This Disaster Loves You
$18.00
| Title | Range | Discount |
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| Trade Discount | 5 + | 25% |
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Description
From the author of Something to Live For, a poignant and funny story about a man whose wife disappeared seven years ago and his journey to find her or find out what happened, interwoven with the story of their relationship, revealing how sometimes the biggest secrets are the ones we keep from ourselves.
Twenty years of love. Seven years of absence. One journey to find out what happened.
Brian’s wife, Lily, disappeared from his life without a trace six years, eleven months, one week, and two days ago, but Brian never lost hope. Since her disappearance their once beloved English pub—and Brian’s livelihood—has been crumbling piece by piece. As the anniversary of her absence approaches, Brian desperately needs a sign. One doom-scroll on his business’s reviews later, he finds it: an active TripAdvisor account for PinkMoonLily1972 that he knows in his heart is his Lily.
Interspliced with Brian’s journey to find Lily is the story of their love—how it started, and the twists and turns that brought them to this moment. As Brian jumps from one destination to the next to find Lily, and the truth behind their story comes into focus, Brian comes back to life with the help of Tess, a sarcastic, kind, and surprising traveling companion. But in order to move forward he’ll need to decide—stay in the past or take a chance on something unexpected.“Heartwarming and hilarious.” – People
“Richard Roper charms and surprises with This Disaster Loves You….Roper writes fluid, readable prose, as charming as The County Arms…” – Associated Press
“This delightful novel is stuffed full of surprises, not least of which how well it combines humor with a deeply moving account of a love lost and a future found.”—Liam Callanan, Paris by the Book and When in Rome
“A charming novel about the memory of a lost wife and her husband’s quest to find her. I was drawn in, delighted and surprised by this love story that has both sweetness and depth. I highly recommend escaping to the story of This Disaster Loves You.” –Miriam Parker, author of The Shortest Way Home
“There’s warmth and wit on every page of This Disaster Loves You. But beyond Richard Roper’s usual easy-going charm lies keen insight, an enthralling mystery, and an emotional ending that simply blew me away. I absolutely loved this book.”—Matthew Norman, author of Charm City Rocks
“Richard Roper writes with wit, soul, and beautiful prose.” –Good Morning America
“Richard Roper writes humour so brilliantly.” –Beth O’ Leary, author of The Flatshare and The Switch
“Roper has a light touch that keeps the reader laughing even while he gently pulls on the heartstrings…” –Kirkus
“Roper possesses a wry and formidable wit. But his real gift is the ability to infuse that humor with such immense heart that it becomes the path for an uplifting and redemptive journey.” –Steven Rowley, author of Lily and the Octopus
”Richard Roper uplifts the human spirit and shows us how to embrace life and hope.” —Phaedra Patrick, author of The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper
Praise for the Novels of Richard Roper
“[A] winning debut novel. . . . Roper illuminates Andrew’s interior life to reveal not what an odd duck he is, but what odd ducks we all are — lonely, confused, misguided, bumbling and, as we learn in the book’s powerhouse ending, profoundly bereft. Roper’s unbridled compassion for his characters is the book’s greatest strength.” —New York Times Book Review
“Off-beat and winning . . . How Not to Die Alone gives resiliency and the triumph of the human spirit a good name.” —Wall Street JournalRichard Roper is a non-fiction editor at Headline, an imprint of Hachette UK. He lives in London and is the author of Something to Live For and When We Were Young.A Conversation with Richard Roper
1. What inspired you to write this story?
I was in a pub in York, my first post-Covid trip, when I heard a customer complaining to staff, going so far as to invoke “the weights and measures act of 1985”. I know without doubt that this person would follow up by writing a review online, and sure enough they did. I became weirdly obsessed with why people do this, reading lots of one star reviews of things like the Sistine Chapel. But then it struck me that someone who owns a pub or café or shop might be having the worst day of their lives, only to read a review that completely slated them, even though they were doing their best. As I took the train home from York, the character of Brian appeared, and I feverishly wrote down what became the plot of the book. I think the person next to me must have thought I was composing an incredibly intense Whatsapp to someone…
2. Your description of owning and running a pub is so vivid. Have you ever worked in a pub or interviewed anyone who has?
I am tempted to say that yes, this was all down to some thorough research, but the truth is I just really love pubs. We don’t get much right when it comes to food and drink in Britain, but a beer garden by a babbling brook or a fifteenth century inn with a fire roaring away in winter––that’s where we come into our own…
3. Do you relate to Brian at all? Or Lily? Were any of these characters based on real people?
Most of my male protagonists tend to have a little bit of me in them, so Brian’s inept attempts to impress women are of course directly inspired by my own experiences. This is why if my books are ever made into films it’s not going to be The Rock playing the lead.
4. In Chapter 12, Brian imagines what a blue plaque about him would say. What would you want a blue plaque about you to say? Where would you want the plaque to be posted?
“Richard Roper, inventor of the colour blue, and the concept of commemorative plaques, was born here.” Ideally on the side of Buckingham Palace, but if not I’ll settle for 10 Downing Street.
5. What was your favorite scene to write, and why?
The scene where Brian and Lily first spend time together on Primrose Hill was one of those scenes where it felt like my typing fingers couldn’t keep up with my brain, which was a glorious feeling. (I wish I could say the same about the rest of the book…)
6. If you were in Brian’s position, seeing the PinkMoonLily1970 review, what would you have done?
I’d almost certainly have had a cup of tea and big old think.
7. Which of the locations featured in Brian’s trip would you most like to visit or revisit next?
I have visited all the places in the book, aside from Stonehenge (unless you count seeing it from a moving car from five miles away).
8. What significance does the Maori phrase “Kia ora” hold for you?
I would love to say that it was something more profound than the fact I came up with a funny joke involving that phrase, but alas…
9. If you could give Brian any advice at the end of this book, without any spoilers, what would it be?
Instinctively, I think of Monica’s advice to Chandler: “Be yourself. But not too much.” (I also give this advice to myself quite a lot.)
10. If you were to cast Brian and Lily as actors in a movie, who would you choose? How about Tess?
As I say above, it’s unlikely to be The Rock for Brian. And then I’ve got younger and older actors to think of! I’ll have to get back to you on that one…
Discussion Questions
1. Seven years is a long time to watch a door, hoping that someone will come through it. Is there anything unlikely you’ve hoped for, for such a long time? What made you keep hoping?
2. What did you think had happened to Lily, or where and why did you think she went, early in the novel? How did your opinion change, as the novel went on?
3. Do you ever leave reviews online? What influences your decision?
4. How might Brian be different now, if Lily had never left? Did he change for the better or for the worse, when she disappeared?
5. How do you think Brian being “demographic” acts as a metaphor for his personality? How do metaphors of cryptic signs and permanent words shift through the novel?
6. What was your favorite scene in the novel, and why?
7. Early in her courtship with Brian, Lily says, “I suppose we’re all pretending to be people we’re not.” Do you think Lily was ever pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
8. The username PinkMoonLily1970 is enough to convince Brian that this is his Lily. Which brief username, that doesn’t include your full name, might your loved ones most immediately recognize for you, and why?
9. What do you think Tess brings out in Brian? What do you think Lily brings out in Brian? How do the two compare?
10. How might Brian and Lily’s lives have turned out differently if he had approached her by the cliff tops in chapter 53? Would anything have changed?
11. Were you surprised by the ending?1.
Today’s Memories
How she’d shed her clothes where she stood, like she’d spontaneously combusted.
The mysterious way she’d select a mug for her tea, absorbed in the task as if it was of life-changing importance.
The dangerous flash in her eyes when she knew she was about to win an argument.
The birthmark on her hip that I thought looked like Mount Rushmore and she thought looked like a sparrow taking off. We compromised on Ringo’s hair.
Her bitter contempt for the existence of glacé cherries.
The conversations she’d have with herself-me with front-row seats to the new hit one-woman show: Should I Dye My Hair? No, Lily, Don’t Do That.
“I’ve got a headache,” I said.
“Almost certainly terminal,” she replied, cracking eggs into a pan.
How long it took me to wake her when she was having a nightmare.
A stray hair of hers, come loose, surfing down the banister, clinging on for dear life.
Her hand squeezing mine-once, twice. Our signal. Time to go.
2.
The County Arms
Now
At some point during the night, I must have crossed over into the unfamiliar terrain of my wife’s side of the bed. Lying there now, I’m trying to remember whether we ever had a conversation about who would take which side, or whether one of us just staked our claim with a bedside table-planting a flag with an alarm clock or a paperback.
I sit up in bed. It’s bittersweet, to have come across a gap in my knowledge like this-a blank space in the vast collage of memories of my life with Lily. I’m aware that if I’m not careful I could spend the whole morning here, searching for that memory-seeking out the others that are missing too. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sat here, lost to the past, unaware of how far the morning sunlight has crept across the wall.
Not today, I think. Digging deep, I swing my legs out of bed, hearing the now-familiar cracks and creaks as my body splutters into life. My right knee always seems to hurt first thing these days, I don’t know why. I did Google it not too long ago while making my morning cup of tea, and I’d diagnosed myself with leprosy by the time the kettle had boiled. I should go to the doctor, I suppose, but the last time I went with a minor complaint like this she told me “these things just happen when we get older.” That put a spring in my step, I can tell you.
I’m distracted by something lying on the floor between my feet. It’s Lily’s watch, face down on the carpet. That’s odd, I must have knocked it off her bedside table during the night. Clearly, I’d been flailing around in my sleep, though I can’t remember having a nightmare. I put the watch back in its rightful place, then I’m up and dressed in my carefully curated look of a forty-seven-year-old man who’s just got off a long-haul flight, and brace myself for another day.
I wonder how many other people are waking up this morning in a pub. To be clear, I’m the landlord, so I’ve got an excuse. My pub is called the County Arms (purveyors of fine ales & spirits since 1874), and my-our-bedroom is up above the front bar. Even though it’s been over a decade that I’ve been coming down the narrow stairs and through the door that brings me out behind the taps and pumps, it still feels peculiar to be in a pub at this time. The thousands of memories created in this place all seem to leave a little of themselves behind, like the ancient tobacco smoke that’s colored parts of the ceiling a dull yellow. Despite the thick silence-the place as still as a painting-if I close my eyes and concentrate I can just about remember what a busy day felt like here: the convivial chatter, glasses being clinked, the distant chaos of the kitchen. Even if I sought two minutes of calm up in our bedroom, I’d still be aware of the constant symphony below of muffled voices, cutlery on porcelain, the swift crash of the cash register announcing another pint sold, and, most of all, Lily’s laughter. Standing here now, it’s so quiet that if it weren’t for the distant cry of a seagull I’d feel like the only living thing around for miles.
I open the hatch and come through the bar. Ever since I can remember, I’ve liked to do a circuit of the downstairs first thing. Ostensibly this would be so I could clear up anything we’d missed the night before, but I also used to feel so in awe of how this place was actually ours, that we had managed to find our dream pub, that I just wanted to take in every inch of the place to remind me of that fact.
It’s not quite the same, these days. There’s nothing to clear away, and I haven’t had to make up a room for a guest in months. When I glance around I see a rotten window frame that’s stuck fast with an inch gap at the bottom, the booth with an unexplained slash through its fabric, the damp patch by the skirting board. I assume the latter is what’s causing the musty smell that pervades the pub, though I’m no longer sure how bad it is, because I’ve got so used to it.
As I finish my circuit, it strikes me that I can’t actually remember the last time I left the building. A week? Longer? Best not to think about it too much. I comfort myself with the thought that when we first opened, over eleven years ago now, we were so rushed off our feet that we barely had time to leave the place then either. I stoop to pick up a beer mat, the one thing that’s out of place. As I turn it over in my hands I think, Well, who’s to say Lily and I won’t be as busy as in our heyday once again? I look back to the bar and picture us there, caught up in one of our furious ballets-Lily flicking the Guinness tap on while I dive for Twiglets, limbs looped through limbs, constantly in motion.
I toss the beer mat onto a table and come back around the bar, settling myself on my stool. It isn’t the most comfortable place to sit, up here. I’m twisted at a funny angle, and my knees are cramped for room, but crucially it gives me the clearest view of the main entrance. There was so much riding on Lily and me making a success of the pub once we took it over that the fact we had any customers at all was an enormous relief. But it wasn’t until I started to notice people’s faces when they came through the door that I knew we were going to be OK, that it had all been worth it. It was a wonderfully addictive thing to see-people shedding whatever worries had been occupying them as they set foot inside. That sense that they had opened a door to a new and exciting world while simultaneously coming home after an arduous journey. I’d sit here and watch even the most seasoned pub-goer looking around in awe at the hearty fire, the gleaming taps, the dimpled glasses suspended above the bar catching the light. Yes, that look would say, this will do us nicely.
These days, I watch the door even more closely. I wish I could say it’s because of some delightful new phenomenon where the sunlight coming through the frosted glass casts beautiful shapes in silhouette. But there’s really nothing particularly noteworthy about the door. The flowery motif etched on its glass is charming, but it’s fairly standard Victorian public house fare. Nor has the door played a part in some notorious historical incident, the kind you often see dubiously referenced in pubs on chalkboards proclaiming that Shakespeare “probably” drank a piña colada on this spot before he dashed off Hamlet.
What I do know is the time it takes from someone’s form becoming visible through the frosted glass to them opening the door. That seven out of ten people will (correctly) guess that the door needs to be pushed, not pulled. That three out of five people who’ve incorrectly pulled first will give the door a reproachful look for misleading them. That a certain kind of man with a certain kind of beard will rub his hands together in anticipation as he approaches the bar. That women are more likely to whisper as they ask where the loos are.
This is all entirely useless knowledge, of course. Something Lily would be quick to point out. But it’s the result of me sitting here every moment I can, staring at that door, wondering if today is the day, seven years after she disappeared, that Lily finally comes back home.
3.
New People
The Bakerloo Line
London, June 1995
Let me go back to the beginning. Or, at least, the beginning of the story of Lily and me, which in all honesty is the moment my life began in earnest. Leaving school, graduating university, getting my first job-these moments hadn’t felt as significant to me as they seemed to for other people. I was waiting for the moment when something revelatory would happen-but my touchpaper had as yet remained unlit.
After graduating, I had kicked around at home, feeling a bit rudderless. By contrast, my friend Ed-who I’d met at university and who was far more outgoing-had moved straight to London, and had been badgering me to join him ever since. There are so many new people to meet, he’d tell me. As if this were a good thing. It often seemed like it was Ed’s personal mission to rid me of my shyness and unleash what he very optimistically hoped was the charismatic raconteur hiding underneath. Eventually I caved and made the move to London, shortly after I’d turned twenty-four.
At first, I found the pace of it all completely overwhelming. When I went out with Ed and his revolving group of friends, I’d watch on enviously as people quickly forged connections with others they’d only just met. I was determined to get to this point myself-relying somewhat less on charm and more on homework and rigorous preparation. This led to one of the more mortifying moments in my life when I came home one evening to find a very drunk Ed leafing through the aide-mémoires I’d been keeping in my coat pockets, designed to make conversations with his friends easier.
“Jenny. Doctor. Scared of birds,” Ed read, holding the card out of reach as I tried to snatch it back. When I finally relented and explained myself, Ed said, “So next time you see Jenny you’ll say, ‘Hi, Jen, how’s things? Hope you’ve not had to give a heron CPR recently’?”
“If absolutely necessary, yes!”
Ed gave me a look he often did back then, like I was a spider drowning in the bath and he couldn’t work out whether or not to save me.
“Look,” he said eventually, “you’re a bright, funny, lovable guy. You just need to show that side a bit more. I know it’s been hard for you . . . with, well . . .”
Ed left it there, but I knew what he meant, and it made me uncomfortable. He was one of the few people who knew I’d had a slightly unusual upbringing, one that hadn’t necessarily lent itself to me becoming the most easygoing person on the planet. But I was determined that I wouldn’t let that define or hinder me, and so, gradually, by making myself show up to parties and pubs and blustering my way through, I began to emerge from my shell.
I’d got a job working for an insurance firm, and though I’d learned to tell people that it was deathly boring, and complain about my bosses-because that’s what everyone else seemed to do when they were in the pub, cynicism being a strong currency-I secretly very much enjoyed it. The work itself didn’t thrill me, but I was just rather proud of myself-not an emotion I was particularly familiar with-about the fact that here I was, in the big city, blending in with the great homogenous mass of suits and spreadsheets. I remember as a kid watching the news-where they’d use a shot of office workers walking down a busy London street on their lunch breaks as a backdrop to a report on the economy or something-and wondering about the lives of these busy, important-looking people, and now, lo and behold, I was one of them.
Having grown in confidence enough to make some friends, I found myself tentatively turning my intention to encounters with the opposite sex. (It was Ed who pointed out that using phrases like “encounters with the opposite sex” was why I wasn’t having any.) My romantic history thus far had been limited to a brief, unhappy time at university with Morag Henderson, a girl on my accountancy course with a severe fringe and a personality to match. One of the many odd things about our relationship was that I couldn’t actually remember it beginning. Morag had just seemed to decide one day, and frankly I was too scared of her to refuse. Our time together consisted mainly of sitting in cafés in strained silence, as if we’d been married for thirty years and had run out of things to say to each other. The physical side of the relationship had been even more baffling to me. We would occasionally kiss in the chaste manner of 1950s film stars, but I had only once built up the courage to take things further as we lay on the unforgiving single bed of her dorm room. Completely guessing at what I was supposed to do, I found myself pressing my hand to her bottom and then just . . . leaving it there, as if I were trying to guess the weight of a cake at a village fête. We broke up soon after, around the time we graduated. Much to my confusion, Morag wrote me a letter afterward in which she told me that I would always be the greatest love of her life. Since moving to London two years ago, there had been a couple of things that had seemed promising, but they’d all fizzled out fairly quickly.
“And that’s why you’re going to come to drinks on Friday,” Ed said after my latest bad date, this one with a girl called Sophie (flutist, shin splints, Dutch) who had offered me a cigarette and caught me trying to surreptitiously drop it down the drain rather than tell her I didn’t smoke.US
Additional information
| Weight | 10 oz |
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| Dimensions | 0.7900 × 5.1800 × 7.9200 in |
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| Subjects | heartbreak, novels, chick lit, saga, romance book, women's fiction, love story, gifts for women, literary fiction, second chance, books for women, book club books, contemporary romance, romance novel, gifts for her, contemporary romance books, fiction books, books fiction, romance novels, women gifts, romantic novels, realistic fiction books, drama, women, divorce, marriage, relationship, relationships, family, modern, romance, love, dating, Literature, FIC027020, FIC045000, fiction, mystery, Friendship, grief, death, romance books, romantic, love triangle |
