If I Could Say Goodbye Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Emma Cooper

  The right of Emma Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published in 2020 by Headline Review,

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in 2020 by Headline Review,

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images © Shutterstock

  Cover design: Emma Rogers

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 6503 6

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Emma Cooper

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue: Jennifer

  Chapter One: Jennifer

  Chapter Two: Ed

  Chapter Three: Jennifer

  Chapter Four: Jennifer

  Chapter Five: Ed

  Chapter Six: Jennifer

  Chapter Seven: Jennifer

  Chapter Eight: Ed

  Chapter Nine: Jennifer

  Chapter Ten: Ed

  Chapter Eleven: Jennifer

  Chapter Twelve: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirteen: Jennifer

  Chapter Fourteen: Ed

  Chapter Fifteen: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixteen: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventeen: Jennifer

  Chapter Eighteen: Ed

  Chapter Nineteen: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-One: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Ed

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Ed

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Ed

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jennifer

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Ed

  Chapter Thirty: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirty-One: Ed

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Ed

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ed

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ed

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jennifer

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ed

  Chapter Forty: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-One: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-Two: Ed

  Chapter Forty-Three: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-Four: Ed

  Chapter Forty-Five: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-Six: Ed

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Jennifer

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Ed

  Chapter Fifty: Jennifer

  Chapter Fifty-One: Ed

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Jennifer

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Ed

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Jennifer

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Ed

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Jennifer

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: Ed

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Jennifer

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: Ed

  Chapter Sixty: Ed

  Chapter Sixty-One: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixty-Two: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixty-Three: Ed

  Chapter Sixty-Four: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixty-Five: Ed

  Chapter Sixty-Six: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixty-Seven: Ed

  Chapter Sixty-Eight: Jennifer

  Chapter Sixty-Nine: Ed

  Chapter Seventy: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-One: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-Two: Ed

  Chapter Seventy-Three: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-Four: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-Five: Ed

  Chapter Seventy-Six: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-Seven: Jennifer

  Chapter Seventy-Eight: Ed

  Chapter Seventy-Nine: Jennifer

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One: Jennifer

  Chapter Eighty-Two: Ed

  Chapter Eighty-Three: Jennifer

  Chapter Eighty-Four: Ed

  Chapter Eighty-Five: Jennifer

  Chapter Eighty-Six: Ed

  Epilogue: Kerry

  About the Author

  © Alexandra Evans

  Emma Cooper is a former teaching assistant, who lives in Shropshire with her partner and four children. She spends her spare time writing novels, drinking wine and watching box-sets with her partner of twenty-four years, who still makes her smile every day.

  Emma has always wanted to be a writer – ever since childhood, she’s been inventing characters (her favourite being her imaginary friend ‘Boot’) and is thrilled that she now gets to use this imagination to bring to life all of her creations.

  Readers love Emma Cooper:

  ‘Beautifully observed, tender and genuinely funny’

  Josie Silver

  ‘Funny, original storytelling, an emotional rollercoaster packed with twists and turns that tugged at all my heartstrings’

  Holly Miller

  ‘Fans of authors Jojo Moyes and Lucy Dillon will love this touching read’

  Hello

  ‘A profoundly affecting, beautifully written story packed with heart and hope’

  Miranda Dickinson

  ‘An evocative, warm and character-driven read that is truly memorable’

  Woman & Home

  ‘A gorgeous heart-breaking rollercoaster of a love story that made me laugh and cry in equal measures’

  Fiona Harper

  ‘Quirky, clever, and original, this will break your heart, but put it back together again’

  Katie Fforde

  ‘This is a very special book indeed: funny, powerful, heart-wrenching and so poignant’

  Jo Thomas

  ‘A heart-warming, charming novel which had me falling in love and desperate to be part of their happy ending’

  Olivia Beirne

  ‘Cooper creates characters that come alive with pathos and heart and humour’

  Magic Radio

  ‘It's a tale to restore your belief in love conquering all . . . Witty and warm’

  Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  Also by Emma Cooper

  The Songs of Us

  The First Time I Saw You

  About the Book

  Jennifer Jones' life began when her little sister, Kerry, was born. So when her sister dies in a tragic accident, nothing seems to make sense any more.

  Despite the support of her husband, Ed, and their wonderful children, Jen can't comprehend why she is still here, while bright, spirited Kerry is not.

  When Jen starts to lose herself in her memories of her sister, she doesn't realise that the closer she feels to Kerry, the further she gets from her family.

  Jen was never able to say goodbye to her sister. But what if she could?

  Would you risk everything if y
ou had the chance to say goodbye?

  For Jackie . . . who had to say goodbye.

  Acknowledgements

  What a journey this book has been on! And before I start to thank all of the wonderful people who have helped form Jen and Ed’s story, I would firstly like to thank you. Over the past three years, I have been overwhelmed by the responses to my books. We all lead such busy lives and I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am to the readers who take the time to leave a review, who drop me a message on my social media platforms or recommend my books to friends and family. You are the reason I keep writing on the days when I would rather be eating chocolate and watching Netflix. So thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart.

  Now on to my team. As I always do, I shall start by thanking my agent Amanda Preston, without whom, this book would never have been written. It may surprise you to know that this book started off as a short story for a magazine. I sent it over to Amanda, made a cup of coffee and when I picked up my phone there were three missed calls and an email saying, ‘call me now!!’ The phone call that followed, and began with, ‘It’s not a short story . . . this is your next book. I’m a little in love with Jennifer Jones’, transformed what had been a short story scribbled in a notebook while Mr Emma sorted out a leaking toilet in our caravan, into the book you have in your hands. To say I would be lost without her is an understatement, she is my rock. Wider thanks go to the whole LBA team, thank you for your advice and votes, you make my decision making a whole lot easier!

  To the dream team at Headline. A huge thank you to my editor, Jennifer Doyle. I honestly couldn’t have written this novel without your instinct and guidance as well as your constant patience and understanding. You go above and beyond with your endless support, always replying to my emails even when the contents of which can often be an incoherent stream of ideas and questions, thank you for everything. Thank you to Katie Sunley, editor extraordinaire, who is a constant support and works incredibly hard to keep my books on track. I’m in awe of your calm and considered approach . . . I want to be you when I grow up! To Alara Delfosse, I would be lost without your brilliant publicist magic, and box-set recommendations – you are amazing. Thank you to Ellie Morley, champion of When Harry Met Sally gifs. I’m so grateful to you for your creativity and support and for answering my ‘suggestions’ with enthusiasm, even when I need reigning in . . . just a tiny bit.

  To Emma Rogers for my breath-taking cover, it will always hold a very special place in my heart, thank you for capturing the essence of Jennifer’s story.

  To all at ILA who work so hard on my behalf, seeing your book being translated into so many different languages is one of the most wonderful feelings a writer can have, thank you for everything . . . you changed my life.

  I have to give a very special mention to my wonderful friend and writing buddy Nicki Smith, who has had her own incredible writing journey culminating with a book out with Oxford University Press this year. Thank you for always being there for me, for your endless generosity and company. Long shall we forget each other’s birthdays and continue to have the same topics of conversations – which celebs we currently have a crush on and how much weight we have put on/lost – long into our eighties. I truly would be lost without you.

  To the writing community whose unwavering support and companionship keep me sane. A special thanks go to The Fiction Café, The Savvy Writers’ Snug and the Chick Lit and Prosecco Facebook groups.

  The biggest of squeezes go to the book blogging community. These wonderful people spend hours and hours of their own time, writing reviews and sharing book love. The publishing business would not survive without the generosity of book bloggers and I am hugely grateful to them all. A special mention goes to Anne Cater, Linda Hill, Rachel Gilbey, and Em Digs Books, thank you.

  I’m raising a large gin to Josie Silver, Kim Nash, Caroline Hulse, N J Simmonds, Emma Jackson and Claire Ashley who are always there to listen, cheer and support . . . thank you, you all blooming rock.

  At the time of writing these acknowledgements, we are currently under lockdown. Never have I missed the hugs of my friends and family so much. I miss you all, I know virtual hugs are not the same but here’s one from me anyway.

  Lockdown does mean that I have all four of my children and Mr Emma at home. It is probably the only time in my life that I will have you all to myself and for that I am very grateful; you’re all my favourites.

  Prologue

  Jennifer

  I always knew that I was different from the rest of my family.

  They’re all tall, blonde, waif-like. Mum doesn’t walk . . . she glides. She is the type of woman that you would presume had been to finishing school, except for when she watches the football, when her true roots tend to fly from her mouth in a flurry of expletives. Even Dad has this elfin king look about him: gentle, elegant, commanding; it often feels that time slows down when you’re around him, his words are always precise and measured, words that should be savoured. And then I came along. Their adopted daughter. I am short, dark, I don’t glide, I’m heavy footed; my words don’t need to be savoured, they generally tend to skitter and slide across the room like a puppy on a polished floor.

  I know this description might make it sound as if I felt that I didn’t belong, and that’s not the case. I have always felt like I belonged to the Hargreaves; what I’m trying to say, is that when I look back on those early days of my childhood, the days where it was just the three of us, my memories don’t quite feel . . . whole; those memories always feel like they are missing something, like I wasn’t fully alive. I suppose my memories only feel whole from the day my sister was born, when my life truly began.

  My younger sister is enigmatic and beautiful but also quirky and lovable. She is the perfect mix of both Mr and Mrs Hargreaves.

  Kerry is the name I gave her. Mr and Mrs Hargreaves – or Brian and Judith to their friends – wanted to call her Beth, but I had insisted, and for the first week of her life, she bore two names: one from her father and the mother who had given birth to her, and one from me. Kerry suited her much better: there is a perfect balance to her name, the beginning and ending lean against each other, just as she has always leant towards me. If you take the first part away from the second, there is no whole, just two parts that don’t make sense when they stand apart. That was the first compromise I forced on my parents, the first step in our new dynamic as a foursome, right from the beginning . . . Kerry was more mine than she was theirs.

  Kerry is one of those people who other people want to be. She’s tall, beautiful but unusually so, like a model but more like one of the models where they make the headlines because they have an odd-shaped nose or really wide-apart eyes. Her blonde hair turned to grey when she was fifteen – there is no explanation why, no massive shock or trauma, it was as if her body just decided that she is different from the rest of us, that she should stand out. Kerry has always cut her fringe herself – poker straight – and has always worn the rest in a plait.

  If Kerry were asked to describe me, she would say that Jennifer Jones is happy with her life. She would say that I’m happily married to Edward, the awkwardly handsome other half of me – the jam in my doughnut, as Kerry would put it. Jennifer is happy, she would say, with the way her children have turned out, a perfect pair – one of each, Oscar, five and Hailey, eight – who are both well behaved, polite and intelligent.

  She would go on to say that I’m pretty. I’m not. I mean I’m not unattractive, I guess, but I have a gap between my two front teeth that I can roll a twenty-pence piece between, my hair is dark and heavy but whenever I have it cut into a bob, I always look like a Lego figure, and since turning thirty, I have this ring of chub around my waist that never seems to go no matter how many times I try to cut down my calorie intake.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Kerry’s voice, soft and hoarse all at once – like she has the beginnings of a sore throat – interrupts my thoughts as she pulls up the handbrake in front of th
e carpark barrier and retrieves the parking ticket through the open window.

  ‘Hmmm?’ I question as she closes the window, cutting off the icy December wind, and rounds the car into the only free space, turning off the engine.

  ‘You’re looking off into space.’ I drain the last of my coffee and return the cup to the holder.

  ‘I was thinking about my fat roll.’

  She laughs and shakes her head. ‘You don’t have a fat roll, you have a home-cooked, too many nights in front of the telly with my sexy husband, and not enough sex with my sexy husband to burn off my home cooking . . . softness.’

  ‘How do you know how much sex I’m having?’

  Her eyebrows raise as if asking her this question is ridiculous. ‘I always know how much sex you’re having . . . you get a flush.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Ask Ed. Honestly, Jen, you should make more of him.’ She winks and I stick my tongue out at her.

  Kerry and Ed always had a flirtatious relationship; to those on the outside, I’d imagine it bordered on inappropriate. When we were at a wedding once, Ed and Kerry had been dancing to ‘Mustang Sally’. We’d all had a lot to drink; it was one of those weddings that starts at the crack of dawn and doesn’t end until the early hours. The drinks had been so expensive that we had nipped out to a local supermarket in our finery and returned with bags of wine hidden in our handbags. By ‘Mustang Sally’ time, we were all tottering around a two-day hangover. Ed and Kerry’s moves were like something out of Dirty Dancing and I had sat in the corner watching them. Lucy – the bride – had leant in and with prosecco-soaked lips asked me if I was worried. I looked over to where Kerry was now leaning her body back while their hips rotated, Ed holding on to her waist, her hands on his, while her back arched and her hair fanned out behind her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Lucy arched her eyebrow at me, pointing to the dance floor with a lipstick-kissed glass. ‘They’re practically having sex right in front of you.’

  Ed pulled Kerry up, both laughing as she looped her arms back around his neck.

  ‘Ed’s not her type,’ I had countered.

  Kerry clicks the central locking; I pull the collars of my coat up against the wind, as we begin walking into town; trust Kerry to go shopping two weeks before Christmas. I look up at the elephant-grey sky and wonder if we might be in for a white Christmas for once. Shrewsbury always looks beautiful in the snow: it’s like the set of a Dickens adaptation, except with a shopping centre sandwiched between the Tudor buildings along with various high street shops.