Moonlight on the Thames - blog tour

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Moonlight on the Thames – Lauren Westwood

 

About the author

 

Lauren Westwood writes romantic women’s fiction, and is also an award-winning children’s writer. Originally from California, she now lives in England in a pernickety old house built in 1602, with her partner and three daughters.

 

Follow Lauren

Facebook: @Lwestwoodbooks

Twitter: @lwestwoodwriter

Web: www.laurenwestwoodwriter.com

Instagram: @lwestwoodwriter

Goodreads: Lauren Westwood

 

 

About the book

 

Worlds collide when two strangers meet at Waterloo station. It’s a moment they’ll never forget. Perfect for the fans of Milly Johnson.

 

Christmas is a joyous time, but not everyone is merry and bright. Nicola is a star at the top of the corporate ladder, but her personal life is a disaster. Her office affair has run its course, and the last thing she wants to think about is Christmas. A night of cancelled trains and festive Christmas carols at Waterloo Station is the last straw… Dmitri loves conducting his pop–up choir during the festive season, meeting people, and spreading joy and cheer around London. But he carries deep secrets from his past that robbed him of his dream to become a concert pianist. Can two lonely hearts and souls be unlocked by music and moonlight and will they discover the healing power of love?

 

Perfect for the fans of Milly Johnson

 

Buy links

 

iBooks: https://apple.co/2MzmuZM

Google Play: http://bit.ly/2No0XiH

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2No6vda

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2utREH6

 

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Twitter: @aria_fiction

Facebook: @ariafiction

Instagram: @ariafiction

 

 EXTRACT

1

1st December

Waterloo Station, London

She wasn’t meant to be here. That was the worst thing.

She should be sitting in a plush velvet seat at the bar, sipping a champagne cocktail, feeling a growing frisson as the minutes ticked by. Enjoying that little spark of tension not knowing exactly when he would arrive…

Nicola winced as she stepped on to the escalator, her shin colliding with a fold-up bike. Though rush hour was over, the escalator from the underground to the main station was packed solid on both sides. A crush of bodies, swinging rucksacks, surreptitious jostling and pushing. At the top of the escalator there was a pile-up and the tip of her stiletto heel almost got caught in the moving metal. With an almighty lurch into the man in front of her, she came on to stable ground.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her coat with an incoming text. She retrieved it, hope rekindling inside her. Maybe he’d changed his mind – he was texting to say that he was on his way to the little hotel on Charlotte Street that was their place. She pictured him: walking in, wearing his smart suit and black cashmere overcoat, his hair combed, his face clean-shaven, a hint of cologne. Polished and perfect, ready for her to dishevel, deconstruct. Teasing her, pretending to look at other women, but in the end, his eyes locking only on her…

Damn Ollie.

As she drifted along with the other commuters towards her usual platform, Nicola opened her messages. The new one was from Chrissie, her PA, reminding the department that Friday was ‘Christmas jumper day!’ She deleted it and opened the texts from Ollie in case she’d missed one. There were work texts, flirty texts, downright shocking texts. Texts that had once made her fizz with the anticipation of seeing him again. And the last text:

Sorry Nic, duty calls. Can’t make it tonight. Ox

Nicola put away her phone. It was fine – really – it would have to be. She made a plan. On the fast train, she’d be home in thirty minutes. Turn off her phone, kick off her shoes, have a long soak in the bathtub, a glass of wine. Or two—

‘I am sorry to announce that the nineteen twenty Southwestern Railway Service to Reading via Richmond is cancelled…’

The announcement droned on.

Nicola stopped moving and looked up at the boards. The words blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Every train delayed, cancelled. This was just… so… wrong—

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o’er the plains

And the mountains in reply

Echoing their joyous strains

She turned as the chorus of voices rose up over the background noise. The crowd of commuters closed in around her. She was almost at the middle of the station opposite the WHSmith, where, over the weekend, a giant Christmas tree had been put up. Its branches were sprayed white, and it was trimmed with red and gold baubles and white lights. Above, the station clock was trimmed with a big red bow and sprigs of plastic mistletoe, like the stage set for a bad production of Brief Encounter.

In front of the tree, standing on risers, was a choir.

Glor oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo ria.

In excelsis Deo!

Nicola looked at the earnest faces, the ‘O’ shaped mouths. The choir was made of up men and women of a range of ages – about twenty members in all – wearing red or green jumpers and black skirts or trousers. Some of the women had glitter hairbands of holly or reindeer antlers, and a few of the men were wearing Santa Claus hats. Along the sides of the risers, two women and a man were carrying around trays, passing out mince pies and iced gingerbread stars.

In front of the choir, his back to her, was the conductor. He was a tall man with thick dark hair that came down to the edge of his collar. He was wearing a black suit and knitted fingerless gloves in a bright Christmas pattern. She watched his hands: his right hand rose and fell vigorously in time with the music, while his left hand cued the various voices in the choir. He shifted on his feet, almost like a dance, conducting his band of train station carollers as if they were a famous choir singing at the Royal Albert Hall.

The jostling and nudging started up again as people in the crowd edged closer to get a better view. A few hardened-looking commuters dropped shoulder bags and rucksacks to their feet, and, after the next verse, began bellowing out the chorus:

Glor oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo ria.

In excelsis Deo!

Nicola tried to move away – she was in no mood for festive cheer – but she was hemmed in on all sides. If she could get through the crowd, she could pop in to M&S Food and buy a bottle of red wine. But, just then, a platform was announced (not her train) and a river of bodies flowed towards the ticket barriers. She gave up swimming against the tide, the M&S Food shop receding like a mythical island swallowed by mist. She managed to extricate herself near one of the old ladies with the trays of sweets.

‘Smile, dear,’ the old lady said cheerfully. ‘You look like you need a mince pie.’

‘No, I do not,’ Nicola said through her teeth, holding up her hand. She needed to get away. She squared her shoulders, ready to push her way out of the wake of the choir.

But as she did so, the song ended. Applause erupted around her.

The conductor turned to face the crowd. Along with the ridiculous gloves, he was wearing a candy-cane striped tie over his starched white shirt. Nicola felt an irrational surge of anger as he bowed low with a flourish, his hair falling over his eyes. He rose from his bow and addressed the crowd.

‘Thank you for listening,’ he said. He had a strong accent – Italian? Eastern European? ‘We are the Choir of St Anne’s Church. My assistants will be handing out song sheets.’ He gestured with a flourish to two women in choir garb who were holding baskets and passing out papers. ‘Please feel free to come and join us, even if it is only for a few minutes while you wait for your train.’

The women with the song sheets were swamped by commuters eager to join in. While the song sheets were being passed out, the conductor launched the choir into an up-tempo version of ‘Deck the Halls’. The noise seemed practically to take over the station:

Deck the hall with boughs of holly,

Fa la la la la la la la la!

‘Tis the season to be jolly,

Fa la la la la la la la la!