Spotlight & Giveaway: The Moment I Met You by Debbie Johnson

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Debbie Johnson’s new release: The Moment I Met You

An unmissable novel of love, disaster, heartbreak, and unexpected happy endings, by the bestselling British author of Maybe One Day.

“When I was twenty-six years old my world was literally turned upside down and inside out, like a coat pocket being excavated for loose change. It was terrible, and frightening, and it taught me a lot of things I never wanted to know.”

Elena Godwin has scrimped and saved for a relaxing dream holiday in Mexico with her handsome but laddish boyfriend Harry. Life has felt a bit less exciting than she’d imagined her twenties would be, and she’s hoping the trip will add some sizzle. But on a gorgeous summer evening an earthquake strikes—shattering their peaceful vacation. The trauma changes Elena’s life forever.

Ten years later, Elena still can’t forget the face of the stranger she met that night—the man who may have saved her life. When they’re suddenly and unexpectedly thrown back together again, Elena starts to uncover the truth around that fateful night, and question whether she should have lived her life differently in the years afterwards.

What if it’s not too late?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Moment I Met You 

We are sitting behind Jorge, the coach driver, as he pulls in to the car park. Well, I say car park – it’s actually just a piece of pockmarked concrete on top of a hill. Everything, it seems, is on top of a hill around here. Even the hills.
An excited gaggle of little boys is running beside the chugging coach, waving at us through the dusty win- dows. One of them is holding a football; all of them are laughing and smiling. It’s infectious, and I stick my tongue out in response. They look shocked then delighted, and all start pulling faces at me. I am lowering the tone already, and I haven’t even got off the bus. My mum always says you need to be a bit of a kid to work with kids, and I suspect she’s right.
Harry shakes his head at my antics, in an amused-but- mildly-exasperated way. I stick my tongue out at him as well. That’ll teach him.
‘Hope Jorge’s hand-brake is good . . .’ he murmurs, as he starts to stretch out his arms, pressing his palms against the luggage rack and gazing at his own biceps. They are good biceps, to be fair, but the view outside is even better. The forested slopes, the red rooftops of the village, the heat that seems to shimmer in the air.
This part of Mexico is exotic and enticing and a million miles from our normal lives in London. Even a million miles from the hotel we’ve been staying at, really. I am excited to be here, in this place, and excited to be getting off the coach and breathing in the late afternoon mountain air.
The engine of the bus seems to sigh and belch as it shudders to a stop. I feel it jarring through me, my bones rattling and settling after hours on the road.
I glance at Jorge, and see that he is also sighing, just like the bus. Though not, as yet, belching. He is a lovely man, Jorge – physically he is made entirely of circles, a round face on top of rounded shoulders that hulk down to a round belly. I see him reach out to touch the St Christopher medallion he has hanging around the mirror, before leaning back against his seat, which has a T-shirt tied around it bearing the logo of a football team I don’t know.
It’s been a heck of a journey, the longest and most scary stretch of driving we’ve done as part of our mini- tour. All hairpin bends and jaw-dropping scenery and frankly terrifying heights. This little bus has been our only protection against the wild world, keeping us safe on narrow roads and cool in the searing heat.
That heat has taken its toll, though, and the windscreen is coated with a patina of red dust and stray flower petals and flattened insects. There’s been a mini-beast massacre.
I can tell that Harry is itching to get off, and I can’t really blame him. He’s a lot taller than me, and a lot less patient, and a lot less interested in scenery. He didn’t even want to come on this trip – he’d have been far happier sitting by the pool in our posh hotel, sipping cocktails or floating on a lilo. He only came to please me, which was either sweet or another sign that we have nothing in common – I’m not really sure yet.
Our tour guide, Sofia, gets up to speak. She turns first to Jorge, and they give each other an enthusiastic high five. If I was driving these roads every day, I’d celebrate too.
I know Jorge has grandchildren; there are photos of them tacked onto his dashboard, from babes in arms and toddlers through to teens. He talks with great affection about his wife, Maria, and is always very amused when we all ooh and aah about whitewashed adobe buildings
– he says he prefers his air-conditioned apartment with all mod cons.
He must be in his sixties, and he holds his round body with a lot of dignity – but every now and then he winks playfully, or puffs with laughter, and a much younger, much more mischievous man peeks out.
Sofia comes to face us all. She is in her thirties somewhere, with deep laughter lines at the side of her eyes, and accented but perfect English.
She has kept us entertained and informed for the whole of the trip, speaking into her crackling micro- phone, all the way out of our resort in Puerto Vallarta, through the Sierra Madres and the old mines and the forests and the magical places that are sprinkled across the hills and valleys.
We had an overnight stay in what I called ‘rustic’ accommodation, and which Harry called ‘a shithole’, and which was maybe a bit of both depending on your perspective. We’ve seen astonishing wildflower meadows and abandoned haciendas left behind as strange time capsules, and the most picturesque places imaginable.
We’ve seen so many different types of birds and animals and met so many people, and I’ve loved it. Harry has endured it as graciously as he could manage, so I can’t hold that against him.
When he suggested this holiday, I hoped that it would bring us closer together. Heal some of the rifts I’ve started to feel developing between us. Instead, I am starting to think that it is actually only highlighting our differences.
That makes me feel sad and confused – I have been with Harry for what feels like forever – so I set it aside to worry about later. I don’t want to spoil the present worrying too much about the future.
It is late afternoon, and we are here in Santa Maria de Alto for our dinner before we set off again. We are scheduled to arrive back at our hotel sometime around midnight, and then we will be back in the modern world, and all of this faded grandeur will feel like a dream. I can’t lie – I’m with Harry and Jorge on the air conditioning – but there is something wild and free about these remote corners of the world that calls to me. Sofia tells us about the history of this particular
village, about its isolation, many hours from any other tourist destination. She tells us about the way it reflects the wider history of the region, and how visitors like us are making an important contribution to the microeconomy. She encourages us to visit the church, to talk to the locals, to eat, to laugh, and to drink tequila. Everyone laughs at the last point, especially the gaggle of Aussie backpacking girls who have brought a near-feral sense of fun to the whole trip.
‘Jorge and I will be there with you,’ she says, ‘at our friend Luis’s bar. We’ll be here for a few hours, and if you need us, please just come and find us. No tequila for Jorge, is very sad!’ adds Jorge, rubbing away fake tears. His English isn’t as good as Sofia’s, but he makes his point, and I laugh again.
He opens the door to the coach and it makes a familiar hissing noise. Jorge will do what he always does– wait until we are off before he tries to move. It’s a complex manoeuvre, squeezing his bulk from behind the steering-wheel column.
I wait while the other passengers troop past. I like people-watching. I like making up stories to match everyone, creating fictional lives for them, assigning them nicknames. I have always enjoyed doing this, ever since I was little.
In my mind, my teacher was a fairy-tale princess and the man in the sweet shop was Willy Wonka and the old gent who lived in the bungalow on the corner of our road was actually a mysterious time-traveller. There were some harsh realities in my childhood, and I think all the tall tales helped me cope. These days, I am less fantastical with my imaginings. I realised that real people can be just as interesting.
Those Aussie girls, for example. They’re so loud, and vivid, and so completely confident in their own skin. They’re the first off the coach, a gaggle of long limbs and short shorts and sun-kissed skin and flip-flops. I see Harry’s gaze linger as they prance past in a flurry of laughter, and see Jorge watch them wistfully as they jump down the steps. I get it, I really do – they’re not just hot, they’re happy, carefree.
Next past is the one family group on the trip. There’s a tired-looking mum and dad, a young boy who constantly asks questions, and the teenaged daughter who looks professionally bored as she slouches along behind them. She has bright red hair and pale skin and is clutching a fancy phone. There is no signal here, but she still clutches it, like an empty oxygen tank that might have one last puff of air left inside it. She’s been like this for the whole journey, and every time I look at her I have to bite my lips so I don’t laugh out loud. If I laughed out loud, she might stab me.
I remember that phase – that deeply rooted conviction that the world sucks, and that nobody will ever understand you. It’s funny in hindsight – but deadly serious at the time.
The elderly couple goes past next. I don’t like to ponder the intimate details of other couples’ lives, but they must be in their eighties and I saw them snogging on the back seat yesterday. Life goals. He – I think his name is Donald – goes first, then holds up his hand to help his wife down the steps.
Next there’s a much younger couple, maybe in their thirties, who are at the other end of the relationship spectrum, at least from the outside looking in. They’ve been bickering for the whole trip and, from the look on her face, I wouldn’t bet on a romantic dinner for two. She pushes past him to get out of the coach first, jumping down onto the gravelled concrete instead of using the steps. She hits the ground so hard dust flies up, her face angry and resentful behind it as she strides off.
Others pass, everyone bright and happy, making their way into the next stage of our adventure.
Last off, after politely offering to let us go first and me equally politely declining is the Mystery Man. The Man in Black. He of the Big Boots and Backpack.
Of all the stories, of all the people-watching inspired fictions, his is possibly the most interesting. Even Harry– who has a strict policy of only ever reading sports autobiographies – has joined in.
All we actually know is that he is travelling alone, that he is European, and that he takes a lot of photographs. He doesn’t talk much to any of us, and because of this seems extremely fascinating. Harry’s theories thus far are that he is either an eccentric tech billionaire looking for anonymity, or a serial killer who has several women locked in his basement.
Mine have included him being on the run from a drugs cartel; on the run from an ex-wife; or on the run from the FBI. He’s definitely, somehow, on the run – but not from any of the above, I suspect. He is distant but courteous, silent but not rude, and carries with him an air of deep-frosted melancholy that makes me think he is on the run from something altogether less interesting, and altogether more sad.
He’s not very chatty though, so we’ll probably never find out. He will remain as the Mystery Man forever, I think, as I watch him set off into the distance, alone as usual.
‘Okay. Can we actually leave the coach now?’ Harry asks, not unreasonably.
I laugh, and nod, and he climbs out of the cushioned seat and stretches, his T-shirt riding up to expose a scattering of dark hair pluming a gym-toned stomach.
I wonder, as Jorge nods at me, smiling, what people make of us? What stories do they make up to match us? People-watching, I know, goes both ways.
On the surface we must look perfectly normal, perfectly happy – a young couple off on a dream holiday together. Harry is handsome and athletic looking; I am adequate if not at all extraordinary. He has a well-paid job and all the trappings. I work as a teacher and love it. We have been together for eight years, having met and fallen in love in our first week at university.
We are edging towards the age when people start to ask about wedding bells ringing, where parents start to make small comments about grandchildren, where friends are throwing engagement parties or looking to move from the city and into a bigger house in the suburbs. We are at the age where people see us as solid, united, committed. As the kind of couple who will take the next steps expected of them.
I wish we were that kind of couple. I wish I was that kind of woman. In all honesty, I’m not sure what I want any more. There’s been something simmering inside me this year; a tiny seed of discontent that is making me question this well-trodden path. Whether it’s the right one for me.
Whether, truth be told, Harry is the right one for me. I came on this holiday in the hope that it would heal us. That I would feel that magical spark again – that I would look at Harry and feel more than affection; that we would be bound together by more than history. That a different future – one I’m more than half considering– would be the wrong choice. He jumps down the steps and immediately launches himself into an impromptu game of football with the little boys who were running alongside the coach. One of them kicks up a high ball, and Harry heads it so far away they all chase after it. Harry himself throws his arms up in the air and does a victory dance, like he’s just scored the winning penalty in the World Cup.
I smile, and follow him out into the sultry air of Santa Maria de Alto.

It’s hard not to like Harry. But is that enough?

Excerpt. ©Debbie Johnson. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: A Print copy of THE MOMENT I MET YOU

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Meet the Author:

Debbie Johnson is an award-winning author who lives and works in Liverpool, where she divides her time between writing, caring for a small tribe of children and animals, and not doing the housework.

Buy: https://www.amazon.com/Moment-Met-You-Novel-ebook/dp/B096T38SQW/