Jojo Moyes - Me Before You: A Novel

PENGUIN BOOKS

Jojo Moyes was born in 1969 and brought up in London. A journalist and writer, she worked for The Independent newspaper until 2001. She lives in East Anglia with her husband and three children. She is the author of nine novels, two of which, The Last Letter From Your Lover (2010) and Foreign Fruit (2003), have won the RNA Novel of the Year award.

www.jojomoyes.com

www.twitter.com/jojomoyes

To Charles, with love

When he emerges from the bathroom she is awake, propped up against the pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that were beside his bed. She is wearing one of his T-shirts, and her long hair is tousled in a way that prompts reflexive thoughts of the previous night. He stands there, enjoying the brief flashback, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel.

She looks up from a brochure and pouts. She is probably slightly too old to pout, but theyve been going out a short enough time for it still to be cute.

Do we really have to do something that involves trekking up mountains, or hanging over ravines? Its our first proper holiday together, and there is literally not one single trip in these that doesnt involve either throwing yourself off something or she pretends to shudder wearing fleece.

She throws them down on the bed, stretches her caramel-coloured arms above her head. Her voice is husky, testament to their missed hours of sleep. How about a luxury spa in Bali? We could lie around on the sand spend hours being pampered long relaxing nights

I cant do those sorts of holidays. I need to be doing something.

Like throwing yourself out of aeroplanes.

Dont knock it till youve tried it.

She pulls a face. If its all the same to you, I think Ill stick with knocking it.

His shirt is faintly damp against his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and switches on his mobile phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately pushes its way through on to the little screen.

Right, he says. Got to go. Help yourself to breakfast. He leans over the bed to kiss her. She smells warm and perfumed and deeply sexy. He inhales the scent from the back of her hair, and briefly loses his train of thought as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards the bed.

Are we still going away this weekend?

He extricates himself reluctantly. Depends what happens on this deal. Its all a bit up in the air at the moment. Theres still a possibility I might have to be in New York. Nice dinner somewhere Thursday, either way? Your choice of restaurant. His motorbike leathers are on the back of the door, and he reaches for them.

She narrows her eyes. Dinner. With or without Mr BlackBerry?

What?

Mr BlackBerry makes me feel like Miss Gooseberry. The pout again. I feel like theres always a third person vying for your attention.

Ill turn it on to silent.

Will Traynor! she scolds. You must have some time when you can switch off.

I turned it off last night, didnt I?

Only under extreme duress.

He grins. Is that what were calling it now? He pulls on his leathers. And Lissas hold on his imagination is finally broken. He throws his motorbike jacket over his arm, and blows her a kiss as he leaves.

There are twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first of which came in from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He takes the lift down to the underground car park, trying to update himself with the nights events.

Morning, Mr Traynor.

The security guard steps out of his cubicle. Its weatherproof, even though down here there is no weather to be protected from. Will sometimes wonders what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the closed-circuit television and the glossy bumpers of 60,000 cars that never get dirty.

He shoulders his way into his leather jacket. Whats it like out there, Mick?

Terrible. Raining cats and dogs.

Will stops. Really? Not weather for the bike?

Mick shakes his head. No, sir. Not unless youve got an inflatable attachment. Or a death wish.

Will stares at his bike, then peels himself out of his leathers. No matter what Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking unnecessary risks. He unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside, locking it and throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand. Stick those through my door, will you?

No problem. You want me to call a taxi for you?

No. No point both of us getting wet.

Mick presses the button to open the automatic grille and Will steps out, lifting a hand in thanks. The early morning is dark and thunderous around him, the Central London traffic already dense and slow despite the fact that it is barely half past seven. He pulls his collar up around his neck and strides down the street towards the junction, from where he is most likely to hail a taxi. The roads are slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored pavement.

He curses inwardly as he spies the other suited people standing on the edge of the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin getting up so early? Everyone has had the same idea.

He is wondering where best to position himself when his phone rings. It is Rupert.

Im on my way in. Just trying to get a cab. He catches sight of a taxi with an orange light approaching on the other side of the road, and begins to stride towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A bus roars past, followed by a lorry whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Ruperts words. Cant hear you, Rupe, he yells against the noise of the traffic. Youll have to say that again. Briefly marooned on the island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the orange light glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him through the heavy rain.

You need to call Jeff in New York. Hes still up, waiting for you. We were trying to get you last night.

Whats the problem?

Legal hitch. Two clauses theyre stalling on under section signature papers His voice is drowned out by a passing car, its tyres hissing in the wet.

I didnt catch that.

The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a fine spray of water as it slows on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man further along whose brief sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there before him. He feels a sneaking sense of triumph. Look, get Cally to have the paperwork on my desk, he yells. Ill be there in ten minutes.

He glances both ways then ducks his head as he runs the last few steps across the road towards the cab, the word Blackfriars already on his lips. The rain is seeping down the gap between his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the time he reaches the office, even walking this short distance. He may have to send his secretary out for another shirt.

And we need to get this due diligence thing worked out before Martin gets in

He glances up at the screeching sound, the rude blare of a horn. He sees the side of the glossy black taxi in front of him, the driver already winding down his window, and at the edge of his field of vision something he cant quite make out, something coming towards him at an impossible speed.

He turns towards it, and in that split second he realizes that he is in its path, that there is no way he is going to be able to get out of its way. His hand opens in surprise, letting the BlackBerry fall to the ground. He hears a shout, which may be his own. The last thing he sees is a leather glove, a face under a helmet, the shock in the mans eyes mirroring his own. There is an explosion as everything fragments.