The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!

Splashing cold water on his face, his eyes stare back at him from the mirror, like two piss-holes in the snow. He tries to smooth his tousled hair, to no avail, then races down the stairs, three steps at a time; grabs the parcel and rushes towards the front door. Scamp, Aunt D.’s Jack Russell, races after him, his claws scratching on the flagstones and barking at the slammed door.

Bright sunlight makes Martin’s eyes wince. It’s been crazy weather. Spring, the coldest on record; June, the rainiest; now, England is hotter than Spain. He grabs his bike and pedals down the drive, parcel in one hand, handlebars in the other, shoots out onto the Penn Road, spitting gravel and almost colliding with a furniture van. The driver blasts the horn, shakes his fist. Martin waves a cheeky apology, pedals on. It’s only a mile. If he hurries, he’ll make the post office before it closes.

On the high street, stockbrokers with bellies that hang down like aprons waddle along proudly beside large, pink-skinned women with piano-stool calves. Shop girls in pencil skirts sashay arm in arm towards the Wycombe End – cheeky, giggling, up for it, as boys in boots and braces catcall after them.

Martin throws the bike against a lamppost, sprints towards the entrance of the post office, put his shoulder to the door . . . and falls through empty air, across the floor. What he sees, when he looks up, seems a hallucination caused by a malfunction of the nervous system due to his overly enthusiastic intake of alcohol. A Fata Morgana. A phantom, dressed in a loose, blue and white cotton dress, cinched at the waist with a crocodile skin belt. Slender neck. A dusting of freckles. Kissable lips. Very kissable lips. What he notices most, though, in those brief seconds, is the cascade of chestnut-coloured hair tumbling over her shoulders. And those eyes. Clear, blue and full of hidden depths, like a cove he once swam in off Cornwall.

‘I’m so sorry!’ He struggles to his feet, clutching the parcel to his chest. Flicks his hair out of his eyes. Gawps.

‘I think that’s what’s called a dramatic entrance.’

Her voice is bright, musical. Like a bell, or a harp.

‘I didn’t want to miss . . . ’ His furred tongue tries to form the next word, twists about in his mouth, like a worm doused with petrol.

‘The post?’ She tilts her head to where the line snakes back from the window.

He flounders, tries to look tough, manly. Like the matinée idol, Douglas Fairbanks.

‘Well, if you hurry, you’ll still catch it.’ The girl pushes open the door and flounces out.

Martin stares after her, noting the sway of her hips inside the blue and white summer dress; the proud, haughty bearing. He wants to dash after her.

‘Martin? Dorothy Preston’s nephew?’ A diminutive, white-haired woman comes through the door.

‘Hallo.’ He opens the door for her, stares over her shoulder. ‘Mrs Heal, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. How’s your aunt?’

‘Fly-fishing in Scotland.’ He holds up the parcel. ‘Sorry. Got to get this off to her.’

‘Do give her our regards . . . ’

He joins the queue. Seconds turn into minutes. It’s one of the fixed laws of the universe. When you enter a post office, no matter where it is, in what country, time moves at a different speed. Post office time. He checks his watch. The queue shuffles forward. If he hurries, she might still be out on the street. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. His head is going to explode.

‘Parcel to Scotland, please.’ Martin drums on the counter with his fingertips.

The counter assistant takes the parcel and weighs it. ‘That’ll be one shilling and five pence, please.’

Martin pulls the money from his trouser pocket, pushes it under the window and runs out. The postmistress calls after him.

‘You’ve given me two pence too much!’

But Martin is already out on the street. He looks left, looks right, grabs his bike and pedals off, scanning the crowds for that blue and white dress. Vanished. At the top of London End, he turns around and cycles back towards the post office, mutters to himself. This is really stupid, you know. You nearly knocked her over! She’s not going to talk to you. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

He turns and begins to cycle slowly back towards Knotty Green. A gleam of chestnut hair. A blue and white dress. He whips round and pedals furiously back down the street, almost knocking over a small boy in a school blazer. She disappears cycling down an alleyway. Martin follows, at breakneck speed.

‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’ A heavy-set man in a trilby shakes his stick in the air. ‘Bloody idiot!’

‘Sorry!’ Martin waves an apology, charges on between high brick walls. She is there now. Up ahead of him, just twenty yards away. A couple comes out of a jewellery shop. Martin swerves to avoid them, tips over, crashes into the opposite wall. The bike falls to the ground, wheels spinning. The couple snicker and walk on. Martin leaps back in the saddle, pedals furiously on.

‘Hallo again!’ he says, as he draws level with the girl. She stares through him. ‘The post office? I was the person . . . ’

‘Who almost knocked me unconscious?’ She pedals on.

‘I know. I’m so sorry, I . . . ’ Martin races after her. ‘Could I buy you a cup of tea?’

‘Not today.’ The girl increases her speed.

‘What’s your name?’ He draws level with her bicycle.

She eyes him warily.

‘I’m Martin. Martin Preston.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Martin Preston.’ She increases her speed. ‘I’m Nancy.’

‘Have you got a surname?’

‘Everyone has a surname!’ She pedals off, with her beautiful, freckled nose in the air.

Martin starts to follow but is blocked by a lorry. When he looks again, she has disappeared.

Back at the house, Martin wanders around the garden, distracted. Scamp follows, sniffing, digging, peeing. The vegetable patch is bursting with fruit and vegetables. Martin stops by a tomato cane and pulls a fruit from the stalk. Raises it to his nose, smells it, then bites into it. The juice spurts into his mouth. ‘Nancy.’ He rolls the name around on his tongue, goes back into the house and picks up the phone, then dials his friend Hugh Saunders’ number.

‘Hugh? Yes. Martin.’ He pauses, unsure whether to proceed. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I just met this girl in the Old Town.’

‘Another one?’ Hugh chuckles.

‘Yes, another one.’ Martin laughs. ‘But this one, well, made quite an impression.’

‘That’s what you said about the last one, dear boy.’

‘I know.’ Martin laughs. ‘Thing is, Hugh, I didn’t get her name. Or at least, not her surname.’

‘So, what’s she called?’

‘Nancy.’ Martin sighs. ‘That’s all I know. Auburn hair. Blue eyes. Pretty. Very pretty.’

‘So how can I help?’ Hugh asks.

‘You know everyone around here . . . ’

‘I wish. But, sadly, I don’t know any Nancys.’

‘No?’

‘Sorry I can’t help.’