A Summer of New Beginnings Read online

  A SUMMER OF NEW BEGINNINGS

  Lisa Hobman

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About A Summer of New Beginnings

  The stunning new story from the bestselling author of What Becomes of the Broken Hearted.

  Meet Zara Bailey, a travel writer paid to cover some of the globe’s most luxurious locations. Jetting from wooden huts on stilts in turquoise seas to boutique hotels with roaring fires to 7* penthouse suites with panoramic views of the world’s most glamorous cities… Zara knows hers is the definition of a dream job!

  So she is seriously shocked to receive her next assignment; Scotland’s Northcoast 500 route. By bicycle. Sleeping in a tent so basic it can’t remotely be dressed up glamping!

  But this could be just the distraction the recently heartbroken Zara needs. No men, no romance, just the breathtakingly rugged Highland scenery. Until she meets croft owner Lachlan Grant, and his black and white Border Collie Bess, that is…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About A Summer of New Beginnings

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Lisa Hobman

  Also by Lisa Hobman

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To the braw folk of the Scottish Highlands who have welcomed me and my family on every single visit.

  1

  As she stared out of the small aeroplane window, Zara Bailey smiled. She was thousands of feet up in the air and the clouds were the thick, fluffy white of meringue. But instead of being topped with fresh, exotic fruit like that she’d had in the past five days, they were tinged with the honey-gold rays of the descending sun. The thought of food made her stomach rumble and she realised she’d been so late getting to Miami International airport that she hadn’t had the chance to grab a bite to eat.

  Although she couldn’t complain really. The stateside trip had consisted of an abundance of rich food, from Cuban to Mexican and everything in between. She would have to watch herself or her next trip wouldn’t include that pretty bikini she had bought from her favourite designer boutique. There had been a tad more alcohol than she usually drank on a business trip but she’d got caught up in the whole atmosphere: the cocktails; the weather; the music; the people. She’d been well and truly sucked in. It was at times like this that she couldn’t imagine working anywhere else than The Bohemian magazine.

  Travelling the world had been something she had dreamed of all her life, especially when things at school had got to be too stressful. She had lived an imaginary life in atlases and travel journals, creating scrapbooks listing the places she would one day visit. She had been one of the intelligent kids; the nerds. She’d never been invited to parties with the popular crowd, nor had she gelled with the misfits. She’d been in a category apart and there had been only a few other occupants – a couple of whom had been tolerable and become friends. Her best friend at school, and the only person she’d kept in touch with since, was Michelle Bean. Apart from their intelligence they had another thing in common: they had both been ribbed by the cool kids – Shelley for her name and Zara for her cheap, often second-hand clothes and her spectacles that had enlarged her denim-blue eyes. The two had become known as Granny Bailey and Jelly Bean.

  They couldn’t wait to leave.

  Zara’s parents had given up on trying to improve her high-school experience and had resorted to telling her, ‘One day, Zara, you’ll show them. One day when you’re a rich and famous journalist on TV shows they’ll regret ever teasing you.’ She’d hoped they were right but hadn’t been about to hold her breath. A couple of last-minute-deal package holidays to Spain with the family hadn’t quite matched up to the dream she had and so the world had remained a mystery she was desperate to solve. It was only after university when she’d landed a job as luxury travel writer with the prestigious magazine that ‘showing them all’ had looked like a possibility; although she had never been presented with the opportunity to make good on it.

  Until now.

  When the silver envelope had landed on the doormat of her two-bedroomed Peckham pad she had opened it with intrigue. But on seeing the invite contained therein she had stared at it in disbelief. The words New Malden High Sixth Form Class of 2008 Reunion screamed at her in shiny, Arial bold font from the card and a shiver of dread manifested itself in a funny little squeak from her throat. Memories of herself and Shelley in lower sixth form, being shunned and, worse still, laughed at and taunted, returned to torment her.

  Perhaps she should say she was unavailable. After all, she hated school and most of the people she had attended with, so why the hell would she want to meet up with them now, after all this time when her life was finally on track?

  Then it dawned on her twenty-seven-year-old self. She’d bloody well earned her bragging rights. And what were these events if not to show off and tell everyone how well you’ve done for yourself? And to have pissing contests about who’d achieved the most amazing things since leaving school? And let’s face it, I’ve done pretty bloody well.

  After graduating from university with a first-class degree in Journalism she had landed her job as one half of the travel-writing team at one of the UK’s top mags, based in central London. Her opposite, Dillon, was the adventure and outdoors writer – a job that she couldn’t imagine doing for all the tea in China. She’d finally got to travel the world and, not only that, she’d stayed in many of the top hotels too. She had so much of the world left to see and she was excited to discover where her job might take her next.

  Maybe the reunion would be a great way to stick two fingers up at the so-called popular kids – many of whom, she expected, had amounted to a great big nada. It wasn’t the best reason to go but it was a reason. She resolved to think about it. She had Miami to focus on. And so that was it, the invitation remained on the mantelshelf above her modern, state-of-the-art, feature electric fire whilst she went off to write about the city at the southern tip of the sunshine state.

  *

  The flat always felt chilly and impersonal when she arrived home after a trip. And seeing as the sojourns were becoming more frequent, she had pondered finding a lodger. She had been with Josh, her boyfriend, for around a year now and even though he was wonderful it felt a little too soon to be thinking about asking him to move in. And there was no way the two of them would fit into his rented studio flat for longer than a weekend at a time. But coming h
ome to an empty apartment was a little depressing and having someone around might just make things better. Instead of humming Eric Carmen’s ‘All By Myself’ like Bridget Jones, she’d feel inclined to hum something happier and at least it would mean the place wouldn’t feel quite so lifeless and cold. Her obvious choice of housemate was no longer a possibility seeing as Shelley had recently moved in with her boyfriend.

  Zara had been so lucky to find her place and at such a great price too. It was an ex-local-authority block, which wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but inside it was spacious and bright with an open-plan layout, thanks to the changes she’d made. She’d wielded a sledgehammer on more than one occasion, under the strict supervision of her dad, Carl, who was fortunately a builder by trade. It had taken quite a bit of refurbishment and there was still plenty to do – another problem with being away so much – but her dad always insisted on working on the place whilst she was away. Now, it was beginning to look every bit the modern, independent woman’s bolthole that she had hoped for. To make matters even better, estate agents had recently valued it at around fifty grand more than she’d paid so she knew she was on the right track as far as her investment was concerned.

  Living alone wasn’t something she’d slipped into easily. Coming from a family of three kids, two dogs and two parents all crammed into a three bedroomed local-authority house in New Malden meant that the peace and quiet of her new place was somewhat alien. Her mother, Suze, was obsessed with the royal family and every royal celebration – of which there seemed to be many – meant bunting and flags and neighbours round for frequent parties, increasing the occupants of their relatively small home tenfold. Royal memorabilia covered every possible surface and every event that had occurred since Suze had been a child herself, and Carl was incredible to put up with it, so Zara thought. He would often come home from working at some old lady’s house with a token that he had been given for his collector wife.

  Andrew, Zara’s older brother, had followed in the footsteps of her father and was now working with him, and even though he had moved into a rented flat with his pregnant girlfriend, they seemed to spend every spare minute in the family home. Whilst her younger brother – William, a latecomer to the family – was on the verge of leaving high school and trying to figure out what to do with his life. He had a tendency to play his music too loud, which hadn’t been conducive to study or work when Zara was at home. The quiet at her own place was sometimes welcome and she often tried to convince herself that living alone was a breath of fresh air. But in reality she knew that there was no air quite like that of the cake-aroma-filled stuff she inhaled when she visited her family.

  As she wheeled her case from the entrance, along the hardwood floor towards her bedroom she tried to think of possible flat-share options. She knew there were a couple of new starters at the office in the Fashion department so perhaps that would be a good starting point. She would weigh up the pros and cons when she had more energy but right now she needed sleep.

  In her peripheral vision she spotted the silver envelope on the mantel and rolled her eyes. She would have to make a decision soon. Whether that entailed an acceptance or an excuse she hadn’t decided 100 per cent, so it too would have to wait until she was capable of cognitive thought.

  Catching sight of herself in the decorative hall mirror, she scrunched her nose distastefully. Her chocolate-brown hair was falling in straggly tendrils from the bun she had tied in a hurry as the plane had landed and the mascara that had been rubbed around her tired, puffy eyes made her look like a goth, but she was too exhausted to shower. Procrastination was definitely the name of the game for now.

  Once her case was unpacked and the dirty laundry stuffed in its basket she wandered, zombie-like, to the kitchen. She tugged open the fridge and smiled. Bless you, Mum. There was a stack of ready meals for one, some fresh fruit and a carton of milk. A bottle of Pinot Grigio, her absolute fave wine, was chilling on the bottom shelf. She was so hungry and the fact that she had slept through the meal service hadn’t really helped much. However, it was almost one in the morning and even zapping something in the microwave seemed too much effort. She spotted a wholemeal loaf on the counter top and decided she would make toast instead, and as she waited for it to pop up she leaned on her elbows, yawning. After managing only a couple of bites she abandoned the thought of food and surrendered to the bigger priority. Sleep.

  2

  Zara had left her bicycle at home today, figuring it was far too hot to make the thirty-minute journey her usual way. And seeing as parking near work in Central London was a nightmare the old rust bucket of a car would stay in its little allocated space too. She often wondered why she even had a car for the minimal number of times it saw the light of day – mainly to visit her folks every few weeks when work and social life allowed.

  The Tube journey to the office was only short but she loved people-watching. London was so immensely diverse and regardless of how many times she made the trip to work she rarely saw the same people twice. Whether it was a person with bright pink hair, someone with many piercings or a brightly dressed character wearing flamboyant, Mardi Gras style clothes amongst the suited business types, the variety of Londoner on the morning commute, was vast. Today’s train journey was overly warm and an odour of sweat permeated her nostrils, which was rather distracting and very unpleasant. A man in a dirty T-shirt stood close by, reading a novel in one hand and clinging onto the overhead rail with the other. He had a distinctly damp patch around his armpit and when the train jerked to a halt at her station he almost landed in her lap.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he mumbled without even making eye contact. That was the only thing she disliked about the capital; people could be quite impersonal. She didn’t bother to respond and grabbed her bag, before making her way to the exit and stepping quickly off the train.

  It was only eight in the morning, but the city was already buzzing to life. Fumes from the myriad of vehicles on the packed roads burned her lungs and she coughed hard. She had only been away a few days but already her body had got used to the fresh sea air they had been filled with, and for a moment she missed the golden, sandy beach of the resort hotel she’d had the pleasure of staying in. Her melancholy was brief, seeing as she knew she’d be off on her travels again before long. The piece for the magazine had already been emailed in and Noah, her long-haired, Australian editor and founder of the magazine, had already gushed about her wonderful prose. He had called her into the office today for a meeting and she just knew it was going to be about her next assignment. This was the best part of her job.

  She grabbed a takeout coffee from a street vendor just outside the Tube station and set off to walk to the imposing office block where The Bohemian was situated. The cerulean sky overhead was cloudless and the sun glinted off the windows of each of the tall buildings that surrounded her as she walked. Her back was warm from the rays that were reaching earth without much of a barrier and she questioned her choice of beverage. As she took tentative sips of the steaming liquid, she dodged other business people making their way to work; most of them sharing one side of their phone conversations as they hurried along, heads down, deep in concentration.

  She arrived at the office and took the lift to the fourth floor. The small, enclosed metal box was hot and claustrophobic and she couldn’t wait for the air conditioning of the office. Although many times when she visited she recalled needing to wear a cardigan as Noah set the temperature on the AC unit and she felt sure he was really a menopausal woman in disguise. Today, however, the cool air would be welcome.

  There was a bizarre hush as she entered the open-plan area of the office where the casually dressed advertising agents were based. She caught the eye of Marco, one of the friends she’d made very early on in her time with the magazine. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Oh, great, what the hell has happened? Why was there such a negative atmosphere around the place that was usually filled with laughter and chatter? She mouthed the words, ‘
What’s happened?’ But Marco just huffed air through puffed cheeks and shook his head again.

  She glanced over to Dillon’s office and saw the blinds were closed. She guessed that he and Noah had had one of their arguments. Dillon had been the other travel writer ever since the first publication and he was the longest-standing member of Noah’s staff. The two men were close friends and were known for being brutally honest with each other. No doubt she’d find out the gossip later from Marco. He loved drama and the first chance he’d get, she felt sure he would fill her in with the gory details.

  ‘Ah, here she is – our intrepid luxury travel writer,’ Noah announced loudly as he appeared from the direction of his own office and she felt her cheeks heating as all eyes were suddenly fixed on her. ‘Come on through, Zara, I have great news for you.’

  She quickly forgot about Marco and Dillon and advertising people as a buzz of excitement rippled up her spine and she followed Noah into his office.

  As he closed the door she took a seat. ‘I’m excited to hear what you’ve got for me. That last trip was absolutely wonderful. I never really associated Miami with luxury holidays but I can now concur that I was wrong. You were right.’ She knew he liked to be buttered up and a little greasing of his ego would help keep her in his good graces.

  Noah took a seat behind his desk and smoothed down his collarless, pale blue linen shirt. She had expected something a little different when she had applied for this job, and as soon as she’d walked through the doors on the day of her interview, she’d realised she wasn’t far from the mark with her assumptions. In spite of sending his journalists off on trips all over the world by aeroplane, Noah was very much into green living. Everything he ate was vegetarian, and everything he owned was fair trade or home-grown. She envied the lush green garden at his luxury North Cray home. She’d been in complete awe at the first summer gathering he’d held at his palatial house and hoped that one day she’d have a place where she could sit and enjoy some beautiful scenery and perhaps pluck fruit from her own trees. It wouldn’t be quite so grand as Noah’s, obviously. His wife was from a wealthy family and ran her own fashion business whilst their kids went to one of the best private boarding schools in London. Zara knew she’d likely never be so rich.