The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

The Greatest Love Story Ever Told Suzy K Quinn Praise for Suzy K Quinn ‘Frank, disarming and hilarious, it’s the best women’s fiction I have read since the last Marian Keyes and it made me spit more coffee out than Bridget Jones’ Diary ever did. I can’t wait to read books 2 and 3’ Rachel Read It ‘This book made me laugh so much it became dangerous for a mother-of-four to continue’ Books In My Hallway ‘Suzy K Quinn is the literary equivalent of hot chocolate.’ Liza Foreman, New York Times journalist 'I read Suzy K Quinn in one sitting, with a break for sleep. This does not usually happen. A terrific read.' Fay Weldon 'One word: gripping.' Joanne Harris ‘Brilliantly funny and so real – the perfect pick-me-up page-turner’ Kate Harrison 'Suzy K Quinn is a born storyteller' Erin Kelly 'Her writing is skilful and vivid. Suzy K Quinn is one to watch.' Julia Gregson ‘A witty, warm, real, observational and poignant page-turner. I loved it!’ Nicola May Gratitude from Suzy I still can’t believe so many people read my books. Each and every day, I am grateful to you. Thank you so much. If you want to talk to me online, I’m here: TikTok: @suzykquinn Instagram: @suzykquinn Twitter: @suzykquinn Website: suzykquinn.com Email: [email protected] Facebook.com/suzykquinn (You can friend request me. I like friends.) Happy reading, Suzy xxx For all the heroes, big and small. One Michael Lamb Boys from disadvantaged backgrounds are exposed to a culture of toxic masculinity. This negatively affects their relationships with females. I’ve always hated school playgrounds. They are noisy, terrifying places where lunchbox items, such as unwanted sandwiches or empty Ribena cartons, can fly at you from all angles. Sometimes, even whole lunchboxes come your way. As I crossed the Great Oakley Primary School playground this morning, my hands were already positioned to protect my face. Everywhere was chaos. To my left, two boys engaged in an angry ballet spin, apparently trying to tear each other’s shirts off. To my right, a group of children attempted a dangerous cheerleading pyramid, shrieking as they tumbled onto the hard tarmac. Chaos. Everywhere. I hoped to make it inside the school un-assailed, and I did avoid projectiles. But as I buzzed to enter the building, a burly boy who couldn’t have been older than ten shouted: ‘Those bike clips are lame, mate. Totally lame.’ I’m an average height, middle-aged white man with greying-blond hair. I buy my clothes from charity shops, meaning they must be the same sorts of clothes other people wear. Otherwise, how could they be second-hand? Yet, I seem to invite hostility and aggression from school-aged boys. Especially the ones who play football. I have no idea why. It was even worse when I was a schoolboy myself. I never did understand the primal rage my haircut and briefcase seemed to instil in my fellow classmates. As peals of hyena-like laughter rang through the air, I repeatedly pressed the buzzer. Eventually, the main door clicked open and I entered the school reception area. Once inside, I thought it wise to take off my bicycle clips. There seemed no reason to invite more taunting. My ex-girlfriend, Ifeoma, would have called this move ‘cowardly’. But I don’t have an issue with being a coward. I am, in fact, an ideological coward, as I explained to my tutor, Bethany Balls, when she insisted I do this PhD research. ‘What the bloody buggering hell is an ideological coward?’ Bethany asked, as she scribbled over my thesis plan with her purple Sharpie. Bethany Balls does not fit the usual image of a PhD tutor. She is a loud, overweight ex-heroin addict who almost always has piles of steaming junk food on her desk during our academic meetings. ‘I believe bravery to be a masculine construct,’ I explained, ‘used to make men into better soldiers. Bravery does not exist in the animal kingdom. A mouse does not stay to fight a cat because it worries about what the other mice will think.’ ‘But sometimes, you have to face your fears,’ said Bethany, whacking a BBQ sauce sachet on her desk for emphasis. ‘What if someone attacked your loved one? You’d have to stay and fight.’ I told Bethany that, in all honesty, I might run away. And I’d had this exact conversation with Ifeoma on the night she left. ‘I told Ifeoma that if I saw her getting mugged, I may well flee the scene,’ I admitted. ‘Which was an honest response. Because no one knows what they would do under stress. I don’t know why she became so angry.’ Bethany gave an outraged laugh, showing many gold fillings, and said, ‘Sometimes you can be too honest for your own good, Michael. Is this why you’re taking a qualitative research module? To understand people a bit better?’ ‘Probably,’ I admitted. ‘Ifeoma often suggested I study people, instead of mathematics. Perhaps I am trying to overcome the dreadful pain I’ve felt since she left.’ Bethany gave me kind eyes and told me it was better to have loved and lost. ‘That’s not the case,’ I said. ‘Because I was reasonably happy listening to Radio 4 and doing jigsaws before I met Ifeoma. And now I’m unhappy no matter what I do.’ ‘These interviews will cheer you up,’ said Bethany. ‘Talking to someone worse off than yourself always makes you feel better. And I’ve found you a brilliant kid for your research. A proper tearaway who gets thrown out of class on a daily basis. He’s captain of the football team. He even lives in a pub. You want to study masculine culture? This boy is perfect. And he’s got a great story to tell about boy-girl friendships.’ ‘Bethany,’ I said. ‘You are describing exactly the sort of child who kicked footballs at my briefcase when I was at school. I can’t see the two of us getting along. And isn’t qualitative interviewing about building rapport?’ ‘That’s a pre-judgement, Michael,’ said Bethany,