Surprise Package Read online

  Surprise Package

  A Standalone Romance Novel

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2018 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2018

  Cover Design: Book Cover By Design

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Contents

  Surprise Package

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Wee Scots Dictionary

  An Easy Sneaky Peak

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  IZZY

  ‘Just remember, when the minister says, you may now kiss the bride, it isn’t an invitation.’

  ‘Ha. Very funny, Mo.’ Not. ‘But I think you have me confused with someone else. Someone say like . . . you, for instance?’ I narrow my eyes, which feel like they’ve been attacked by a vicious hairdryer as I strain to see out of the six inches of windscreen that isn’t misty. Not that I can actually see anything from the rate the rain is lashing down. It’s also dark, and the road is unlit. It’s all very stressful.

  ‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad,’ he cajoles.

  ‘It was, and I’m never being your date to a wedding again. But really, what I don’t get was why the celebrant used that line, given the betrothed were both grooms and there wasn’t a bride in sight.’

  In fact, women were definitely in the minority at the wedding I’d attended as Mo’s plus one earlier in the year. Or as he’d put it, his flame dame. Because you’re far too lovely to be called my fag hag, he’d said.

  ‘Darling, the man in the white suit and sequinned lashes was a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘Apparently not to you,’ I reply snottily as I recall him planting a smacking great kiss on that very man.

  ‘Come on, Izzy,’ he wheedles, ‘you know my dick and not my head makes all the decisions when I’m drinking.’

  ‘Oh, so it was your dick that told you the celebrant was talking to you specifically, and not the other groom, when he got to the kissing line?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we’re to blame the same part of your anatomy for getting us thrown out of the hotel?’

  ‘Yes again. And the bottle of champagne we polished off before the service. And I might’ve had a tiny line of coke or two in the bathroom.’

  ‘Mo!’

  ‘See? Aren’t you glad I can’t accompany you to your friend’s wedding this weekend? Goodness knows what embarrassment I’d cause.’

  ‘I suppose you aren’t coming because the party favours don’t hold the same appeal.’ Mulish doesn’t even touch my tone as I lean forward and rub the condensation from the windscreen with my hand, which only makes the visibility worse.

  ‘That’s not fair. It is Christmas, darling. Season for forgiveness and all that.’

  ‘You’re Hindu, Mo,’ I retort. ‘You don’t even celebrate Christmas.’

  ‘Hush your mouth. My darling little Christmas tree might hear you.’

  ‘The only thing you rejoice in at this time of year is the availability of inebriated men.’ And that’s despite the pink-swathed monstrous Christmas tree sitting in his multi-million-pound Chelsea pad.

  ‘True. However, I hear they have men in Scotland, too. Rugged, kilted specimens. And there’s usually at least one bi-curious hottie at a wedding looking for a little man-on-man experimentation.’

  ‘So why aren’t you here sitting next to me in this damned car and battling the elements?’

  ‘You know I’d be there in a heartbeat, but I don’t have a visa for Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland is part of the UK,’ I grate out.

  ‘Yes, but it’s ever so far from London, darling. Over that great North-South divide. Do they even have brown people up there?’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘And you’re being a bit of a bitch, sweets. I paid to upgrade your flight, remember?’ Typical Mo. One of his life’s mottos is there’s nothing that can’t be fixed by throwing money at it.

  ‘You might’ve paid for the flights, but I paid for the idyllic cabin for us to stay in this week. Not that I think I’ll ever make it.’ Eyes still on the few yards of road I can see, I twiddle with the dials, trying to demist a little more of the windshield. Bloody rental. Bloody weather. Bloody unfamiliar roads. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension.

  ‘I’m not sure a remote cottage in the depths of a Highland winter can be called an idyll. It’s not exactly the Seychelles. And let’s face it, you booked it as a romantic getaway where you expected not to leave the bedroom.’ This is all very true. I was supposed to be coming with him. He who shall not be named after our not-so-acrimonious breakup, because how can a breakup be tough if you just refuse to set eyes on him again? ‘Believe me, Izzy, you don’t want to be stuck in a cottage with me if I’ve no outlet for my energy.’

  ‘Yes, but the point of continuing with the booking was so we could hang out.’

  ‘And nothing at all to do with not being able to get a refund on the place?’

  ‘That’s . . . true, also. But how can we hang out when you’ve ditched me at the last minute?’

  ‘I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll have a fabulous time without me, darling. Just . . . try not to be so grumpy. What happened to the sweet girl I used to know?’

  ‘Life happened.’ London happened. I used to love the frenetic pace of the city, but lately, I’ve begun to feel like I’m trapped on one of those moving walkways you find in airports. One I can’t get off. Even if I’m standing still, it drags me along. I have a soul-sucking job in marketing where I’m basically an indentured servant—my employers don’t seem to have heard of the forty-eight-hour workweek, or even the seventy-hour workweek. I have a heap of work to do over the next four days because I don’t think they’ve heard of holidays, either. In fact, this week will be the longest vacation I’ve taken in my three years with Dickhead, Bitch, and Bigger Dick, Esq.

  Add to that, I have a love life that’s become a bit of a standing joke in my social circle. Notice how I don’t really call them friends? God, living in London has turned me into a shrew. I used to be a nice person, honestly!

  ‘For the record,’ I add with a forced calm, ‘I’m not angry that you couldn’t make it. I’m angry that you only told me today. And also, not to be ungrateful, but domestic business class isn’t really business class at all.’

  ‘I’ve c
reated a monster,’ he says so theatrically I can actually hear his pout. His plush, derma-filled pout. ‘But something came up last minute—’

  ‘You’ve not been popping Viagra pills again?’

  ‘I shan’t deign to answer that scurrilous accusation. But I will say there are plans in the works to make this up to you.’

  My response is stuck somewhere between a huff and a growl. I really did need him here this weekend even if his apology gifts are amazing. The last time we quarrelled, he treated us both to a spa weekend in Ibiza, but I’d swap any holiday right now for someone to show me how to clear this windscreen.

  ‘Wait until you see what I have planned,’ he adds a little giddily. ‘It totes trumps having me in there complaining about the weather and provincial wedding fashions. I’d absolutely cramp your style.’

  ‘How would you be cramping my style? Clare was expecting me to turn up with my boyfriend—’

  ‘You weren’t seriously expecting me to play straight?’

  ‘As if you even could.’ By his own admission, Mo is as camp as a row of pink tents. ‘No, I called her yesterday and explained that a family emergency meant my actual boyfriend—’

  ‘Oscar,’ he offers, adding quickly, ‘sorry, he-who-shall-not-be-named.’

  ‘Yes, him. Well, I told her he wouldn’t be coming with me, and that I’d be bringing you instead.’

  ‘Your fictitious boyfriends’ pretend granny died? Can you hear how ridic that sounds?’

  ‘Not as ridic as a grown man saying ridic. And he’s not fictitious. He’s an ex.’

  ‘It’s still a little convoluted, sweetie.’

  ‘Look, I wasn’t about to tell her the truth, and my mouth just sort of . . . ran away with me!’ Exasperation adds to the tightening of my shoulders.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why you just didn’t say you’d dumped him or vice versa?’

  ‘Oh, yes because that’s so much better, isn’t it? Hey, Clare, my latest in my long line of relationships had come to a sad but familiar end. Yep, sad old Izzy can’t keep a boyfriend even though almost all her old-school friends have already settled down. And now, it looks like I can’t keep friends, either, thanks to you. So as well as looking like a complete sado having being ditched by my best friend, I also won’t be able to get off with anyone—not without cheating on my fictitious fluffing boyfriend!’

  ‘I love being your best friend.’

  ‘I’m rearranging the list as we speak.’

  For a big guy, Mo has the most girlish laughter. Laughter I don’t take offence to. Usually. ‘I have complete confidence that I’ll be back at the top of the list soon.’

  Easily, because he’s it. Instead, I say, ‘Why? What have you done?’

  ‘You’ll just have to wait and see, and I’m absolutely not tickled hearing you’ve been hoisted by your own petard.’

  ‘Well, thank you once again for your care and understanding.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I’m a rock.’

  ‘You’re definitely something that sounds like rock,’ I grumble.

  ‘And I love you, too, my precious Christmas angel.’

  ‘And I’m still cross with you, my garish Christmas cock.’

  ‘I sound just like one of the decorations hanging from my tree.’

  ‘Thank you for that piece of festive imagery, but if it’s all the same to you, I’m hanging up. Mainly because I don’t have a bottle of brain bleach handy.’

  ‘You’re not that easily offended.’

  ‘Maybe not but I still have to go. The roads are horrendous, and the weather is worse. And the prospect of attending this wedding stag makes me want to cry, but the icing on the shit-cake of my life is that I can’t even rely on my best friend’s support.’

  ‘Sweetie, have you got your period?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mo.’

  With a final huff, I push the button on the steering wheel with such vehemence, I’m surprised I don’t break my fingernail. I’m angry with everything—the weather, the bloody window I can barely see through, my new Roberto Cavalli suede boots that clearly were made for admiring and certainly not to be worn in torrential rain. But mostly, I’m angry with my own stupidity.

  When Clare had called with the news of her wedding one sultry summer evening earlier this year, I’d been in a dark place. Literally. My bedroom, actually. The lights were off, and the drapes drawn, and wonders upon wonders, a man was lying in bed beside me. Not just any man but a man I’d been dating for six weeks. I’d held out that long for sex, determined to do it right this time. As my phone lit up with her call, I’d slipped from under his arm, absolutely glowing with a post-coital warmth. She told me her boyfriend, Hamish, had proposed, and for once, my first thought wasn’t when will it be my turn? Don’t judge—a girl can be unhappy for herself yet happy for her friend. It’s what happens when you’re hurtling towards the big three-oh, or in my case, three-oh-oh, having passed that milestone almost three years ago. Oops! But I had a man in my life, a man I liked, and who seemed to like me. I was genuinely happy she’d found her very own version of Jamie Fraser.

  Fast forward a couple of months to how I’d discovered Oscar hadn’t labelled me the same. Mainly because of the whole wife thing. As it turned out, I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was just his bit on the side. Apparently, we had our wires crossed. When I’d confronted him, he didn’t hang around long enough for me to strangle him with his wire. After years of disastrous dating, I decided I was done. No more looking for Mr Right. I’d deleted Tinder, unsubscribed from MySingleFriend, which was Mo’s idea to sign up to anyway, and thrown myself into my work. I hadn’t given Clare’s wedding another thought until last month when a reminder flashed on my social media.

  Who gets married in early December, anyway?

  The saner path would’ve been to admit my romance had come to nothing—and I’d meant to. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d made Clare laugh with my tales of dating woes. That’s not to say she’d laughed at me but more with me as I’d regaled her with the trials and tribulations of my disastrous love life. She’d said at one point I had to consider I hadn’t been kissing princes masquerading as frogs but rather toads. Not even toads pretending to be princes, but lowly frogs.

  She’d suggested I’d been settling, so I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. Especially not as she’d gushed about the perfect romance of it all—her Christmas wedding to the man of her dreams. In the end, I’d decided to ignore the posts until the last minute possible before citing the old boyfriend’s family emergency. It seemed like the path of least resistance, and she’d be too busy with last-minute wedding arrangements to pay attention to anything else.

  In three-hundred yards, turn right onto Meh-rh-icat Lane.

  The disembodied voice of the navigation system pulls my eyes momentarily from the little I can see of the road.

  ‘Mehri-what? Stupid thing, it’s Merricoat Lane.’ I might’ve mentioned that it’s raining—positively pissing down—the kinds of volume that’d give Noah pause. So not only can I barely see the road, but I also can’t see my surroundings, so I’m a little worried I might not actually see the right-hand turn. But I do, and I quickly slow to a crawl as the road becomes little more than a pot-holed track that my tiny rental car bumps and bangs along. I’m suddenly aware that the tension in my shoulders has leaked into my arms, and that my fingers have a death grip on the steering wheel. And what’s worse is the navigation system seems to be recalibrating.

  ‘No . . . not now! Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck!’ I don’t care that I’m cursing—I don’t care at all. All I know is my muscles are tight, and my head is aching, and I’ve seriously had enough. ‘I’ll never find the place at this rate! Oh.’

  The headlights catch a fence post, the remains of a battered plaque with the words Faileas scrawled across it in black paint. And right at that moment, the disembodied voice fills the interior again.

  You have reached your destination.

  Reached my destination?<
br />
  I don’t know about that, but I feel like I’ve reached the end of the road.

  Chapter 2

  IZZY

  I pull the key from the ignition, halting the radio from quietly playing in the background.

  It’ll Be Lonely This Christmas.

  Thanks for that reminder, Elvis.

  And universe.

  Also, thanks for turning the rain to sleet, too.

  The car falls quiet but for the sound of the weather battering against the windows as I contort myself in the effort to shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. Through the windshield, the shadow of my home for the few days doesn’t exactly loom, but it’s at least visible. Now all I have to do now is endure a soaking on the way to the front door.

  Deep breath. Out on three.

  One,

  Two . . .

  The door creaks in protest at the force of the wind as I throw it open, scrambling from the interior, and a fierce gust aids my effort to slam it shut again. I tug on the rear passenger door handle next as the gale lashes my suddenly sleet slicked hair to my face. Pulling my coat from the back seat, I hoist it over my head with one hand, grasping the handle of my weekend bag. I leave the garment carrier and my wedding outfit on the back seat as I slam the door and make a cold, muddy dash for the cottage.

  When I began looking for somewhere to stay during those loved-up summer months, I did so with the thought that this place could be a dream. A secluded cottage on the very outskirts of the country with only Oscar and sheep for company—a true lover’s idyll. From the pictures on the website, I know that it looks like something straight out of an oil painting. Whitewashed walls and an ancient slate roof with views of the mountains or the nearby loch from every room. It’s just a shame it’s too dark to see right now. It’s also a shame I’m too wet and too cranky to appreciate what the morning might bring, huddled under the tiny ledge above the front door as I begin to move the potted plants.

  Hell, what colour was it again? I’d been told by the letting agent that the key to the cottage could be found under a potted fern, but the colour of the pot escapes me. At least I now understand why she’d laughed when I’d suggested their methods as a little unsafe because no one in their right mind would come this far to commit burglary. And then I remember she said the key would be under a wee potted Christmas tree. And it is, one in a bright red pot sporting matching baubles.