Time of My Life
Originally published as The Accidental Time TravellerLife on Mars meets It's a Wonderful Life in this inventive romantic comedy that looks at what we can learn from the past….Journalist Rosie Hartford is having an odd day. Or one hell of a hangover…Having had a blazing row with her boyfriend – fellow journalist Will – she reluctantly sets off for her latest assignment: an interview with one of the residents of The Meadows, a grotty local estate about to become the set for a major reality TV show, The 1950s House.But stepping through the front door, Rosie finds herself in a different house – and transported back in time. Everything is grey and drab – the food, the clothes, the TV. It's like the world is in permanent black and white.It's not long before Rosie realises what's going on. She's obviously a contestant on the 1950s show! She's pretty miffed she's not been given warning, but she might as well give it a go – after all, the cameras are always watching and the first rule of reality TV is always keep smiling…But what really sends Rosie into a spin is the fact that Will is there too – but here he is known as Billy and has been married since he was 16 to Rosie's best friend. In the 1950s, Will/Billy is a family man and devoted father, a side to him that Rosie finds hard to imagine. He grows vegetables, repairs shoes and even has a shed. He is, in fact, a grown up.The truth slowly dawns on Rosie that this is reality, not reality TV. After she gets over the shock, she begins to embrace daily life 1950s-style. Gone are the excessive consumerism, drifting relationships and cheap thrills of the Noughties. In its place is make do and mend, commitment, duty and honour.Together Rosie and Billy make a great team, covering dramatic local stories, and inevitably growing closer until Rosie falls in love with Will/Billy all over again. But now he has a wife and kids and is out of bounds…Unless she can get back to 2008…
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SHARON GRIFFITHS
Time of My Life
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain as The Accidental Time Traveller by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
This eBook edition published in 2018
Copyright © Sharon Griffiths 2008
Cover design © Diane Meachams Designs 2018
Cover illustration © Shutterstock
Sharon Griffiths asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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: 9781847560902
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007287765
Version: 2018-05-18
For the Amos men – Mike, Adam and Owen – with love.
Contents
About the Author
About the Publisher
‘You all right, love?’
The taxi driver was looking at me oddly as I scrabbled in my bag. Mobile … iPod … notebook … Dictaphone … everything but my purse. Ah. There it was, right at the bottom, of course. I pulled a tenner out – I think it was a tenner – and pushed it through the window. Just peering in at the driver really hurt my neck.
‘Here, thanks. Keep the change.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked, swiftly folding the note into his wallet. Maybe it had been a twenty.
‘Yes. Fine. Fine.’
But I wasn’t. Not really. And it got worse.
As the taxi roared off – no one likes to hang around The Meadows longer than they have to – I stood swaying slightly on the pavement. My head was thumping, my eyes were hurting and I couldn’t stop shivering. It was one of those Mondays when I swore I would never drink again. Or have a row with Will …
Right. No time to think about that at the moment. I tried to get myself together. I was here to do an interview for The News. Mrs Margaret Turnbull had been one of the first people to move in to The Meadows when it was built fifty years ago in the days when it was the Promised Land. Bit different now. You’re lucky to come back and find your car still there. Even luckier if it’s still got its wheels.
But The News was doing a special supplement to mark its fiftieth birthday. One of the big TV stations was apparently planning a reality programme where people have to pretend to live in the past – the 1950s house – and rumour had it that was going to be in The Meadows too. So I had spent the morning in the dusty little library at the top of The News building, reading through the bound files of yellowing newspapers from the 1950s – stories of new roads, new houses, flower festivals, pageants, mysterious deaths, and adverts for cigarettes and washing machines, and lots of housewives prancing around in pinnies. A different world.
Meanwhile, back in the present I leant for a moment on the gatepost as my head swam. Tidy gatepost. Neat path and pretty garden with tulips, primroses and violets. This was one of the nicer bits of the estate and a very posh front door showed quite clearly that Mrs Turnbull had bought her council house. Through the window, I could see a grey-haired lady in trousers and sweatshirt, looking up from some knitting, watching out for me.
But as I walked up that path I realised something was wrong, very wrong. My eyesight had gone haywire. The flagstones seemed somehow a long way away. It was hard to find them with my feet. Everything was at odd angles. My head was swirling. I wanted to shake it to clear it, but my neck wouldn’t work properly. There was a pain in my eyes. This wasn’t a hangover, this was something else. I was ill, really ill. I began to panic. I felt as if I was going to fall over. I got to the front door and pushed my hands out in front of me. Somehow, I rang the bell.
I suddenly wished – oh so strongly – that Will and I hadn’t argued, that we’d said goodbye that morning with a kiss instead of sitting in the car in strained and sulky silence. I wished …
