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The Summer We Danced
Fiona Harper
‘Sweet and romantic, a story guaranteed to have you smiling’ – Milly JohnsonShall we dance?After a humiliating divorce and watching her former rock star husband leave her for a model live on reality TV, Pippa is determined to disappear. So she returns to the small Kent village where she grew up to make a fresh start. Little did she know that would mean saving her beloved childhood dance school or falling for her old school crush Tom too!
As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for two things: having her nose in a book and living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least she’s found a career that puts her runaway imagination to use.
Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Scottish Highlands and the English countryside on a summer’s afternoon. The Summer We Danced follows the success of The Little Shop of Hopes and Dreams and The Doris Day Vintage Film Club.
Fiona loves to hear from readers and you can contact her through fiona@fionaharper.com (mailto:fiona@fionaharper.com), find her on Facebook page (Fiona Harper Romance Author) or tweet her @FiHarperAuthor. (https://twitter.com/fionaclove)
For Carol, with much love.
Thank you for your care and warmth, for your grace and creativity.
It’s been a blessing to have you in my life.
Acknowledgements (#ulink_79f67fb6-3edc-5807-a624-0d19ce35bf0e)
I have a lot of people to thank for their help with this book, especially as a lot of the research was very hands-on (or should I say “feet on”?).
Firstly I’d like to thank my lovely editor Anna Baggaley, for always always nudging me to go deeper. Every book is better for it. Thank you also to the rest of the wonderful team at Harlequin and for all their hard work in getting this book into readers’ hands. I really appreciate all that you do and your tireless enthusiasm.
Much gratitude too to my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who is always the voice of encouragement and sanity when I need it most.
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the teachers and fellow pupils who made learning to tap dance so fun. I want to mention not just Hannah and Emily, who got me tapping for the first time in my life at Sara Phillips School of Dancing, but all the ladies in the adult tap class there, who were always so graceful and elegant while I was flailing away at the back of the class. (They say write what you know, and the scenes where Pippa is lost and tying her feet in knots were definitely based on personal experience!) Many thanks especially to Sam, who always had time to break down a step for me while we were waiting for our next turn across the floor.
Huge thanks also to everyone at the Thursday night classes at the Churchill Theatre, especially our amazing teacher, Lexi Bradburn of Sole Rebel Tap. I’m not giving it up, so you’re stuck with me, even now the book is finished! I’d also like to express my gratitude to Teresa Tandy from Cocarola for teaching me how to foxtrot, even if I did keep forgetting I should let her lead and what to do about corners.
A massive thank you to my great writer friends: Donna Alward, Heidi Rice, Susan Wilson, Daisy Cummins and Iona Grey. Thanks for listening to me moan on when things aren’t going right, celebrating with me when they are and providing laughter and lots of wine no matter what!
An extra special hug to my sister Kirsteen Coupar, who gives sage advice when it comes to writing tangles and can make me laugh harder than any other person on the planet. Thank you also to my lovely friends Nicola Ingle and Rachel Carter for your encouragement and friendship. It’s a blessing to know both of you.
Last but definitely not least, I have to thank my husband who didn’t moan a bit when I kept flitting off to dance classes almost every night of the week, and my daughters who didn’t make fun of me when they found me tapping away in the kitchen following YouTube videos instead of cooking their dinner. (Or occasionally trying to do both at once!) I love you all loads. You give me the joy I need to keep me dancing.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ufa5439d3-5312-5955-85b3-4d57076c5d94)
About the Author (#ub62cd256-7c75-589c-a9b9-650690a59683)
Title Page (#u8b0d6e99-346d-53b1-ad8f-98812d6b87b5)
Dedication (#ub37bf7d8-1517-5811-aa45-86d357322595)
Acknowledgements (#u0d2e54ae-3d78-5629-a912-546b9c5161be)
One (#u528939ba-7dc7-5830-b435-26ca687015f6)
Two (#ufffe4e03-6d8f-5fb4-8422-2b31c5945513)
Three (#u647813c5-b534-57d2-b395-00a6c195888c)
Four (#u9efe236d-58d4-5da9-b3c8-0c28f8d864d0)
Five (#u3b3256e0-0a30-5fe5-b146-eb0989e40761)
Six (#u3d92ee14-2d2a-5046-be0e-017530bbe6b8)
Seven (#uc7f0b4de-7485-5f4e-9087-8d82409825ca)
Eight (#u569a70b8-da51-581d-bf4b-3237053b26e8)
Nine (#ua9f48bb1-08d1-5fe4-b774-9660aa2e403c)
Ten (#uba100135-9640-5a84-86c5-17a4d9c358cf)
Eleven (#u6275df53-b139-5ad4-a7e3-2f7110b3fbdd)
Twelve (#uaf409d61-246b-51ca-9b6c-b4fdce1cd449)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_59b62352-79ba-5911-a023-e8740f4cf15d)
I inhaled deeply as I raised myself on to my toes with the poise and concentration of an Olympic diver. I swayed precariously, but steadied myself, knowing that everything—everything—depended on me keeping perfectly still for the next few seconds.
I waited, eyes half-scrunched closed, even though they were fixed on the digital numbers flickering rapidly between my big toes.
Any moment …
Any moment now the display would stop jumping around and deliver its verdict. My heart was thudding so hard I could swear the noise was bouncing off the tiled walls of my bathroom.
And then, just as I thought it was never going to happen, it did.
I stared down at the pale-green digits lighting up my bathroom scales in horror.
‘No way!’
I knew Christmas had been bad. I knew that, despite my promises to myself to have just a few naughty things, as the festivities had progressed my cravings had gained momentum, eventually sweeping me away on a relentless tide I’d been helpless to resist. (I’d never been a strong swimmer.)
The green digits flashed at me, blinking their accusation. I jumped backwards off the scales. The stupid thing was malfunctioning, that was all. Probably just sulking because I’d neglected it for most of November and all of December, a bit like Roberta did after I’d been away.
My cat always put on a show of being mortally offended if I dared leave her alone overnight, giving me the cold shoulder for at least half an hour before she finally leapt on to my lap, kneading my thighs with deliberately unsheathed claws and purring like an old-fashioned petrol lawnmower.
Not that I expected my bathroom scales to purr back at me when they’d had a chance to calm down. However, a little love in the form of a decent number wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, we’d be bosom buddies again in no time, especially now January’s cold light was intent on revealing my every lump and bump.
I glanced in the mirror, something I’d studiously avoided doing over the festive season. My cheeks were definitely chubbier, making the pixie cut I’d had back in the summer—the I’m-divorced-and-I’m-embracing-my-new-life cut—seem like a moment of insanity rather than a declaration of freedom. I ignored the healthy gloss on my short, almostblack hair, the way the cut made my eyes look huge, and focused instead on the fact my cheekbones had definitely been swallowed up by the sheer volume of mince pies I’d consumed.
Ugh. Disgusting.
I’d had a good excuse, though. I’d thought the second Christmas without Ed—the first since our divorce had been finalised—would be easier. Less lonely. And maybe it would have been, if he hadn’t been posting pictures on Facebook of his fabulous Caribbean Christmas with the Tart.
Now, before you start lecturing, I know I should have blocked him, but I needed to see those pictures, to remind myself of reality, to remind myself I should stop snivelling about the way life had turned out and be glad it was the Tart who had to deal with his smelly socks, unrealistic demands, and toxic under-the-duvet fumes now. Even a thatched bungalow on an Antiguan beach couldn’t make that stench romantic.
I was better off without him.
I had to be, because he wasn’t coming back.
Anyway, as Big Ben had chimed last night I’d toasted Roberta with a large glass of Baileys and vowed that today would be my turning point. This would be the year of the new, improved Pippa. The Pippa who could finally get into a pair of skinny jeans without herniating something. The Pippa who was going to rise phoenix-like and resplendent from the ashes of her marriage and transform into a glorious being.
I pondered that for a few moments but then made the mistake of looking down and discovered I could no longer see my toes past my rather wobbly midriff. I prodded the bulge with a finger and it rippled.
That’s the downside of stripping down to your underwear to weigh yourself. What you save in precious ounces, you gain back in reality. No longer could I ignore the fact I didn’t just have a muffin top, but a whole Victoria sponge sitting round my middle.
Maybe a phoenix was the wrong image—the wrong logo—for my marvellous rebirth. Maybe a butterfly would be a better fit. Because I clearly had the whole roly-poly cocoon thing going on.
