Page 1 of A Smart Girl's Guide to Second Chances
Prologue
‘Love is dangerous,’ I said as I attempted to hit a red ball with a wooden mallet through a small white hoop. ‘That’s the key takeaway from this morning’s lecture.’
‘Wasthatthe professor’s thesis?’ Alex asked as he watched my ball fly off in the wrong direction. He grinned wolfishly. ‘You’re going to have to argue your case.’
With a few long strides Alex walked over to his blue ball and carefully lined up his mallet. I could practically see the cogs in his brain whirring as he did some complex calculations involving angles and pressure. I waited to make my first argument. I knew that when he was hyper-focused, the world around him no longer existed. He swung the mallet deftly, his face still creased in concentration, and the ball passed cleanly through the hoop.
Over the past two weeks, Alex and I had developed a routine. We’d roll out of whichever single bed we’d spent the night in, walk to the Oxford Examination Schools and play a game called ‘Lecture Lottery’ – we’d pick an interesting-sounding lecture and sneak in. Then in the afternoon we’d choose an activity from our ‘Salad Days List’ and tick it off while we spent hours sparring about what we’d learned that morning. I knew that voluntarily attending random lectures would be most people’s idea of hell, but it was the most fun I’d ever had in my life.
That morning we’d crashed a neuroscience lecture – one where a world-class professor with a blunt bob, high-pitchedvoice and fierce intellect had explained what happened to the brain when a person fell in love. I’d found it revelatory. Now, we were losing our croquet virginity on a perfectly manicured lawn in Alex’s college.
‘Challenge accepted,’ I said. ‘Firstly, love is dangerous because when you fall in love your brain shuts down your critical-thinking synapses. Which means that you can’t see anything negative about the person you’ve fallen for.’
Alex, who was kneeling beside his ball as he worked out his next shot, looked up with interest. His eyes, which were the same aquamarine as an English summer sky, met mine. The gentle sun had already turned his skin the same golden colour as the ancient buildings that rose up around us. My stomach did a flip. How was it fair that this Australian guy had the brain of Good Will Hunting as well as the body of a Hemsworth?
I took another swing at my ball and it flew into the garden bed. I glanced around to make sure that none of the college gardeners had seen me assault their navy and yellow pansies, which matched the college’s coat of arms.
‘You’re getting better,’ Alex said and almost looked like he meant it.
‘I’m really not,’ I replied with a smile as I kicked the ball back onto the grass with my bare foot. ‘God, another sport I’m terrible at. I once got a PE report at school that said, “Rebecca is good at putting equipment away.”’
Alex burst out laughing. ‘I feel like you’re building a more persuasive case for “croquet is dangerous”. But I’ll play along,’ he said. I could tell that his mind was searching through the information it had recently and effortlessly absorbed. ‘Love is dangerous because... it’s like a drug. The brain has the same chemical reaction to falling in love as it does to taking heroin or gambling.’
‘Amazing comparison. Ten points to Ravenclaw,’ I said, and Alex laughed again. ‘Can I use your mallet? Maybe I have a dodgy one.’
Our fingers brushed as he offered me the wooden handle. I felt a shot of something move through my body. Something that I wanted to feel again and again. Something addictive.
‘My turn,’ I said quickly. I hit my ball, which moved forwards by about a centimetre, as I worked up my next point in this verbal essay we were writing together. ‘So, when you fall in love your brain makes your body feel like you’re under attack. Your palms get sweaty and your heart races...’
I trailed off as Alex walked across the lawn towards me. He gently rested his fingers on the top of my head. I felt every nerve in my body stand on end.
‘It’s because your brain sends a signal to’ – he moved his fingers down the side of my cheek and then placed them just above my stomach – ‘a gland here, that creates a burst of adrenaline, which travels through your blood to...’ His fingers gently moved up the left-hand side of my body then stopped. I rested my hand on his much larger one.
‘. . . the heart,’ he finished.
I wondered if he could feel mine pounding beneath my thin, white cotton dress through the tips of his fingers. A few students, black academic gowns flapping off their shoulders, walked past us. I took a step away from Alex. His mallet slipped out of my damp hand.
He picked it up and confidently whacked his ball. It flew squarely into the stake in the middle of the lawn. He’d won, he’d beaten me.
I swallowed so I could speak. ‘In conclusion, what I’ve learned from an Oxford University professor, who knows more about the head than almost anyone else in the world, is that falling in love is a reckless thing to do.’
This was the first time Alex and I had talked about love since we’d agreed to have a summer fling – seven weeks of fun. Which was now five more weeks of fun. Five more weeks of Trinity term, until I had to say goodbye to him forever.
Chapter 1
NOW
‘If you say the C word in front of my wedding dress, you’re uninvited,’ I said, with a bit more edge to my voice than was strictly appropriate in a shop that self-identified as an ‘atelier’.
‘I didn’t say anything, Rebecca!’ Mum protested, all faux innocence. ‘But even you’ve got to admit that your wedding planning has been a bit... What’s another word for “disastrous”? I mean, your photographer got cataracts. Your venue burned down. And now...’ She waved her hands towards me.
I re-examined myself in the ornate gold-rimmed mirror. Apparently the seamstress had been having a perimenopausal day when she’d taken my measurements at the previous fitting. (Mum, a GP specialising in women’s health, had asked many hormone-focused follow-up questions.)
‘Though,’ Mum continued, ‘if they don’t finish rebuilding the venue in time we could always use your dress as the marquee.’
I ignored her, wishing again that Dad was here. He’d generously offered to pay for my dress, so I’d invited him to the final appointment. But he’d had to work. In Dad’s absence I’d been very happy to do the fitting on my own, but I’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Mum and next thing I knew, she’d cancelled her afternoon clinic. Of course it was thoughtfulthat Mum had dropped everything for wedding admin. But Dad wouldn’t have made the joke that my fiancé, Matt, and I (plus a handful of our guests) could fit into this iteration of my gown.
‘They’ve apologised a million times and said they can take it in,’ I said, feeling the knots in my shoulders tighten. Today I was meant to cross ‘Wedding dress’ off my list.
