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PRAISE FOR LAURA JANE WILLIAMS

‘Laura Jane Williams combines sharp, relatable wit and bold, joyful sincerity’

Dolly Alderton

‘Hilarious, heart-warming and truly authentic – your modern rom com must-read’

Hello!

‘Sexy, fun and full of heart’

Beth O’Leary

‘A joyful, romantic and life-affirming love story’

Red

‘I can’t remember the last time a book made me forget I had a phone. Pure escapist fiction!’

Stacey Halls

‘Joyful and romantic … tailor-made for summer’

Cosmopolitan

‘Charming and full of warmth. This is the book equivalent of a big hug’

Sophia Money-Coutts

‘LJ’s honesty and voice are unique’

Stylist

‘Smart, sisterly storytelling … You can practically feel modern romance evolving as you’re reading it’

Observer

‘A perfect summer read that will leave you grinning’

Closer

‘Tender, energetic and authentic … Such a current love story, but so timeless too’

Daisy Buchanan

‘This funny, uplifting read is balm for the soul’

Fabulous

‘A thoroughly modern love story. Smart and emotional – I couldn’t put it down’

Sarah Morgan

‘This is the laugh-out-loud love story you need to read this summer’

Glamour

‘Fresh, warm, and honest … a refreshingly different take on modern relationships’

Louise O’Neill

‘An absolute delight!’

Emily Henry

‘A charming, uplifting contemporary romance – this is Laura Jane Williams at her best’

Sophie Cousens

‘Clever, hilarious and a total unbridled joy to read, get it now or prepare for the impending FOMO’

Lucy Vine

‘A hilarious and brilliantly written story from one of our favourite writers’

Bella

‘This is the feminist rom com of the summer’

Holly Bourne

‘A cult hit’

Grazia

‘Real escapism with warmth, a lightness of touch and vivid characters you really root for’

Ella Dove

‘OH MY WORD. Such a beautiful read … it just made me tingle with joy’

Elle Cook

‘A modern, playful romance with flirty rhyming texts, real bffs, and mind-blowing sex. So refreshing!’

Lily Lindon

‘Simply gorgeous and effortlessly charming. Laura has created a cast of seriously engaging characters who come to life like real life pals. I have three words of advice: ADD TO CART’

Hannah Doyle

‘What a book! Sexy, fun, but also heartfelt, real and deep’

Emily Stone

‘An absolutely gorgeous, funny and romantic delight – I adored it!’

Rachael Lucas

Dedication

For Molly Walker-Sharp

thank you for being a dream when

you inherited a nightmare (!)

1

Evie

A movie set is an extraordinary place.

Lights! Camera! Action!

All right, Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.

The camera department mill about preparing their equipment, loading film and figuring out shots. Grip and electric crew yell as they set up the lighting, sound and video playback, run cables and prepare their carts. Hair and make-up are with the actors in dressing rooms or trailers, exchanging newsworthy gossip or listening to lines. And the sets! To walk through the lot is to walk through history. Who cares that Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul when over there on Stage 24 is where they filmed Friends, and right around the corner is where they did Jurassic Park. Marvel as the director goes over the script, deciding what will be shot, and how, with the director of photography. The chatter of sound mixers and assistants, caterers and producers. How many people say they want to make TV or movies? How many people actually get to do it? Everyone there has made it against the odds, and they know it. It’s what breathes magic into the air.

Fame, I’m gonna live forever.

The promise of all this – the lights, and the camera, and the action – is probably what made Duke Carlisle become who he is, Evie thinks. She got an extended bio through from her agent once they knew Duke was involved in the screen adaptation of her book. It said that little boy in Sunderland, England, knew that if he couldn’t do this – act, in Hollywood, for the whole world to see – then there wasn’t much point to anything. Now he’s internationally applauded, recognised everywhere he goes, and no doubt has as much money as … well, perhaps not God, but definitely a senior royal. He’s a working-class northern boy come good, just trying to make his mama proud, apparently. A direct quote from that bio? ‘It doesn’t get much better than this.’

But …

The reality of Hollywood is what makes Evie Bird want to avoid the movies for the rest of her life. She grew up on set, watching her dad give instructions to actors speaking the words he’d written – and she knows it’s not all as it seems. Abuse of power is real, and everyone works in the knowledge that one false move and they can be replaced like that, because there are a million other actors and directors and screenwriters ready and willing to take their place, so the hours are long and the morals dubious.

There’s fighting, there’s backstabbing, there’s torrid affairs … it was par for the course that Evie’s father would spend her childhood demonstrating the hat-trick, then.

When your parents are famous in Hollywood, you either want to be just like them, or nothing like them at all.

Evie couldn’t stand to end up like her father, and so no. She wants nothing to do with it, not ever.

Storytelling is in her blood, but over her dead body will she work in the movies.

She doesn’t talk about her father, or her history. Nobody knows she is Donald Gilbert’s daughter and she’d like to keep it that way. She writes books with her mother’s maiden name, instead – far, far away from All That – and it’s a quiet life that she’s more than happy with.

It’s unfortunate, then, that she’s contractually obliged to fly out to Duke Carlisle’s set if she wants to cash the adaptation cheque that she so desperately needs. Unless you’re Dan Brown writing The Da Vinci Code, book-writing seldom makes you rich, and although money can’t make you happy it sure as hell can cover the next ten years of your mother’s care home – so what choice does Evie have now it’s been offered? Even if the caveat is watching it all get done?

A movie set sounds like a dream come true for most people. But for Evie? Urgh. It’s a nightmare.

And she’s going anyway.

‘Nobody has a face like that and a functioning personality,’ Evie declares, stood at the mirror in a flesh-coloured bra that’s too small and faded high-rise jeans. She has a wardrobe full of stuff and yet lives in a four-year-old pair of Levi’s, so well-worn they hold the shape of her even when they’re on the hanger. ‘And Duke Carlisle?’ she continues, noticing a bit of kale in between her two front teeth, left over from lunch. She grimaces at the mirror and tries to rub it out with her finger. ‘That’s the lamest stage name ever. He sounds like a failed army general with a cocktail named after him.’

Magda, her best friend, shakes her head playfully, which is fair enough. Evie has essentially been performing the same bitter monologue since the summer, when she found out she was being summoned to set to help with ‘extra backstage content’. She locates her toothbrush in the bathroom adjoining the bedroom they’re packing in, finally getting half a salad out of her teeth. Great. Lunch had been, what, four hours ago? And nobody told her she looked like the Cookie Monster meets Austin Powers, via Whole Foods.

‘I’ll bet he’s a total jerk,’ Evie concludes, grabbing a grey roll-neck and holding it up to her body, considering it absent-mindedly, then switching to the ribbed cream one off the bed. Maybe she’ll pack both, she thinks, get some wear out of them. She bought them on sale six weeks ago, but they’ve still got their price tags on. She might even pack some trousers that aren’t her jeans. When was the last time she put them in the laundry, even?

She tosses the sweaters over to Magda, for the ‘to be packed’ pile. God she’s grateful for the help – if only to get all the complaining out of her system.

‘I know I’m being boring, going on and on about it,’ Evie continues. ‘But honestly. My whole childhood was watching celebrities on movie sets only being kind to the people who can be helpful to them. It’s so screwed up. Although I will admit, up-and-coming actors aren’t like that. They’re nice to everyone, just in case.’

‘I’d hardly call Duke Carlisle up-and-coming though,’ notes Magda, helpfully folding the stuff Evie has chosen. ‘Even you knew who he was, and you don’t know anything about anybody. You basically defy the laws of pop culture. How can anybody be so removed from everything featured in the world of fame?’

‘You’re saying it like it’s an insult,’ Evie shoots back, searching out a clip for her long blonde mane from the nightstand. ‘And yet I receive it as a compliment.’

‘How unlike you—’ Magda smirks, pursing her lips teasingly ‘—to edit the script as we go.’

‘Consistency is key, oh dear one.’

Evie turns back to the wardrobe now her hair is off her neck – it’s heavy work, packing for three weeks in Europe, and she’s getting clammy. She decides that she needs a couple of thin turtlenecks for layers. How cold can it be in Germany? She’s pretty sure winters on the continent aren’t anything like her Utah ones, but she should be prepared. There’s no such thing as bad weather – that’s what her mother always said – only unsuitable clothing. She runs a hand through the hangers, considering what else she might need, adding: ‘Give your readers what they want, with a few surprises. That’s plot, baby.’

‘The surprise in this story being that you’re actually taking the trip,’ says Magda, plainly. She shrugs as she says it, as though adding: God, I never thought I’d see the day.

Evie holds up a hand. ‘Don’t. I’m still in denial. I’d rather do a naked fan dance in an old people’s home than step foot onto a movie set. Not that anyone understands that, of course. Well, except you.’ She gives Magda a smile of genuine thanks. ‘But, I have an action plan for getting through it. Failing to prepare is preparing to fail, after all – and I am wholly committed to engaging zero shenanigans, and returning with exactly one finished book for next year, otherwise my editor will kill me.’

‘I’m all ears.’ Magda folds the last of the sweaters and, to Evie’s perplexity, moves on to shoes and underwear simultaneously. ‘Trust me,’ Magda tells her, as Evie issues a concerned look. Magda waves away her interference with one hand, stuffing Evie’s sneakers with lace thongs with the other. ‘And fill me in on the plan. Let me live vicariously through you. I mean, God, if school was already out, I’d be coming with you. Because I’m one of the naïve civilians who thinks it’s all going to be so terribly glamorous.’

‘Huh,’ snorts Evie. ‘And anyway,’ she adds, not wanting to linger on what’s in store. ‘Not long to go now. And I’ll be back in time for Christmas, just you and me. We can totally ignore that it’s even happening, if you want, or make a big thing of it like kids, or be drunk throughout, or whatever. We’ll play it absolutely by your ear.’

Magda pauses her methodical shoe wadding – a packing method Evie can already see is just as efficient as Magda had suggested, proving that it was totally right to ask for her assistance – and looks up.

‘Just don’t get divorced, that’s my advice.’ Magda sighs sadly. ‘It’s crappy. Crappy, crappy, crappy.’

She pulls a face, sticking out her bottom lip in a dramatic but, to Evie, totally justified fashion, and Evie pads across to the other side of the bed to hook an arm around her best friend tightly. It was ever thus. There was an Evie and Magda before there was a Magda and Jamie, and there’ll be an Evie and Magda long after the divorce papers are finally signed.

‘You know,’ Evie says, softly, ‘six months ago, and you’d have said that through guttural sobs and scoops of Ben and Jerry’s from the carton. You’ve come a long way, baby. I know it hurts, but remember that much. Time, she’s a healer. You’re doing so well.’

Magda looks at her side-on. ‘A divorcée,’ she says. ‘And for what? I feel like Miranda in the Sex and the City reboot.’ She blows a raspberry. ‘And Just Like That, Magda blew up her life because it wasn’t exciting enough, and found herself single in her thirties again.’

‘Hey,’ says Evie, pretending to be hurt. ‘It ain’t so bad.’

‘You have Carl.’

‘Hmm. Do I though?’ Evie pulls a face. ‘That isn’t … that. If you know what I mean.’

‘You mean it’s temporary on purpose,’ says Magda.

‘Everything in this life is temporary,’ replies Evie, and the comment hits harder than she meant it to. She thinks of her mom.

Evie squeezes her friend’s shoulder once more, kissing her cheek, and then they work in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually Magda announces: ‘I’ve just been thinking lately that I just wish one of us did something really wrong, you know? Committed fraud or didn’t disclose a secret family or even had just a simple, straightforward affair with a secretary.’

‘You don’t have a secretary,’ Evie points out.

‘Jamie does.’

‘Do some digging? Maybe you’ll get lucky, and he’s been sleeping with her after all.’

‘She’s a lesbian,’ Magda points out. ‘But thanks for brainstorming options with me.’

‘Any time.’ Evie winks.

With a flourish, Magda proudly fondles the expertly folded clothes she’s organised, cute sweaters and matching wool hats and festive scarves, declaring: ‘At least I’m good at this, if nothing else.’

‘You’re my hero for getting through it,’ Evie says, eyeing her. ‘And I don’t mean the packing – though it is pretty spectacular. I think the fact that you are still standing after what you’ve been through means we should build a statue in your honour. Seriously. You and Jamie have both been so sensible and nice to each other. It almost makes me want to give it a try.’

‘You’d have to get married first,’ says Magda.

Evie pulls a face. ‘A sticking point,’ she concedes.

Magda looks skyward – not even God can help Evie engage romance in real life – before taking a break to climb onto the bed. As she crosses her legs Evie’s dog, Doctor Dolittle, sees the invitation for snuggles, leaping up to nestle in Magda’s lap. Evie needs to drop him at the doggy hotel shortly. She adds it to her growing mental list.

‘I’d do it again,’ Magda says, ruffling the fur between Doc’s ears. ‘One day. I think. With somebody more … you know. If there was more passion involved, not just a shared interest in a Netflix series.’

‘Oh, well then, two for you, none for me. You can have my wedding.’

‘I don’t think they’re rationed out,’ Magda quips.

‘Maybe they should be.’

‘But Carl is so nice. Don’t you ever think …’

Evie tuts dramatically. ‘Carl and I have an agreement, and it involves two lives, two nights a week and two hours together. Don’t judge what you don’t understand, thankyouverymuch.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Magda with an odd raise of the eyebrows that conveys her absolute judgement without another word. Magda says she just wants Evie to be happy, to which Evie often replies: stop hassling me about it, then. Even in divorce, her best friend still believes in happy endings, which is ironic considering it’s Evie who writes the romances.

Evie checks the suitcase still has room for the last bits and bobs that will have to go in in the morning – toiletry bag, chargers, incidentals – by testing it closes. It does, but only just.

‘We got side-tracked,’ Magda reminds Evie, circling back around to the original point. ‘Your plan for survival is …?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Evie nods. ‘Well, basically, I’m on deadline for next year’s Christmas book – if I come back here with less than a hundred thousand words to my name you’ll have to lock me in the basement and only let me out for pee breaks and thirty minutes of fresh air – so I figure I’ll do whatever they need me to do on set and then peace out of there. As far as my agent can tell they just want me for extra content? For social media or bonus material or whatever? Maybe they’re making a behind-the-scenes doc for YouTube. I don’t know … if I think about it too much, I go crazy trying to understand why it’s an actual contractual obligation instead of an offer I could’ve turned down.’ Evie pauses, here, closing her eyes and taking a theatrical deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she continues: ‘So, once I’ve done whatever bull they need me to do, I’ll just write. At the end of the day, it’s a big fat cheque and a weight off of my mind in terms of Mom’s care, and as long as I get my word count, I suppose I’ll survive …’

‘The Romantic Road does have all those Christmas markets and magical castles and ice skating …’ Magda points out, referencing the area of Germany they’re filming in. ‘If you’re writing next year’s Christmas book surely you can hunt all that stuff out to get into the spirit for what you’re working on now?’

‘Exactly,’ agrees Evie. ‘And I’m not too proud to admit that it’s time to write from somewhere other than the local coffee shop. Freddie’s has a soya latte that’s hard to beat, but I’m sure there’s some quaint Bavarian café that will suit me just fine.’

‘So you’re going to do the bare minimum for the movie, because movie sets suck and so does everyone working on them …’

Evie throws her friend an appreciative nose-crinkle then. Thank the Lord she gets it, where thousands wouldn’t: this isn’t exciting for Evie. It’s an inconvenience.

‘And meanwhile, you’re going to write your last forty thousand words, drink hot chocolate and eat little German pastries, and call me daily to fill me in on it all, reminding me that the last week of the semester is always the hardest.’

‘You got it! And …’ Evie adds. ‘Above all else …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going to avoid anyone famous. The director, the actors, the screenwriter even … They can do them, and I’ll do me.’

‘Of course.’ Magda laughs.

‘Egotistical, arrogant, fake Hollywood,’ Evie nods. ‘I’m going to enjoy the days as much as I can – but that doesn’t mean I won’t be counting them down, too.’

‘Got it,’ Magda shoots back. Then she thinks about something, her face lighting up as she hits on an idea. ‘But for what it’s worth?’ she adds, mischievously. ‘If it’s true that Duke Carlisle is now single again, please do pass along my number. You might think he’s a jackass waiting to be found out, but I happen to think he’s hot as hell.’

2

Duke

Duke Carlisle has never heard of a man dropping dead from a broken heart, but that doesn’t mean it’s never happened.

The pull in his chest tests him – mocks him, even, for being such a fool.

He’s been such a stupid bloody idiot.

How did he not see it?

Why did he ever believe Daphne when she said I love you? He obsesses over it for the trillionth time as he navigates the walk through Frankfurt airport to his waiting car out front, his Nikes thudding the ground, his designer tracksuit slung low on his hips. The click-click-click of paparazzi cameras and their accompanying flashes act as a baseline to the cries of fans who’ve been tipped off on his arrival time by some blog or social media account. It’s mad, the information superfans can get hold of. Somebody always leaks it, on nearly every production or media tour. He steels himself. They tell him it’s the price of fame. For years now, he’s been willing to pay it. He keeps his blue, almond-shaped eyes down, obscured by his designer sunglasses, and raises a large hand to his face to shield himself. He’s doing his best not to be grumpy. He really is.

Daphne Diamond, Duke’s improbably named co-star, now ex-girlfriend and the woman responsible for said debilitating chest pains, isn’t paying the same tax on her celebrity today. They were on the same flight from London, but she’s been ushered through the back exit, the private escape designed for high net-worth flyers and movie stars, probably already halfway to the hotel. She’s persona non grata with the producers right now, after attracting damning headlines about her cheating ways. Duke sighs. Daphne was caught in a tryst with their married director three days into filming the interior shots for On the Romantic Road at Pinewood Studios, photos splashed across every front page of her pressed up against a back-alley wall, her tongue in Brad’s mouth and Brad’s hands on her arse. And they’ve still got three weeks of all working together in Germany ahead of them. It’s rough.

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