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The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!
Annie Lyons
‘I loved every minute of this fantastic story!’ Christie BarlowIt’s time to face the music…Natalie’s husband has just dropped a bombshell she never expected. Six little words no women ever wants to hear – ‘I don’t love you anymore’ – and her whole world has been turned upside-down.Caroline’s difficult mother has been kicked out of her nursing home! And with no one else able to take her in, she’s going to have to put the past behind her and invite her to stay.Nat and Caroline might live just a few doors away from each other but the two neighbours couldn’t be more different! Yet when the beloved Hope Street community hall is threatened with closure, only the community choir can save the day – if they can just find the perfect song in time…A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing! Perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Kat French.Praise for The Choir on Hope Street:‘An absolute gem of a book… I loved every minute of this fantastic story.’ Christie Barlow‘Wonderful! Uplifting! Delightful! A must read!’ Mandy Baggot‘A must read this spring!’ Laurie Ellingham‘An utterly beautiful, feel-good story.’ Holly Martin‘A fantastic read.’ Crafty Marie (top 500 reviewer)‘Emotional and heartwarming in equal measure!’ Rae Reads
ANNIE LYONS
Having worked in the worlds of book selling and publishing, Annie Lyons decided to have a go at book writing. Following a creative writing course, lots of reading and an extraordinary amount of coffee, she produced Not Quite Perfect, which went on to become a number one bestseller. Her second book The Secrets Between Sisters was nominated in the best eBook category at the 2014 Festival of Romance and Life or Something Like It was a top ten bestseller.
Her latest book, The Choir on Hope Street, is a story of power ballads, community, cake and hope. She tries to write stories which make people laugh and cry, although hopefully not at the same time. Annie lives in a shambolic money-pit of a house with her husband and two children plus a cat, who she pretends not to like. She enjoys channelling her inner Adele as part of her own beloved community choir and trying to grow cauliflower.
Available from Annie Lyons
Not Quite Perfect
The Secrets Between Sisters
Life or Something Like It
For The Churchfields Community Choir
– I can think of no finer people with whom to bless the rains.
CONTENTS
Cover (#ue0bb1ad9-b809-599b-846d-0d4a758887fe)
Title Page (#u9001d53b-fe0d-54ca-8f38-2bf4d5c701e5)
About the Author (#u9001d53b-fe0d-54ca-8f38-2bf4d5c701e5)
Booklist (#uc4f340e5-21a9-5219-b665-c06e0e065d8d)
Dedication (#ub9e3a6ea-e76e-5d2f-afe0-6f7441cc8a4f)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6b3db3a8-41d7-5d45-9108-831d142de8b4)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4ce7c6e8-33a1-5757-9c8d-1840649d9bc7)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ab1f43d1-c5a0-5a47-b37f-49ba845edf8a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dcd2cc4d-7652-589b-a77a-74da47c439be)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_6264387b-5b05-5d3d-9129-6c1fd89e0043)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_cb6c2ea2-3167-54ed-8555-bd4ee013891c)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_9cb0d975-9536-59b2-8323-e48959ff9542)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_62404ed7-a8ff-53e2-81cd-09e86539b638)
NATALIE
‘I don’t love you any more.’
That was it. Six words delivered so simply, as if he were reading the news.
‘Good evening and here is the news. The marriage of Natalie and Daniel Garfield, which lasted for fifteen years, is over. In a statement today, Mr Garfield said, “I don’t love you any more.” Mrs Garfield responded by punching him in the face and trashing the house.’
At least that’s what I wished I’d done later but at the time an odd sensation of calm descended. It was as if this wasn’t really happening to me. It was at best some kind of joke and at worst something that could be sorted.
This wasn’t in the plan. This kind of thing was never going to happen to us. Other people split up, their marriages disintegrating like a swiftly disappearing desert island, but that was never going to happen to us. We were rock-solid – a steady ship; Nat and Dan, Dan and Nat. It had the ring of one of those American teen shows that Woody loved to watch on Nick Jr.; all jazz hands and sparkly teeth.
We were a great couple. Everyone said so. We were the kind of couple that others looked at with awe and secret envy. Everybody loved Dan. He’s just one of those men who people like – old ladies, babies, men, women, children have all told me over the course of our marriage, what a really great guy he is.
I would go on nights out with my female friends as they ripped apart their partners and husbands, picking over their faults like vultures feasting on carrion. I would nod with sympathy but never really had anything to add. They would often turn their sleepy, drunken gaze to me, pat me on the shoulder and slur, ‘Course you’re lucky, Nat. You’ve got Dan. He’s such a lovely guy.’
And he was. Possibly still is.
Dan was my husband, my soul mate. Of course he had his faults. The underpants on the floor and the toilet seat in the perpetual ‘up’ position were an irritation, but not exactly a major crime against domesticity. He was, is a good man – a good husband and father. He was my happy-ever-after.
Naturally, we had disagreements and wobbles. Who doesn’t? We didn’t spend as much time together on our own as we would like but that’s to be expected. We’re busy with work, Woody and life. Obviously it would be lovely to go on the odd date-night or even have sex but frankly, we were usually too knackered. I’d always thought that the shared bottle of wine on Friday night with a movie was good enough. Clearly I have been labouring under a major misapprehension.
Initially, I went into full-on denial mode when he dropped the bombshell. I wondered later if my body had actually gone into shock in a bid to protect myself from the truth. Certainly at the time, my brain sent me a quick succession of messages to counter his statement: he didn’t mean it (he did), he’d been drinking (he hadn’t), he was tired (true) and angry (not true). It wasn’t until I’d picked over the remnants of that evening with various friends (my turn to be the vulture now) that I’d fully taken in the order of events.
It was a Tuesday evening. I hate Tuesdays. They make me feel restless and impatient. Monday is supposed to be the worst day but for me, it has always been Tuesday. I can deal with the post-weekend slump and Monday is usually my most productive day but by Tuesday, I am longing for the week to move ‘over the hump’ towards the downhill joy of Thursday. I often long for a glass of wine on Tuesday evenings but on this particular day I was disappointingly sober because I was having a so-called healthy week. At least I was before he said it.
It was around 8.30 and we had just finished dinner. Woody was reading in his room before lights-out and I had been about to go and tuck him in. I normally love this part of the day: the feeling that another episode of motherhood is successfully complete; no-one died. Everyone is safe.
If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed that Dan was particularly uncommunicative during dinner. Again, it wasn’t until later that I recalled the details: his downward gaze and hands fidgeting with the cutlery, his water glass, the pepper mill.
I had been telling him about a problem with my latest book. I am a children’s picture-book writer and have enjoyed some success with my series of books about ‘Ned Bobbin – the small boy with the big imagination’, as my publisher tags it. There have been six books so far and my editor wants another three but I was struggling with ideas and wondering whether to take him down the super-hero route.
When I recalled the conversation later, I realised that I had done all the talking; posing and answering my own questions with just the odd ‘mhmm’ or nod from Dan. That was the problem with being a writer – you spent too much time at home on your own with no-one to talk to.
I talk to myself all the time when I’m working. I read back what I’ve just written, talk to the radio or hold imaginary conversations with all manner of people, including Ned. I read somewhere that adults have a certain number of words they need to say in a day and that the word quota for a woman is higher than a man’s. I believe this. It isn’t unusual, therefore, for me to unpack my day to Dan when he gets home. I thought he liked it. Maybe I was wrong about that too.
I had finished my dinner: an unimaginative stir-fry containing any vegetable-like items I’d found in the fridge on opening it at 7.30. Woody had eaten earlier. He was eight years old and always starving when he returned home from school so I tended to feed him straight away and then either Dan or I cooked our dinner later.
I stood up to clear the plates, reaching out for Dan’s. He looked up at me and only then did I notice how pale he looked – his face, slightly pinched with age, but still handsome. He stared at me, unsmiling and I realised he was nervous.
‘What?’ I asked with an encouraging smile.
He swallowed and bit his lip. Then he said it.
At first I assumed he was joking.
‘Yeah right, and I’m having an affair with James McAvoy.’ I shook my head and made for the door.
‘Nat.’
I paused, turning to look back at him. He was crying and that was when I knew it wasn’t a joke. It was the first rumble of a threatening storm. Still, my brain told me to keep going, carry the plates out, kiss Woody goodnight, come down and sort this out. It was just another thing to be sorted, like pairing the socks in a basket of washing.
I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I padded upstairs, pausing outside my son’s bedroom door. I focused for a moment on the wooden letters stuck to the upper panel, spelling ‘WOODY’. Each letter was represented by an animal with the same corresponding first letter and I reached out a hand to stroke the wombat’s cheery face. I will sort this out. I’m good at sorting. All will be well.
I pushed the door open, blinking into the half-light, feeling immediately reassured by the sight of my son. He was sitting up in bed, reading by the light of the twisty snake-lamp we had given him last birthday, propped up by the patchwork cushion my mum had made him when he was born. His chin was resting on his chest, that customary frown creasing his perfect face. He flicked his gaze in my direction and then back down at his book.
‘How’s Mr Fox doing?’ I asked, as if nothing had happened, as if my world was still intact.
Woody sighed. ‘Not good. Boggis, Bunce and Bean shot him.’
‘Ooh, that’s not good.’
Woody shook his head in agreement but kept reading, his eyes darting left and right. I looked around his room at the dog-eared football posters, the framed prints of scenes from my Ned Bobbin stories, the Lego models and the shelves stacked with books. Woody was a bookworm. He had learnt to read at the age of three and not really stopped since. He had probably read Fantastic Mr Fox at least fifty times. I felt a sense of calm descend. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to nestle down at the end of Woody’s bed, to pretend Dan hadn’t said what he had just said and hope that it all went away. I felt safe there.
‘Time for lights-out, fella,’ said Dan’s voice from the doorway. I jumped, jolted back to reality. I couldn’t see his face properly but his voice was throaty from crying.
Woody glanced at him and then me. ‘Can I just finish this chapter, please?’ His expression was wide-eyed and impossible to resist.
Dan stepped forwards and ruffled his hair. ‘Okay, but then straight to sleep.’
‘’Kay,’ replied Woody. ‘Night, Mum.’
I leant down and kissed him. ‘Night, darling boy. Love you. Sleep well.’
‘Love you. Sleep well,’ repeated Woody like a robot. ‘Night, Dad.’
‘Night,’ said Dan. He turned towards the door and paused, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘Coming?’
I stared down at my son as if he might offer a solution. He sensed my hesitation and looked up. ‘Night, Mum,’ he said again with a trace of impatience.
‘Night,’ I answered, turning and following Dan out of the room and down the stairs. We didn’t speak again until we reached the dining room.
‘I’m going to get a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Want one?’
‘No,’ sighed Dan. ‘Thanks. We do need to talk, Nat.’
‘And that’s why I need a glass of wine,’ I said, making my way to the kitchen. I poured a polite helping and then doubled it. Taking a large gulp, I refilled it and carried the glass into the dining room. Dan was sitting at the table, his hands in prayer position.
I slid into the chair opposite. ‘So,’ I began, trying to stay calm and matter-of-fact. ‘What’s this all about?’
Dan ran a hand through his neatly parted hair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m leaving.’
I was surprised to learn that two gulps of wine could inflame immediate righteous anger. ‘Because you don’t love me any more?’ I almost spat the words.
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’ I snapped. ‘Because that’s a fucking big statement if you’re not sure. Do you love me or not? Simple question.’ My voice was increasing in volume and it unnerved me. My childhood had been punctuated by anger between my father and mother. As an adult I had made a monumental effort to keep mine under control but all bets were off now. Red was the new black.
Dan stared at his hands, unable to look me in the eye. ‘No, I don’t and I’m sorry.’
The sarcasm devil took control of my brain. ‘Well that’s all right then. If you’re sorry then I forgive you. That makes it all just fine.’ I folded my arms and stared at him.
I couldn’t get a grip on my brain somehow, couldn’t work out what I was supposed to say or how I was supposed to feel. I had no point of reference for this moment. It felt like somebody else’s life.
Dan tried to be reasonable. That was one of his greatest strengths. He was eternally reasonable and always took other people’s opinions seriously. We rarely argued and this was largely down to Dan. He was able to defuse a situation like the most practised of bomb-disposal experts. ‘I understand that you’re angry, Nat, and you have every right to be, but if you’ll let me, I’ll try to explain.’
I took another deep gulp of wine before holding up my glass as if proposing a toast and saying, ‘Please. Be my fucking guest.’
