The Love Detective
Read The Love Detective Online
Authors: Alexandra Potter
About the author
Alexandra Potter is an award-winning author who previously worked as a features writer and sub-editor for women’s glossies in both the UK and Australia. In 2007 she won the prize for Best New Fiction at the Jane Austen Regency World Awards for her bestselling novel,
Me and Mr Darcy
. Her novels have been translated into seventeen languages and
You’re The One That I Don’t Want
is being adapted into a film. She now lives between London and Los Angeles and writes full-time.
You can find out more at
www.alexandrapotter.com
, on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/Alexandra.Potter
. Author or follow her on Twitter @AlexPotterBooks.
Also by Alexandra Potter
Don’t You Forget About Me
You’re the One That I Don’t Want
Who’s That Girl?
Me and Mr Darcy
Be Careful What You Wish For
Do You Come Here Often?
Calling Romeo
What’s New, Pussycat?
Going La La
The Love Detective
Alexandra Potter
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Alexandra Potter 2014
The right of Alexandra Potter to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 71215 5
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For AC
Who holds my hand to walk down the street,
and makes every side feel like the sunny side
Contents
Acknowledgements
I want to say a big thank you to my editor Francesca Best, and the fantastic team at Hodder for all their hard work and enthusiasm on this new book. As always, huge thanks to my wonderful agent Stephanie Cabot for her wise words, unfailing support and belief in me as writer. Also, to everyone at The Gernert Company for working so hard behind the scenes.
To all my friends who live through each book with me (and there are now ten books!) thanks for always being so kind and encouraging. To Dana, a big hug for all the brainstorming and the pep-talks. Cheers also to Sara, a great friend and travel buddy, with whom I went on a truly memorable road trip across India, and from which this book was inspired. We must do it again!
As always, I couldn't do this without my beloved mum, Anita and big sister Kelly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your endless love and support. The same goes to my dad, Ray, who left this party called life way too early, but is forever in our thoughts and hearts.
And to Aaron, who only went for a pint and ended up changing my life in so many wonderful ways, I want to give the biggest thanks of all. I'm so lucky to have you by my side;
Te amo
.
Finally, I want to give special mention to India, and all the wonderful people I met and friends I made there. I will never forget all the laughter, the joy, the kindness and the smiles. Thank you.
Chapter 1
His dark hair glinted in the sunshine as he turned and reached for her hand.
‘I love you, Suzie, I’ve loved you since the first moment I met you. Will you marry me?’
Suzie gazed at Rich’s handsome face. Her breath caught inside her.
‘Suzie?’ he whispered, slipping a stunning diamond ring onto her finger. ‘What do you say?’
For a moment she couldn’t find the words to reply.
Then suddenly she found them.
‘I say you’re a lying, cheating bastard who’s been sleeping with Miriam from Marketing!’ and, tugging off the ring, she threw it so hard it bounced off his forehead. ‘Go to hell!’
Argh, no!
That’s not what she’s supposed to say at all!
Staring in horror at my computer screen, I hit DELETE. Holding down my finger I watch my cursor race backwards, eating up the words like Pac-Man, until they’ve all gone.
And I’m looking at a blank page again.
Shit.
Still dressed in my flannel pyjamas, I’m sitting at my desk in my office. My office being a corner of my living room, which consists of a rickety IKEA bookcase, a printer which never has any ink (it’s forever running out and have you
seen
the price of ink cartridges? Seriously, you’d think they were gold-plated) and an orchid, which was my attempt at designer chic but has now lost all its blooms and is just a bare twig in a pot.
Funny, but I never see them looking like that in
Elle Decor
.
Hugging my hot-water bottle to my chest (the central heating has gone on the blink again), I look at the flashing cursor for a few moments, hoping for inspiration to strike. Then give up and log into online banking to check my overdraft.
And to think most people believe being a writer is glamorous.
But then, so did I.
For years I worked in an office and dreamed of writing a novel. Of being a novelist. How exciting would that be? From the dreary confines of my local council’s town-planning department, I imagined a glamorous jet-set lifestyle that would consist of penning bestsellers whilst wafting around in designer clothes. Of attending glitzy literary parties filled with scintillating conversation and free-flowing champagne.
Until one day I wrote that book I was always talking about, got a publishing deal, moved to London and my dream came true!
And I realised that in actual fact being a writer means rarely getting changed out of your pyjamas, buying a lot of things you don’t need on eBay, and talking to yourself a lot.
‘Woof . . .’
Or to Heathcliff, my sausage dog.
Another high-pitched bark interrupts my thoughts and I look across to see Heathcliff, his nose pressed up against the window, furiously yapping at my neighbour’s cat, his arch nemesis. Heathcliff has a type of body dysmorphia in which he seems to think he looks like a scary German shepherd. In real life he looks more like a comedy draught excluder and is forever taking on animals twice his size. Even next-door’s tabby is bigger than he is.
‘Hey buddy, just ignore her, she’s only teasing you.’
Scooping up his little sausage body, I tickle him under his belly and he licks my face appreciatively. I rescued him from Battersea Dog’s Home, though, to be honest, after the events of the past year, I’m beginning to wonder who rescued whom . . .
Leaving Heathcliff to declare war on Mrs Flannegan’s tabby, who’s now parading up and down the garden in a feline equivalent of sticking her thumb on her nose and twiddling her fingers, I turn back to my computer. Absently I reach for my morning coffee and take a swig.
And spit it out again. Ugh, it’s stone cold!
Grimacing, I pad into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and tug open the fridge, which is papered with a mishmash of takeaway menus, ‘to-do’ lists and photos. As I reach for the milk, one of the pictures catches my eye – it’s me and the gang, arms round each other, grinning drunkenly at the camera.
That photograph always makes me smile. It’s not often we get together these days, what with everyone having busy lives and living in far-flung corners of the globe, but this was taken on my birthday last year when we all managed to convene on a pub in London. I pause to look at it for the millionth time.
On the far left, inadvertently showing off a little too much of her famous cleavage, is Harriet, who recently relocated to Paris for work and has embraced all things French, including a diet of red wine, cheese and anything that’s full-fat.
However, it seems she might have embraced things a little
too
heartily, judging by the email I received from her yesterday complaining:
So it’s true, French women don’t get fat. Alas, I am not French. Merde!
As evidence she attached a photograph of her wearing baggy jogging bottoms along with the caption:
I’m now having to wear elasticated waists
.
As someone who wears baggy yoga trousers to do everything but yoga, I’d replied telling her not to worry. To which she’d fired back:
You don’t understand! This is Paris! Style Capital of the World! I’m like a pariah!
Mental note to self: never move to Paris.
Next to her, with the kind of arms that make me want to lunge for a long-sleeved cardi, is Milly. Milly’s a Pilates teacher and now lives in Los Angeles, but she used to teach a course in London that promised to ‘Invigorate, Transform and Empower’. Personally for me it was more along the lines of ‘Exhaust, Ache and Give Up’, but that’s got nothing to do with Milly. She’s a brilliant teacher, and now a brilliant friend. Even if every time she sees me the first thing she does is nag me about my core strength. Or rather, lack of, I muse, feeling that little roll hanging over my waistband and automatically sucking it in.