a coke and a big pink cocktail, garnished with about eight different fruits and a cocktail umbrella. He hands Russ the beer and Tom, the shy one, the coke, placing the cocktail on the shelf next to them.

‘WHOA!' I leap back, my drink spilling down my front as someone barges into me. It's the same guy who squeezed in at the bar.

‘Sorry,' he says, his mouth curving down in an almost comical
oopsy
expression. It's clear now that he's shitfaced. He reaches a hand out to dab my wet top so I hold out my own hand to block him. ‘Leave it. It's fine.'

‘Everything all right?' asks the barman, with the tray still in his hand.

‘Accident,' the guy mumbles, holding up his palms before stumbling away.

‘Twat,' I mutter, before turning to the barman. ‘Thanks. You couldn't grab me some napkins, could you?'

‘Sure.'

‘And a large single-malt Scotch,' I yell at his retreating back.

While I wait, Russ and Tom take their drinks to the pool table, leaving me alone. Where the feck is Danielle?

‘Here you go.' The barman places my drink on the side and hands me some napkins.

‘Thanks.'

I dab myself self-consciously and he doesn't go away, then I realize I haven't paid for my drink. ‘God, sorry,' I say, grabbing a tenner from my purse. ‘Keep the change.'

He waves away my money, looking bewildered. ‘Um, no, that's OK.'

Jamie must have known it was for me.

‘OK, thanks.' I press the napkins back against my top.

He still doesn't move but suddenly laughs, scratching his head. ‘Do you think I work here?'

As his words sink in I feel blood creep slowly into my cheeks. ‘You don't?'

‘Nope.'

‘But the tray of drinks . . .'

‘. . . were for my mates. I'd just got a round in.'

‘And you were collecting glasses earlier!'

‘It was rammed and there was a massive queue at the bar – I thought I'd help them out.'

‘But why did you get me a drink?' I squeal.

He thinks for a moment then smiles. ‘I honestly don't know.'

I cover my hot cheeks with my hands. ‘Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm mortified.'

‘Don't be,' he chuckles.

I make myself meet his eyes, pleasingly having to tilt my head back and look up – a gesture I don't get to make often. They're dark brown and long-lashed, and he holds my gaze for about two and a half seconds. Something weird happens. Like an electric shock – a chemical surge – though I'd never describe it that way out loud, because then I'd have to punch myself in the face. I blink and shift my gaze, taking in the rest of his face.

It's a nice face. You don't see many clean-shaven men these days, I realize. It makes him stand out. That and the slight kink in his nose, which suits him.

‘I'm Ben,' he says.