The Pieces of You and Me Read online

  About the Author

  RACHEL BURTON has been making up stories since she first learned to talk. After many false starts she finally made one up that was worth writing down.

  After graduating with a degree in Classics and another in English, she didn’t really know what to do when she grew up. She has worked as a waitress, a paralegal and a yoga teacher.

  She has spent most of her life between Cambridge and London but now lives in Yorkshire with her husband and three cats. The main loves of her life are The Beatles and very tall romantic heroes.

  Find her on Twitter & Instagram as @bookish_yogi or search Facebook for Rachel Burton Author. She is always happy to talk books, writing, music, cats and how the weather in Yorkshire is rubbish. She is mostly dreaming of her next holiday…

  Praise for The Pieces of You and Me

  ‘A beautiful story of second-chance love between two perfectly imperfect characters. Rachel writes with such emotional honesty, it leaves me lost for words.’

  Sarah Bennett

  ‘Once again Rachel Burton has blown me away with a poignant romance entwined in the battles of the real world … A down to earth and wonderfully uplifting story of love and second chances.’

  Lauren North

  ‘Once again Rachel Burton writes a beautifully moving, poignant and wistful romance.’

  Victoria Cooke

  ‘Achingly beautiful and tender. Rachel sublimely blends heartbreak and happiness in the pursuit of discovering “what if…?” Simply gorgeous.’

  Pernille Hughes

  More Praise for Rachel Burton

  ‘Beautifully written and achingly honest’

  Jenny Ashcroft on The Things We Need to Say

  ‘A gloriously romantic tale of family secrets’

  Rachael Lucas on The Many Colours of Us

  Also by Rachel Burton

  The Many Colours of Us

  The Things We Need to Say

  The Pieces of You and Me

  BY RACHEL BURTON

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Rachel Burton 2019

  Rachel Burton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008284527

  Version: 2019-01-23

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Praise for The Pieces of You and Me

  More Praise for Rachel Burton

  Also by Rachel Burton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  June 2017

  Chapter 1: Jess

  Chapter 2: Jess

  Chapter 3: Rupert

  Chapter 4: Jess

  Chapter 5: Jess

  Chapter 6: Rupert

  July 2017

  Chapter 7: Jess

  Chapter 8: Jess

  Chapter 9: Rupert

  Chapter 10: Jess

  Chapter 11: Jess

  Chapter 12: Jess

  Chapter 13: Rupert

  Chapter 14: Jess

  Chapter 15: Rupert

  Chapter 16: Jess

  Chapter 17: Jess

  Chapter 18: Jess

  Chapter 19: Rupert

  Chapter 20: Jess

  Chapter 21: Rupert

  Chapter 22: Jess

  September 2017

  Chapter 23: Rupert

  Chapter 24: Jess

  Chapter 25: Jess

  January 2018

  Chapter 26: Rupert

  Chapter 27: Jess

  Chapter 28: Jess

  Chapter 29: Jess

  Chapter 30: Rupert

  February 2018

  Chapter 31: Jess

  Chapter 32: Rupert

  March 2018

  Chapter 33: Jess

  Chapter 34: Rupert

  Chapter 35: Jess

  Chapter 36: Rupert

  Chapter 37: Jess

  Chapter 38: Rupert

  Chapter 39: Jess

  September 2018

  Acknowledgements

  Turn the Page for an Extract From The Things We Need to Say…

  HQ Letter

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For everyone who has ever wondered ‘What If …?’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E.) is a long-term (chronic), fluctuating, neurological condition that causes symptoms affecting many body systems, more commonly the nervous and immune systems. M.E. affects an estimated 250,000 people in the UK, and around 17 million people worldwide.

  With so many different and fluctuating symptoms, no two people’s experience of the illness are ever quite the same. To tell Jess and Rupert’s story I have drawn on my own experience of living with M.E. for the last twenty years, along with the stories of the kind people who I have spoken to over the years (with permission).

  For more information go to the Action for M.E. website – https://www.actionforme.org.uk/

  JUNE 2017

  1

  JESS

  It was his laugh that I recognised first. That low rumble was as familiar to me as my own, even after nearly a decade. I was at the bar talking to Gemma when I heard it. I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I watched as recognition dawned on Gemma’s face too. As she looked towards the space behind me, her eyes widened and her perfect eyebrows arched in surprise. She put her cocktail down on the bar beside her and slipped off her stool.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I asked quietly.

  She nodded.

  ‘We need to go,’ I said. But even before the words left my mouth, Gemma was halfway across the pub, and more than halfway to drunk if her swaying was anything to go by.

  ‘Oi, Tremayne,’ she shouted. ‘Long time no see.’

  I must have turned around at the same time as he looked up. When our eyes met, I felt twenty-one again. I hadn’t seen Rupert Tremayne for ten years.

  ‘Gemma,’ he said, holding out a hand to steady her, smiling as he took in the tacky plastic veil and L-plates she was wearing. ‘I’m assuming by your natty attire that this is your hen night and you’ve found some poor fool to marry you.’ If he was surprised to see us, he didn’t show it. He acted as though he’d only been gone for a week, not a decade.

  As he leant down to kiss her on the cheek, his eyes caught mine again. I knew then that I couldn’t avoid this, that I couldn’t avoid him. My stomach was twisting itself into knots of anxiety as he walked past Gemma, towards me. I felt as though the whole pub was watching us.

  He stood in front of me, a foot taller than I was, looking down into my eyes. His blond hair was still a little bit too long, greyi
ng at the temples; the collar of his jacket was turned up. He looked the same but different – as though he had become slightly worn over the years. But his eyes were still the eyes of the boy I used to know. He didn’t speak, and my mind went blank, my mouth dry. Neither of us knew what to say.

  ‘Jessie,’ he said eventually. I couldn’t tell whether he was pleased I was there or not. Nobody had called me Jessie since he left.

  ‘I thought you were in America,’ I replied quietly, remembering the last time I saw him – walking away from me at Heathrow airport, leaving me with that strange sense of lightness on the ring finger of my left hand.

  ‘I came back,’ he said.

  Gemma and Caitlin appeared then. They both seemed delighted to see Rupert. They’d known him almost as long as they’d known me – until he left.

  ‘Come on,’ Gemma said to him, pulling at his arm. ‘Your friends are joining us for drinking games.’ He was still staring at me and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch at Gemma’s exuberance. He never was the sort of person to play drinking games.

  Gemma, Caitlin and I had known each other for nearly twenty years – twice as long as he’d been away. We met on the first day at our all-girls private school and we clung together for safety. They called us ‘new money’ because our school fees weren’t paid for by family wealth left over the generations – we didn’t have trust funds. Truth be told, we didn’t fit in at all, but at least we had each other. My school fees were paid out of the money my grandmother left when she died, Caitlin’s by her father’s accountancy business and Gemma’s … well, none of us were really sure where Gemma’s family got their money from – not then at least.

  Rupert and his friends joined our table, squeezing together in an already crowded pub. We never got around to any kind of game, drinking or otherwise, because as soon as we were all settled everybody started talking at once, trying to get to know each other, trying to understand how each of us fitted into the jigsaw of Gemma’s hen weekend. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the sensation of Rupert’s leg against mine. I felt like a teenager again, transported back to the long summer holidays we used to spend together in Cambridge when he was home from boarding school. It felt as though he had never been away.

  I wondered how many years it had been since we were last all together, sitting around a pub table.

  I listened as Rupert answered Gemma’s barrage of questions; I learned that he lectured in political history at York University, that he came back from America for this job. He didn’t tell me directly why he was here, but he knew I was listening.

  Later, in the pub toilets, Gemma cornered me. Her eyes weren’t quite focused, her lipstick was smudged and her speech a little slurred.

  ‘He’s single, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Who is?’ I asked.

  ‘Rupert bloody Tremayne,’ she replied as she leaned over the washbasin towards the mirror to straighten her fake veil and fix her lipstick. ‘Who else?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For finding out if he’s single or not,’ she went on. ‘He’s been single for years, since before he left America – which means things never worked out with Camilla after all.’

  ‘It’s none of my business whether he’s single or not,’ I said.

  ‘Oh come on, Jess, you know you never got over him. This is your chance to get under him again.’

  ‘Gem, I know you’re over the moon about getting married and I’m delighted for you, but it doesn’t mean that you get to matchmake. Even if I am the last one left on the shelf.’ I smiled. After Caitlin got married the same year that she qualified as a nurse, Gemma and I had always had a running joke about who would be the first of us to get married. I was living with Dan then, so we always assumed it would be me. It’s funny how things work out. I never thought being the last one to get married would bother me as much as it did.

  We had turned thirty the previous year and not long afterwards Mike asked Gemma to marry him. Now we were thirty-one, Gemma’s wedding just a few weeks away, and I couldn’t deny that something had shifted – a feeling that I’d forgotten something, or something was missing. I wanted what Gemma had, what Caitlin had. I denied it of course, because I never thought it mattered to me. Since the day Rupert Tremayne walked away from me I hadn’t believed I cared. It turned out it mattered a lot – I was just too scared to admit it.

  Gemma leaned towards me with a wink. ‘You must have seen the way he’s looking at you,’ she whispered. ‘It’s still there, isn’t it? That spark between you two?’

  I didn’t say anything, unwilling to admit how seeing him again after all these years was making me feel.

  ‘Come on,’ Gemma said, heading back towards the bar again. ‘Once more unto the breach.’

  ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I asked. ‘I’ll be out soon.

  Being near him again was bringing it all back, his thigh pressing against mine, the way he held his pint glass, the way he smiled. I didn’t want it brought back. I couldn’t face it.

  Because Gemma was right – I never did get over him.

  2

  JESS

  When I came back into the bar, Gemma was trying to organise everybody to go to a nightclub with her. This was the most disorganised hen weekend I’d ever been to. Usually every minute of every day is micromanaged, from private Pilates lessons to shooting parties. But Gemma wasn’t one for timetables and agendas. She had announced that she wanted a weekend in York and off we all went without a plan, accompanied by some of her work colleagues. At least it took the pressure off Caitlin and me to organise anything specific.

  I pulled Gemma to one side.

  ‘If you’re all moving on, I’m going to go back to the hotel,’ I said quietly. I didn’t want anyone else to know, to bring up the past, to fuss. I watched her brow furrow, her face suddenly serious and sober.

  ‘Are you feeling ill again?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want …’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I interrupted. ‘Just tired that’s all.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I heard Rupert ask. I wondered how long he’d been standing there, how much of the conversation he’d heard.

  ‘The posh hotel near York Minster,’ Gemma replied. I didn’t think it was any of Rupert’s business where I was staying.

  ‘It’s called the Minster,’ Rupert deadpanned, trying not to smile.

  ‘That’s the one!’

  ‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said, turning to me.

  ‘I’m fine. I can walk back to the hotel on my own.’

  ‘I know you can,’ he said, quietly. ‘But I’d like to walk with you.’

  My stomach flipped.

  ‘I’d rather he walked with you too,’ Gemma said. ‘So that’s settled.’ As Gemma wandered off to organise a taxi, her veil slipping to one side again, he caught my eye and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s settled.’ Rupert smiled.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ I replied. Gemma always was the bossy one.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asked, gesturing towards the door. As we began to walk away from the pub, he was so close to me I wanted to reach out and touch him, to draw him towards me, but I knew I shouldn’t. As if he could read my mind he held out his arm to me and I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. It felt so natural, exactly the way we’d walked together years ago. I’m not sure who pulled who closer, but it felt as though neither of us could resist the warmth of each other’s bodies. It felt as though we’d been waiting ten years for this moment.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Jessie,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Ten years in September,’ I replied. I wasn’t going to tell him that I knew the exact number of months, days, even hours since I’d watched him walk away from me at Heathrow on that unusually hot morning. ‘How long have you been back?’ I asked instead, before I was dragged back to that summer. I wasn’t ready to talk about the past yet.
<
br />   ‘Nearly three years.’

  ‘And you never got in touch?’ I asked.

  He stopped walking then, so suddenly that a group of drunk students almost fell over us. One of them recognised him and started calling his name but he didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he looked down at me, his gaze so intense it almost made me want to look away.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to,’ he said.

  I didn’t know how to reply to that. While Rupert had always been in the back of my mind, I had never really considered what it would be like to have him back in my life. But now all I could think of was the last three years and how we could have been seeing each other every day.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, looking away and starting to walk again. ‘You’re a hard woman to track down.’

  That was true. And for him to know that meant he must have looked, probably more than once. I didn’t have social media or a website or a blog. There were no photos of me online. You wouldn’t find a thing – unless you knew who to look for, of course. Typing in ‘Jessica Clarke’ wouldn’t turn up much on me – that I knew.

  The reason you won’t find me online is because I write for a living under a secret pen name. If you search for that name, you’ll find all sorts of things but none of them link back to me. I’ve been careful about that. I don’t even have a personal Facebook account anymore.