Excerpt of Starting Over by Sue Moorcroft

CHAPTER ONE

Tess’s vehicle stopped as if a giant had slammed a door
in its face.

Metal screeched, glass crashed, the seat belt wrenched
the breath from her body and the airbag thumped her in
the face.

Then, slowly, the bag deflated.

And everything went quiet apart from the ringing in her
ears.

She found herself gazing into the flatbed of the
breakdown truck she’d been following for the last two
miles. Her windscreen had dissolved into a million
crystals twinkling in her lap, on her chest, on the
floor, on the dash and on an Izmir Blue bonnet bent up
like a broken beak. One wiper twitched in mid-air. The
rain that, until now, had been pounding on her
windscreen, began to pound on her.

‘Shit!’ she croaked.

A man ran from the breakdown truck, dark curls swinging
around his eyes as he leant through the space where the
windscreen used to be. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘My face is hot,’ she mumbled.

‘Yeah, airbag. But you seem to be breathing and thinking.
Sit still.’ He fished out a phone.

‘Don’t ring anyone. I’m fine.’ She swivelled her head
from side to side, flexed back and legs, then pushed at
the driver’s door. It groaned outward, allowing her to
fumble out of the seat belt and slither gingerly onto the
road where the rain burbled into a gully.

The man glared, phone still poised. ‘What are you doing?
You could have a spinal injury!’

She pointed to her legs. ‘Working!’ Checking her nose for
blood, her hand came away wet only with rain. She didn’t
think it was the rain that was blurring her vision,
though.

‘You need checking over.’ He seemed not to feel the
torrent that flattened his hair and rolled down a hard-
cut face and into blue eyes. If he needed two shaves a
day it looked as if he seldom bothered.

Tess tried again to flex. Her back felt as if she’d just
done a bungee jump. She hunched her shoulders. ‘I don’t
like hospitals. Look, sorry I didn’t see you stop, I
turned on the heat and the windscreen misted. My
insurance will cover your truck OK.’

He glanced at where her Freelander was gnawing at his
breakdown truck. ‘Doubt you’ve done more than add a
couple of new scratches to the wrecker. It’s your
Freelander that’s bent.’ He narrowed his gaze on her once
more and his voice softened. ‘Better go to hospital, you
know.’

She shook her head. And winced. ‘You’re from a garage,
right?’ She indicated the sign on the side panel of the
truck. ‘MAR Motors is the garage in Middledip, isn’t it?
At the Cross.’

‘Yes. You’re not local, are you?’

‘Just moving in – to Honeybun Cottage.’ Not that that was
any of his business. ‘Can you give me a tow?’

He grimaced. ‘You’ll sue me if it turns out you’ve got a
cracked neck.’

‘I won’t because I haven’t!’ she snapped. ‘But the
Freelander’s undrivable. I’d appreciate a tow. If I have
to call someone else I’ll be sitting here in the rain for
hours.’

He hesitated. Then sighed. ‘Come on, then!’ Ungraciously,
he installed her in the passenger seat of the wrecker
before spending ten minutes clanging around at its rear,
while Tess sank her swimming head on a seat that smelt of
old oil and closed her eyes.

Finally, he climbed back into the cab, shook the rain off
his hair and drove her the remaining mile or so to
Middledip village. As the breakdown truck began to rumble
along, he flipped his thumb in the direction of her poor
Freelander. ‘Were you fond of it?’

‘Loads. Everyone said it was a posy vehicle – I was
living in London. But I love it. What’s left of it since
it hit your truck.’

‘Nobody forced you to run it up my backside,’ he pointed
out, disagreeably.

Tess’s head was pounding and sudden tears pricked her
eyes, blurring the already blurred raindrops that drummed
on the windscreen and hissed beneath the wheels, bouncing
and bubbling off the expanse of tarmac at the centre of
the village, where three roads converged at the point
known inaccurately as the Cross, and where there was a
building with the sign: ‘MAR Motors’.

Wordlessly, she eased out of the cab and squelched across
the forecourt, following her disagreeable saviour out of
the deluge and in through a long run of folding doors.
The floor was painted grey, like the pit garages at the
motor races on television.

An office chair stood in front of a computer. He nodded
at it. ‘Sit there while I have a look at your car, then
we’ll talk about what to do.’ He raised his voice to a
masked figure welding under a ramp at the back of the
garage. ‘Jos! Can you get her a cup of tea? She’s had a
prang. Pete! Give me a hand, will you?’ A man uncoiled
himself from under the bonnet of a little red sports car,
pushing back floppy fair hair, smiled at Tess and ran to
help at the back of the breakdown truck.

Aching and shaking too much to object to being ordered
about, Tess gazed out through the hammering rain to where
an old-fashioned van in baker’s livery graced the
forecourt along with two old cars. Not banger-type old
but 1950s old, all grinning chrome grills, candy colours
and swiping tail fins. The forecourt looked like a
classic car show.

She let her chin sink onto her fist and once again closed
her eyes. What a crappy beginning to her fresh start.

Jos, welding mask discarded, wiping his hands on his
overalls and stamping about in motorcycle boots, rattled
cups and filled the kettle. His long dark hair was pulled
back in a ponytail and he had a beard like Hagrid, not
the trendy goatee worn by so many men she’d known in
London. He brought her steaming tea in a mug with the MG
logo on the side and an open pack of sugar with a spoon
sticking out.

Through the strands of dripping hair she managed a smile,
even as she shivered. ‘Thanks.’

His eyes were gentle. ‘Ratty’ll soon get you sorted.’

Presumably, he meant the disagreeable man. She made a
face. ‘Ratty? Yes, he is, a bit. ......