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: 9780008386573

Version: 2020-11-10

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Leila: December 2017

Leila: 30 August 2001

Jake: February 2002

Leila: February 2002

Jake: 31 August 2003

Leila: November 2004

Leila: June 2006

Jake: November 2007

Leila: 30 August 2008

Jake: 31 August 2008

Leila: September 2008

Jake: June 2009

Leila: June 2009

Jake: June 2009

Leila: November 2011

Jake: August 2012

Leila: December 2012

Leila: July 2013

Leila: June 2014

Jake: June 2014

Leila: February 2015

Jake: June 2016

Jake: 30 August 2017

Leila: 31 August 2017

Jake: 31 August 2017

Leila: 31 August 2017

Leila: September 2017

Leila: December 2017

Leila & Mia: March 2020

Acknowledgements

Author Q&A

The Last Charm Playlist

Book Club Questions

About the Author

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to my gorgeous Fiancé, who has always championed me, supported me, challenged me and loved me, in the best possible ways. Mark, this story is my love letter to you.

This book is also dedicated to anyone who has ever felt lost. We’re all in it together, and you’re not alone. No matter how dark it is, there will always be stars in the sky, guiding us on.

LOST:

One precious charm bracelet with

great sentimental value.

Last seen near Lulworth Cove,

Dorset on 31 August.

If found, please get in touch –

REWARD ON OFFER.

Contact LeilaJones@LJ-Art.co.uk

Leila
December 2017

From: LeilaJones@LJ-Art.co.uk

To: Winterjewel@outlook.net

Subject: Re. My Charm Bracelet

Today at 12:32 p.m.

Dear Caitlin,

Thank you so much for getting in touch about finding my bracelet. You’ve no idea how much it means to me. I’ve been checking my phone about a hundred times a day ever since I put up the posters and plastered the ad all over social media. The feeling of relief is almost indescribable.

It was gifted to me on the eve of my eleventh birthday, and without the bracelet, I haven’t felt like myself. Each and every charm on the silver link chain with its little heart-shaped locket clasp is significant, marking a special memory which has the power to make me laugh, smile, or cry.

Caitlin, have you ever loved someone so much that every time you look at them, a piece of your heart swells with joy simply because they’re in the world? Well, that’s who Jake is to me. Each charm on the bracelet is a part of our story. My life, his life, our lives … and how they’ve intertwined over the past fifteen years. I need the bracelet back, and to convince you it’s mine I’m going to tell you all about the precious memories that come with those special charms.

I’ll start before our beginning, because you need to know how I got the bracelet and how that day affected my whole life. By the end of this re-telling, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to return my bracelet to me, so I can finish the birthday treasure hunt Jake created, find the last charm, and put it where it belongs.

Mine and Jake’s story isn’t over yet, no matter what other people might think.

Leila
30 August 2001
The Charm Bracelet & The Heart Charm

There’s glistening jewellery lying on my bedspread when I get in from seeing Eloise – a silver charm bracelet with a heart-shaped locket holding the clasp together and a tiny chain dangling from it. Turning it over between my fingers, I see a plain silver heart charm hanging down halfway around it. I frown. It’s my eleventh birthday tomorrow so maybe the bracelet’s an early present? But why isn’t it wrapped? And who is it from? There’s no label. I can’t picture Dad buying it, going around shops after spending all day at work plumbing. It can’t be from Mum, because she always wraps presents she says are ‘fit for royalty’ with carefully folded paper, tape sticking the edges down neatly, and a ribbon tied in a bow with the ends curled into spirals.

Sitting down on the bed as I undo the bracelet to see if it fits me, a scrunching sound echoes around the room. Frowning, I look down and pull a piece of paper from under my leg. Unfolding it on my bare knees, I smooth it out and see a single word and a kiss. It’s both the simplest and the hardest note I’ve ever read.

Sorry. X

A heavy thudding sounds up the stairs and Dad bursts into my room, eyes wide, blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He’s clutching a crumpled note in his hand, and the paper matches the note I’m holding. ‘It’s your mum,’ he whispers brokenly, ‘she’s gone.’

I actually feel my eyes widen with shock, and my breath catches in my throat, choking me.

How could she? How can she leave us? Leave me? I trusted her.

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

Jake
February 2002

The motorway that’s whizzed by for most of the journey melts away into grey pavements and red-roofed houses, and Jake can see his reflection in the car window. He turns away. His mum always says he’s striking looking, but Jake’s not sure that’s a good thing, even though she tries to make it sound that way. The last time his dad, Terry, caught her saying it, he’d said Jake was a freak. That it was her fault their son had been born with a cleft palate and different coloured eyes. Having a normal healthy baby, he’d yelled, was more than she was capable of.

The car journey’s taken forever. They’d left Birmingham as dawn was breaking and Jake can’t wait to get to their destination. He’s fed up of moving houses. He’s twelve or thirteen – he doesn’t know his actual age because his dad won’t let them celebrate his birthday, even though his mum has tried to – and they’ve moved at least six times that he can remember.

Finally, they roar up outside a white house with pebbles on the bottom half and a red front door. It has double-glazed windows, and the small front garden has trimmed grass. It’s nice. Hopefully it’ll last more than a few months. His dad called their last house a shithole, but it hadn’t been when they first moved in. Even Jake knows that if you don’t mow the lawn, if you leave rubbish in the grass, and kick in the walls and doors when you’re angry, a house will soon fall apart. Just like a family will if you don’t care for it.

A few minutes later, he’s following his dad up the beige-carpeted stairs with a heavy box in his arms. ‘You’re probably not going to be happy about this, because you’re a moaner like your mum,’ Terry smirks, ‘but your bedroom is at the back of the house, and well … Follow me.’

There’s a sinking feeling in Jake’s stomach as he trudges along behind his dad’s bulky body. Opening the white door at the end of the corridor, Terry makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. As Jake walks in, the first wall he sees is candy-floss pink. The carpet is thin, also pink, with coloured dashes and dots of what looks like dried paint ground into it in patches. Purple, green, brown, black, yellow, grey and blue. The room is babyish and girly, and he looks at his dad questioningly. He tries not to flush with discomfort but knows he hasn’t succeeded when his dad lets out a nasty laugh.

‘It was the daughter’s bedroom. I know it’s going to embarrass you when you have mates around – if you manage to make any this time, that is – but you’ll just have to wait until I have time to paint it another colour.’ The gleam in his eye says he’s enjoying this.

Jake can feel his jaw quivering with rage. One day he’ll be strong enough to punch his dad right in his big, stupid mouth.

Then he steps around the corner and his mouth drops open. There are doors painted on the two walls nearest the window. He thinks the first set of doors is supposed to be the wardrobe leading to Narnia, but he doesn’t recognise the others. What he does know is that they’re really cool. He longs to step through one of them into another world, but he rearranges his face so his dad can’t tell, shrugging his shoulders the way he’s learnt to. Like he’s not bothered. ‘I’ll have to wait until you’re ready then, I guess.’ He tries to inject a note of disappointment into his voice and turns away to traipse over to the window.

‘Come on, boy.’ His dad yanks him backward so he nearly trips over and bumps his head on a set of empty bookshelves screwed into the wall. ‘Lots to do. Get a move on.’

Setting the box down on the single bed in the opposite corner of the room, Jake lopes down the stairs after Terry, thinking about the painted doors and wondering what other magical places they lead to.

***

Later, Jake’s straightening up from the car with the last box in his arms when he glances up and sees her. She’s sitting in the front of a van a few cars down, staring at him. He sucks in a breath. Everything seems to go into slow motion.

She looks a couple of years younger than him, although because he’s small for his age they’re probably the same height. A white-blonde ponytail is sticking out from under a baseball cap and she has milky skin with dark eyes. He’d have to get closer to see what colour they are. She looks like an angel. He bets her dad doesn’t breathe booze all over her or use his belt on her legs ’til they bleed. As Jake’s wondering about going over and saying hello, hoping his clothes aren’t too scruffy, she pulls the cap down low and turns away. She obviously saw his scar and eyes. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. He’s not good enough to be friends with someone like her.

‘What are you doing just standing there? You’re bloody useless.’ His dad cuffs him hard around the side of the head, catching him by surprise. He stumbles over his own feet and shoots into the house before he can get hit again, face red as he realises the girl must’ve seen. Racing up the stairs, he kicks open the door to his pink bedroom, throws the box on the floor and rubs his ear. It throbs. Swinging around, he frowns at the door. No lock. That means he’ll be out on the roof tonight, depending on his dad’s mood later. Hopefully, he’ll be too drunk to climb up after him. Or if he does, maybe he’ll fall off. That would be something.

As Jake drops to the floor with a thud, he notices scuff marks on the base of the bed and a few loose pieces of stitching hanging down. Frowning, he lies down on his back and shuffles to push himself along until he’s lying directly below where he’ll sleep. There’s enough daylight coming in through the bare windows to illuminate the underside of the bed. As Jake looks up, his eyes widen at the picture stuck there. It’s childish, but altogether beautiful.

Something about the magic and imagination of it makes him feel fearless.

***

A few minutes later, ignoring his throbbing ear and the chance his dad will cuff him again, Jake runs back downstairs and onto the street.

Racing down the road, he takes a deep breath and goes up to the window of the scuffed white van, knocking on the door with a dull metallic clang. The girl stares at him through the glass, fair eyebrows drawn together, dark eyes unreadable. She bites her bottom lip but after a moment, opens the door. Jake steps back as she climbs down onto the pavement. She’s in baggy blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

‘Hello,’ he says, keeping his voice steady even though inside he is quivering. What if she doesn’t like him? What if she turns away?

But ‘Hi,’ she replies quietly.

‘I moved into the neighbourhood today.’ He can smell strawberries and is sure it’s coming from her. It reminds him of the time he and his mum went strawberry picking, just the two of them. It’s a good memory, a rare one.

‘Yeah,’ the girl scowls, ‘into my house.’

‘It’s yours?’ He thinks of what he just discovered under the bed, and the painted walls. ‘I mean, sorry. Didn’t you want to move then?’

‘No, I didn’t. It’s Mum’s fault.’ Her scowl deepens. ‘We’re leaving at the end of the week.’

‘Oh.’ His stomach drops with disappointment. ‘Where is she?’

‘Not here. I don’t know.’ A sigh this time.

‘Sorry.’ This isn’t going well. He’s upsetting her. Jake takes a step back and rubs his scar. It used to pull his lip up when he was little, but his mum managed to get him into a hospital for surgery, so it’s now just a straight vertical line cutting down into his top lip on the right-hand side. ‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’ she asks.

‘Um … I was born with a defect. But it’s fixed now.’

‘Huh.’ She stares at his face. ‘I can still see the scar though.’

‘Yeah.’ He blushes then stares at the ground. When he looks up, she’s studying him, her eyes warmer.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. Besides, I think it’s good to be different.’

‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Though he is touched by her kind words, he wants to change the subject, so he nods to her wrist. ‘That’s a nice bracelet. Who gave it to you?’

‘Mum, before she ran off.’ Her face twists. ‘I guess it’s something to remember her by. It sucks that she left but the bracelet’s my favourite thing, even though I’m cross with her.’

He feels privileged she’s sharing her feelings with him. Or maybe she’s just so angry at her mum she’ll talk to anyone about this. ‘Well, maybe—’

‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing? Get inside, now.’ A large hand hauls Jake backwards.

‘Dad. I just—’

‘Back in the van, little girl.’ Jake’s dad smirks at Leila, his voice rough. ‘Didn’t your dad ever teach you not to talk to strangers?’

With a start, she scrambles into the van and slams the door shut, her eyes round.

The last thing Jake sees before he’s frogmarched inside is her face, full of fear and disgust. He realises he doesn’t even know her name.

Leila
February 2002

We only have five days left in Bournemouth and then we’re leaving for good. I hate going to bed every night because I know when I wake in the morning, we’ll be one day closer to moving out of Grandad Ray’s, to a town I’ve never been to and where I don’t know anyone. Starting mid-term at a secondary school where all the other kids will know each other makes me feel sick, and the thought of saying goodbye to Eloise makes me even sicker. She’s my best friend. I didn’t even get to spend this half-term with her because she’s on holiday with her family. It’s totally rubbish. Dad says we’ll come back and visit sometimes but it won’t be the same.

I roll over and curl into the rumpled quilt as morning winter sunshine creeps through the curtains, but my mind is on the house a few doors away. Our old house, the one I had to part with yesterday. I hope that whenever I close my eyes and imagine it, it’ll always be there in my head, waiting for me. I’ll open the front door and pass the doors to the kitchen and lounge, thundering up the stairs to my bedroom, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be. My bed will be tucked against the wall covered in stuffed toys and sketch books, the bookshelves crammed full of different-sized paperbacks, and all my posters will be hanging on the walls. A white wardrobe is in the corner and my white dressing table is covered with pencils, charcoals, and paint pots, as well as a hairbrush Mum used to brush my hair with every night. Before she left.

The doors to Narnia and Hogwarts are still painted on the walls, along with other entryways like the Gates of Argonath from The Lord of the Rings. I’ll slide under my bed and my charm bracelet will swing against my wrist as I lift my hand to smooth the wooden bed slats. My wonderland will still be there, a picture I worked on for two weeks solid when I was seven years old. I went back to it six months ago, after Mum left, to add more detail. Wanting to be swept away and distracted from the reality of my world.

I used every colour felt-tip pen I owned on that piece. In some places I used two or three colours on top of each other to make a new one. In other places I applied craft glue to stick feathers, gems, and ribbons to the scene. There are stickers too, of animals, hearts, and smiley faces. I drew a unicorn and gave it a rainbow tail. I added a peacock with green, purple, and blue glitter on its tail feathers. The sky is the biggest part and there’s no sun. It’s a deep, intense indigo with sticky glow-in-the-dark stars. Right in the middle, if you look for her carefully, there’s a little girl with silvery blonde hair peering out from behind a tree. She has fairy wings on her back and stars in her eyes. There’s a paintbrush in her left hand and a charm bracelet around that wrist, which I added recently. In her right hand she holds a magic wand, gold sparkles trailing from it.

But that was then, and this is now, and I’ll probably never see my creation again. I couldn’t remove it from under the bed without ruining it, and couldn’t bear to do that. It’s so unfair. I really hate Mum sometimes.

Sighing, I climb out of bed and have a quick wash in the faded green bathroom, then dress in a violet T-shirt and my favourite blue jeans with a sparkly heart on the pocket. Brushing my hair, I put it in a ponytail and feed it through the hole at the back of the baseball cap I wore yesterday, tilting the peak down over my face. I feel like hiding this morning. Maybe if I can pretend I’m invisible, none of this will be real.

A few minutes later, I step into the kitchen holding Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to my chest. I’ve read it three times and can’t wait until the next one in the series comes out.

Dad turns to look at me from his seat at the table, his big hands curled around a cup of tea. ‘Morning, princess,’ he says, ‘sleep okay?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ He used to call me princess when I was seven or eight and has started again since Mum left, usually on the days I get really upset. I know he understands how sad and angry I am at leaving everything behind, but I also know it’s not his fault and he’s just looking out for us. No, I blame her.

This morning he looks rumpled. His clothes aren’t ironed, and his face is creased with lines. I feel guilty. He’s been sleeping on the sofa because there are only two bedrooms.

‘Morning, Leila.’ Grandad Ray steps out of the pantry holding a jar of homemade strawberry jam and puts it on the table. ‘I’ll get some toast on. Tea?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say, watching as he moves around the kitchen. Everything’s dark in here, even with the overhead light on. The units are dark brown wood, the floor’s covered in a thin greyish carpet with navy swirls, the walls are painted damson, and the table matches the units. I wonder how he sees in here. He’s so old. I heard him telling Dad yesterday that he’s only sixty but feels much older with everything going on.

I put my book down, careful to keep it away from the crumbs on the tablecloth. I’m quiet as I eat breakfast, lost in my own thoughts until Dad clears his throat and stands up, making me jump.

‘I’m off to work now,’ he says gruffly, ‘I have a few last jobs to finish before wrapping up the business.’

As if it’s not bad enough we had to sell our home, Dad also has to lose the business he set up fifteen years ago. He explained to me that because Mum’s not around to do the books or admin, and he can’t afford to employ someone to do those things or to pay the mortgage alone, we’re moving to Basingstoke so he can work for his friend (who I call Uncle Martin) doing the plumbing for some new housing projects.

‘You’ll be all right for the day, won’t you, love?’ Dad’s looking at me with a worried expression on his face.

I paste on a bright smile and nod. The truth is, I feel adrift. Like Harry Potter when he stays at Hogwarts for the first Christmas holidays because he doesn’t want to go back to the horrible Dursleys. Dad and Grandad are adults and have each other, but I have no one. No one to talk to, no one to tell how scared I am about starting a new school. No one to share my feelings with about whether I’ll make new friends.

‘Of course. I’ll probably read or draw, watch TV or something.’ My eyes drift over to the window, aching for fresh air.

‘We can always go for a walk later, Leila, if you want?’ Grandad offers.

‘Maybe.’ I drop my gaze to the table. ‘Have a good day, Dad.’

‘Thanks, love.’ He leans over to kiss me on top of the head, which I try to dart away from because I’m way too old for that now, and then walks to the door, grabbing his tool bag on the way out.

Grandad Ray and I stare at each other. Even though we’ve lived along the road from him since I was little, we hardly ever came over here before Mum left. I don’t know why. I’d never seen them argue; they just didn’t really seem to talk.

There’s a knock on the front door and he frowns. ‘I wonder who that is.’ He wanders off as I finish my milky tea and take my cup over to the sink. In the distance I hear him speak. ‘Oh, hello.’

He’s back a minute later, an amused expression on his face. ‘It’s for you.’

Turning around, I look at him. ‘Who is it?’

‘A young lad. He said he met you yesterday? He wants to know if you’ll come out.’

‘Oh.’ I blush, feeling like I’ve done something wrong, or like the boy is calling on me because he’s got a crush. I doubt that’s what it is though. He’s probably lonely because he’s just moved to the neighbourhood. Into my house.

‘Do you want to see him?’ he asks. ‘If you do, you could probably spend some time with him here or maybe a short visit to the park? If we agree a time you need to be back by, that is. I’m sure your dad would be okay with it.’

The thought’s tempting. Eloise is away and I’m lonely without her. I don’t have much else to do and would rather be out and about doing something than stuck inside. Besides, the boy seemed okay – nice – although he did ask a lot of questions.

‘Leila? I can send him on his way if—’

‘I’ll see him,’ I reply in a rush. ‘Maybe we’ll hang out in the garden first?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Grandad says. Picking up his cup of tea, he tries to hide a smile behind it but fails.

Blushing again – my pale skin is so stupid – I walk through the dark dining room and into the hallway, pulling open the door Grandad’s left a few inches ajar. The boy is leaning against the doorframe and I surprise him so much he stumbles over the threshold and lands at my feet.

He looks up at me from the carpet, odd-coloured eyes wide, and shrugs his shoulders, laughing at himself. ‘Hello, again.’

I giggle. ‘Hi.’

As he picks himself up, he dusts off his faded clothes and smiles. The action pulls the scar above his lip tighter. ‘I w-wondered if y-you wanted to come out? We didn’t finish chatting yesterday.’

I shrug casually, ‘Sure. Do you wanna go in the garden? There are some cool trees to hang in?’ My cheeks scald bright red. I must sound like such a baby. I think he’s older than me, so he’s probably used to going down the park with gangs of kids.

‘Sure,’ he nods. ‘I’m Jake.’

‘I’m Leila,’ I answer shyly.

***

Jake and I end up spending the week together. He’s intriguing, different to other boys I know from school, who are all loud and loutish. He’s quiet, more thoughtful. He also has a confidence I wish I had. He just seems comfortable with who he is and what he thinks about things.

After that first morning in Grandad’s back garden when we sit in the lower branches of the apple tree, idly chatting and getting to know each other, we spend most days down the local park. We wrap up in parka coats (mine brand new and boxy, his worn out and too small for him) and ride our BMX bikes (mine shiny and bright, his with a broken handle and covered in rust). I don’t say anything or ask any questions though, because I don’t want to embarrass him.

We talk about films, music, and books when we get to the park. Jake hates school because he says he’s no good at it, but he likes to read at night when his parents think he’s sleeping, borrowing books from the school library. Of course, he’s between schools now. Feeling sorry for him, I lend him one of my Harry Potter collection on the promise he’ll return it on Friday when we leave.

White mist from the cold hangs in clouds in front of our faces while we sit on the swings chatting, hands wrapped around the icy chains. Shivering is something we become used to. On a couple of the days, Jake is quieter than usual and doesn’t want to talk, wincing occasionally but not saying why, so I bring my sketchpad with me. I draw for hours on end in the wooden Wendy house that’s usually for the smaller kids. It’s empty save for us, because of the wintry chill.

Wearing fingerless gloves so I can draw, I share my sandwich and thermos of hot chocolate with him as he watches my left hand fly over the pages. He doesn’t seem to mind the silence when I draw, just appearing relieved to be out of his house. Every afternoon when it gets closer to home time, a strange tension comes over him. His shoulders creep up, his face gets hard and he becomes even quieter. By Thursday, I feel like I know him enough to be concerned.

‘Is everything all right at home?’ I ask hesitantly, leaning towards him.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he snaps, looking away.

He doesn’t talk to me for the next hour, so I don’t ask him about it again.

Even though we’ve worked out he’s nearly two years older than me, he never makes me feel stupid or childish. He asks questions about my drawings and where I get my ideas from and why I enjoy it so much, and says my art is really good. I tell him stuff about Mum leaving as I twirl my bracelet around my wrist, and sometimes when we talk, Jake puts his finger out and flicks the heart charm so it swings like a pendulum. On the morning I’m leaving, I go into a panic when we’re at the park, thinking I’ve lost it, frantically checking my wrist and pockets and looking around on the ground but not able to find it. Jake calms me down and puts his hands up inside my coat sleeve, slowly easing the bracelet into sight from where it got caught on the inside of the sleeve elastic. Beaming at him, I go to hug him a thank you, but he backs away. Awkwardly, I let my hands drop to my sides.

When it’s time for me and Dad to leave, I’m sad to say goodbye to Jake, and realise I’ll miss him. He’s been so easy to talk to, and the thought of leaving him behind fills me with sadness.

‘This week’s been nice,’ I say, as we stand facing each other next to Dad’s loaded van. There’s a lump in my throat. I’m leaving everything I know behind and going into the unknown. ‘Thanks.’

Jake nods his head, putting his hands in his coat pockets. His odd-coloured eyes – one green, one brown – are solemn and the scar cutting into his lip looks paler today, especially against the starkness of his messy, thick black hair.

I’m about to gather my courage to ask if we should maybe stay in touch when Jake steps back, and Dad opens the van door behind me. We’ve already said our goodbyes to Grandad Ray inside the house, and he said it’s better he doesn’t come out. I know he finds it hard to show his feelings.

‘Come on, love,’ Dad chides, ‘we need to get on the road. We’ve got a couple of hours ahead of us and unpacking to do at the other end.’

‘Okay, sorry,’ I murmur, my gaze still on Jake’s face. I wait for him to say something but he’s in one of his quieter moods again. ‘Okay, bye then,’ I mumble.

‘Bye,’ he replies, as he steps back.

Turning away, I climb up into the van. Buckling my seatbelt, I wind the window down and glance at him, checking one more time that he’s not going to say anything, but his mouth is in a straight line. His eyes are blank. It’s like I’ve already left.

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The Last Charm

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