The books of magic 1 the.., p.1
One Summer Sunrise, page 1
One Summer Sunrise
Shari Low
Contents
A Note from Shari…
Waking up that morning to a day full of surprises were…
Saturday, 3 July 2021
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
10 a.m. – Noon
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Noon – 2 p.m.
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
2 p.m. – 4 p.m.
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
4 p.m. – 6 p.m.
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
6 p.m. – 8 p.m.
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
8 p.m. – 10 p.m.
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
10 p.m. – Midnight
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Midnight – 8 a.m.
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
One Year Later…
Acknowledgment
More from Shari Low
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
This one is for Caroline Ridding, my brilliant editor and wonderful friend, who never fails to encourage, inspire and support my work, while smashing records for patience, understanding, and resolving every crisis I unwittingly send her way.
* * *
None of this would exist without you and I’ll never stop being grateful. Or suggesting we solve all problems with gin.
* * *
And to my menfolk, John, Callan and Brad, who continue to make me laugh, supply endless cups of tea, top up the biscuit tin, and pretend to believe me when I start a sentence with, ‘When this book is finished, I’m going to…’
* * *
Thirty novels in, they know there will always be another story that will have me banging the laptop keyboard within hours of typing The End on the last one.
* * *
Gents, thank you for being the best blokes a frazzled, underhydrated, chocaholic writer could have. I love you with everything, always…
A Note from Shari…
Dearest Readers,
Thank you so much to everyone who read One Day In Summer last year, and huge gratitude for picking up the latest instalment in my One Day series, One Summer Sunrise.
This book is set on the 3rd July, 2021, but you’ll notice a significant omission. I had a long think about whether or not to include the reality of Covid, but after a long chat with my editor, we ultimately decided against it. I’ve always written escapist fiction, and in this story, we wanted to take readers’ minds off the havoc the pandemic has wreaked in our lives.
That said, as with One Day In Summer, I want to dedicate this book to every single person who has worked and sacrificed to help others over the last year – everyone in the NHS, teachers and school staff, the carers for our children, elderly and vulnerable, the armed forces, the shop workers, the delivery drivers, the post office, the bin collectors, council employees, the scientists who developed the vaccines, the police and fire services, public transport workers, the volunteers and the neighbours who have lent a hand and everyone else who has played a part in getting us through this. We’ve seen the worst in circumstances, but also the very best in people.
And to everyone who has suffered loss and heartache, my heart is with you. No words can make it better, but I hope that you find a reason to smile again in the weeks, months and years ahead.
Hopefully, by the time I write the final instalment in this trilogy, life will be back to some kind of normal. Better times are coming…
Much love,
Shari x
Waking up that morning to a day full of surprises were…
Maisie McTeer, 25 – actress, singer, performer, works in catering when she’s skint between jobs. Off men for life after being jilted at the altar.
Nathan Jackson, 27 – the (please insert your own sweary word here) groom who stood Maisie up on their wedding day.
Hope McTeer, 23 – Maisie’s sister and flatmate, currently doing her rotation as a junior doctor in A&E at Glasgow Central Hospital.
Sissy Bane, 26 – Maisie’s pregnant best friend, owner of catering company The Carrot Schtick. Married to the ever-patient Cole.
Scott Bassett, 38 – married to his childhood sweetheart, Kelly, his mid-life crisis has reignited the musical ambitions that he gave up when Kelly got pregnant at 16 with their daughter, Carny.
Kelly Bassett, 38 – Scott’s wife and Carny’s mum, an estate agent who is struggling with the prospect of an empty nest.
Carny Bassett, 22 – an aspiring set designer, recently graduated with a degree in Theatre Studies and now leaving Glasgow to take up an apprenticeship in London.
Sonya Bassett, 58 – Scott’s wonderful, but occasionally scary, mum, brought him up single-handedly, always comes through in a crisis.
Carson Cook, 38 – an engineer in the RAF, he’s Scott’s kind, big hearted, very eligible but resolutely single, best mate.
Sabrina Smith, 33 – Kelly’s younger sister, has found happiness in her second marriage to celebrity restaurant owner, Rick Smith.
Rick Smith, 40 – Kelly’s lifelong friend, and teenage ex-boyfriend, who put his wild ways behind him when he married her sister, Sabrina.
Harriet Bassett, 80 – A widow since her husband Dennis died in March 2020, she has outlived her family and friends, leaving her contemplating the loneliness of the life ahead of her.
Yvie Danton, 32 – Caring angel and nurse on the geriatric ward at Glasgow Central Hospital, has a particularly soft spot for Harriet.
Saturday, 3 July 2021
8–10 a.m.
1
Maisie McTeer
Somewhere in that hazy place between being asleep and awake, Maisie decided that as dreams went, this one was pretty rubbish. There were no golden sands or deep blue seas. Not even a half-naked Chris Hemsworth, in indecently small swim shorts, holding up a cocktail while waiting for her on a sunlounger for two. Just a foggy image of her ex, Nathan, running away from her, while she stood, dressed in white, watching him go.
And the noise. Ouch, the noise. The violent thudding sound was so loud, so persistent, it felt like it was making her ears bleed. At first she thought it was the panicked, distraught beat of her heart, but the more she came round, the louder and clearer it got… Bugger, someone was banging on the front door.
She paused to pray that her sister would answer it, then remembered Hope was on an overnight shift at the hospital and wouldn’t be home yet.
More banging. Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up.
Groaning, Maisie climbed out of bed, immediately regretting it when she had to hang onto the ironing board that was leaning against the wall until a sudden bout of dizziness left her. Damn. She’d forgotten to factor in her inevitable hangover. That last margarita before bed had been a really bad idea. As had the six she’d had before it. The downside of drinking alone on the couch, with only the Sex And The City reruns on Netflix for company, was that there was no-one there to question the wisdom of an impromptu cocktail party for one.
Palms against the walls for support all the way to the front door, Maisie winced as the decibels shattered her eyeballs. Was it possible for a brain to actually explode? If so, the cream walls were about to be decorated with a natty combination of grey matter, Cointreau, tequila and lime juice.
She wrenched the door open, yelling, ‘Okay, okay, I hear you…’ As her eyes adapted to the blinding sunlight, there was a horrified pause, then a strangled yelp of, ‘Oh Jesus, Sissy!’ Suddenly very awake and alert, Maisie gasped as she saw her best mate standing on the front step, face pink, leaning over her nine-months-pregnant-space-hopper-stomach, both hands on her knees.
‘How long…’ Sissy panted, ‘does it take you…’ another pant, ‘to answer a fricking door?’
‘Sorry! Come in! What can I do? Is the baby coming now? Towels! I need towels!’ she bellowed to no-one.
Sissy’s breath was coming in short bursts, blowing away the tendrils of her long, fiery red hair that were falling from the pleat that curled around her shoulder. ‘Nope, we’re just rehearsing.’
‘Seriously?’
Sissy glanced up at her with absolute incredulity. ‘No, of course I’m not serious! Shit, I hope this baby isn’t listening. It’ll be terrified that you’re one of its responsible adults.’ Her eyes rose upwards, then narrowed pointedly as she took in Maisie’s dishevelled appearance. ‘Did you sleep in a bush last night?’
Maisie went for deflective indignation. ‘Are we really doing this right now? Let me grab my bag and we’ll be at the hospital in ten minutes.’
Sissy shook her head, hands still on knees. ‘Nope, it’s okay. Cole’s here.’ She gestured behind her and, for the first time, Maisie noticed the Volvo at the end of her path, with Sissy’s husband in the driver’s seat, anxiety knitting his eyebrows together. He threw up his arms in a questioning movement. ‘I’ve told him to stay in the car and keep it running,’ Sissy
‘Okay, I’ll come without my bag then,’ Maisie offered, taking a step out the door, caring not a jot that birthing partners didn’t usually show up in pyjamas and bare feet, sporting hair like a pillow that had been shredded by a Flymo.
‘No, wait!’ Sissy put her hand up. ‘There’s been a change of plan. I need you to do something else for me today,’ she went on, wincing mid-sentence. Maisie felt a surge of dread. Sissy had this day planned with military precision. There was even a flow chart, laminated and stuck to Maisie’s fridge so she could memorise every detail of her role in the step-by-step process between Sissy going into labour and the arrival of her child.
According to Mrs Control Freak, the minute Sissy’s waters broke or she had her first contraction, Cole would grab the hospital bag that had been packed and sitting by the front door since halfway through her pregnancy. He’d then whisk his wife to Glasgow Central hospital, coming via Maisie’s house to collect her. Maisie and Cole would alternate as birthing partners and general helpers during the early hours of labour (‘I don’t want him at the business end,’ Sissy had categorically stated. ‘So you’re it for all things below the waist’). Then, when the baby was close to arriving, Maisie would honour the hospital’s ‘one partner in the delivery theatre’ rule by retreating to the waiting room and letting Sissy and Cole bring their firstborn into the world together.
None of the flow chart scenarios covered Sissy arriving at the door at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning, telling an exceptionally hung-over Maisie, suffering the effects of a bloodstream that was probably still 90 per cent margarita, that there had been a change of plan. The only thing that terrified her more than one of Sissy’s agendas was the thought of one of them being altered at the last minute. This couldn’t be good.
‘Anything! What do you need?’ Please make it something simple. A skinny latte. The return of her beloved chunky cherry Chubby Stick. Paper pants for the below-the-waist stuff.
‘I need you to work on the job I was supposed to be on today. A garden party. I’ve got Janice and Jane on set-up and food prep, and a dozen temp staff on their way for replenishment and table clearing, but the whole thing needs someone to oversee and co-ordinate everything and liaise with the organisers.’ Sissy’s catering company, The Carrot Schtick, had been her friend’s Plan B when they’d graduated together from RADA five years ago. A year after leaving the Academy, Maisie had still been in love with her career choice, despite only having landed a part as a psycho elf in panto. However, Sissy had realised that she hated being skint and that her dreams of being the next stand-up sensation probably weren’t going to materialise any time soon, so she’d taken over the slightly stale family business that she’d worked in part-time for years, renamed it and applied her ferocious drive into making it the success it had become. Sissy had also given Maisie enough part-time, ad-hoc shifts over the years to keep her going between acting gigs and help pay the rent for the garden flat in Glasgow’s west end that Maisie shared with Hope.
‘But you need me at the hospital for the business end,’ Maisie reminded Sissy gently, nodding pointedly towards Sissy’s nether region when she vocalised the words ‘business end’. It was impossible to hide her disappointment. For months now, she’d been looking forward to the arrival of this new baby for many reasons. It was all those poetic things about a new dawn, a new life. But most of all it would hopefully put an end to Sissy’s frankly terrifying hormonal mood swings. Maisie had been forced to disarm her when she threatened a snarky delivery guy with a French baguette last week.
‘I do need you but our actual business end needs you more. And you’ll mostly love it, I promise. It’s all our kind of people.’
Despite the anxiety of the moment, Maisie chuckled.
‘Our kind of people?’
Sissy nodded. ‘Luvvies. It’s the end-of-term fundraiser for the drama department at Glasgow College of Performing Arts. A few of the students who are graduating have organised it. Actually, the one I’ve dealt with most said she knew you…’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Erm, Carny Bassett.’
‘Yes! Carny’s lovely. I’ve met her a few times when I’ve been in giving a hand with their productions. She’s a really talented set designer,’ Maisie said, thinking this might not be too bad. Between jobs, she occasionally helped out at the college, doing workshops for the students who were focused on musical theatre or drama. She’d also helped coach the cast of their last couple of productions. For Maisie it was just a fun way to hold jaded cynicism at bay, by tapping into the enthusiasm and bright talent that was coming into the industry. Carny definitely qualified in that category.
Maisie could feel a glimmer of enthusiasm, but it was tempered by the feeling that there was a catch coming. ‘Hang on, you said I’d ‘mostly’ love. What’s not to like?’
‘It’s… well…’ Sissy was stuttering again. Another contraction on the way? Anxiety kicking in? Gut-wrenching pain? Maisie soon realised it was none of the above. Instead, it was the absolute dread of a pal asking another pal to do the unimaginable. ‘It’s in the grounds of The Lomond House Estate.’
Maisie’s soul curled up and died. Not there. Anywhere but there. She hadn’t been back since… ‘Noooooo…’ Knife. Heart.
Sissy immediately cut off her objection with a frankly unconvincing scream of ‘Aaaaargh’ as she clutched her belly again.
Maisie’s head tilted questioningly. ‘Did you just fake a contraction to manipulate me into doing this?’ Sissy had been a good actress in college, but not that bloody good.
The pregnant one gave a weak shrug of confession. ‘Low blow, I know, but I’m desperate. I can’t let them down. Janice and Jane can handle the actual buffet, but it needs to be organised and you’re my only hope.’ She buckled as she got the last word out, then uttered another pain-laden ‘Aaaargh.’ Maisie knew she was beat as she put her hands out and let Sissy hang onto them while she endured another contraction. A genuine one this time.
‘Okay, okay, breathe, just breathe, I’ve got you,’ Maisie winced through the agonising pain of Sissy crushing her knuckles with newfound superhuman strength.
Unable to contain himself any longer, the gorgeous Cole jumped out of the car and raced up the path, face aghast. ‘Sissy, babe, come on. Let’s go,’ he begged, with all the urgency of a man who didn’t want his first child to be born on the front step of a Victorian terrace garden flat, in between two plastic topiary balls and a door matt that said, ‘Come on in, bring wine’.
‘Please, Maisie,’ Sissy pleaded, coming out of the contraction with more deep breaths. ‘I’ll give you anything. You can even have this kid if I don’t like the look of it.’
Maisie laughed, in spite of the turn of events, the horror of what was being asked of her and the crushed knuckles. ‘I’ll do it. But you can keep the kid. Pay me in gin and therapy.’
‘Oh, thank god. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I’ve already emailed you all the details,’ Sissy admitted, a little shamefaced about the presumption.
The two women hugged, before Cole eventually prised his wife from Maisie’s arms. Having lost the power of her hands, she gave a weak wave. ‘Okay, go, I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry. And I’ll come to the hospital when it’s over. If you’re any kind of pal, you’ll keep your legs crossed until I get there. I love you guys.’
