The Lost Guide to Life and Love
Follow food writer Tilly Flint as she discovers her roots, her sense of adventure and the secret to happiness in this timeless, inventive tale for fans of Eva Rice and Elizabeth Noble.Do the answers to Tilly Flint's future lie in her past?In a nightclub full of the rich and famous, a glamorous model leaps from a window and escapes into the night. Food writer Tilly Flint - on a rare date with boyfriend Jake - is sole witness to her flight. Little does she know the chain of events set to unfold…The following week, Tilly and Jake have the last of many arguments, leaving Tilly alone in the wild Pennines landscape where she's on assignment. Terrified yet strangely exhilarated, she investigates the area - and finds more than a few surprises.Intrigued to learn that, as an only child, she has family in the area, Tilly starts to dig deeper, discovering her great grandmother's past and the eerie parallels with her own life. As she explores the treacherous moors, she stumbles across mysterious pieces of cherry-red ribbon. What do they signify? And who is the strangely familiar face in the local pub?Then a chance encounter with celebrity Clayton Silver leads Tilly into a high-octane world that spells danger. Can the ribbons from the past be a lifeline in the present?
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Sharon Griffiths
The Lost Guide to Life and Love
With love to the Amos men—
Mike, Owen and Adam—who filled my life with football.
Table of Contents
Suddenly, the photographers stopped slouching and snapped to attention. They threw their cigarettes into the gutter and hoisted cameras into position, jostling for space and a good angle as the limo glided right up to the red-carpeted steps.
Dazzling flashes of light filled the autumn air alongside shouts of ‘Over here, Clayton!’ ‘Give us a smile, Tanya!’ ‘This way, darling!’
Before the limo pulled away, two taxis arrived. More shouts, more flashing lights. A glimpse of the top of a blonde head, a sparkle of jewellery, a protective male arm. Then a glimpse of expensively cut jackets and a fluid athletic movement as more men sprang from the taxi almost before it had stopped.
Our queue pushed forward, straining to see. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Jake, as I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to jump up and look. My view was blocked by the huge presence of the security man, whose massive head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, his broad chest straining the seams of his jacket.
‘Clayton Silver and some other footballers, I think,’ said Jake, over his shoulder, ‘and a couple of those girls off Hollyoaks or EastEnders.’
‘Oh, I hope we get in!’
The footballers and their glittering girls went in through the canopied entrance, shielded from view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.
When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…
Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.
The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?
Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.
