{"product_id":"what-might-have-been-isbn-9780593085615","title":"What Might Have Been","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Two Lives of Lydia Bird \u003c\/i\u003emeets \u003ci\u003eThis Time Next Year\u003c\/i\u003e in a sliding-doors style romance and coming-to-self story about fate, chance, and the choices we make.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat if “meant to be” happened twice?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy is at a crossroads. The same night she quits her thankless job she meets Caleb, a local photographer in her seaside town, and has a run-in with Max—the once love of her life. As Lucy decides the right path forward—finally pursue her dream of becoming a writer, or move to London and revive her career—her choice will change her life in unimaginable ways.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eStay\u003c\/i\u003e. After a decade of trying to run from her dream, Lucy is finally facing her fears and putting pen to page. With her budding romance with handsome, artistic Caleb, she has more inspiration now than ever. But can Lucy and Caleb open themselves up after their past heartbreaks? And will their different paths take them to the same place?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGo\u003c\/i\u003e. Lucy can’t believe her luck when a room in her best friend’s London house share opens up and she lands a job at the prestigious Supernova. It gives her the courage to face Max, who’s serendipitous encounter still has her reeling, and ask what really happened almost a decade ago? But does she really want to know, when being together feels like fate?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn concurrent storylines that track what would have happened if Lucy chose to Stay \u003ci\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eor Go, \u003ci\u003eWhat Might Have Been \u003c\/i\u003eis a sweeping story that poses the questions: is it destiny or chance that decides who we are meant to be, and who we are meant to love? And is there such a thing as a soul mate?One of BookBub’s 13 Books to Read If You Love \u003ci\u003eThe Time Traveler’s Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e’s 36 New Romance Novels That Will Make You Fall in Love With 2022\u003cbr\u003e One of \u003ci\u003ePopSugar’\u003c\/i\u003es 67 Books That Will Make Their Much-Anticipated Debut in 2022\u003cbr\u003e One of \u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e’s 54 Novels to Read When You Want a Romantic Escape \u003cbr\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e’s 92 Romance Novels to Spice Up Your Summer\u003cbr\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003eBookRiot’\u003c\/i\u003es 25 Best Book Club Books for 2022 Reading\u003cbr\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003eBookRiot\u003c\/i\u003e’s Books Like \u003ci\u003eSliding Doors\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Fans of Josie Silver’s \u003ci\u003eThe Two Lives of Lydia Bird\u003c\/i\u003e (2020) and Matt Haig’s \u003ci\u003eThe Midnight Library\u003c\/i\u003e (2020) will enjoy this thoughtful take on the question of destiny versus chance.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miller gracefully intertwines an impressive number of threads across the two paths…[and] addresses intense, complicated issues with a sure hand and skillfully sustains the Sliding Doors conceit. Readers will be captivated throughout.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A bittersweet tale of love lost and found that explores how even good people can make mistakes and find redemption in love.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Explores a question all of us have contemplated—what would my life be like if I’d made a different choice? It’s a moving, ultimately hopeful love story about how we navigate our chosen paths in life. I couldn’t put it down.” —Sophie Cousens, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Time Next Year \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is there a life you should have lived but never got the chance to? But would getting to live it be the right choice with the right outcome? Miller’s moving love-infused new novel probes the two separate realities of one spectacular woman: a life with the man who was her past, and a life with a man who could be her future. About the stories we struggle to write and the stories we yearn to live—and a total, addictive knockout.” —Caroline Leavitt, author of \u003ci\u003ePictures of You\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWith or Without You\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A beautifully original and so cleverly woven sliding doors story, with characters that will lodge their way into your heart. Poignant, thought-provoking, wonderfully romantic, a little bit heartbreaking at times but ultimately uplifting.” —Emily Stone, author of \u003ci\u003eAlways, In December \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like the very best love stories, I had no idea how this book was going to end, just that I was going to be an emotional mess when it was over—and I was right. A gorgeous treatise on fate and soulmates, \u003ci\u003eWhat Might Have Been\u003c\/i\u003e will charm you, break your heart, piece it back together and then have you shoving the book in all your friends' hands, so they can fall in love, too.\" —Colleen Oakley, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Invisible Husband of Frick Island\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sweepingly romantic and heartwarming story of ‘what if’. Holly Miller is such a beautiful, beautiful writer. I adored it.” —Lia Louis, author of \u003ci\u003eEight Perfect Hours\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “One of those novels that sweeps you up from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until long after the last. I was completely hooked…It’s a novel that breathes heart and hope and which I can’t recommend highly enough. I adored it.” —Jenny Ashcroft, author of \u003ci\u003eMeet Me In Bombay \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miller creates two utterly compelling stories, revealing how our lives can turn on a single moment and how true love will never be denied no matter what choices we make. With convincing characters and bold twists and turns, this is a funny, poignant and overwhelmingly romantic story for anyone who's ever wondered about the one who got away. Unmissable.” —Katie Marsh, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Rest of Me\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Such a beautiful, thoughtful story of finding happiness on life’s many different paths.” —Abbie Greaves, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Treatment\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautifully written, moving and impossible to put down, this book packs an emotional punch. It’s a heartfelt read that will capture your imagination and keep you hooked to the last page.” —Sarah Harris, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Color of Bee Larkham’s Murder\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Compulsive and beautifully written. A must read! A novel full of emotion, excitement and the enormity of choosing the right path.” —Nicola May, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Corner Shop in Cockleberry Bay\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eHolly Miller\u003c\/b\u003e works as a copywriter and lives in Norfolk, England. \u003ci\u003eThe Sight of You\u003c\/i\u003e was her American debut.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eOne\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You did what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pause next to the pub's chalkboard craft beer menu, phone pressed to my ear. \"I quit,\" I repeat. \"Just now. I mean, ten minutes ago.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You handed in your notice?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"More like . . . stormed out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sister yogic-breathes for a couple of seconds. \"Wow. Okay . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I couldn't take it anymore, Tash. It was one time too many.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI picture her nodding, trying her best to understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Something will turn up,\" I say, with a confidence I definitely don't feel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let me guess: the universe has got your back?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI manage a smile, but it wobbles a bit. \"Here's hoping.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bus back to Tash's isn't due for an hour, so I've taken cover in The Smugglers with a Virgin Mary. I stay sitting at the bar after my drink comes. The Smugglers is something of a Shoreley institution: it's the first place I ever got served, heard live music, met boys who werenÕt school friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm starting to feel conscious of just staring into space, so I tap absent-mindedly into the horoscope app on my phone. Checking my horoscope has become my latest guilty pleasure, like watching trashy TV, or eating crumpets in bed. The kind of thing you'd never admit to in front of someone you fancied. But it is slightly addictive. A bit like playing the lottery. \u003ci\u003eMaybe this time . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI read today's prediction, and my heart does a little tap dance through my chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eToday will see you head off on a new career path. If you're single, this could also be the day you bump into your soulmate.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then, as if in slow motion, it happens. As I'm lifting a hand to catch the barman's attention for another, the person next to me gets up, letting someone new slide in. \"Pint of Guinness please, mate.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe barman hesitates, then glances at me. My new companion turns, and our eyes meet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ah, sorry.\" He smiles broadly, the friendliest apology ever. \"Didn't see you there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's the oddest thing: I feel as though I know him. That we have met before. But I can't place my finger on when, or how.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe's the type of good-looking favored by knitwear adverts-all dark stubble and ruffled hair and dewy eyes. His expression as he looks at me-amused and intense all at once-combined with the sweet haze of his aftershave, makes me draw breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hi. No. You go,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What are you having?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, you really don't need to-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, I insist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well. A Virgin Mary, then. Thank you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo his credit and my relief, he doesn't attempt to tack a vodka shot onto my order, or crack a lame joke about pubs traditionally being for boozing in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the drinks arrive, he glances around the room, then shrugs and stays where he is on the stool next to me. \"Do you mind? It's packed tonight.\" He raises his glass to mine. \"I'm Caleb, by the way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't recognize the name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Lucy.\" I smooth back my beachy mess of hair, wishing I'd at least thought to glance into a mirror before storming out of the office earlier. It's super-stuffy in here, swarming with bodies between the thick walls and low ceiling, and I suspect it's only a matter of time before I start wilting in the warmth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI imagine Tash face-palming at this, despairing at my unkempt mane, my crumpled dress. I've always thought of my sister as the slightly more polished version of me: she has three extra inches on my average height, hair a shade or two blonder, skin with a few more lumens' worth of gleam. Still, Caleb seems relaxed, like he probably doesn't care too much about smooth hair, or lumens, which is just as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I remember when this was a proper spit-and-sawdust place,\" he's saying, sipping from his pint, his gaze alighting on the dazzling wall of gin bottles behind the bar. \"Now it's all craft ales and signature cocktails and wood-fired pizzas.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And perfectly staged Instagram posts.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And ridiculous bar snacks.\" He slides a bowl across the bar toward me. \"Wasabi pea?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laugh and shake my head, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. \"I'm more of a Scampi Fries kind of girl.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmiling, he raises a fist and we bump knuckles, his hand dwarfing mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So, you're local?\" I ask, wondering if I might be able to find out whether we know each other, somehow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe nods. \"You?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This your Friday-night haunt?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not exactly.\" I hesitate, but then the words start spilling into the space between us. \"I actually . . . just quit my job.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes widen. \"Wow. Okay. So you're in here . . . drowning your sorrows?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No. I mean, it was a good thing, quitting. A point of principle.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, then, congratulations.\" He lifts his glass, and then-for just a millisecond-we are looking right into each other's eyes. I feel my breath flex in my chest, a spread of warmth across my skin. \"Good for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thank you,\" I manage, and then-possibly to distract either him or me from my fluster, which must surely be visible-I say, \"So, how about you-are you gainfully employed?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe nods. \"I'm a photographer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really? For a living?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughs. \"Believe it or not, we do exist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry,\" I say, mortified. \"I just meant . . . there are a lot of people who dream of doing that, so . . . I'm impressed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiles and nods a thank-you. \"Well, you're free now . . . so what do you dream of doing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hesitate. I could tell him-\u003ci\u003eI've always really wanted to write a novel\u003c\/i\u003e-but that would turn me into the kind of person people try to escape at parties. \"Actually, I'm not sure yet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What did you do before you quit?\" He's swiveled round on his stool to face me now, his eyes attentive and bright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I worked for an ad agency.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sips from his pint, eyebrows elevated. \"We have those in Shoreley?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laugh. \"Just the one, actually. We liked to think of ourselves as small but mighty.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And you quit because . . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hesitate, and just as I'm thinking of the best way to explain it, I freeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo. It can't be.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blink rapidly, trying to make out if what I'm seeing is real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause, from out of nowhere, on the section of street visible from where I'm sitting, I spot the last person on earth I'd have expected to see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalfway across the window, he's paused to look at something on his phone. As I watch on in shock, I feel my heart start to beat a little faster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's definitely him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMax. Max Gardner.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Excuse me,\" I murmur, pushing back my stool with a scrape, so hard it almost falls over. I abandon Caleb and my drink, elbowing my way through the crowd and finally out onto the street. The coldness of the air after the warmth of the pub draws a gasp from my mouth that feels like my heart leaping to my throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Max\" is all I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looks up, and I take him in-black woolen coat, pinstriped suit, same gleam to his gaze, same sharp jawline, no trace of aging on his handsome face. Tall, fair, gravitas just standing still. Briefly, he is motionless. The moment has cast its spell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rummage in my stomach for my voice. \"Hi.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiles gently, steps toward me. \"Oh my God. It's really you. Hi.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTwo\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe air-kiss, which is ridiculous, because Max and I used to laugh at people who did that, and then stand back to take each other in. For the second time tonight, I curse the fact I'm looking decidedly less than sharp, that particular kind of frazzled you become when you've had way too much on your mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMax and I aren't connected on social media, and like any good lawyer, he keeps his Facebook and Instagram private. I've never been able to bring myself to friend or follow him, but I do check his Linked-\u003cbr\u003eIn from time to time. It never changes: Real Estate Litigation Lawyer at Heyford West White, or HWW if you're into acronyms, an American law firm with its UK offices in the City.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis profile picture-professionally shot and classic Max-matches up pretty well to the man standing in front of me. Killer jawline, sandy hair, devilish gaze. The kind of expression that confirms he'll take your case seriously, but with a glint that hints he'll be celebrating hard when he wins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe person you were meant to be with\u003c\/i\u003e, my heart whispers without permission. \u003ci\u003eThe one that got away.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What . . .\" I say eventually, because one of us has got to start speaking. \"What are you doing here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Work. Well, sort of.\" He rubs his jaw, looks uncharacteristically sheepish. \"I had a meeting just off the M2, then I thought . . . might as well carry on, take a trip down memory lane.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMemory lane. You were thinking about me.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I was actually debating trying to get in touch with you, but . . .\" He trails off. \"Wasn't sure if you lived here anymore, or if you'd even want to see me, or . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, it's . . . Of course I'd want to see you.\" I smile, emotions quick-stepping around inside me. \"What was the work thing? Anything fun?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughs. \"Not even slightly. Just a site visit. High-rise office development. Allegedly stealing light from neighboring buildings. All very dull.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smile at the \u003ci\u003eallegedly\u003c\/i\u003e. \"You achieved your dream, then. To be a lawyer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he smiles and nods, I catch a glimmer of pride in his eyes, which is more than merited. I feel oddly gratified by the sight of lawyer Max, in his smooth white shirt and charcoal-gray tie, thriving and smart, everything he ever wanted to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe catch up for a few minutes, about his life in London, and the strange turn my professional life has taken today, before it starts to feel a bit ridiculous that we're having this conversation standing out on the pavement, a Friday-night tide of people forced to part around us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI clear my throat. \"Listen, do you fancy getting a drink, or . . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Actually,\" he says, checking his watch and grimacing gently, \"I have to get back to London. I've got a flight at stupid o'clock tomorrow, and I've not even packed. This was all a bit . . . spur-of-the-moment.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thrill in my chest subsides. Maybe his old urge to escape me still lingers. But I make myself smile. \"Lucky you. Anywhere nice?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Seychelles. Two weeks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"By yourself?\" It's out of my mouth before I can help it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shakes his head. \"Diving. It's a group thing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That sounds amazing,\" I say, privately relieved-though of course it's not my right to be-that it's not a romantic getaway for two. \"Well, maybe when you get back we can-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Definitely,\" he says, looking right into my eyes, making my stomach twitch with pleasure. \"We've got nearly ten years to catch up on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment our gazes clamp together, and I find it hard to look away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is kind of crazy,\" I say, eventually. \"How many people are there in Shoreley on any given day?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hundreds? Thousands?\" he says, smiling. He must be thinking what I am-how could he not? \"And yet . . . here we are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe swap numbers, and then I watch him walk off along the cobblestones, a squall of thoughts inside my head. Could it be possible that my stupid app was right-have I just bumped into my soulmate? I've so often thought that, for me, Max was simply the right guy at the wrong time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThree\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You did the right thing,\" Jools assures me, when I tell her I walked out of my job yesterday. \"They've been stringing you along for long enough.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm still in bed, video-chatting with my oldest friend, the person who's been by my side since primary school, who never fails to reassure me in times of uncertainty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thanks,\" I say, biting my lip. \"Feels a bit hasty in the cold light of day, though.\" I'm not, as a rule, someone who makes rash decisions. I might occasionally drink coffee late at night, try a bold shade of lipstick, or pick an item at random off a takeaway menu, but that's generally as risky as I get.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJools sips her tea. Like me, she's not been awake long. Her hair is falling loose from its knot, and she pushes it away from her face. \"So, what did Georgia say, when you told her you were quitting?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not much, actually. I think she was in shock.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I first started at Figaro nine years ago, it seemed like luck I didn't fully deserve-a role at Shoreley's only creative agency mere months after dropping out of university. I originally applied for a writing job, but Georgia employed me as a planner, because she had a vague idea her fledgling agency wouldn't get very far without one. I said yes straightaway-I was so grateful to be offered a job at all-and vowed I'd mention a writing role again once I was settled and had proved myself. There were just six of us at the start, and together we grew the business to the forty-strong outfit it is today. And for most of those years, it was good. Fulfilling on many levels. But deep down, I wasn't a planner: I'd always wanted to write. It was in my blood. The whole time I was researching products and industries, liaising with clients or composing briefs, I knew my heart really lay in writing. I'd scribble down headlines, feed creative angles to the team, sometimes draft copy to help the writers out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt all came to a head yesterday afternoon, when I discovered Georgia had recruited an external copywriter. She'd promised the job to me on five separate occasions over the years, and now she'd given it to someone else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stormed into her office to demand an explanation, whereupon she informed me weakly that the timing wasn't right, that she couldn't afford to lose me from planning. So-surprising myself as much as anyone else-I simply walked out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So, what now?\" Jools says, biting into a slice of toast. \"Are you going to move to London?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"London?\" I echo, like she's just said the moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah. Didn't that big-time agency contact you a couple of weeks ago?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod. \"Only because they're looking for a planner.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs it happens, a recruiter for the crème de la crème of creative agencies, Supernova Agency of Soho, did message me a fortnight or so ago. Its staff is like a roll call of the industry's hottest talent, and it regularly competes for the biggest accounts in the country, winning pitch after pitch, award after award. Famously ruthless, Supernova has a fierce reputation: for poaching staff, demanding regular all-nighters, and refusing to acknowledge weekends. But the pay is eye-watering and the office has its own bar, gym, and nail station. Plus there are the legendary all-expenses-paid staff away trips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve received similar messages from various recruiters over the years, but they all seemed to coincide with reasons why I shouldn’t leave Figaro – another promise from Georgia about making me a writer, a pay rise, Shoreley being voted the best place to live in the UK, a \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e article about Londoners fleeing the city in droves. And to be honest, I’ve been pretty happy in Shoreley, living with Tash and her husband and my nephew. I’ve never seriously considered moving to the capital.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is perfect timing, Luce,\" Jools is saying. \"We’ve got a room going free. Literally, today. Cara’s moving out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJools left Shoreley for London nearly twelve years ago to study nursing, and never came home. For the past three years she’s lived in a house-share in Tooting. Like me, she’s been saving to buy her own place, and in the interim a house-share’s cheaper than a one-bed flat. Plus it’s just a street away from the hospital where she works.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s had various housemates and flatmates over the years – all too often a source of amusement for us – but her current lot seem pretty decent. I’ve met them a handful of times. Cara in particular was warm and sharp-witted, with a guttural laugh and a penchant for making cheese-on-toast in the middle of the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Jools’ house is nice. Yes, it’s scruffy and well-worn, with peeling wallpaper and over-trodden carpets and a permanent symphony of drips and leaks. But there’s a warm and homely vibe there, too. And it’s always full of people. It’s a place I can imagine feeling safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jools tells me Cara’s going travelling. South-East Asia, then Australia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy stomach swings as my gaze flicks to my bedroom window. An instinctive search for air, an escape route.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI take a couple of steadying breaths, then look back at my phone. \"Are you serious?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes! Get that high-flying agency job and move in with me.\"","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302588862693,"sku":"NP9780593085615","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593085615.jpg?v=1767743877","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/what-might-have-been-isbn-9780593085615","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}