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IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

Lindsey Kelk
 Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF

[Link]

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2020

Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2020

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

2020
Cover illustrations © Lucy Truman/Meiklejohn

Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of

this work.

Words from ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ by T.S Eliot taken
from The Complete Poems and Plays by T.S. Eliot © 1952
Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Limited

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008236892

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008236915
Version: 2020-06-03
 Dedication

For Jeff.
Thanks for making sure I didn’t miss you.
 Visit [Link] today to explore our
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Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Two Months Later …

Acknowledgements
Keep Reading One in a Million
Keep Reading I Heart series
Keep Reading Girl series
About the Author
Also by Lindsey Kelk
About the Publisher
 CHAPTER ONE

The only difference between a fresh start and ‘oh my god, my life is
a complete failure’ is a good attitude and the right Instagram
caption.
Which was why I had my ‘so happy to be moving home’ social
media declaration drafted and ready to post, even before the wheels
of the plane had touched British soil. It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t
exactly the truth either, which I figured was OK, since that described
roughly ninety-seven percent of the internet anyway.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed my wayward curls into some sort
of recognizable shape, rapped three times on my parents’ back door
and let myself into the house.
‘Knock, knock,’ I called, heaving my bags inside. ‘It’s only me.’
‘Look lively, Gwen, sounds like burglars.’ I could hear my dad
slapping his thighs all the way from the other side of the house.
‘Yes, put your hands in the air and step away from the baked
goods,’ I ordered as I bounced into the living room all jazz hands
and forced smiles. I dropped my backpack on the floor and searched
the room for snacks. ‘Seriously, I’m not joking, where are the
Fondant Fancies? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.’
‘Plenty of cultures eat horses,’ Mum said, gathering me up in a
trademark Gwen-Reynolds-hug, swinging me from side to side and
making sweet, unintelligible noises. ‘Probably better for you than a
Fondant Fancy.’
Dad, the more stoic of my parents, opted for a pat on the
shoulder and a curt nod before he disappeared into the kitchen to
emote. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type. At my graduation, while
everyone else was sobbing and crying, my dad shook my hand and
slapped me on the back so hard, my mortar-board went flying.
‘How was the flight? Did you have any trouble at the airport? Did
you get all your bags?’ Mum asked as she settled on the settee and I
took up residence in my favourite armchair. It was as though I’d
never been away.
‘Hers and half the plane’s by the looks of things,’ Dad called from
the other room. ‘Have you brought all of Washington back with you,
Rosalind?’
‘Not all of them,’ I shouted back. ‘Only the good ones.’
‘Not many then,’ he replied, muttering something about ‘the
bloody state of politics’ to himself as I heard him turn on the tap.
I smiled and let myself relax for the first time in I couldn’t quite
remember how long. The living room looked almost exactly the
same as it had when I left, same magnolia walls, same bookcase
groaning with books, same painting of a peacock my parents bought
on their honeymoon and refused to admit was hideous. It was all so
reassuring, however questionable the aesthetic. I hadn’t been back
for a visit in more than eighteen months and it was a little over three
years since I’d left London for my fabulous new job, producer at a
radio station in Washington, DC. Somehow it felt like I’d been away
much, much longer than that, and like I’d never been away at all,
both at the same time. I wondered if everyone’s family living room
had the same time-warp effect on them.
‘So,’ Mum said quietly, tucking her smooth, straight hair behind her
ears. I got my hair and my height from my dad but the rest of me,
the freckles, the brown eyes, strong nose, wide mouth, were pure
Gwen Reynolds. ‘You’re home. Is everything all right?’
I pressed my lips into a thin, straight line. So much for relaxing.
‘Everything is fine,’ I replied as confidently as I could. ‘I told you
on the phone.’
‘You did and I’m not going to go on about it,’ she said with an
agreeable smile. ‘But if there’s anything you want to talk about, you
know I’m here …’
‘Here we are, here we are,’ Dad walked back in with a heavily
laden tray, matching china teacups for them, the novelty Care Bear
mug I’d been drinking from since I was six for me. ‘I got one of
those fast-boil kettles, worth its weight in gold. Less than a minute,
even if you get the water out the fridge.’
Mum reached across the tray for her cup and gave me a knowing
look. She wouldn’t say anything else in front of Dad, deep and
meaningfuls weren’t his cup of tea.
They both looked a little bit older, I realized, noticing a few more
lines around Mum’s eyes, a bit more grey in Dad’s close-cut curls. It
was the kind of thing you didn’t notice when you saw someone
every day but when it had been a while, you couldn’t help but see it.
‘Present time!’ I said, setting down my mug and clapping my
hands. I wrestled a very full duty-free bag out of my backpack.
‘Perfume for Mum, bottle of whisky for Dad …’
I handed out the tax-free bounty and beamed. ‘The man said that
was his favourite whisky, I hope you like it.’
‘And who are all those Toblerones for?’ Dad asked, eyes on my
backpack. I quietly pushed it around the side of my chair before he
realized the Toblerones had already been eaten. It had been a long
flight.
‘Can’t believe Jo’s left home,’ I said, changing the subject as I took
in all the other details that spelled out home: the velvet drapes, the
net curtains, Mum’s late-nineties collection of Swarovski crystal
bears. ‘She says she’s enjoying it?’
‘Having the time of her life.’ Dad lifted his eyebrows over the rim
of his teacup as Mum spritzed herself with her new perfume and
immediately sneezed. ‘According to the one text message she has
deigned to send me.’
No one would ever actually call my sister an accident (except me)
but even if she wasn’t planned, my parents couldn’t have cooked up
a better child if they’d tried. And they had tried (again, me). Jo was
beautiful. A perfect baby with silky, straight hair, a button nose and
the biggest blue eyes you’d ever seen, which was why, when I
passed all my exams at sixteen and jokingly told everyone I was the
brains of the family and baby Jo was the beauty, I didn’t mind so
much that they agreed with me. It stung a bit more when she grew
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up and turned out to be an actual genius as well as shockingly
beautiful. Where was the fairness in that?
‘One in, one out,’ Dad said as he passed me the biscuit tin. ‘Just
when I thought we’d finally got the house to ourselves.’
‘Obviously, we discussed the timing,’ I joked. ‘Didn’t want to leave
the two of you here on your own to go mental.’
He fixed me with a look that suggested he got the joke, he just
didn’t think it was funny.
‘I didn’t think we’d see you back so soon, everything seemed to be
going so well. Thought you’d stay over there a bit longer,’ he added,
his voice lilting up and down as he avoided asking his real question.
Why had I come home?
‘It was the right time to leave,’ I said airily, breaking a ginger nut
in half and dipping it in my tea.
Dad passed me a napkin. ‘And move back in with us?’
I chewed my biscuit thoughtfully. Anyone would think he didn’t
want his unemployed thirty-two-year-old daughter moving back in
unexpectedly, fourteen years after she’d left home.
‘I won’t be here long,’ I told them, wiggling my left big toe into the
cuff of my right sock and prising it off. Ahh, sweet relief. ‘As soon as
I get a job, I’ll be out of the way.’
‘Any bites on the work front?’ Dad asked.
‘Lots of possibilities.’ I busied myself by balling up my socks so he
wouldn’t see my face. My dad could always tell when I was lying. ‘I’ll
be out of your way in a couple of weeks.’
‘There’s absolutely no rush,’ Mum insisted before sliding her hand
around the back of Dad’s neck and giving it a rub. ‘We’re just happy
you’re home, aren’t we, Alan? I never liked you being that far away
anyway.’
I silently registered their PDA. This was new.
‘You know, I might go and put my head down for an hour,’ I said,
stifling a fake yawn. Perhaps I was hallucinating from exhaustion.
‘Before it gets too late for a nap. Got to beat the jetlag, you know?’
Mum and Dad caught each other’s eye, furtive glance meeting
furtive glance. I put down my mug and straightened in my seat.
Something was up.
 ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.
‘It’s more than all right,’ Dad said. A big, bright smile spread
across his face and I watched in horror as he placed his hand on my
mother’s thigh. Her actual, upper thigh. And then he squeezed.
‘I could definitely use some shut-eye.’ I stood swiftly, scooping up
my socks and getting an unfortunate whiff of myself as I stood.
Some shut-eye and a shower. ‘Didn’t really get a lot of sleep on the
plane.’
And if my dad’s hand didn’t stop creeping up my mum’s leg, I
might never sleep again.
‘Before you go anywhere,’ Dad took Mum’s teacup and placed it
back on the tray. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘I think you’re going to like it,’ she added, a happy pink flush in her
cheeks.
It was exactly what they’d said when they told me Mum was
pregnant with Jo. If she hadn’t been very vocal about going through
the menopause several years ago, I would have been quite
concerned.
‘Come on, this way.’ Dad stood up and beckoned me through to
the conservatory. I followed as he opened the French doors and
made his way down to the bottom of the garden.
‘Shoes on,’ Mum ordered as I made to follow in my bare feet. ‘It
rained earlier and the grass is wet. I don’t want you catching your
death on your first day home.’
‘It’s a thousand degrees out there now,’ I muttered but I did as I
was told, going back to the kitchen for my trainers before following
them outside. Ducking low under the washing line, I met them both
at the bottom of the garden.
‘What do you think?’ Dad asked, gesturing to a new shed with an
out-of-character flourish.
I looked at the shed. Mum looked at the shed. Dad looked at the
shed.
‘It’s a shed,’ I stated.
‘It’s not a shed,’ Dad said with a stern look. He produced a shiny
silver key from his pocket and waved it in front of my face. ‘Go on,
open her up.’
 Tired as I was, I took the key and offered them a wan smile in an
attempt to show willing before I blocked up their Jacuzzi jets with
half a bottle of Mum’s Badedas. There was an upside to your dad
running a company that installs bathrooms and that upside was the
massive soaking tub in their en suite that I’d been dreaming about
for the duration of my overbooked, overnight flight, stuck in the
middle seat of the middle row for eight very long hours.
I pushed open the flimsy door.
It was not a shed.
It was every item from my childhood bedroom, taken out of the
house and painstakingly reconstructed in a damp, prefabricated
structure at the bottom of my parents’ garden. Double bed,
wardrobe, chest of drawers, Postman Pat beanbag and all.
‘I – I don’t get it,’ I stammered, looking back into the garden
where my parents beamed back at me. How had they got my
enormous knotted pine bedframe into this tiny space? ‘Why is all my
stuff in here?’
‘You know your dad loves a project,’ Mum said, gazing up at my
father with an expression I’d only ever seen in our house that time
we all watched Memoirs of a Geisha. It was an uncomfortable
evening and I didn’t care to be reminded of it. ‘He built this all by
himself!’
‘Peter Mapplethorpe helped a bit,’ Dad corrected reluctantly.
‘Are they repeating Grand Designs again or something?’ I asked. I
lingered in the doorway, key still in hand, so confused.
‘Yes but that’s not the point,’ Dad replied, gently but decisively
shoving me inside. ‘What do you think?’
What did I think?
All my books were there on my bookcase, from Enid Blytons to my
Sweet Valley Highs, via a few well-worn Virginia Andrews and a copy
of Judy Blume’s Forever that had a spine so cracked only I could tell
which book it was without looking at the cover. All my CDs were
stacked up next to my boombox and a legion of cuddly toys stared
at me from the top of the wardrobe. Even my beloved terracotta oil
diffuser from the Body Shop was in there. I wrinkled my nose at the
tiny bottle of Fuzzy Peach oil that stood sentry beside it. It was
practically rancid at the time, God only knew what it would smell like
now.
The whole thing was altogether too much for my jetlagged brain
to handle, like I’d walked out of the garden and into 1997. Wait, was
that what had happened? I wondered. What if this wasn’t some sort
of bizarre art installation, ‘Child’s Bedroom in a Shed’, but actually a
time machine Dad had built at the bottom of the garden? He did
spend an awful lot of time by himself and he was very handy.
‘If you go through that door, there’s a bathroom,’ he explained,
sliding past me and the pine wardrobe that matched my bed in both
design and gargantuan proportions. ‘It’s small but perfectly formed,
just like your mother.’
My mother tittered appreciatively. I did not.
‘It’s a compostable toilet,’ he went on from behind the concertina
door. ‘Good for the environment. And the water from the shower
goes into the garden! Waters the tomatoes. It’s genius. Come and
have a look.’
‘It’s really impressive, Dad,’ I said, fighting back a yawn as I
clambered over my bed to peer into the bathroom out of politeness,
immediately finding myself wedged in between the bed and the
chest of drawers. Shuffling free, I whacked my hip on the oversized
round knobs I’d fought for in the middle of DFS so many moons ago.
‘So, what’s the plan, you’re renting it out? Doing Airbnb?’
‘Oh.’ Dad emerged from the bathroom with a slightly crestfallen
look on his face. ‘No.’
‘You know we’re very excited to have you home,’ Mum said as Dad
and I shuffled awkwardly back and forth until he clambered on my
bed and shuffled over on his hands and knees. ‘And we know it
might take a little while for you to get back up on your feet—’
‘I’m not off my feet,’ I replied quickly. ‘This is just a fork in my
road that will lead me on an unforeseen pathway to fulfilment.’
My flight had been delayed for so long, I’d caved and bought one
of those inspirational books everyone raves about on Instagram from
the airport bookshop. Starting Over: A Woman’s Guide to Getting It
Right the Second Time Around. It turned out to have more to do
with getting over a divorce than anything else but, still, there were
some very catchy sound bites in there. It really was dangerous to
leave unattended humans in an airport for more than five hours at a
time – another half an hour and I’d have been chatting with the
nice-looking lady giving away biscuits and trying to talk to people
about Scientology.
‘I know my coming home was a bit of a surprise and I know not
having another job waiting for me isn’t exactly ideal but I’m so
absolutely, one hundred percent fine.’
‘Well, that sounds very nice but, regardless, we thought while you
were here, it would be nice for you to have your privacy.’ Dad
coughed to clear his throat before looking to my mother for help.
Mum looked at Dad and Dad looked at me and I looked back at both
of them.
‘If all my furniture is in here, then what’s in my room?’ I wondered
out loud, too tired to get it.
‘The thing is, Rosalind, you’re not a child any more,’ Dad said
firmly as the pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t been prepared for began to
fall into place. ‘And while we’re happy to have you home for as long
as you need to be here, I think we would all appreciate a bit more
space and a bit more distance and, well …’
Oh.
Oh no.
They hadn’t put my bedroom in a shed.
The shed was my bedroom.
‘You want me to live in here?’ I asked, hoping they would laugh
and bring me back inside with a clap on the back. Good joke,
everybody laughs.
But no.
Dad slapped his hands together, breaking the tension with a
thunderclap.
‘I’ll get your bags, will I?’ he said brightly. ‘I think they’ll fit under
the bed, otherwise you’ll have to bring them in once you’ve emptied
them and I’ll put in the loft until you leave. Not that there’s a rush
for you to leave.’
‘Everything works except the WiFi,’ Mum said proudly as I adjusted
to the reality of my situation. The reality of living in a shed. ‘And the
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