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The Christmas Escape
Chapter One
Robyn
She hadn’t dared hope that this might happen.
Someone less cynical might have thought of it as a Christmas miracle, but Robyn no longer believed in miracles. She was terrified, but layered under the terror was a seam of something else. Hope. The kaleidoscope of emotions inside her matched the swirl and shimmer of color in the sky. Here in Swedish Lapland, north of the Arctic Circle, the unpolluted skies and clear winter nights made for frequent sightings of the northern lights.
She heard the door open behind her, heard the soft crunch of footsteps on deep snow and then felt Erik’s arms slide around her.
“Come inside. It’s cold.”
“One more minute. I need to think…” She’d always done her best thinking here, in this wild land where nature dominated, where a human felt insignificant beneath the expanse of pink-tinted sky. Everything she’d ever done that was foolish, selfish, risky or embarrassing shrank in importance because this place didn’t care.
Trees bowed under the weight of new snow, the surface glistening with delicate threads of silver and blue. The cold numbed her cheeks and froze her eyelashes, but she noticed only the beauty. Her instinct was to reach for her camera, even though she already had multiple images of the same scene.
She’d come here to escape from everything she was and everything she’d done and had fallen in love with the place and the man. It turned out that you could reinvent yourself if you moved far enough away from everyone who knew you.
Erik pulled the hood of her down jacket farther over her head. “If you’re thinking of the past, then don’t.”
How could she not?
Robyn the rebel.
Her old self felt unfamiliar now. It was like looking at an old photo and not recognizing yourself. Who was that woman?
“I can’t believe she’s coming here. She was three years old when I last saw her.”
Her niece. Her sister’s child.
She remembered a small, smiling cherub with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair. She remembered innocence and acceptance and the fleeting hope of a fresh start, before Robyn had ruined it, the way she’d ruined everything back then.
Her sister had forbidden her to ever make contact again. There had been no room for Robyn in her sister’s perfect little family unit. Even now, many years later, remembering that last encounter still made her feel shaky and sick. She tried to imagine the child as a woman. Was she like her mother? Whenever Robyn thought about her sister, her feelings became confused. Love. Hate. Envy. Irritation. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel every possible emotion within a single relationship. Elizabeth had been the golden girl. The perfect princess and, for a little while at least, her best friend in the world.
Time had eased the pain from agony to ache.
All links had been broken, until that email had arrived.
“Why did she get in touch now, after so long? She’s thirty. Grown.”
Part of her wanted to celebrate, but life had taught her to be cautious, and she knew this wasn’t a simple reunion. What if her niece was looking for answers? And what if she didn’t like what she heard?
Was this a second chance, or another emotional car crash?
“You can ask her. Face-to-face,” Erik said, “but I know you’re nervous.”
“Yes.” She had no secrets from him, although it had taken her a while to reach the point where she’d trusted their relationship not to snap. “She’s a stranger. The only living member of my family.”
Her sister was gone, killed instantly two years earlier while crossing the road. There was no fixing the past now. That door was closed.
Erik tightened his hold on her. “Your niece has a daughter, remember? That’s two family members. Three if you count her husband.”
Family. She’d had to learn to live without it.
She’d stayed away, as ordered. Made no contact. Rebuilt her life. Redesigned herself. Buried the past and traveled as far from her old life as she could. In the city she’d often felt trapped. Suffocated by the past. Here, in this snowy wilderness with nature on her doorstep, she felt free.
And then the past had landed in her in-box.
I’m Christy, your niece.
“Was it a mistake to ask her here?” It was the first time she’d invited the past into the present. “Apart from the fact we don’t know each other, do you think she’ll like this place?” For her it had been love at first sight. The stillness. The swirl of blue-green color in the sky, and the soft light that washed across the landscape at this time of year. As a photographer, the light was an endless source of fascination and inspiration. There were shades and tones she’d never seen anywhere else in the world. Midnight blue and bright jade. Icy pink and warm rose.
Some said the life up here was harsh and hard, but Robyn had known hard, and this wasn’t it. Cold wasn’t only a measure of temperature, it was a feeling. And she’d been cold. The kind of cold that froze you inside and couldn’t be fixed with thermal layers and a down jacket.
And then there was warmth, of the kind she felt now with Erik.
“Christmas in Lapland?” He sounded amused. “How can she not like it? Particularly as she has a child. Where else can she play in the snow, feed reindeer and ride on a sled through the forest?”
Robyn gazed at the trees. It was true that this was paradise for a Christmas-loving child, although that wasn’t the focus of the business. She had little experience with children and had never felt the desire to have her own. Her family was Erik. The dogs. The forest. The skies. This brilliant, brutal wilderness that felt more like home than any place she’d lived.
The main lodge had been handed down through generations of Erik’s family, but he’d expanded it to appeal to the upper end of the market. Their guests were usually discerning travelers seeking to escape. Adventurous types who appreciated luxury but were undaunted by the prospect of heading into the frozen forest or exploring the landscape on skis or snowshoes. Erik offered his services as a guide when needed, and she, as a photographer, was on hand to coach people through the intricacies of capturing the aurora on camera. You couldn’t predict it, so she’d learned patience. She’d learned to wait until nature gave her what she was hoping for.
Through the snowy branches she could see the soft glow of lights from two of their cabins, nestled in the forest. They were five in total, each named after Arctic wildlife. Wolf, Reindeer, Elk, Lynx and Bear. Each cozy cabin had floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the forest and the sky. The Snow Spa had been her idea and proved a popular addition. The focus here was wellness, with an emphasis on the nature that surrounded them. She and her small team used local resources whenever they could. Guests were encouraged to leave phones and watches behind.
Erik was right. It was the perfect escape. The question she should have asked wasn’t Will she like it here? but Will she like me?
She felt a moment of panic. “The last time I saw Christy—well, it wasn’t good.” The kitten incident. The memory of that visit was carved into her soul. Despite all her good intentions, it had gone badly wrong. “What age do children start remembering? Will she remember what happened?” She hoped not. Even now, so many years later, she could still remember the last words her sister had spoken to her.
You ruin everything. I don’t want you in my life.
Robyn pressed closer to Erik and felt his arms tighten.
“It was a long time ago, Robyn. Ancient history.”
“But people don’t forget history, do they?” What had her sister told her daughter?
Robyn the rebel.
She wondered what her sister would say if she could see her now. Happy. Married to a man she loved. Living in one place. Earning a good living, although no doubt Elizabeth would see it as unconventional.
Christy, it seemed, was happily married and living an idyllic life in the country, as her mother had before her.
What would Elizabeth say if she knew her daughter was coming to visit?
Robyn gave a shiver and turned back toward the lodge.
Elizabeth wouldn’t have been happy, and if she could have stopped it, she would have done so. She wouldn’t have wanted her sister to contaminate her daughter’s perfect life.
Chapter Two
Christy
“Living the dream, Christy, living the dream.” Christy stuck a bucket under the leak in the downstairs bathroom and glanced at the spreading stain on the ceiling in despair. Sometimes it felt as if she was living in a sieve, not a cottage.
How was she going to tell Seb about this latest crisis? If one more thing goes wrong with this place…
Maybe she’d wait a few days before mentioning it. Or she could get it fixed without telling him. She still had a small amount of savings left from her mother’s estate.
She slumped against the wall and snuggled deeper into her thick sweater.
Christmas was usually her favorite time of year. Warmth, coziness, the smell of the tree and festive baking. Tradition and togetherness. She’d thought the cottage would enhance those feelings. Instead it was promising to kill them.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d wanted to create the perfect home for her family. She’d imagined pets, sunshine, apple orchards, fields of daisies, dreamy Christmases and a cottage so loved it was almost another family member.
She stared gloomily at the damp, feeling betrayed. If the house was a family member she’d be talking to lawyers. She’d had a plan for the day: twenty-two items neatly laid out in her notebook in priority order ready to be crossed out—oh how she loved that part—and so far she hadn’t put a line through a single one. The cottage refused to cooperate.
When she’d first laid eyes on the place on a sunny day in June, it had been love at first sight. She’d told herself that if only they could live here, she’d never complain about anything again.
Be careful what you wish for.
This was all her fault.
The cottage had been outside their budget, and Seb had been resistant to the idea of stretching themselves financially, but she’d persuaded him that they could make it work. A few sacrifices would be nothing compared to the benefits. They’d spend Sundays exploring the leafy lanes and open fields. Holly could go to the village school and have friends back to play in the pretty garden. She’d be part of the local community. Maybe they’d even get a puppy.
Turned out there was already enough local wildlife living in the place without adding to it, and as for the local community—
Her phone buzzed, and she checked the number and groaned. Her finger hovered. Reject the call, reject the call…
Good manners prevailed.
“Alison! How lovely to hear from you.” She flinched as another drop of icy water hit her head. “Yes, I know I promised to call, but— Will I be at the village book group this week?” Say no, Christy. Say that you loathe the books they choose, feel patronized by the people and can’t bear to spend another evening sitting in a drafty church hall. “Yes. I’ll be there. Looking forward to it.” Each lie eroded her self-esteem a little more. But she had to live in this place. The locals were already suspicious of her. If she upset the village matriarch, maybe the local store would refuse to sell her bread and milk. “Food? Yes, you can rely on me for a quiche… Vegetarian? No problem.”
She ended the call and closed her eyes.
“You are pathetic, Christy. Pathetic.”
She had a feeling that the only way she was ever going to extricate herself from the torture of the local book group and the crushing boredom of the village fundraising committee was to move house. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.
If headlines were to be believed, everyone wanted to move from the city to the country. If they put the place on the market in spring or summer, people would fall in love with the idea of living in this fairy-tale cottage, as she had. They wouldn’t discover the truth until they had the key in their hands.
“Mummy!” A shout came from the kitchen.
“Coming!” Christy pointed a finger at the ceiling. “Stay. If you fall in this close to Christmas, that’s it. I’m leaving you.” And now she was losing it, talking to a house as if it was a person with a grudge against her.
She closed the door behind her and mentally composed a sales pitch.
Beautiful country cottage for sale. Would suit a draft loving family with an interest in local wildlife (mice, bats, rats and the occasional squirrel) and money to burn. Must enjoy boring books and judgmental locals.
“Mummy!” The shout was louder this time, and Christy hurried back to the kitchen. “Oh my— Holly, what have you done?”
“I’ve done you a painting.” Holly flourished the paper with pride, and Christy gave a weak smile.
“Most of it seems to be in your hair and on your face.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know.” There were days when she wondered if Holly was really her child. At the same age, she’d loved wearing dresses and staying clean. Holly was never happier than when she was climbing a tree or digging in the dirt for worms.
“How many sleeps until Christmas?” Paintbrush still in hand, Holly bounced in her chair, scattering blobs of color across the surface of the table. “Can we go to Lapland today?”
“Not today. Seven sleeps until we travel. Fourteen sleeps until Christmas.” Christy reached for a cloth and wiped up the mess. Outside rain lashed at the window. Their little garden, so pretty in the summer months, had turned into a droopy mess. “Don’t wave the brush, honey.”
She checked the forecast on her phone, her spirits plummeting when she saw the amount of rain in her future. It was impossible not to anticipate the next disaster the cottage would throw at her. Yet another leak. More damp.
“I want to go to Lapland. I want to see the snow and lights.”
Christy wanted that, too. Christmas here should have been romantic and gorgeously festive, but no matter how many decorations she added to the tree, or how many fairy lights she hung, it didn’t change the fact that all she wanted to do with the cottage right now was escape from it. Lapland would give them a Christmas to remember, which was why she’d delved into precious savings to pay for it.
“Snow will be fun.”
Christy was excited about more than snow. She was finally going to meet her mystery aunt. Her only living relative. Robyn and her husband owned an upmarket retreat for intrepid travelers. The Snow Spa. How cool was that?
The thought made her smile. Very cool, literally.
And visiting her rebel aunt could probably be described as intrepid.
Part of her felt disloyal, as if she was betraying her mother’s memory by reaching out to Robyn. But that was ridiculous. She was an adult. Her mother was gone. This was Christy’s decision.
What exactly had her aunt done to cause such a major falling out? Christy didn’t know, but she felt a pang of empathy. Living up to her mother’s impossibly high standards wasn’t easy, as she knew only too well.
You’re pregnant, Christy? You’ve only known the man for a matter of weeks! How could you be so careless? This is the worst mistake you have ever made.
Of course her mother had come around eventually once she’d met her granddaughter, but that faint cloud of disappointment had always hovered.
“Six o’clock. Time for your bath.” She gently removed the brush from her daughter’s grip. Holly was the best thing that had happened to her, not the worst. Unplanned did not mean unwanted. And she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think of her as a mistake.
“I hope so. We’re going to try.” She wasn’t exactly sure whether that type of commercial experience was available near her aunt’s home. Was Santa interested in the Snow Spa? Did he indulge in the occasional cold plunge? Sauna? Either way, she knew Holly would have a wonderful time. She’d taken a look at the website for her aunt’s business, and the forest cabins looked idyllic. “Santa has a busy job.”
“Like Daddy.” Christy checked the time. Seb had messaged her to say he’d be late home. It was the third time that week. Four times the week before.
When Christy had pictured their life in the country, she’d assumed Seb would continue to work remotely, but changes in his office meant he was no longer able to work from home. He was more stressed than usual, and Christy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Did he hate the cottage? Hate living in the country?
Lately she’d been waking up in the night wondering if this whole thing had been a mistake. Living here didn’t feel the way she’d thought it would feel.
It wasn’t just the cottage, or the money. She was lonely, although that wasn’t something she’d admitted to anyone. After trying so hard to persuade Seb to move here, how could she admit that she missed busy London streets and coffee shops? She missed bustle and noise and the undemanding company of strangers. She missed living in a warm apartment.
The cottage had lived up to the dream at the beginning, but then they’d experienced their first winter. After a heavy rainstorm it became clear that the roof needed replacing. The boiler had stuttered to a halt, and there was damp in one corner of the kitchen. They had spent the festive season shivering and trying hard to be upbeat for Holly’s sake. It had been an exhausting experience, which was another reason Christy had booked Lapland. She didn’t want another Christmas like the last one.
She sighed and finished straightening the kitchen.
She’d made a choice, and now she had to live with it.
Where was Seb? How was she supposed to produce a delicious meal when she had no idea what time he was arriving home? It was a planning nightmare.
Oblivious to her mother’s anxiety, Holly rubbed her face, spreading paint. “Santa has help from the elves.”
“He does.” She needed help from the elves, preferably ones with building experience who could fix a leaking roof.
She moved her laptop from the kitchen so that she could lay the table for dinner.
As a freelance graphic designer she could work from anywhere, and she’d spent the morning working on a project for a client, keeping half an eye on her daughter and half on her work. As a result the house reflected the joyous mess of a free-range child. She felt the pressure squeeze. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head, even though she’d been gone for more than two years. One toy at a time. You need to be stricter with her, Christy. Teach her to respect rules. She’s a wild one.
Christy felt a rush of protectiveness. Her daughter was bold, inquisitive and adventurous, and she didn’t want to crush that. She admired, and occasionally envied, her daughter. Had she ever been that fearless?
But she knew that what had really worried her mother was Holly’s resemblance to Robyn.
All her life her Aunt Robyn had been held over her as a warning of what could happen if discipline was not enforced.
Christy had never been sure what Robyn had done, and whenever she’d asked, her mother’s response had either been Don’t mention that name in this house or You don’t want to know.
Did Christy want to know? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it felt wrong having a family member alive and not at least making an effort to be in touch.
Even if she didn’t feel a bond with her aunt, she’d have ten whole days where she wouldn’t have to think about her leaky cottage. Ten whole days of quality time with her family. And Alix, of course. The thought of spending time with her oldest friend lifted her spirits. Alix was the sister she’d never had. It was weird to think they’d spent more Christmases together than she had with Seb and Holly.
“I’ve painted a forest for you.” Deprived of a brush, Holly splotched green paint onto the paper with her finger.
“It’s beautiful.” She scooped her daughter up, carried her to the sink and washed the paint from her hands before the forest transferred itself to her kitchen walls. “Show me Lapland on the map.”
Holly wriggled from her arms, sprinted across the room and paused in front of the map that Seb had stuck to the wall, a look of concentration on her face.
Christy took advantage of the moment to quickly load the dishwasher.
“Can you find it?”
“It’s here. All along the top. The Arctic.” Holly rose onto her toes and slid her paint-stained finger across the map. “But we’re staying…here.” She stabbed her finger into the north of Sweden and gave her mother an excited smile.
She had her father’s blue eyes and long eyelashes. It was, as Christy had discovered within minutes of meeting him, a killer combination. She’d fallen hard, as had plenty of women before her, if his reputation was to be believed.
But she was the one he’d married.
Pride, love, delight—Christy felt all those things circle through her as she watched her daughter.
She regretted nothing. She wouldn’t put the clock back. She wouldn’t change a thing. Except the cottage. She’d change that in a New York minute, as Alix would say.
No sooner had she thought about her friend than the phone rang and her name popped up on the screen.
“Alix!”
Technically Alix wasn’t an aunt, but as she and Christy were as close as sisters, it had seemed an appropriate title.
“I need to talk to her first.” Christy held the phone out of reach. “You can say hello when I’ve finished.” She scooped Holly up with her free arm and sat her back down at the table. As Seb was going to be late she had time to chat with her friend before straightening the house. “How’s New York?”
“Cold.” Alix’s voice was clear and strong. “It’s rare to have snow in December, but everything about the weather is messed up at the moment.”
Christy thought about the leak in the bathroom. “Tell me about it.”
“Is this a good time to talk? Am I disturbing you?”
“No, it’s great to hear your voice. You haven’t called in a while.” Should she confess that she missed the days when they’d messaged each other constantly? No, that would be unfair. Alix was busy building a career. Christy pictured her now in Manhattan, dark hair pulled back, tailored dress, heels that would make most women wince to look at them, let alone wear. “I’m sure you’ve been really busy.”
“That’s me. Busy, busy. Work is crazy.”
“I envy you your glamorous life.” Christy carried on clearing up with one hand, her phone in the other.
“Are you kidding? I envy you your idyllic country cottage.”
Idyllic? Christy shivered and snuggled deeper into her sweater.
She resisted the temptation to confess the doubts she was having. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone that, not even Alix. Not after she’d made such a fuss about living here.
“When is your event, and what are you wearing?”
“Event is tonight, and I don’t know what I’m wearing. Something black and serious. It’s work, right?” She broke off, and Christy heard the sound of car horns in the background. “It’s an awards dinner.”
“Exactly. Work, but in posh clothing. I probably should have asked your advice. You’re the stylish one.”
Stylish? These days she chose her clothes for warmth and durability and tried not to think about all the dresses and shoes she no longer had a use for. Christy glanced down at her black yoga pants and noticed a small blob of paint. How had that happened? She was always so careful. “Don’t wear black. It’s boring, and not at all you.”
“Good point. Maybe I’ll wear fancy dress. Talking of which, we have a fabulous range right now. Does my favorite four-year-old need anything new? There’s a great unicorn costume.”
“You already sent her that.” Christy switched on the fairy lights in the kitchen. Since she’d discovered that the soft glow from the twinkly lights disguised the damp patches on the walls, she’d strung them everywhere. Holly assumed they were Christmas decorations, and Christy was fine with that but she’d already decided they wouldn’t be coming down in January. If her future had to be filled with thick sweaters and damp socks, it was also going to be filled with fairy lights. “There aren’t enough days in the week for her to wear what you’re sending. Where are you now?”
Traffic on Fifth. People. Life. Atmosphere. “You sound like a local.”
“This is my third trip in eight weeks. I’m starting to feel that way.”
Christy cleared up paints and tipped the water away. She wasn’t envious; she really wasn’t. She enjoyed her balance of work and motherhood, even if she did sometimes feel as if she compromised on both elements. This was the life she’d chosen, although it would have been nice to have her husband home and a house that didn’t leak. “Still makes me smile, thinking of you working for a global toy company.”
“Why? Because I’m single and don’t have kids? This is a business, Christy. A cold, ruthless business. We might be selling toys, but there is nothing warm and fuzzy about this job. And I know more about toys than anyone. I know which toys are likely to make a child smile for five minutes or five days. I know which toys are likely to break before the end of the day, which toys might persuade you it’s worth studying harder for exams, and which toy is so awesome it might even make a child forget that their parents don’t want them around—” There was a moment of silence. “Did I really just say that? Don’t read too much into it. Jet lag is making me maudlin. Or maybe it’s this time of year. You know how messed up I am about Christmas.” Alix’s light tone covered layers of emotion and memories. “My point is I have plenty of personal experience of toys. Toys are currency, and no one knows their value better than I do.”
“Sometimes they’re a gesture of love.” Christy felt a surge of compassion. “Have you heard from your parents?”
“No, thank goodness. It’s not as if I’d want to spend Christmas with either of them, anyway. Can you imagine it? Kill me now.”
Christy stowed the paints and brushes in a box, grateful for the love her parents had shown her and the example they’d set. She’d modeled her own family life on theirs, carrying across the routines and traditions from her own childhood.
She thought back to the nights Alix had stayed over at her house. There had been a lot of nights and lots of childhood confessions. My parents don’t want me around. They never wanted me.
Christy pushed the art box into the cupboard. Her home might leak, but her daughter knew she was loved. “Remember all those times my mother told us off for talking until the early hours?”
“And for making hot chocolate at two in the morning.”
“And dropping biscuit crumbs in the bed.”
Christy leaned against the cupboard, her mind in the past. “We were always making plans. And look at us.”
Alix gave a quick laugh. “I wanted to climb the corporate ladder, and you wanted a husband, a child and a cottage in the country. Looks like we both got what we wanted.”
Christy stared at the rain hammering the window. “Yes.” But what if what you’d wanted didn’t turn out so great after all? What then? “Are you happy with your life?”
“Of course. What sort of a question is that?”
“You don’t ever feel lonely?”
“Are you kidding? I’m with people all day, and even when I’m not with them physically, they’re calling me.”
Christy waited for Alix to bounce the question back to her, but she didn’t.
“You don’t regret anything?”
“What would I regret? Are you asking me if I want to get married, have children and move to the country? We both know that’s not for me. I don’t want the responsibility. I mean, get it wrong and a child is messed up forever. If you need evidence for that, look at me.”
Christy felt an ache in her chest. “You’re not messed up. And you wouldn’t get it wrong.”
“Ah, but you don’t know that. Anyway, I love being in the fast lane. I love the whole crazy rush of it.” And Alix was moving so quickly everything around her was a blur, including Christy.
There were things she wanted to say but didn’t feel able to.
Why was it suddenly so hard to share her innermost secrets with her friend?
“I keep telling you that adrenaline isn’t one of the main food groups.”
“It’s my favorite type of fuel, except possibly for chocolate. By the way, did I mention that the singing reindeer with a glow-in-the-dark nose that I sent our girl is going to be the toy for Christmas? She’ll be the most popular child in the village.”
Toys are currency.
Christy poured Holly a cup of milk. “I’ve hidden it away ready for you-know-when.”
Holly’s head whipped round. “Are you talking about Christmas?”
Alix laughed. “I heard that. She’s so smart. Just give it to her. I’ve bought her something else for the big day. It’s a junior science kit, not even launched yet. She’s going to love it. I tell you, that girl is going to save the world.”
“Alix, she’s not even five years old. You have to stop buying her things.”
“Why? I want every one of her Christmases to be perfect. She is the most important person in my life, apart from you of course, and I assume you don’t want a reindeer with a glow-in-the-dark nose. Who else am I going to send toys to? I should go. I have to call Tokyo.”
Tokyo.
Christy felt a pang of envy. So far today she’d called the plumber and the dentist. She wouldn’t even know how to call Tokyo. “Isn’t it the middle of the night there?”
“Yes. But business never sleeps.”
“Right. Well, promise me you won’t wear boring black to your glittering awards dinner tonight.” She picked up a cleaning cloth and wandered into the hallway.
“That’s all I packed.”
Christy swiped her cloth over the table. “You’re on Fifth Avenue, Alix. Find something glamorous.” It had been so long since she’d bought something new to wear. What was the point? Occasionally she and Seb booked a babysitter and walked to the local pub, but it wasn’t like their previous apartment where they were five steps from every type of restaurant. And lately he’d been too tired to go out. And then there was the money. She’d given up her job in an agency when Holly was born, and now specialized in building websites for small businesses. It was more flexible and less demanding. It also paid less.
Alix was still talking. “Did you hear any more from your aunt? You didn’t discover the deep, dark family secret?”
“No.” Christy wandered into Seb’s study so that Holly couldn’t listen in. “I decided that conversation was better had in person.” She’d rather avoid it altogether, but there wasn’t much hope of that. What if it was something truly awful? What if it was difficult to hear? She removed a dead plant from his desk and glanced out the window into the darkness. Rain slid down the windows. “The weather is horrible here. I hope Seb will be okay. The drive back from the train station will be bad.”
“He isn’t home?”
“Working late.” The moment she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Alix missed nothing.
There was a pause and then the predictable question. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” There had been a time when Christy had shared everything with Alix, but that had changed the day she’d married Seb. It was the only time in their long friendship that she and Alix had been on opposite sides of an argument.
Don’t do it, Christy. Don’t marry him. How well do you really know him? He’s a player. Not the kind of guy who shares your dream of a life in the countryside with two kids and a dog. You’re making a mistake. It doesn’t matter that you’re pregnant.
Christy thought about that awful moment more often than she should. It wasn’t even as if they’d fought over it. Shaking and upset, she’d simply told Alix that she was wrong and that she was happy with her decision. She’d told herself that Alix had been looking out for her, that her concern had been driven by her own less-than-perfect home life, but the words had settled deep in her, like scar tissue.
They hadn’t talked about it again. When Alix had anxiously contacted her after the wedding to check things were okay between them, Christy had reassured her that of course everything was fine. What was the point of resurrecting the conversation? What would that achieve? Nothing. It wasn’t as if they could undo what was done. Better to move on.
But it hadn’t been as easy to move on as she’d hoped. The words clanged along with her, like cans attached to the car of newlyweds.
When Alix came to stay, she found herself overdoing the happy-family routine. She made sure that everything was perfect and her smile huge. She was extra demonstrative toward Seb. Look how happy we are. Look how wrong you were.
She swiped her cloth over Seb’s desk and the top of his laptop, wishing she could forget that entire verbal exchange. When she was younger it had never occurred to her that her friendship with Alix would one day change. When they’d lain in the dark in her bedroom, talking into the night about everything from boys to babies, she’d thought to herself It’s always going to be this way. The discovery that an adult friendship came with complications had been an uncomfortable shock.
She picked up the wedding photo that Seb kept on his desk.
Staring at that photo, Christy felt a twinge of sadness. Unlike Holly, who mostly dreamed of being a scientist or an explorer, Christy had dreamed of weddings when she was little. Her wedding was meant to be the happiest day of her life but, as so often happened, it hadn’t turned out the way she’d planned.
There she was, wearing a dress that had skimmed her growing bump, and there was Alix with Zac, Seb’s closest friend, posing either side of them like bookends, each wearing the obligatory smile for the camera.
It was Zac who had intervened when Alix had tried to stop the wedding. He’d propelled her from the room, less than impressed by her freely expressed conviction that the whole thing was a mistake.
What had happened when the two of them were alone together? Neither of them had spoken about it, but whatever it was had made Alix determined never to cross paths with Zac again.
Christy reached into the drawer for the screen cleaner and flipped open Seb’s laptop.
“Have fun tonight. Send photos. Can’t wait to see you next week.” Their friendship might have changed, but it was still strong. They still had plenty of ways they could connect. They had no need to step into that single no-go area.
Christy wiped the screen with the cloth, and it blazed to life. Seb must have forgotten to turn it off. She glanced at it idly, and then with more focus.
Her heart took off. She barely heard Alix’s voice.
“Christy? Are you still there?”
She sat down hard on the office chair. “Yes.” Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the phone.
Had she misunderstood the email?
She read it again, trying to stay calm.
You’re the best, Mandy. What would I do without you?
If there’s a problem, call my mobile. Don’t call me at home.
She felt as if someone had punched the air from her lungs.
Mandy? Who was Mandy? It could be innocent, but if so, why wouldn’t he want the woman to call him at home? And why wouldn’t he just tell her? Why lie? What was he keeping from her?
He’d told her he was working late, but here was the evidence that he wasn’t. He was meeting another woman in Covent Garden and didn’t want her to know.
She imagined them laughing together in a trendy bar. Smiling at each other in a restaurant.
Panic bloomed. There had to be an explanation. He wouldn’t do this to her.
Would he? She kept hearing Alix’s voice in her head. How well do you really know him?
Her hands and legs were shaking. What now?
She couldn’t admit she’d been looking at his laptop. It was a betrayal of trust. On the other hand he was betraying her trust, wasn’t he? She hadn’t even had to click to see the email. He hadn’t tried to hide it or delete it.
Her chest felt tight. What did this mean? Was he unhappy? Was this her fault for making them move so far out of London? She should ask him. But she didn’t want to ask him. She didn’t want this to be happening,
“Christy?”
She’d forgotten Alix was on the phone. She needed to get rid of her. Even if she could talk about it with her friend, which she couldn’t, Alix’s way of dealing with things was different from hers. For a start, Alix didn’t avoid difficult situations. If she wanted to know something, she asked. If someone annoyed her, she said, You annoyed me. Which was why, before the wedding, she’d said, You’re making a mistake. Someone else might have said, Do you think… or Is it possible that… But not Alix.
Christy handled things differently.
“Sorry, you rang in the busy hour.” She managed to inject just the right amount of fake breeziness into her voice. “I’m cleaning up more paint than you’ve seen in your life. Have fun at your event. Talk soon.”
She ended the call and walked blindly back into the kitchen, barely hearing Holly when she protested that she’d wanted to talk to Aunty Alix.
She had to keep busy. Yes, that was the answer.
She switched on the oven to reheat the casserole she’d made earlier. Then she finished stacking the dishwasher. Her hands were shaking so badly one of the plates slipped from her fingers and crashed on the floor, scattering shards of china across the tiles.
Holly screamed and jumped on the chair.
Christy found herself thinking that at least clearing up the mess gave her something to do. Another job to fill those yawning gaps where stress and anxiety tried to take hold.
“It’s okay. Stay calm. Don’t move. I’ll fix this.” She was talking to herself as much as her daughter.
She took a breath and tipped the broken pieces of china into the bin.
“Mummy? Why are you crying?”
Was she crying? She pressed her palm to her cheek and felt dampness. She was crying. “Mummy’s a little sniffy, that’s all.” She blew her nose. “Maybe I’m getting a cold.”
Holly scrambled from the chair and wrapped her arms around Christy’s legs. “Kisses mend everything.”
“That’s right, they do.” If only that was all it took. She scooped up her daughter and hugged her tightly.
“It will soon be Christmas.”
Christmas. Family time.
Emotion clogged her throat and swelled in her chest. She couldn’t confront Seb before Christmas. No way. It would be better to pretend everything was normal. She could do that. She was used to doing that.
“Time for bed.” She scooped Holly into her arms. “You’re getting too big to carry.”
“I want to wait for Daddy. I want Daddy to kiss me good-night.”
“Daddy is going to be late tonight.” She carried Holly upstairs, operating on automatic.
“Will we see a reindeer in Lapland?”
“I’m sure we’ll see a reindeer.” She refused to allow emotion to intrude on this time with her child, but the effort required was so great that, by the time she’d finished bath time and read two stories, she was almost ready for bed herself.
When they’d first moved in, Christy had suggested a princess bedroom like the one she’d had as a child, but Holly was fascinated by snow and ice and wanted her bedroom to look like a polar research station. When I grow up I’m going to be a scientist like Uncle Zac. It had taken a while to agree a design they could build themselves, but Seb and Zac had finally transformed the room the month before. As the men worked on the structure, Christy had painted snowfields and mountains on the wall opposite the bed and tried not to be disappointed as her dream of floaty canopies, fairy lights and plenty of soft pink had been supplanted by steel gray for the so-called laboratory area and sleeping shelf.
It wasn’t what she would have chosen herself, but even she had to admit it was cozy.
She kissed her daughter, left the bedroom door ajar and headed downstairs.
The sick feeling had become a knot of tension.
She laid the table for dinner. Lit candles, then blew them out when there was still no sign of him an hour later. She turned off the oven.
She’d made the casserole while Holly had been watching half an hour of TV.
Her own mother had refused to have a television in the house. Christy’s childhood had been a roundabout of carefully curated learning. Violin lessons, piano lessons, ballet classes, riding lessons, art appreciation and Mandarin lessons. Her mother had insisted that every moment of her time should be spent productively. Flopping on the sofa was frowned upon, unless it was done with a book in hand. Tell me about the book, Christy. Let’s discuss it.
Christy eyed the slim book that had been taking up space on the side table for weeks. The cover reminded her that it had won a major literary award, but each time Christy sat down to read it she never made it past the second chapter. She already knew the main character died. The people were horrible, and they made horrible choices, which meant the ending could only be one thing: horrible. Why was it that books worthy of the book group were always depressing? What was good about a book that left you feeling miserable? She couldn’t bring herself to read it, which meant she’d have to read some reviews on the internet if she had any hope of sounding intelligent and engaged. What would I have done differently if I’d been in the same situation? Everything!
She glanced out the window into the darkness.
Still no Seb.
By the time she finally heard the sound of his car in the drive, the casserole was cold and congealed.
She smoothed her hair, closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath.
She’d pretend nothing was wrong. It would be fine. And maybe she was imagining things anyway, and the whole thing would go away. There was probably a simple explanation.
By the time he opened the front door she was ready and waiting. She even managed a smile.
“You’re so late. I was worried. Did your meetings overrun? You must be exhausted.” She hovered, heart aching, mind racing.
“Yes. Sorry.” He hung up his coat. Kissed her briefly. “Freezing out there.”
“Yes. They’re saying it might even snow. Can you believe that?”
Were they really talking about the weather? What had happened to them?
Her mood plummeted even further.
Seb followed her into the kitchen, forgot to duck and smacked his head on the low doorway.
“Damn it. This house hates me. Why didn’t the guy who built it make the doors higher?” He rubbed his forehead and glared at the doorway of the kitchen.
“They probably weren’t as tall as you.” For once it felt as if she and the cottage were on the same side. She felt hurt, betrayed and more than a little angry with him for proving Alix right.
“I know I should have called you, but—”
“I don’t expect you to call. I know how busy you are.” She wanted to move away from the subject. “Do you want a drink? Wine?”
He hesitated. “Is there beer?”
“Beer? I don’t—yes, I think so—” She jerked open the fridge door so violently everything inside rattled. She’d chilled a sauvignon blanc, but he wanted beer. They always drank wine. Why did he suddenly want beer? Was it the influence of another woman? She rummaged past vegetables and two neatly stacked containers of food for Holly and found a bottle of beer left by Zac. “Here.” She thrust it at him and watched as he snapped off the top and drank, not even bothering with a glass.
“Thanks.” He lowered the bottle. “Holly asleep?”
“Yes. She tried to stay awake for you.”
Does Mandy know you have a daughter waiting for you to kiss her good–night?
“Dinner is spoiled, but there’s soup in the fridge that I can heat up.”
“No need.” He yanked at his tie and undid his top button. “I grabbed something before I jumped on the train. Are you okay? You seem tense.”
“Tense? I’m not tense. I’m fine.” She could hardly breathe. Had he eaten with her? Candles? Laughter? Had they held hands? “There’s cheese in the fridge. Fresh grapes.”
“Nothing, thanks.” He finished the beer and put the bottle down. He was silent for a long moment and then he looked at her. “We need to talk, Christy.”
What? No! No, they didn’t. Not now. Not right before Christmas.
“You must be tired, so I thought maybe we could light a fire and watch a movie, or—”
“Christy.” His voice was sharper. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
And she didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Maybe not ever. She hadn’t decided about that part.
“There’s really no need to—”
“There is a need. I know you hate talking about difficult things, but this can’t be avoided.”
Did she hate talking about difficult things? Yes, she did. But avoidance was a perfectly valid way of coping, and if he knew that was her preference, why then was he forcing her to confront something she’d probably rather ignore?
“Seb—”
“I need to talk. There is something I need to tell you. And you’re not going to like it.”
Her heart punched a hole in her ribs, and her knees turned liquid. She wanted to stop him talking, but obviously he had no intention of doing that, so all she could do was breathe and get through it.
“What?”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t come with you to Lapland. At least, not immediately. Not when we planned.” He stood still, his shoulders tense as he braced himself for her reaction. “There’s a meeting I have to attend on the Tuesday.”
“A…meeting?” That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She’d expected a confession about a woman. Bad choices. I made a mistake, but I hope you’ll forgive me.
“I know you’ll be disappointed. This is your dream trip. And it’s Christmas, and I know how you feel about Christmas.”
He knew how she felt about Christmas, but he was going to ruin it for her, anyway.
“Are you telling me you’re not coming to Lapland?”
“I’m still coming, but a few days later. I’ll change my flight. You go ahead without me.”
Without him? This was a family holiday! A special trip Holly would hopefully remember happily for the rest of her life. How could that happen if her daddy wasn’t there? How could it be a family trip without Seb? Which part of that didn’t he understand?
Emotion clogged her throat. “You’re saying you have to work at Christmas.”
“Not over Christmas itself. But at the beginning of our trip, yes. And believe me, I’m no happier about it than you are.”
She didn’t believe him. If he wasn’t happy, why was he doing it?
“What is this meeting? You work with a team. Can’t you delegate?”
“No. I’m the only one who can do this meeting. It’s tough out there, and I don’t have a choice.” He didn’t look at her, and that felt significant. He’d always been good with eye contact. It was one of the many things that had attracted her to him in the first place. He looked at her. He saw her.
But not now. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t coming to Lapland with them. Apparently he had no choice.
There was always a choice.
Work? Did he really expect her to believe that? He was good at his job: that she believed. He’d been promoted several times. But no one was indispensable. And if it was work, then who was Mandy, and why was he lying about meeting her?
Panic froze her ability to think. Alix’s warning kept playing on a loop in her head, and she could no longer switch it off.
How well do you really know him? He’s a player.
Was that true? Had Alix been right?
And what did she do now?
Did she fly to Lapland without him and hope that whatever it was fixed itself in her absence, or did they disappoint Holly, stay home and confront the problem?
Either way, it seemed Christmas was ruined.
Chapter Three
Alix
Was she happy with her life? What sort of a question was that? And why had Christy asked it?
She loved her life. She loved her apartment in London, with its views over the river. She loved the fact that she had her huge, comfy bed all to herself. She didn’t sleep on one side, waiting for someone to fill the other side. She slept in the middle. If she wanted to read in the night, she turned the light on. Her fridge was full of her favorite food, her shelves stocked with her favorite books. Most of all she loved her job—every glorious, challenging, frustrating, stimulating minute of it. Lonely? As if!
Alix stood in front of the mirror in the luxurious hotel bathroom and carefully applied her makeup.
She particularly loved her job right now, when she had a few minutes to reflect on the success of the Christmas advertising campaign she’d spearheaded the year before. She’d even made her boss smile, and that had only happened twice in the whole time she’d been VP of marketing for Dream Toys.
She’d spent the past two days at head office on Fifth Avenue, listening to presentation after presentation, drinking endless cups of bad coffee to keep herself awake. A significant amount of their business was now online, and it was the work of Alix and her team that had helped drive sales steadily upward. What a year they’d had! While many businesses were struggling, theirs was soaring, thanks to careful curating of their range and Alix’s skill at spotting a winner and making it top of the wish list of every child.
Her year had culminated in the launch of the campaign for the holiday season, and that was the reason she was here now, heading to the awards dinner.
Campaign of the Year.
At work they called her the Queen of Christmas. They barreled into her office, asking her questions about the holiday season, seeking her opinion. It made Alix laugh to think they considered her an expert on all things festive. She knew toys, but that was it. Everything she knew about the holiday itself she’d learned from watching and listening. She had no personal experience of a family Christmas. She didn’t know how it felt to gather together as a family to celebrate. Her parents had divorced when she was six, and for a few painful years after that she’d been shuttled between them like an unwanted Christmas gift. If you take her this year, I’ll have her next year. She was pretty sure if they could have sent her back for a refund, they would have done it.
Christmas had been a tense time for all until the year they’d both had to travel abroad for work and had asked Christy’s mother to take Alix.
In Christy’s warm, cozy home, she’d experienced her first family Christmas, and the fact that it hadn’t been with her own family didn’t matter. She’d sat under their enormous tree and stared in wonder at the glittering ornaments. She’d helped in the kitchen, eaten at the table, played games and joined them on long winter walks. She’d even had her own stocking: red with a bow and stuffed with thoughtful presents.
Christy’s mother, Elizabeth, had treated her like her own, and only once did Alix overhear her talking about it.
That poor girl. Some people shouldn’t have children.
It was the first of many Christmases she’d spent with them. Thanks to that experience, she considered herself an expert on how to create the perfect Christmas for children.
She ignored the slightly hollow feeling inside her and pointed her mascara wand at the mirror.
She felt a wave of exhaustion.
Thank goodness for adrenaline and makeup and the promise of a vacation soon. She had two whole weeks off over Christmas. Two weeks to sleep late, ignore her phone and catch up on TV shows everyone talked about but she never had time to watch. And, most exciting of all, a whole week with Holly and Christy in Lapland.
How many times had they talked about Lapland as children?
It was a dream that had seeped into her work, and the company had recently launched an Arctic range at her suggestion. A remote-controlled wolf, a board game for the whole family that involved racing around Lapland by ski, snowmobile and sled. Meet a reindeer, go back five spaces. A night-light that shone greeny-blue aurora around the room. She’d already sent one to Holly.
Hopefully her trip would provide more inspiration for additions to the new range, but she didn’t mind if it didn’t. This was all about enjoying time with Holly and Christy. Could there be any better way to spend Christmas?
Seb would be there, too, of course, but after a rocky beginning to their relationship, they’d both moved on.
Whatever their differences, they had one big thing in common.
They both loved Christy.
Of all the challenges that friendship could bring, the one Alix hadn’t expected was that her closest friend would marry a man she didn’t like.
Alix frowned. No, it wasn’t that she didn’t like Seb. More that she didn’t trust him. She’d known him vaguely before Christy had met him. He’d frequented the same fashionable bar that she often went to after work, where the crowd was the usual predictable mix of stressed city workers. They’d never been interested in each other, but she’d been aware of his reputation with women, so when he and Christy had been attracted like magnets the first time they’d met, she’d been concerned. Concern had turned to alarm when Christy had announced shortly after that she was pregnant and intended to marry him. What should have been a fun, casual evening had turned into forever.
And she’d felt guilty and more than a little responsible because Christy would never have met Seb if it hadn’t been for Alix.
She’d done everything she could to talk her friend out of it, which hadn’t exactly endeared her to Seb or to Christy or to the best man—although that was a whole other story—but at the time that hadn’t mattered. She’d been trying to save her friend from making a terrible mistake. What was friendship if it wasn’t looking out for someone you loved? Being straight about the things that mattered? Christy’s happiness mattered to her, but Christy had decided that happiness had meant marrying Seb.
Fortunately that little blip hadn’t damaged their friendship, and Alix knew nothing ever would. Their bond was unbreakable. It was true that she felt a little squeezed out by Christy’s relationship with Seb, but she had to admit that, so far, the marriage seemed to be working out. Seb was a good father, and he seemed to love Christy. He’d embraced Christy’s dream of moving to a cottage in a small country village. Alix hadn’t been able to imagine Seb spending his weekends going on muddy walks or enjoying a pint in the local pub, but apparently she’d misjudged him, because they’d been in the cottage for eighteen months, and everything seemed to be going well.
Alix had never been happier to be wrong.
Behind her hung the dress she’d bought that afternoon in a half-hour break between meetings. It was silver, high in the neck, and fitted her perfectly. Not black. Not businesslike. But she had to admit that she loved it. It was even a little festive, and if you couldn’t sparkle in Manhattan in December, then when could you?
Sure that Christy would approve, she slid on the dress.
On impulse she snapped a selfie and typed a message to Christy.
Followed your advice. New dress. I’m going to look like something that fell off a Christmas tree.
She paused before she sent it, weighing up whether she should or not. There had been a time when she never would have asked herself that question. She and Christy had messaged each other multiple times a day in an almost nonstop conversation, but that had changed when Christy had married Seb. Christy’s messages had become less frequent. And that was to be expected, of course. Her friend was married. Busy. But it had made Alix self-conscious about the messages she sent, too. How many was too many? Especially after her phone call. Was she intruding? Unsure, Alix had tried to scale back her contact.
She pressed Send, feeling a little awkward at overthinking something so simple as messaging her friend over a dress. In all other parts of her life, including her work, she was decisive and confident.
Pathetic.
She picked up her purse, took one last glance at herself and headed out the room.
She didn’t care much about the dinner or the ceremony, but she was looking forward to seeing other members of her team. She never forgot that this was a team effort, and she worked with good people.
Lonely? No way.
She was sliding into the car that had been booked for her when she realized Christy hadn’t replied. But with a five-hour time difference, that probably wasn’t surprising. Her friend was probably already deeply asleep.
Remembering their conversation earlier that day, she squashed down the flicker of concern. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but if that was the case then Christy would have told her. Maybe they didn’t share every single little thing that happened in their lives any more or talk as often as they used to, but they still shared the big things.
She leaned back in her seat, enjoying the moment. Manhattan during the day was fun, interesting and exciting, but at night it was spectacular.
She didn’t quite understand why, but every time she landed in this city she felt as if she’d made it.
She’d survived her ice-cold childhood and built a life for herself. No one knew what lay behind her. No one cared.
Her phone beeped, and she checked it, expecting Christy, and saw a message from her mother.
Won’t be back in London for Christmas, but money wired to your account. Fiona.
Alix stared at the message and then rolled her eyes.
Hi, darling, have a great Christmas. Love, Mum.
Fat chance.
She imagined her mother’s assistant tentatively putting her head round the door of Fiona’s chaotic office. A reminder to send a gift to your daughter, Professor Carpenter. Her mother would have been irritated by the interruption.
She was relieved and a little proud that she felt nothing. There had been a time when a message like that would have ruined her day, but she was made of tougher stuff now. She’d worked hard to achieve this level of emotional control. Feelings, strong feelings, were inconvenient at best, painful at worst, and she made a point of avoiding them. It made life so much easier, so much smoother, that frankly she didn’t understand why more people didn’t do it. Only last week she’d had to support her assistant through an emotional crisis when her boyfriend had ended the relationship. Alix had handed her a tissue, given her the rest of the day off and refrained from pointing out that if she stayed single nothing like this would ever happen again.
“We’re here, Ms. Carpenter.” The car purred to a halt outside one of New York’s finest hotels, and a uniformed man stepped forward to open the door.
Alix pushed a bill into his hand and walked into the marble foyer.
A huge Christmas tree reached upward, a stylish pyramid of silver and sparkle. Alix found herself thinking of the decorations Holly liked to hang on the tree. A misshapen reindeer she’d baked in the oven. A silver star with uneven points. In her opinion they held more appeal than the glittering symmetry of the ornaments adorning this tree.
Thinking about it brought a rush of warmth.
She was going to have a brilliant family Christmas, just not with her own family.
Her boss, Miles, was waiting for her, phone in hand.
“You were right about that reindeer.” He showed her the screen. “It’s selling so fast we can’t keep the stores stocked.”
It was typical of him to dive straight into work, and that was fine with her.
They walked together toward their tables in the ballroom, talking numbers and strategy.
The room was filling up fast, and when they finally took their seats and the evening began, Alix finally treated herself to a sip of champagne.
She chatted to her colleagues, keeping the conversation light and neutral. When they asked about her plans for the holidays, she told them she’d be spending it with friends in Lapland.
When one of them asked about her family, she brushed the question aside, deflecting as she always did. It really didn’t bother her that her parents had no wish to spend Christmas with her, but it was hard to convince people of that, so she preferred not to talk about it.
It would have been easy for her to hate Christmas, but thanks to Christy she loved it. Her friend’s generosity was something she never took for granted. Their friendship was the most important thing in the world to her. Now that, she thought as she took another sip of champagne, was the one relationship where she allowed her emotions to be engaged. She loved Christy like a sister, and Christy loved her back. Their lives had been intertwined since childhood, and they knew every little detail about one another. She knew that Christy hated peanut butter and always slept with two pillows. She knew that she preferred baths to showers, that she never went to bed without first applying moisturizer and that she threw her mascara away after exactly three months. (She made a note in her diary.) She knew that Christy would always choose to eat a raw carrot over a bowl of ice cream and that she’d only ever been blind drunk once in her life. (Vodka. Never again.) She knew that Christy’s way of handling a difficult situation was to ignore it and that the last thing she did before she went to bed at night was make a list of all the things she had to do the following day.
And Christy knew her, too. Christy was the only one who knew Alix had lost her virginity to Charlie Harris and that sometimes she liked to sleep with a light on. There was nothing they couldn’t say to each other. It had occurred to her, more than once, that what you needed most to help you navigate childhood and adolescence wasn’t good parents but a great friend. It was the only relationship she’d ever let herself rely on. There were times when she didn’t feel quite as close to Christy as she’d once done, but that was only to be expected given the change in their circumstances. Deep down they had a special bond, and that would never change.
“Wake up, Carpenter.” Miles nudged her. “We won. Get up on that stage, and make a speech.”
She heard the applause, saw images of their campaign flash across the giant screens and walked with the rest of her team to collect the award.
As she returned to her seat, she felt her phone vibrate.
She sneaked a look and saw Christy’s name on the screen.
It was three in the morning in London. Christy was a big believer in the restorative powers of sleep, which was why she never had dark circles around her eyes like Alix. She would never call in the middle of the night unless it was an emergency.
“Excuse me.” With an apologetic smile to her colleague, Alix gracefully wove her way through the tables and out of the hall into the foyer.
She found a quiet area and sat down on a plush sofa next to yet another dazzling Christmas tree. It was like being in a sparkling, festive forest.
“Christy? Is everything okay?” She asked the question even though she knew things couldn’t possibly be okay. “Hello?” For a moment Alix wondered if her friend had ended the call, but then she heard a muffled sound.
“Are you crying?” She sat up straighter. Her friend was more emotional than she was, but she didn’t often cry. “Christy?”
“I’m okay.” Christy sniffed. “Am I disturbing you? Has the award thing finished?”
“Yes. Boring, anyway.” Alix eased her feet out of her shoes and rubbed her sore heels with her fingers. “Tell me why you’re awake at this hour.”
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?” Her heart leaped. It had been a long time since Christy had asked for her help with anything. And she hadn’t anticipated how hard that would be to handle. She’d gone from being at the center of Christy’s life to the margins. “What favor? Name it.” No matter what you need, I’m here for you.
There was a pause, as if Christy was struggling to get the words out. “I need you to take Holly to Lapland.”
“We are taking Holly to Lapland.”
“I mean you, not me. I can’t go right away.”
“I— What?” Of all the things she’d anticipated being asked, that wouldn’t have made the list. “But this is the dream trip. The perfect Christmas. You’ve been planning it for ages.”
“I know. I’ll still be joining you. Just a few days later, that’s all. It’s fine.” The waver in her voice suggested differently. “But I need you to look after Holly.”
Alix stared at the enormous Christmas tree in front of her, a suspicion forming. It was all very well being wanted and needed, but…
“What’s happened? And where’s Seb in all this?”
“He has a meeting he has to attend. A work thing.” Christy stumbled over the words. “Disappointing, obviously, but one of those things. We’ll fly out together a few days later and join you.”
Work? Who blew off a long-planned trip to Lapland at Christmas to work?
She had to stop asking herself these questions. What did she know about relationships, anyway?
Alix watched as a glamorous woman swept through the lobby on the arm of a good-looking man. He paused to kiss her, and she laughed and kissed him back, oblivious as to who might be watching.
Alix looked away.
If Christy had been there, she would have rolled her eyes at her friend. You’re so unromantic, Alix.
Maybe she was, but being unromantic had protected her from emotional disaster. She’d never suffered what other people called a broken heart. In fact, the last man she’d spent time with had questioned whether she even had a heart, which she thought was a little harsh. Dating, in her opinion, wasn’t so different from recruitment. You drew up a job description and then looked for someone who was a good fit. Romance and passion were unpredictable and undefinable. Also unreliable. She wasn’t interested, but she knew Christy was. Christy was the original romantic, and Seb had to know that by now. She frowned. Did he know that? Of course, he couldn’t possibly know Christy as well as she did; after all, she’d had a twenty-year head start, but surely he knew that basic detail?
A colleague approached, and she waved them away, indicating that she needed privacy. “It’s Christmas. Did he try telling his boss he’s taking his daughter on a dream trip to Lapland?” What boss would override that? “Couldn’t he say no?”
“Now you’re being judgy.”
Alix closed her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be.”
“He has to stay, so I’m going to stay with him. It will be good to have some adult time on our own, without Holly.”
But Christy had never left Holly for more than a few hours before.
There was something her friend wasn’t telling her. What? And, more importantly, why? Maybe they didn’t spend as much time talking as they used to, but they didn’t have secrets. Did they?
“Talk to me, Christy. What’s wrong really? Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. And I have told you.”
Alix felt a flicker of unease. There was only one reason she could think of that Christy wouldn’t be straight with her. Her marriage. Could she ask? No, definitely not. Not after the last time. Christy had forgiven her for interfering that time, but she might not do so again.
“Tell me how I can help.” Talk to me. I’m your best friend.
Maybe Christy was waiting to see her in person to confide in her. Some things weren’t easy to talk about over the phone.
“Just say you’ll take Holly for me. You were going anyway, so the only change for you is that you’ll have sole charge of her.”
Sole charge?
The focus of Alix’s anxiety shifted. She adored Holly. As far as Alix was concerned, she was an extension of Christy. She couldn’t love the child more if she was her own. But look after her alone? That didn’t fit within her skill set. What if she cried? Missed her parents? What if she was unhappy and Alex messed it up? What if it turned into a Christmas she’d never forget for all the wrong reasons?
Christy might have forgiven Alix’s frankness before the wedding, but she definitely wouldn’t forgive anything happening to her child.
“We both know I’m not the best person for this.”
“You’re the perfect person. She loves you.”
But what would happen to that love if Alix mishandled the situation? “What if she has a horrible time?”
“I’m asking you to take her to a winter wonderland for a few days, not raise her alone.”
“But I don’t know how to do the whole cozy-family-Christmas thing. That’s your domain. I just join in.” Alix ran her hand over the back of her neck. It was cold outside. How could it be so hot in this building? “This isn’t exactly babysitting for an evening. There’s the journey, for a start. And we’d be a long way from you.” The more she thought about it, the more the idea terrified her. “What if Holly misses you and has a tantrum?”
“She hasn’t had a tantrum since she was two, and hardly ever then. She’s even-tempered. You know that.”
“But you know how adventurous she is. She has no concept of danger. What if she climbs on something while I’m not looking and has an accident?”
“She won’t because you’ll be looking.”
She’d have to keep her eyes glued to the child.
“What if she has a bad dream or something?”
“You’ll be there.”
“But she’d want you.” Her heat was hammering against her chest. “There wouldn’t be any backup.”
“You don’t need backup.”
Yes, she did. She couldn’t do this. She had to say no, for Holly’s sake. “Christy—”
“She won’t be any trouble.”
“Are you kidding? Your daughter can get into trouble in an empty room.”
“True, but you know that, so you’ll be watching her. She’ll be thrilled to have some girl time with you, and I’ll join you a few days later. Please, Alix. I know I’m taking advantage of our friendship, but there’s no one else I can ask.”
Alix wanted their friendship to be about confidences and fun conversation. Shopping trips and the occasional night out (with wine). She didn’t want to have sole responsibility for a child.
Say no, say no, say no.
“All right.” She’d get through it somehow. If Holly cried, she’d use toys as a bribe. How many could she cram into her baggage? “If you’re sure.”
“You’re the best.”
“Better hold the praise until I return her alive and phobia-free.” Maybe she should buy a book on childcare. “What about Aunt Black Sheep? Have you told her?”
“Not yet. I wanted to check you’re okay with the plan first.”
She was far from okay, but what choice did she have?
Alix ran the tips of her fingers over the silver waterfall of her dress.
She’d need a strategy, with every scenario mapped out. As well as toys, she’d have her laptop so they could watch movies. She knew her friend rarely resorted to that, but she wasn’t Christy. She didn’t want Holly looking back on this as the worst Christmas ever. She didn’t want to return her to her mother emotionally scarred.
She felt a gnawing anxiety. Their friendship had never required her to do something this challenging.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’re still flying back to London at the weekend? Come over to the house as planned next week. That way you can both travel together.”
“She’s never been on a plane before.” What if she lost Holly in the airport? What if she handed her passport over and turned to find the little girl gone? What if Holly had a meltdown and decided she never wanted to fly anywhere again?
“Will you stop worrying? This whole trip is a dream come true for her.”
And that, Alix thought, was the problem.
She wasn’t the right person to be in charge of a child’s dreams. She was worried for Holly, but she was also worried for herself and her friend.
Christy had finally asked for her help with something. What if she got it wrong?
What would that mean for their friendship?
$1.99 Book deal for US and Canada
The Summer Seekers is just $1.99 this weekend for readers in the US and Canada (99p in the UK!). This is a flash deal for the weekend only so if you’ve been thinking of trying it now would be a good time 😀 It’s available on all ebook platforms, handy link below. I had so much fun writing this book and I hope reading it makes you smile and brings a touch of sunshine and travel into your lives.
Happy Reading!
Love
Sarah
The Summer Seekers
CHAPTER ONE
Kathleen
It was the cup of milk that saved her. That and the salty bacon she’d fried for her supper many hours earlier, which had left her mouth dry.
If she hadn’t been thirsty—if she’d still been upstairs, sleeping on the ridiculously expensive mattress that had been her eightieth birthday gift to herself—she wouldn’t have been alerted to danger.
As it was, she’d been standing in front of the fridge, the milk carton in one hand and the cup in the other, when she’d heard a loud thump. The noise was out of place here in the leafy darkness of the English countryside, where the only sounds should have been the hoot of an owl and the occasional bleat of a sheep.
She put the glass down and turned her head, trying to locate the sound. The back door. Had she forgotten to lock it again?
The moon sent a ghostly gleam across the kitchen and she was grateful she hadn’t felt the need to turn the light on. That gave her some advantage, surely?
She put the milk back and closed the fridge door quietly, sure now that she was not alone in the house.
Moments earlier she’d been asleep. Not deeply asleep—that rarely happened these days—but drifting along on a tide of dreams. If someone had told her younger self that she’d still be dreaming and enjoying her adventures when she was eighty she would have been less afraid of ageing. And it was impossible to forget that she was ageing.
People said she was wonderful for her age, but most of the time she didn’t feel wonderful. The answers to her beloved crosswords floated just out of range. Names and faces refused to align at the right moment. She struggled to remember what she’d done the day before, although if she took herself back twenty years or more her mind was clear. And then there were the physical changes—her eyesight and hearing were still good, thankfully, but her joints hurt and her bones ached. Bending to feed the cat was a challenge. Climbing the stairs required more effort than she would have liked and was always undertaken with one hand on the rail just in case.
She’d never been the sort to live in a just in case sort of way.
Her daughter, Liza, wanted her to wear an alarm. One of those medical alert systems, with a button you could press in an emergency, but Kathleen refused. In her youth she’d traveled the world, before it was remotely fashionable to do so. She’d sacrificed safety for adventure without a second thought. Most days now she felt like a different person.
Losing friends didn’t help. One by one they fell by the wayside, taking with them shared memories of the past. A small part of her vanished with each loss. It had taken decades for her to understand that loneliness wasn’t a lack of people in your life, but a lack of people who knew and understood you.
She fought fiercely to retain some version of her old self—which was why she’d resisted Liza’s pleas that she remove the rug from the living room floor, stop using a step ladder to retrieve books from the highest shelves and leave a light on at night. Each compromise was another layer shaved from her independence, and losing her independence was her biggest fear.
Kathleen had always been the rebel in the family, and she was still the rebel—although she wasn’t sure that rebels were supposed to have shaking hands and a pounding heart.
She heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Someone was searching the house. For what, exactly? What treasures did they hope to find? And why weren’t they trying to at least disguise their presence?
Having resolutely ignored all suggestions that she might be vulnerable, she was now forced to acknowledge the possibility. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so stubborn. How long would it have taken from pressing the alert button to the cavalry arriving?
In reality, the cavalry was Finn Cool, who lived three fields away. Finn was a musician, and he’d bought the property precisely because there were no immediate neighbors. His antics caused mutterings in the village. He had rowdy parties late into the night, attended by glamorous people from London who terrorized the locals by driving their flashy sports cars too fast down the narrow lanes. Someone had started a petition in the post office to ban the parties. There had been talk of drugs, and half-naked women, and it had all sounded like so much fun that Kathleen had been tempted to invite herself over. Rather that than a dull women’s group, where you were expected to bake and knit and swap recipes for banana bread.
Finn would be of no use to her in this moment of crisis. In all probability he’d either be in his studio, wearing headphones, or he’d be drunk. Either way, he wasn’t going to hear a cry for help.
Calling the police would mean walking through the kitchen and across the hall to the living room, where the phone was kept and she didn’t want to reveal her presence. Her family had bought her a mobile phone, but it was still in its box, unused. Her adventurous spirit didn’t extend to technology. She didn’t like the idea of a nameless faceless person tracking her every move.
There was another thump, louder this time, and Kathleen pressed her hand to her chest. She could feel the rapid pounding of her heart. At least it was still working. She should probably be grateful for that.
When she’d complained about wanting a little more adventure, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. What could she do? She had no button to press, no phone with which to call for help, so she was going to have to handle this herself.
She could already hear Liza’s voice in her head: Mum, I warned you!
If she survived, she’d never hear the last of it.
Fear was replaced by anger. Because of this intruder she’d be branded Old and Vulnerable and forced to spend the rest of her days in a single room with minders who would cut up her food, speak in overly loud voices and help her to the bathroom. Life as she knew it would be over.
That was not going to happen.
She’d rather die at the hands of an intruder. At least her obituary would be interesting.
Better still, she would stay alive and prove herself capable of independent living.
She glanced quickly around the kitchen for a suitable weapon and spied the heavy black skillet she’d used to fry the bacon earlier.
She lifted it silently, gripping the handle tightly as she walked to the door that led from the kitchen to the hall. The tiles were cool under her feet—which, fortunately, were bare. No sound. Nothing to give her away. She had the advantage.
She could do this. Hadn’t she once fought off a mugger in the backstreets of Paris? True, she’d been a great deal younger then, but this time she had the advantage of surprise.
How many of them were there?
More than one would give her trouble.
Was it a professional job? Surely no professional would be this loud and clumsy. If it was kids hoping to steal her TV, they were in for a disappointment. Her grandchildren had been trying to persuade her to buy a “smart” TV, but why would she need such a thing? She was perfectly happy with the IQ of her current machine, thank you very much. Technology already made her feel foolish most of the time. She didn’t need it to be any smarter than it already was.
Perhaps they wouldn’t come into the kitchen. She could stay hidden away until they’d taken what they wanted and left.
They’d never know she was here.
They’d—
A floorboard squeaked close by. There wasn’t a crack or a creak in this house that she didn’t know. Someone was right outside the door.
Her knees turned liquid.
Oh Kathleen, Kathleen.
She closed both hands tightly round the handle of the skillet.
Why hadn’t she gone to self-defense classes instead of senior yoga? What use was the downward dog when what you needed was a guard dog?
A shadow moved into the room, and without allowing herself to think about what she was about to do she lifted the skillet and brought it down hard, the force of the blow driven by the weight of the object as much as her own strength. There was a thud and a vibration as it connected with his head.
“I’m so sorry—I mean—” Why was she apologizing? Ridiculous!
The man threw up an arm as he fell, a reflex action, and the movement sent the skillet back into Katherine’s own head. Pain almost blinded her and she prepared herself to end her days right here, thus giving her daughter the opportunity to be right, when there was a loud thump and the man crumpled to the floor. There was a crack as his head hit the tiles.
Kathleen froze. Was that it, or was he suddenly going to spring to his feet and murder her?
No. Against all odds, she was still standing while her prowler lay inert at her feet. The smell of alcohol rose, and Kathleen wrinkled her nose.
Drunk.
Her heart was racing so fast she was worried that any moment now it might trip over itself and give up.
She held tightly to the skillet.
Did he have an accomplice?
She held her breath, braced for someone else to come racing through the door to investigate the noise, but there was only silence.
Gingerly she stepped toward the door and poked her head into the hall. It was empty.
It seemed the man had been alone.
Finally she risked a look at him.
He was lying still at her feet, big, bulky and dressed all in black. The mud on the edges of his trousers suggested he’d come across the fields at the back of the house. She couldn’t make out his features because he’d landed face-first, but blood oozed from a wound on his head and darkened her kitchen floor.
Feeling a little dizzy, Kathleen pressed her hand to her throbbing head.
What now? Was one supposed to administer first aid when one was the cause of the injury? Was that helpful or hypocritical? Or was he past first aid and every other type of aid?
She nudged his body with her bare foot, but there was no movement.
Had she killed him?
The enormity of it shook her.
If he was dead, then she was a murderer.
When Liza had expressed a desire to see her mother safely housed somewhere she could easily visit, presumably she hadn’t been thinking of prison.
Who was he? Did he have family? What had been his intention when he’d forcibly entered her home?
Kathleen put the skillet down and forced her shaky limbs to carry her to the living room. Something tickled her cheek. Blood. Hers.
She picked up the phone and for the first time in her life dialed the emergency services.
Underneath the panic and the shock there was something that felt a lot like pride. It was a relief to discover she wasn’t as weak and defenseless as everyone seemed to think.
When a woman answered, Kathleen spoke clearly and without hesitation.
“There’s a body in my kitchen,” she said. “I assume you’ll want to come and remove it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Liza
“I told you! Didn’t I tell you? I knew this was going to happen.”
Liza slung her bag into the back of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Her stomach churned. She’d missed lunch, too busy to eat. The school where she taught was approaching summer exam season and she’d been halfway through helping two students complete their art coursework when a nurse had called her from the hospital.
It was the call she’d dreaded.
She’d found someone to cover the rest of her classes and driven the short distance home with a racing heart and clammy hands. Her mother had been attacked in the early hours of the morning, and she was only hearing about it now? She was part frantic, part furious.
Her mother was so cavalier. According to the police she’d left the back door open. It wouldn’t have surprised Liza to learn she’d invited the man in and made him tea.
Knock me over the head, why don’t you?
Sean leaned in through the window. He’d come straight from a meeting and was wearing a blue shirt the same color as his eyes. “Is there time for me to change?”
“I packed a bag for you.”
“Thanks.” He undid another button. “Why don’t you let me drive?”
“I’ve got this.” Tension rose up inside her and mingled with the worry about her mother. “I’m anxious, that’s all. And frustrated. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told her the house is too big, too isolated, that she should move into some sort of sheltered accommodation or residential care. But did she listen?”
Sean threw his jacket onto the back seat. “She’s independent. That’s a good thing, Liza.”
Was it? When did independence morph into irresponsibility?
“She left the back door open.”
“For the cat?”
“Who knows. I should have tried harder to persuade her to move.”
The truth was, she hadn’t really wanted her mother to move. Oakwood Cottage had played a central part in her life. The house was gorgeous, surrounded by acres of fields and farmland that stretched down to the sea. In the spring you could hear the bleating of new lambs, and in the summer the air was filled with blossom, birdsong and the faint sounds of the ocean.
It was hard to imagine her mother living anywhere else, even though the house was too large for one person and thoroughly impractical—particularly for someone who tended to believe that a leaking roof was a delightful feature of owning an older property and not something that needed fixing.
“You are not responsible for everything that happens to people, Liza.”
“I love her, Sean!”
“I know.” Sean settled himself in the passenger seat as if he had all the time in the world. Liza, who raced through life as if she was being chased by the police for a serious crime, found his relaxed demeanor and unshakeable calm occasionally maddening.
She thought about the magazine article folded into the bottom of her bag. Eight signs that your marriage might be in trouble.
She’d been flicking through the magazine in the dentist’s waiting room the week before and that feature had jumped out at her. She’d started to read it, searching for reassurance.
It wasn’t as if she and Sean argued. There was nothing specifically wrong. Just a vague discomfort inside her that reminded her constantly that the settled life she valued so much might not be as settled as she thought. That just as a million tiny things could pull a couple together, so a million tiny things could nudge them apart.
She’d read through the article, feeling sicker and sicker. By the time she’d reached the sixth sign she’d been so freaked out that she’d torn the pages from the magazine, coughing violently to cover the sound. It wasn’t done to steal magazines from waiting rooms.
And now those torn pages lay in her bag, a constant reminder that she was ignoring something deep and important. She knew it needed to be addressed, but she was afraid to touch the fabric of her marriage in case the whole thing fell apart—like her mother’s house.
Sean fastened his seat belt. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
She felt a moment of panic, and then realized he was talking about her mother. What sort of person was she that she could forget her injured mother so easily?
A person who was worried about her marriage.
“I should have tried harder to make her see sense,” she said.
They would have to sell the house—there was no doubt about that. Liza hoped it could wait until later in the summer. It was only a few weeks until school ended, and then the girls had various commitments until they all went on their annual family holiday to the South of France.
France.
A wave of calm flowed over her.
France would give her the time to take a closer look at her marriage. They’d both be relaxed, and away from the endless demands of daily life. She and Sean would be able to spend some time together that didn’t involve handling issues and problems. Until then, she was going to give herself permission to forget about the whole thing and focus on the immediate problem.
Her mother.
Oakwood Cottage.
Sadness ripped through her. Ridiculous though it was, the place still felt like home. She’d clung to that last remaining piece of her childhood, unable to imagine a time when she would no longer sit in the garden or stroll across the fields to the sea.
“Dad made me promise not to put her in a home,” she said.
“Which was unfair. No one can make promises about a future they can’t foresee. And you’re not ‘putting’ her anywhere.” Sean was ever reasonable. “She’s a human being—not a garden gnome. Also, there are plenty of good residential homes.”
“I know. I have a folder bulging with glossy brochures in the back seat of the car. They make them look so good I want to check in myself. Unfortunately, I doubt my mother will feel the same way.”
Sean was scrolling through emails on his phone. “In the end it’s her choice. It has nothing to do with us.”
“It has a lot to do with us. It’s not practical to go there every weekend, and even if they weren’t in the middle of exams the twins wouldn’t come with us without complaining. ‘It’s in the middle of nowhere, Mum.’”
“Which is why we’re leaving them this weekend.”
“And that terrifies me too. What if they have a party or something?”
“Why must you always imagine the worst? Treat them like responsible humans and they’ll behave like responsible humans.”
Was it really that simple? Or was Sean’s confidence based on misplaced optimism?
“I don’t like the friends Caitlin is mixing with right now. They’re not interested in studying and they spend their weekends hanging out in the shopping mall.”
He didn’t look up. “Isn’t that normal for teenage girls?”
“She’s changed since she met Jane. She answers back and she used to be so good-natured.”
“Hormones. She’ll grow out of it.”
Sean’s parenting style was “hands off.” He thought of it as being relaxed. Liza considered it abdication.
When the twins were little they’d played with each other. Then they’d started school and invited friends round to play. Liza had found them delightful. That had all changed when they’d moved to senior school and Alice and Caitlin had made friends with a different group of girls. They were a year older. Most of them were already driving and also, Liza was sure, drinking.
The fact that she might not like her daughters’ friends was a problem that hadn’t occurred to her until the past year.
She forced her attention back to the problem of her mother. “If you could fix the roof in the garden room this weekend, that would be great. We should have spent more time maintaining the place. I feel guilty that I haven’t done enough.”
Sean finally looked up. “What you feel guilty about,” he said, “is that you and your mother aren’t close. But that isn’t your fault, you know that.”
She did know that, but it was still uncomfortable hearing the truth spoken aloud. It was something she didn’t like to acknowledge. Not being close to her mother felt like a flaw. A grubby secret. Something she should apologize for.
She’d tried so hard, but her mother wasn’t an easy woman to get close to. Intensely private, Kathleen revealed little of her inner thoughts. She’d always been the same. Even when Liza’s father had died, Kathleen had focused on the practical. Any attempt to engage her mother in a conversation about feelings or emotions was rebuffed. There were days when Liza felt that she didn’t even truly know her mother. She knew what Kathleen did and how she spent her time, but she didn’t know how she felt about things. And that included her feelings for her daughter.
She couldn’t remember her mother ever telling her that she loved her.
Was her mother proud of her? Maybe, but she wasn’t sure about that either.
“I love her very much, but it’s true that I do wish she’d share more.” She clamped her teeth together, knowing that there were things she wasn’t sharing, either. Was she turning into her mother? She should probably be admitting to Sean that she felt overloaded—as if the entire smooth running of their lives was her responsibility. And in a way it was. Sean had a busy architectural practice in London. When he wasn’t working he was using the gym, running in the park or playing golf with clients. Liza’s time outside work was spent sorting out the house and the twins.
Was this what marriage was? Once those early couple-focused years had passed, did it turn into this?
Eight signs that your marriage might be in trouble.
It was just a stupid article. She’d met Sean when she was a teenager and many happy years had followed. True, life felt as if it was nothing but jobs and responsibility right now, but that was part of being an adult, wasn’t it?
“I know you love your mother. That’s why we’re in the car on a Friday afternoon,” Sean said. “And we’ll make it through this current crisis the way we’ve made it through the others. One step at a time.”
But why does life always have to be a crisis?
She almost asked, but Sean had already moved on and was answering a call from a colleague.
Liza only half listened as he dealt with a string of problems. Since the practice had taken off it wasn’t unusual for Sean to be glued to his phone.
“Mmm…” he said. “But it’s about creating a simple crafted space… No, that won’t work… Yes, I’ll call them.”
When he eventually ended the call, she glanced at him. “What if the twins invite Jane over?”
“You can’t stop them seeing their friends.”
“It’s not their friends in general that worry me—only Jane. Did you know she smokes? I’m worried about drugs. Sean, are you listening? Stop doing your emails.”
“Sorry. But I wasn’t expecting to take this afternoon off and I have a lot going on right now.” Sean pressed Send and looked up. “What were you saying? Ah, smoking and drugs… Even if Jane does all that, it doesn’t mean Caitlin will.”
“She’s easily influenced. She badly wants to fit in.”
“And that’s common at her age. Plenty of other kids are the same. It will do the twins good to fend for themselves for a weekend.”
They wouldn’t exactly be fending for themselves. Liza had already filled the fridge with food. She’d removed all the alcohol from the kitchen cupboard, locked it in the garage and removed the key. But she knew that wouldn’t stop them buying more if they wanted to.
Her mind flew to all the possibilities. “What if they have a wild party?”
“It would make them normal. All teenagers have wild parties.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. You were unusually well-behaved and innocent.” He put his phone away. “Until I met you and changed all that. Remember that day on the beach when you went for a walk? You were sixteen. I was with a crowd.”
“I remember.” They’d been the cool crowd, and she’d almost turned around when she saw them, but in the end she’d joined them.
“I put my hand up your dress.” He adjusted his seat to give himself more leg room. “I admit it—my technique needed work.”
Her first kiss.
She remembered it clearly. The excited fumbling. The forbidden nature of the encounter. Music in the background. The delicious thrill of anticipation.
She’d fallen crazily in love with Sean that summer. She’d known she was out of step with her peers, who’d been dancing their way through different relationships like butterflies seeking nectar. Liza had never wanted that. She’d never felt the need for romantic adventure. That meant uncertainty, and she’d already had more than enough of that in her life. All she’d wanted was Sean, with his wide shoulders, his easy smile and his calm nature.
She missed the simplicity of that time.
“Are you happy, Sean?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
“What sort of a question is that?” Finally she had his full attention. “The business is going brilliantly. The girls are doing well in school. Of course I’m happy. Aren’t you?”
The business. The girls.
Eight signs that your marriage might be in trouble.
“I feel—a little overwhelmed sometimes, that’s all.”
She tiptoed cautiously into territory she’d never entered before.
“That’s because you take everything so seriously. You worry about every small detail. About the twins. About your mother. You need to chill.”
His words slid under her skin like a blade. She’d used to love the fact that he was so calm, but now it felt like a criticism of her coping skills. Not only was she doing everything, but she was taking it all too seriously.
“You’re suggesting I need to ‘chill’ about the fact my eighty-year-old mother has been assaulted in her own home?”
“It sounded more like an accident than an assault, but I was talking generally. You worry about things that haven’t happened and you try and control every little thing. Most things turn out fine if you leave them alone.”
“They turn out fine because I anticipate problems before they happen.”
And anticipating things was exhausting—like trying to stay afloat when someone had tied weights to her legs.
For a wild moment she wondered what it would be like to be single. To have no one to worry about but herself.
No responsibility. Free time.
She yanked herself back from that thought.
Sean leaned his head back against the seat. “Let’s leave this discussion until we’re back home. Here we are, spending the weekend together by the sea. Let’s enjoy it. Everything is going to be fine.”
His ability to focus on the moment was a strength, but also a flaw that sometimes grated on her. He could live in the moment because she took care of all the other stuff.
He reached across to squeeze her leg and she thought about a time twenty years ago, when they’d had sex in the car, parking in a quiet country lane and steaming up the windows until neither of them had been able to see through the glass.
What had happened to that part of their lives? What had happened to spontaneity? To joy?
It seemed so long ago she could barely remember it.
These days her life was driven by worry and duty. She was being slowly crushed by the ever-increasing weight of responsibility.
“When did we last go away together?” she asked.
“We’re going away now.”
“This isn’t a minibreak, Sean. My mother needed stitches in her head. She has a mild concussion.”
She crawled through the heavy London traffic, her head throbbing at the thought of the drive ahead. Friday afternoon was the worst possible time to leave, but they’d had no choice.
When the twins were young they’d traveled at night. They’d arrive at Oakwood Cottage in the early hours of the morning and Sean would carry both children inside and deposit them into the twin beds in the attic room, tucking them under the quilts her mother had brought back from one of her many foreign trips.
“I really don’t want to do it, but I think it’s time to sell Oakwood Cottage. If she’s going into residential care, we can’t afford to keep it.”
Someone else would play hide and seek in the overgrown gardens, scramble into the dusty attic and fill the endless bookshelves. Someone else would sleep in her old bedroom, and enjoy the breathtaking views across fields to the sea.
Something tore inside her.
The fact that she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a relaxing weekend in Cornwall didn’t lessen the feeling of loss. If anything it intensified the emotion, because now she wished she’d taken greater advantage of the cottage. She’d assumed it would always be there…
Ever since her father had died, visits home had been associated with chores. Clearing the garden. Filling the freezer. Checking that her mother was coping with a house that was far too big for one person, especially when that person was advanced in years and had no interest in home maintenance.
She’d thought that the death of her father might bring her closer to her mother, but that hadn’t happened.
Grief sliced through her, making her catch her breath. It had been five years, and she still missed her dad every day.
“I can’t see your mother selling it,” Sean said, “and I think it’s important not to overreact. This accident wasn’t of her own making. She was managing perfectly well before this.”
“Was she, though? Apart from the fact she did leave the door open, I don’t think she eats properly. Supper is a bowl of cereal. Or bacon. She eats too much bacon.”
“Is there such a thing as too much bacon?” Sean caught her eye and gave a sheepish smile. “I’m kidding. You’re right. Bacon is bad. Although at your mother’s age one has to wonder if it really matters.”
“If she gives up bacon maybe she’ll live to be ninety.”
“But would she enjoy those miserable, bacon-free extra years?”
“Can you be serious?”
“I am serious. It’s about quality of life, not just quantity. You try and keep every bad thing at bay but doing that also keeps out the good stuff. Maybe she could stay in the house and we could find someone local to look in on her.”
“She’s terrible at taking help from anyone. You know how independent she is.” Liza hit the brakes as the car in front of her stopped, the seat belt locking hard against her body. Her eyes pricked with tiredness and her head pounded. She hadn’t slept well the night before, worrying about Caitlin and her friendship issues. “Do you think I should have locked our bedroom?”
“Why? If someone breaks into our house they’ll simply kick the doors down if they’re locked. Makes more mess.”
“I wasn’t thinking of burglars. I was thinking about the twins.”
“Why would the twins go into our bedroom? They have perfectly good rooms of their own.”
What did it say about her that she didn’t entirely trust her own children? They’d been suitably horrified when they’d discovered that their elderly grandmother had been assaulted, but had flat-out resisted her attempts to persuade them to come too.
“There’s nothing to do at Granny’s.” Alice had said, exchanging looks with her sister.
“Besides, we have work to do.” Caitlin had gestured to a stack of textbooks. “History exam on Monday. I’ll be studying. Probably won’t even have time to order in pizza.”
It had been a reasonable response. So why did Liza feel nervous?
She’d do a video call later so that she could see what was going on in the background.
The traffic finally cleared, and they headed west to Cornwall.
By the time they turned into the country lane that led to her mother’s house it was late afternoon, and the sun sent a rosy glow over the fields and hedges.
She was allowing herself a rare moment of appreciating the scenery when a bright red sports car sped round the bend, causing her almost to swerve into a ditch.
“For—” She leaned on her horn and caught a brief glimpse of a pair of laughing blue eyes as the car roared past. “Did you see that?”
“Yes. Stunning car. V-8 engine.” Sean turned his head, almost drooling, but the car was long gone.
“He almost killed us!”
“Well, he didn’t. So that’s good.”
“It was that wretched rock star who moved here last year.”
“Ah, yes. I read an article in one of the Sunday papers about his six sports cars.”
“I was about to say I don’t understand why one man would need six cars, but if he drives like that then I suppose that’s the explanation right there. He probably gets through one a day.”
Liza turned the wheel and Sean winced as branches scraped the paintwork.
“You’re a bit close on my side, Liza.”
“It was the hedge or a head-on collision.” She was shaken by what had been a close shave, her emotions heightened by her brief glimpse of Finn Cool. “He laughed—did you see that? He actually smiled as he passed us. Would he have been laughing if he’d had to haul my mangled body out of the twisted wreckage of this car?”
“He seemed like a pretty skilled driver.”
“It wasn’t his skill that saved us. It was me driving into the hedge. It isn’t safe to drive like that down these roads.”
Liza breathed out slowly and drove cautiously down the lane, half expecting another irresponsible rock star to come zooming around the corner. She reached her mother’s house without further mishap, her pulse rate slowing as she pulled into the drive.
Aubretia clung to the low wall that bordered the property, and lobelia and geraniums in bright shades of purple and pink tumbled from baskets hung next to the front door. Although her mother neglected the house, she loved the garden and spent hours in the sunshine, tending her plants.
“This place is a gem. She’d make a fortune if she ever did decide to sell it, leaking roof or not. Do you think she will have made her chocolate cake?” Sean was ever hopeful.
“You mean before or after she tackled an intruder?”
Liza parked in front of the house. She probably should have baked a cake, but she’d decided that getting on the road as soon as possible was the priority.
“Can you call the kids?”
“Why?” Sean uncoiled himself from the front of the car and stretched. “We only left them four hours ago.”
“I want to check on them.”
He unloaded their luggage. “Take a breath, will you? I haven’t seen you like this before. You’re amazing, Liza. A real coper. I know you’re shaken up by what’s happened, but we’ll get through this.”
She felt like a piece of elastic stretched to its limits. She was coping because if she didn’t what would happen to them? She knew, even if her family didn’t, that they wouldn’t be able to manage without her. The twins would die of malnutrition or lie buried under their own mess because they were incapable of putting away a single thing they owned or cooking anything other than pizza. The laundry would stay unwashed, the cupboards would be bare. Caitlin would yell, Has anyone seen my blue strap top? and no one would answer because no one would know.
The front door opened and all thought of the twins left her mind because there was her mother, her palm pressed hard against the door frame for support. There was a bandage wrapped around the top of her head, and Liza felt her stomach drop to her feet. She’d always considered her mother to be invincible, and here she was looking frail, tired and all too human. For all their differences—and there were many—she loved her mother dearly.
“Mum!” She left Sean to handle the luggage and sprinted across the drive. “I’ve been worried! How are you feeling? I can’t believe this happened. I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You’re not the one who broke into my house.”
As always, her mother was brisk and matter-of-fact, treating weakness like an annoying fly to be batted away. If she’d been frightened—and she must have been, surely?—then there was no way she would share that fact with Liza.
Still, it was a relief to see her in one piece and looking surprisingly good in the circumstances.
If there was one word that would accurately describe her mother it would be vivid. She reminded Liza of a hummingbird; delicate, brightly colored, always busy. Today she was wearing a long flowing dress in shades of blue and turquoise, with a darker blue wrap around her shoulders. Multiple bangles jangled on her wrists. Her mother’s unconventional, eclectic dress style had caused Liza many embarrassing moments as a child, and even now the cheerful colors of Kathleen’s outfit seemed to jar with the gravity of the situation. She looked ready to step onto a beach in Corfu.
Despite the lack of encouragement, Liza hugged her mother gently, horrified by how fragile she seemed. “You should have had an alarm, or a mobile phone in your pocket.”
Instinctively she checked her mother’s head, but there was nothing to be seen except the bandage and the beginnings of a bruise around her eye socket. Even though she’d tried to enliven her appearance with blusher, her skin was waxy and pale. Her hair was white and cropped short, which seemed to add to her air of fragility.
“Don’t fuss.” Kathleen eased away from her. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. By the time help arrived it would have been over. My old-fashioned landline proved perfectly effective.”
“But what if he’d knocked you unconscious? You wouldn’t have been able to call for help.”
“If I’d been unconscious I wouldn’t have been able to press a button either. The police happened to have a car in the area and arrived in minutes, which was comforting because the man recovered quickly and at that point I wasn’t sure what his intentions were. Charming policewoman, although she didn’t seem much older than the twins. Then an ambulance arrived, and the police took a statement from me. I half expected to be locked up for the night, but nothing so dramatic. Still, it was all rather exciting.”
“Exciting?” The remark was typical of her mother. “You could have been killed. He hit you.”
“No, I hit him—with the skillet I’d used for frying bacon earlier.” There was an equal mix of pride and satisfaction in her mother’s voice. “His arm flew up as he fell—reflex, I suppose—and he knocked it back into my head. That part was unfortunate, but it’s funny when you think that bacon may have saved my life. So no more nagging me about my blood pressure and cholesterol.”
“Mum—”
“If I’d cooked myself pasta I would have been using a different pan…nowhere near heavy enough. If I’d made a ham sandwich I would have had nothing to tackle him with except a crust of bread. I’ll be filling the fridge with bacon from now on.”
“Bacon can be a lifesaver—I’ve always said so.” Sean leaned in and kissed his mother-in-law gently on the cheek. “You’re a formidable adversary, Kathleen. Good to see you on your feet.”
Liza felt like the sole adult in the group. Was she the only one seeing the seriousness of this situation? It was like dealing with the twins.
“How can you joke about it?”
“I’m deadly serious. It’s good to know that I can now eat bacon with a clear conscience.” Kathleen gave her son-in-law an affectionate smile. “You really didn’t have to come charging down here on a Friday. I’m perfectly fine. You didn’t bring the girls?”
“Exams. Teenage stress and drama. You know how it is.” Sean hauled their luggage into the house. “Is the kettle on, Kathleen? I could murder a cup of tea.”
Did he really have to use the word murder? Liza kept picturing a different outcome. One where her mother was the one lying inert on the kitchen floor. She felt a little dizzy—and she wasn’t the one who had been hit over the head.
Of course she knew that people had their homes broken into. It was a fact. But knowing it was different from experiencing it.
She glanced uneasily toward the back door. “You left it open?”
“Apparently. And it was raining so hard he took shelter, poor man.”
“Poor man?”
“He’d had one too many and was most apologetic, both to me and the police. Admitted it was all his fault.”
Apologetic.
“You look pale.” Kathleen patted Liza on the shoulder. “You stress about small things. Come in, dear. That drive is murderous…you must be exhausted.”
Murderous. Murder.
“Could everyone stop using that word?”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “It’s a figure of speech, nothing more.”
“Well, if we could find a different one I’d appreciate it.” Liza followed her into the hallway. “How are you feeling, Mum? Honestly? An intruder isn’t a small thing.”
“True. He was actually large. And the noise his head made when it hit the kitchen floor—awful. I never should have asked your father to lay those expensive Italian tiles. I’ve broken so many cups and plates on that damned surface. And now a man’s head. It took me forever to clean up the blood. It’s fortunate for all of us that he wasn’t badly hurt.”
Even now her mother wouldn’t share her true feelings. Her talk was all of bacon, broken plates and floor tiles. She seemed more concerned for the intruder than herself.
Liza felt exhausted. “You should have left the cleaning for me.”
“Nonsense. I’ve never been much of a housekeeper, but I can mop up blood. And I prefer not to eat my lunch in the middle of a crime scene, thank you.”
Her mother headed straight for the kitchen. Liza didn’t know whether to be relieved or exasperated that she was behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If anything, she seemed energized, and perhaps a touch triumphant, as if she’d achieved something of note.
“Where is the man now? What did the police say?”
“The man—his name is Lawrence, I believe—is doing very well, although I don’t envy the headache he’ll have after all that drink. I remember one night when I was in Paris celebrating—”
“Mum!”
“What? Oh—the police. They came back this morning and took a statement. A very pleasant man but not a tea lover, which always makes me a little suspicious.”
Liza wasn’t interested in his choice of beverage. “Are they charging him? Breaking and entering?”
“He didn’t break anything. He leaned against the door and it opened. And he apologized profusely, and made a full admission of guilt. He had impeccable manners.”
Liza fought the urge to put her head in her hands. “So will you have to go and give evidence or something?”
“I truly hope so. It would be exciting to have a day in court, but it seems unlikely I’ll be needed as he admitted everything and was so remorseful and apologetic. I thought my life would be considerably enlivened by an appearance in my own courtroom drama, but it seems I will have to content myself with the fictional variety.”
Her mother fussed around the stove, pouring boiling water into the large teapot she’d been using since Liza was a child. The tea would be Earl Grey. Her mother never drank anything else. It was as familiar as the house.
The kitchen, with its range cooker and large pine table, had always been her favorite room. Every evening after school Liza had done her homework at this same table, wanting to be close to her mother when she was at home.
Her mother had been one of the pioneers of the TV travel show, her spirited adventures around the world opening people’s eyes to the appeal of foreign holidays from the Italian Riviera to the Far East. The Summer Seekers had run for almost twenty years, it’s longevity due in no small part to her mother’s popularity. Every few weeks Kathleen would pack a suitcase and disappear on a trip to another faraway destination. Liza’s school friends had found it all impossibly glamorous. Liza had found it crushingly lonely. Her earliest memory was of being four years old and holding tight to her mother’s scarf to prevent her from leaving, almost throttling her in the process.
To ease the distress of Kathleen’s constant departures, her father had glued a large map of the world to Liza’s bedroom wall. Each time her mother had left on another trip, Liza and her father would put a pin in the map and research the place. They’d cut pictures from brochures and make scrapbooks. It had made her feel closer to her mother. And Liza’s room would be filled with various eclectic objects. A hand-carved giraffe from Africa. A rug from India.
And then Kathleen would return, her clothes wrinkled and covered in travel dust. She’d bring with her an energy that had made her seem like a stranger. Those first moments when she and Liza were reunited had always been uncomfortable and forced, but then the work clothes would be replaced by casual clothes, and Kathleen the traveler and TV star would become Kathleen the mother once again. Until the next time, when the map would be consulted and the planning would start.
Liza had once asked her father why her mother always had to go away, and he’d said, “Your mother needs this.”
Even at a young age Liza had wondered why her mother’s needs took precedence over everyone else’s, and she’d wondered what it was exactly that her mother did need, but she hadn’t felt able to ask. She’d noticed that her father drank more and smoked more when Kathleen was away. As a father, he had been practical, but economical in his parenting. He’d make sure that she was safe, but spent long days in his study or in the school where he was head of the English department.
She’d never understood her parents’ relationship and had never delved for answers. They seemed happy together and that was all that mattered.
Liza had thought about her mother exploring the desert in Tunisia on the back of a camel and wondered why she needed her world to be so large, and why it needed to exclude her family.
Was it those constant absences that had turned Liza into such a home lover? She’d chosen teaching as a career because the hours and holidays fitted with having a family. When her own children were young she’d stayed home, taking a break from her career. When they’d started school she’d matched her hours to theirs, taking pleasure and pride in the fact that she took them to school and met them at the end of the day. She’d been determined that her children wouldn’t have to endure the endless goodbyes that she’d had as a child. She’d prided herself on connecting with them, and encouraging conversations about feelings, although these days those conversations were less successful. You can’t possibly understand, Mum, as if Liza hadn’t once been young herself.
Still, no one could accuse her of not being attentive, another reason she was feeling uneasy right now.
Sean was chatting to her mother, the pair of them making tea together as if this was a regular visit.
Liza glanced around her, dealing with the dawning realization that clearing out this house would be a monumental task. Over the years her mother had filled it with memorabilia and souvenirs from her travels, from seashells to tribal masks. There were maps everywhere—on the walls and piled high in all the rooms. Her mother’s diaries and other writing filled two dozen large boxes in the small room she’d used as an office, and her photograph albums were crushed onto shelves in the living room.
When her father had died, five years before, Liza had suggested clearing a few of his things but her mother had refused. “I want everything to stay as it is. A home should be an adventure. You never know what forgotten treasure you might stumble over.”
Stumble over and break an ankle, Liza had thought in despair. It was an interesting way of reframing ‘mess’.
Before her mother could sell this place it would need to be cleared, and no doubt Liza would be the one to do it.
When was the right time to broach the subject? Not yet. They’d only just walked through the door. She needed to keep the conversation neutral.
“The garden is looking pretty.”
The French doors in the kitchen opened onto the patio, where the borders were filled with tumbling flowers. Pots filled with herbs crowded around the back door. Scented spikes of Rosemary nestled alongside the variegated sage which her mother sprinkled over roast pork every Sunday—the only dish she ever produced with enthusiasm. The flagstone path was dappled by sunlight and led to the well-stocked vegetable patch, and then to a pond guarded by bulrushes. Beyond the garden were fields, and then the sea.
It was so tranquil and peaceful that for a moment Liza longed for a different life—one that didn’t involve rushing around, ticking off items from her endless to-do list. She just wanted to sit.
Her quiet fantasy of one day living near the sea had all but died. There had been a time early in their relationship when she and Sean had discussed it regularly, but then real life had squeezed out those youthful dreams. Living on the coast wasn’t practical. Sean’s work was based in London. So was hers. Although teaching was more flexible, of course.
Sean brought the food in from the car and Liza unpacked it into the fridge.
“I had a casserole in the freezer, so I brought that,” she said. “And some veg.”
“I’m capable of making food,” said her mother.
“Your idea of food is bacon and cereal. You’re not eating properly.” She filled a bowl with fresh fruit. “I assumed you weren’t set up for an invasion of people.”
“Can two people be an invasion?” Her mother’s tone was light, but she gripped the edge of the kitchen table and carefully lowered herself into a chair.
Liza was by her side in a moment. “Maybe I should take a look at your head.”
“No one else is touching my head, thank you. It already hurts quite enough. The young doctor who stitched me up warned me that it would leave a scar. As if I’m bothered by things like that at my age.”
Age.
Was this the moment to mention that it was time to consider a change?
Across the kitchen, Sean was pouring the tea.
Liza paused, nervous about disturbing the atmosphere.
She tried again to encourage a deeper conversation. “You must have been frightened.”
“I was more worried about Popeye. You know how he dislikes strangers. He must have escaped through the open door and I haven’t seen him since.”
Liza gave up. If her mother wanted to talk about the cat, then they’d talk about the cat. “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer.”
“That’s probably why we get on so well. We understand each other.”
Was it crazy to be jealous of a cat?
Her mother looked wistful and Liza resolved to do what she could to find Popeye. “If he’s not back by the morning we’ll search for him. And now I think you should have a lie-down.”
“At four in the afternoon? I’m not an invalid, Liza.” Kathleen put sugar in her tea—another unhealthy habit she refused to abandon. “I don’t want a fuss.”
“We’re not fussing. We’re here to look after you, and to—” To make you think about the future. Liza stopped.
“And to what? Persuade me to wear an emergency buzzer? I’m not doing it, Liza.”
“Mum—” She caught Sean’s warning glance but ignored it. Maybe the subject was best raised right now, so that they had the whole weekend to discuss details. “This has been a shock for all of us, and it’s time to face some difficult truths. Things need to change.”
Sean turned away with a shake of his head, but her mother was nodding.
“Things do have to change. Being hit over the head has brought me to my senses.”
Liza felt a rush of relief. Her mother was going to be reasonable. Turned out she wasn’t the only sensible person in the room.
“I’m pleased you feel that way,” she said. “I have brochures in the car, so all we have to do now is plan. And we have all weekend for that.”
“Brochures? You mean travel brochures?”
“For residential homes. We can—”
“Why would you bring those?”
“Because you can’t stay here any longer, Mum. You admitted things have to change.”
“They do. And I’m in the process of formulating a plan I will share with you when I’m sure of the details. But I won’t be going into a residential home. That isn’t what I want.”
Was her mother saying she wanted to come and live with them in London?
Liza swallowed and forced herself to ask the question. “What is it that you want?”
“Adventure.” Kathleen slapped her hand on the table, setting cups rattling. “I want another adventure. I was the original Summer Seeker and I miss those days terribly. Who knows how many summers I have left? I intend to make the most of this one.”
“But Mum—” Oh this was ridiculous. “You’re going to be eighty-one at the end of this year.”
Her mother sat up a little straighter and her eyes gleamed. “All the more reason not to waste another moment.”
The Summer Seekers is out in the UK today!
The Summer Seekers is out in the UK today! It’s full of fun, drama and romance and there is plenty of travel so if you’ve been missing that then this might be the book for you! You’ll find it on the shelves in Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Asda, Morrisons, WHSmith, some branches of Waterstones (they can order), and if you prefer not to go into shops then it’s available to order online. You’ll find all the links right here on my website.
Happy Reading!
Love
Sarah
The Summer Seekers out in the US and Canada today!
Are you ready for a fun road trip? My new book The Summer Seekers is on the shelves in the US and Canada from today. This is a multigenerational story, full of drama and romance. I loved writing it, and I hope you’re going to love reading it. I think this book might have some of my favorite characters of all time. Here’s a handy order link:
Love
Sarah
One More For Christmas
CHAPTER ONE
Gayle
When Gayle Mitchell agreed to a live interview in her office, she hadn’t expected her life to fall apart in such a spectacular fashion in front of an audience of millions. She was used to giving interviews and had no reason to think that this one might end in disaster, so she sat relaxed, even a little bored, as the crew set up the room.
As usual, the lights were blinding and kicked out enough heat to roast a haunch of beef. Despite the frigid air-conditioning, the fabric of Gayle’s fitted black dress stuck to her thighs.
Beyond the soaring glass walls of her office lay what she truly believed to be the most exciting city on earth. Also one of the most expensive—but these days Gayle didn’t have to worry too much about that.
Once, the place had almost killed her, but that had been a long time ago. That memory contributed to the degree of satisfaction she felt in being up here, on top of the world, gazing down from her domain on the fiftieth floor. Like planting a stiletto on the body of an adversary, it was symbolic of victory. I won. She was far removed from those people scurrying along the freezing, canyon-like streets of Manhattan, struggling to survive in a city that devoured the weak and the vulnerable. From her vantage point in her corner office she could see the Empire State Building, the Rockefeller Center and, in the distance, the broad splash of green that was Central Park.
Gayle shifted in her chair as someone touched up her hair and makeup. The director was talking to the cameraman, discussing angles and light, while seated in the chair across from her the most junior female reporter on the morning show studied her notes with feverish attention.
Rochelle Barnard. She was young. Early twenties? A few years older than Gayle had been when she’d hit the lowest point of her life.
Nothing excited Gayle more than raw potential, and she saw plenty of it in Rochelle. You had to know what you were looking for, of course—and Gayle knew. It was there in the eyes, in the body language, in the attitude. And this woman had something else that Gayle always looked for. Hunger.
Hunger was the biggest motivator of all, and no one knew that better than her.
She hadn’t just been hungry—she’d been starving. Also desperate. But usually she managed to forget that part. She was a different woman now, and able to extend a hand to another woman who might need a boost.
“Ten minutes, Miss Mitchell.”
Gayle watched as the lighting guy adjusted the reflector. In a way, didn’t she do much the same thing? She shone a light on people who would otherwise have remained in the dark. She changed lives, and she was about to change this woman’s life.
“Put the notes down,” she said. “You don’t need them.”
Rochelle glanced up. “These are the questions they want me to ask. They only handed them to me five minutes ago.”
Because they want you to stumble and fall, Gayle thought.
“Are they the questions you would have chosen to ask?”
The woman rustled through the papers and pulled a face. “Honestly? No. But this is what they want covered in the interview.”
Gayle leaned forward. “Do you always do what other people tell you?”
Rochelle shook her head. “Not always.”
“Good to know. Because if you did, then you wouldn’t be the woman I thought you were when I saw you present that short segment from Central Park last week.”
“You saw that?”
“Yes. Your questions were excellent, and you refused to let that weasel of a man wriggle out of answering.”
“That interview was the reason you asked for me today? I’ve been wondering.”
“You struck me as a young woman with untapped potential.”
“I’m grateful for the opportunity.” Rochelle sat straighter and smoothed her skirt. “I can’t believe I’m here. Howard usually does all the high-profile interviews.”
Why were people so accepting of adverse circumstances? So slow to realize their own power? But power came with risk, of course, and most people were averse to risk.
“Things are always the way they are until we change them,” Gayle said. “Be bold. Decide what you want and go after it. If that means upsetting a few people along the way, then do it.” She closed her eyes as someone stroked a strand of her hair into place and sprayed it. “This is your chance to ask me the questions Howard Banks wouldn’t think to ask.”
Which shouldn’t be too hard, she thought, because the man had the imagination and appeal of stale bread.
Howard had interviewed her a decade earlier and he’d been patronizing and paternalistic. It gave Gayle pleasure to know that by insisting on being interviewed by this junior reporter she’d annoyed him. With any luck he’d burst a blood vessel in the most valuable part of his anatomy—which, for him, was probably his ego.
“If I don’t give them what they’re expecting, I could lose my job.”
Gayle opened one eye. “Not if you give them something better than they’re expecting. They’re not going to fire you if the ratings go up. What’s on their list? Let me guess… My work-life balance and how I handle being a woman in a man’s world?”
Boring, boring.
The woman laughed. “You’re obviously a pro at this.”
“Think of the people watching. Ask the questions they’d ask if they were in the room with me. If you were a woman eager to make a change in your life, what would you want to hear? If you were struggling to get ahead in the workplace—” which you are“—constantly blocked by those around you, what would you want to know?”
Rochelle picked up the papers from her lap and folded them in a deliberate gesture. “I’d want to know your secrets—how you handle it all. How you handled it at the beginning, before you had everything you have now. You started with nothing. Put yourself through college while working three jobs. And you’ve become one of the most successful women in business. You’ve transformed companies and individuals. I’d want to know whether any of your experiences might be of use to me. Whether you could transform me. I’d want to come away feeling so inspired I’d call the show and thank them.”
“And you think they’d fire you for that?”
The woman stared at her. “No, I don’t.” She slapped the papers down on the desk. “What is wrong with me? I’ve read all your books several times, and yet I was about to ask the questions I’d been handed. One of my favorite sections in your last book was that bit about other people’s expectations being like reins, holding you back. You were our role model in college.” She pressed her palm to her chest. “Meeting you is the best Christmas gift.”
“Christmas?”
“It’s only a few weeks away. I love the holidays, don’t you?”
Gayle did not love the holidays. She didn’t like the way everything closed down. She didn’t like the crowds on the streets or the tacky decorations. She didn’t like the uncomfortable memories that stuck to her like bits of parcel tape.
“Aren’t you a little old to be excited about Christmas?” she asked.
“Never!” Rochelle laughed. “I love a big family gathering. Massive tree. Gifts in front of the fire. You know the type of thing…”
Gayle turned her attention to the makeup artist, who was brandishing lipstick. “Not that horrible brown. Red.”
“But—”
“Red. And not an insipid washed-out red. I want a look at me red. I have the perfect one in my purse.”
There was much scrambling and an appropriate lipstick was produced.
Gayle sat still while the makeup artist finished her work. “This is your opportunity, Rochelle. Take it and ride it all the way home. If you make an impression on the public, your bosses won’t be able to hold you back.”
There.
Done.
Gayle had the power to give her a boost and she’d used it. She liked to give people the kind of chance she’d never been given. The rest was up to them.
“Five minutes, Ms. Mitchell.” The director scanned her shelves. “When we’ve finished the interview we might take a few stills for promotional purposes.”
“Whatever you need.” If her story inspired people, then she was happy. She wanted women to understand their own strength and power.
Rochelle leaned forward. “In case I don’t have a chance to thank you properly after, I just want to say how grateful I am for your support. Do you have any idea how inspiring it is to know that you live the life you talk about in your books? You’re the real deal. You’re right at the top of your game, but still you take the time to reach out and give others a helping hand.”
Her eyes glistened and Gayle felt a flash of alarm.
The helping hand didn’t come with tissues. Emotion had no place in designing a life. It clouded decision-making and influenced those around you. Gayle’s staff knew better than to bring emotion to a conversation.
Give me facts, give me solutions—don’t give me sobbing.
Rochelle didn’t know that. “At college we had a mantra— what would GM do?” She blushed. “I hope you don’t mind that we called you that.”
Some said that GM stood for Great Mind, others Guru of Management. A few of her own staff thought it stood for Genetically Modified, but no one had the courage to tell her that.
Rochelle’s admiration continued to flow across the desk. “You’re afraid of nothing and no one. You’ve been an inspiration to so many of us. The way you’ve shaped your career, your life. You never apologize for the choices you make.”
Why should she apologize? Who would she apologize to?
“Use this opportunity, Rochelle. Did my assistant give you a copy of my next book?”
“Yes. Signed.” Rochelle appeared to have reined in her inner fangirl. “And I think it’s so cool that you have a male assistant.”
“I employ the best person for the job. In this case it’s Cole.”
Out of the corner of her eye she checked the desks of her top executives. She and Bill Keen were the only members of the company to have their own offices. The others worked in the bright open space that stretched the width of the building. Occasionally Gayle would survey her domain from the protection of her glass-fronted oasis and think, I built this myself, with nothing more than guts and a grim determination to survive.
The shiny globe of Simon Belton’s bald head was just visible above the top of his cubicle. He’d arrived before her that morning, which had boosted her mood. He was a hard worker, if a little lacking in truly innovative ideas. Next to him sat Marion Lake. Gayle had hired her the year before as head of marketing, but she was starting to think the appointment might have been a mistake. Just that morning Gayle had noticed her jacket slung casually over the back of her chair, its presence indicating that Marion was somewhere in the building.
Gayle’s mouth thinned. When she gave people a chance, she expected them to take it.
Even now, after all these years, people constantly underestimated her. Did they really think she’d see a jacket draped over the back of a chair and assume the owner was somewhere in the office? There had been no coffee on the desk, and Gayle knew that Marion couldn’t operate without coffee. And the place had the atmosphere of a cemetery. Marion had a loud voice and an irritating compulsion to use it frequently—a flaw possibly related to the volume of coffee she drank. If she had been anywhere in the vicinity, Gayle would have heard her.
She often thought she would have made an excellent detective.
“Going live in three minutes,” one of the film crew told her, and Gayle settled herself more comfortably, composing her features.
She’d done hundreds of interviews, both live and recorded. They held no fear for her. There wouldn’t be a single question she hadn’t already been asked a hundred times. And if she didn’t like a question, she simply answered a different one. Like everything else, it was a matter of choice. They weren’t in control—she was.
In her head she hummed a few bars of the Puccini opera she’d seen the week before. Glorious. Dramatic and tragic, of course… But that was life, wasn’t it?
Rochelle smoothed her hair and cleared her throat.
“Live in five, four, three…”
The man held up two fingers, then one, and Gayle looked at the young reporter, hoping her questions would be good. She didn’t want to have misjudged her.
Rochelle spoke directly to the camera, her voice clear and confident. “Hi, I’m Rochelle Barnard and I’m here at the offices of Mitchell and Associates in downtown Manhattan to interview Gayle Mitchell—more commonly known as GM to her staff and her legions of fans—one of the most powerful and celebrated women in business. Her last book, Choice Not Chance, spent twelve months at the top of the bestseller lists and her latest book, Brave New You, is out next week. She’s one of the leading authorities on organizational change, and is also known for her philanthropic work. Most of all she’s celebrated as a supporter of women, and just this week was presented with the coveted Star Award for most inspirational woman in business at a glitzy event right here in Manhattan. Congratulations, Ms. Mitchell. How does it feel to have your contribution recognized?”
Gayle angled her head, offering her best side to the camera. “I’m honored, of course, but the real honor comes from helping other women realize their potential. We’re so often told that we can’t compete, Rochelle, and as a leader my role is to encourage other women to challenge that view.”
She smiled, careful to portray herself as approachable and accessible.
“You’re known to be a fierce advocate for women in the workplace. What drives that?”
Gayle answered, the words flowing easily and naturally.
Rochelle threw a few more questions her way, and she handled those with the same ease.
“People either love you or hate you. There seems to be no middle ground. Does it worry you that some people consider you to be ruthless?”
“I’m tough, and I make no apologies for that,” Gayle said. “There are people who will always be threatened by the success of another, and people who shy away from change. I embrace change. Change is progress, and we need progress. Change is what keeps us moving forward.”
“In your company you run an internship program with one of the most generous packages of any industry. You also offer scholarships. Why have you chosen to invest in this area?”
Because once, a long time ago, when she’d been alone and desperate, she’d vowed that if she was ever in a position to help someone like herself, then she’d do it.
But she didn’t share that. Such an admission might easily be seen as weakness. And how could they possibly understand? This girl sitting opposite her had never experienced the hard grip of fear. Gayle knew how deeply those claws could bite. She understood that fear could make you a prisoner, holding you inactive. Breaking free of that wasn’t easy. She was willing to hand a key to a few worthy individuals.
“I see it as an investment…” She talked a little more about the role she’d played fighting for the underprivileged and saw Rochelle’s eyes mist with admiration.
“Some people think you’ve been lucky. How would you answer that?”
Not politely.
Luck had played no part in Gayle’s life. She’d made careful choices, driven by thought and not emotion. Nothing had happened by chance. She’d designed her life, and now it was looking exactly the way she wanted it to look.
“It’s easier to dismiss someone as ‘lucky’ than it is to admit that the power for change lies within the individual. By calling someone ‘lucky’ you diminish their achievement, and the need to do that often comes from a place of insecurity. Believing in luck absolves you of personal responsibility. Whatever you do in life, whatever your goals, it’s important to make active choices.”
She looked into the camera.
“If you’re feeling dissatisfied with your life, find a piece of paper right now and write down all the things you wish were different. You don’t like your life? Do something about it! You envy someone? What do they have that you don’t? How do you want your life to look? Deciding that is the first step to redesigning it.”
Rochelle was nodding. “Your last book, Choice Not Chance, changed my life—and I know I’m not alone in that.”
“If you have a personal story we’d all love to hear it…”
Gayle drew in the audience, as she would if she were speaking to them live. She knew that right now, in living rooms and kitchens across the nation, women would be glued to the screen, hoping for a magic bullet that would fix their lives. Phones would go unanswered, babies would go unfed and unchanged, doorbells would be ignored. Hope would bloom, and a brief vision of a different future would blast away fatigue and disillusionment.
Gayle knew that once the interview ended, most would just sink back into their own lives, but right now they were with her. They wanted to be inspired.
“Hearing people’s personal experiences can be motivational and uplifting for everyone. My approach to life is relevant whether you run a household or a corporation.”
“I ended a relationship.” Rochelle gave a nervous laugh, as if surprised that she’d actually admitted that on prime-time TV. “After I read the chapter ‘Obstacles to Ambition,’ I wrote down everything that might stop me achieving my goals, and the guy I was seeing was top of the list. And that chapter on auditing friendships…? Decluttering your contacts…? Brilliant! Asking yourself, How does this relationship bring me closer to my goals? And I wanted to ask you, GM, is this something you’ve done yourself?”
“Of course. My books are basically a blueprint of the way I’ve lived my life—but it can apply to anyone’s life. The main takeaway from Choice Not Chance is to challenge yourself. Brave New You focuses on confronting our innate fear of change.”
There. She’d slotted in a mention of the book, and because it was live it wouldn’t be cut. Her publisher would be pleased.
“I want all women—from the barista who serves me my coffee every morning to the woman who manages my investments—to feel in control of their destiny.” She gave the camera an intense look. “You have more power than you know.”
Rochelle leaned forward. “You’re famous for saying that no one can have it all. Have you made sacrifices for your career?”
“I’ve made choices, not sacrifices. Choices. Know what you want. Go for it. No apologies.”
“And you’ve never had any regrets?”
Regrets?
Gayle’s world wobbled a little. How well had this woman done her research?
She sat up a little straighter and looked at the camera. “No regrets.”
And just like that, the interview was over.
Rochelle unclipped her microphone. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Gayle stood up. “How did you get your start in TV?”
“I applied for a ton of things after college but had no luck with anything.” Rochelle was relaxed and chatty now the interview was over. “Then I was offered an internship at the studio. I shadowed a reporter, and they let me present a little because they thought I looked good on camera. So I suppose you could say I fell into it.”
Gayle winced. You fell into snowdrifts—not jobs.
“Today is a crossroads for you. Doors will open. I hope you walk through them.”
“Thanks, GM. I’m never going to forget what you’ve done for me.” Rochelle glanced at the crew and then back at Gayle. “We need photos so we can promote the interview on our site and social media.”
“Of course.” Gayle walked to her bookshelves and posed in what she knew was the most flattering position, careful that both her books were in the shot, face out.
Did they know that today was her birthday? No, why would they? Her digital team had scrubbed all mention of her birth date from the internet, so her age was shrouded in mystery. Birthdays slid past like the seasons—unmarked and frankly unwanted. She preferred to keep the focus on her achievements.
The photographer glanced around him. “Could we have a photograph with the award?”
The award?
Gayle glanced upward. The award had been placed on the top shelf of the bookcase that lined the only solid wall of her office. Had it been attractive she might have displayed it somewhere more prominent, but it was an ugly monstrosity, the brainchild of someone apparently devoid of both inspiration and artistic skill. The golden star itself was inoffensive, but it had been attached to a particularly ugly base. The first thing she’d thought on being presented with it the night before was that it reminded her of a gravestone.
Her opinion of it hadn’t mellowed overnight.
She looked at the award again, loathing it as much as she had when she’d received it—although of course at the time she’d smiled and looked delighted. What message would it send for her to be photographed with something so lacking in aesthetic charm? That she was ready for the grave and had the headstone to prove it?
She glanced outside to where Cole, her assistant, was supposed to be sitting during the interviews in case he was needed. Where was he? He should have anticipated this and had the statue ready.
She could either wait for his return—which would mean the TV crew lingering in her office—or she could get the damn thing herself.
Irritated, she slid off her shoes and pulled her office chair over to the bookcase.
The photographer cleared his throat. “I should get that for you, Ms. Mitchell. I’m taller than you, and—”
“Chairs were invented so that women could stand on them when necessary.”
Still, she was about to curse Cole for putting it on the highest shelf when she remembered she was, in fact, the one who had instructed him to do that.
Stepping onto the chair, she reached out.
Why had he put it so far back? Presumably Cole found it as loathsome as she did.
She rose on tiptoe and felt the chair wobble slightly.
She closed her right hand around the base of the award, remembering too late that it had required two hands to hold it steady when she’d been handed it the night before. As she swung it down from the shelf, the chair wobbled again, sending her body off-balance.
By the time she realized she was going to fall, it was too late to recover.
She groped for the bookcase with her free hand, but instead of providing solid support it tilted toward her. She had time to make a mental note to fire the clueless individual who had forgotten to secure the bookshelves to the wall, and then she was falling, falling, falling… One of the points of the heavy golden star smashed into her head and she crashed onto the hard office floor.
She was conscious for long enough to wish the decorator had given her deep-pile carpet. And then everything went black.
She missed the sound of Rochelle screaming and the sight of the camera rolling.
For a brief period of time she was blissfully oblivious to the chaos erupting around her.
Her return to consciousness was slow and confusing. She heard a low humming sound, a whirring in her head. Was she dead? Surely not. She could hear things.
She could hear people panicking around her, even though panic was an emotion specifically banned from her office.
“Oh my God, is she dead? Is she dead?”
“Not dead. She’s definitely breathing.”
Gayle was relieved to have that confirmed by an outside source.
“But she’s unconscious. I called 911. They’re on their way.”
“Is that an actual hole in her head? I feel a little faint.”
“Pull yourself together.” A rough, male voice. “Did you get the shot, Greg?”
“Yeah, the whole thing is on camera. It’ll be a happy day for the headline writers. My money is on STARSTRUCK!”
“Could you be just a little sensitive here?” Rochelle’s voice, sounding traumatized. “She’s badly injured and you’re writing headlines!”
Didn’t they know she could hear them? Why were people so clueless? She had no idea how long she’d been knocked out. A minute? An hour? A day? No, if it had been a day she’d be lying in a hospital bed now, surrounded by a chorus of beeping machines.
Her chest hurt. Why did her chest hurt?
She remembered the bookshelves falling with her.
Someone must have caught them, or lifted them off her. As for the fate of the award—she had no idea. If the pain was anything to go by, there was a possibility it was still embedded in her head.
There was a crashing sound and the doors to her office burst open.
Gayle tried to open her eyes and give someone her scariest stare, but her eyelids felt too heavy.
She heard more voices, this time firm and confident—presumably the EMTs.
“What’s her name?”
Why was he asking her name? Didn’t he recognize her? Everyone knew who she was. She was a legend. She’d just won an award for being inspirational, and if they couldn’t see the actual award then surely they could see the award-sized dent in her skull.
She was going to write to the organizers and suggest a brooch for the next winner.
“Gayle, can you hear me? I’m Dan.”
Why was he calling her Gayle when they’d never met? She was either Ms. Mitchell or GM. Young people today had no respect. This was why she insisted on formality in the office.
This “Dan” barked out some instructions to his partner and proceeded to assess her injuries.
Gayle felt herself being poked and prodded.
“Has someone contacted her family? Loved ones?”
“Her…what?” That was Cole, sounding stressed and confused.
“Loved ones. Nearest and dearest.” The EMT was pressing something to her head.
“I don’t think—” Cole cleared his throat. “She doesn’t have loved ones.”
“She must have someone.” Dan eased Gayle’s eyes open and used a flashlight.
“That’s probably the first time anyone has looked into her eyes in a long time.”
Funny, Gayle thought. Until that moment she hadn’t even realized Cole had a sense of humor. It was a shame it was at her expense.
“Partner?” Dan again, doing something that apparently was meant to support her neck.
“No. Just work. She loves her work.”
“Are you telling me she has no one in her life?”
“Well, there’s Puccini…”
“Great. So give this Puccini guy a call and tell him what’s happened. He can meet us at the hospital.”
Gayle wanted to roll her eyes, but her head hurt too badly. She hoped this EMT knew more about head injuries than he did about culture.
“Puccini was a composer. Opera. GM loves opera. People? Not so much. She isn’t a family type of person. GM is married to her work.”
Dan clipped something to Gayle’s finger. “Oh man, that’s sad.”
Sad? Sad?
She ran one of the most successful boutique consulting firms in Manhattan. She was in demand as a speaker. She’d written a bestseller—soon to be two bestsellers if preorders were anything to go by. What was sad about that? Her life was the subject of envy, not pity.
“Makes her a bitch to work for, actually,” Cole muttered. “I couldn’t go to my grandmother’s funeral because she had a ten o’clock and I needed to be here.”
Cole thought she was a bitch?
No—no! She wasn’t a bitch. She was an inspiration! That journalist had said so. Yes, she worked hard, but there was a perfectly good reason for that. And if she hadn’t worked hard and turned the company into the success it was now, her team wouldn’t have their nice comfortable secure jobs. Why couldn’t they see that? Maybe she should use that award to knock some sense into her staff on a daily basis.
It was time she showed them she was awake—before she discovered more about herself she didn’t want to know.
“I don’t get it,” the EMT said, slapping the back of Gayle’s hand to find a vein. “I guess if you don’t have family, then you work. It’s that simple.”
He slid a needle into Gayle’s vein, and if she’d been capable of speech or movement, she would have punched him—both for the pain and his words.
It wasn’t that simple at all. They were implying she worked because she was lonely, but that wasn’t the case. Her work wasn’t her backup plan—it was her choice.
She’d chosen every single thing about her life. She’d designed her life. Written a book about it, dammit. Her life was perfect for her. Custom-made. A haute couture life. Everything she’d ever wanted.
“I guess her life must be pretty empty.”
Empty? Had they looked around at all? Seen the view from her corner office? True, she didn’t often look at it herself, because she was too busy to turn around, but she’d been told it was magnificent. Hadn’t they seen the photographs of her with industry leaders?
She led a full life.
“Yeah, poor thing…”
She wasn’t a poor thing. She was a powerhouse.
All they saw was the businesswoman. They knew nothing else about her. They didn’t know how hard she’d had to work to arrive at this place in her life. They didn’t know why she was this way. They didn’t know she had a past. A history. They didn’t know all the things that had happened to her.
They didn’t know her at all. They thought she had an empty life. They thought she was a lonely, sad figure. They were wrong.
They were—
Were they wrong?
She felt a sudden wash of cold air and saw a blinding light.
That question Rochelle had asked her, echoed in her head: And you’ve never had any regrets?
The faint wobble inside her became something bigger. It spread from the inside outward until her whole body was shaking.
She didn’t have regrets. She did not have regrets.
Regret was a wasted emotion—first cousin to guilt. Gayle had no room for either in her life.
But the shaking wouldn’t stop.
“We’ll get her to the ER.”
As well as the shaking, now there was a terrifying pressure in her chest. Had they forgotten to lift the bookcase from her mangled body? No. No, it wasn’t that. The pressure was coming from the inside, not the outside. Heart? No. It wasn’t physical. It was emotional.
“Her pulse rate is increasing.”
Of course it was increasing! Emotion did that to you. It messed you up. It was the reason she tried never to let it into her life. She had no idea who had allowed it in now—because it certainly hadn’t been her. It must have crept in through the hole in her head.
“She might be bleeding from somewhere. Let’s move. If there’s no one at home to care for her, they’ll probably admit her.
She was going to be admitted to hospital because all she had in her life was work and Puccini. Neither of those was going to bring her a glass of water or check she was alive in the night.
She lay there, trapped inside her bruised, broken body, forcing herself to do what she urged others to do. Acknowledge the truth of her life.
She ran a successful company. She had an apartment full of art and antiques on the Upper East Side and enough money that she never had to worry about it. But she had no one who would rush to her side when she was in trouble.
Cole was here because he was paid to be here, so that didn’t count.
She wasn’t loved. There was no one who cared about her. Not one person who would hear about the accident and think, Oh no! Poor Gayle! No one would be calling a florist and ordering flowers. No one would be delivering a casserole to her door or asking if there was anything she needed.
She was alone in this life she’d designed for herself.
Completely, totally and utterly alone.
She realized why most people were reluctant to examine the truth of their lives. It was an uncomfortable experience.
What had she done?
She’d chosen her life, designed her life, and now she didn’t like the way it was looking.
In that moment Gayle had an epiphany—and not a good one.
What if she’d chosen the wrong design? What if all the choices she’d made had been wrong? What if all these techniques she’d recommended to people through her books were wrong too?
She needed to stop publication.
She needed to tell her publisher she wanted to rethink the book. How could she promote Brave New You when she was lying on the floor shivering like a wounded animal?
She opened her mouth and tried to croak out some words.
“She’s moving. She’s conscious! Gayle—Gayle, can you hear me?”
Yes, she could hear him. She was unloved—not deaf.
She forced her eyes open and saw a uniformed EMT and behind him Cole, looking worried. There was the cameraman, and also Rochelle, scribbling frantically. Making the most of an opportunity, Gayle thought. Taking the advice she’d been given and redesigning her life.
And that was when she had her second epiphany. Who said you could only design your life once? People remodeled houses all the time, didn’t they? Just because you’d lived with white walls for decades didn’t mean you couldn’t suddenly paint them green.
If she didn’t like the way her life looked, then it was up to her to fix it.
And, although she didn’t regret her actions, exactly, she did regret the outcome of those actions.
Maybe she could have done more.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to rebuild what had been knocked down.
But she had to be the one to make the first move.
“My daughter.” Her lips formed the words. “Call…my daughter.”
She saw Cole’s face pale. “She’s conscious, but she has a serious head injury. She’s confused. She has amnesia.”
The EMT frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because GM doesn’t have a daughter.”
Gayle thought about the baby they’d put into her arms. The way it had felt to be entirely responsible for the well-being of a tiny, helpless infant, knowing what lay ahead. How hard life could be. If it hadn’t been for the child, she might have given up, but motherhood had driven her on. How could she give up when she had her daughter to protect? She’d wanted to swaddle her in steel and surround her with an electric fence to keep the bad at bay.
“Gayle, do you know what day it is?”
Yes, she knew what day it was. It was the day she’d started questioning everything she’d believed was right. The day she’d realized that regret could hurt more than a bruised head and crushed ribs. How could she have got everything so wrong?
She tried again. “Call my eldest daughter.”
What if she died before she had a chance to fix things?
“Eldest…?” Cole looked nervous. “She doesn’t have one daughter, let alone more. Ms. Mitchell—Gayle—how many fingers am I holding up? Can you tell me?”
Right at that moment she wanted to hold up her own finger. Her middle one.
“Call my daughter.”
“She isn’t confused. Gayle Mitchell has two daughters,” Rochelle said. “I did a deep dive into her background before the interview. My research suggests they’re estranged.”
Estranged? No, that wasn’t right. True, they hadn’t seen each other for a while. Maybe a few years. All right, perhaps it was nearly five years… Gayle couldn’t remember. But she did remember their last encounter. When she thought about it—which she tried not to—she felt affronted and hurt.
None of it had been her fault. She’d been doing her best for them—which was all she’d ever done. She’d worked hard at being the best mother possible. She’d made sure she’d equipped her children to deal with the real world and experienced a mother’s frustration when her girls had made bad choices. She’d discovered the anguish of having all of the anxiety but none of the control. She’d done her best. It wasn’t her fault that they preferred the fairy tale to the reality. It wasn’t her fault that they were unable to appreciate how well she’d prepared them for adulthood.
Yes, relations between them were tense, but they weren’t estranged. That was a truly horrible word. A word with razor-sharp edges.
Cole appeared to be suffering from shock.
“She has kids? But that means that she—I mean she must have had—”
The fact that he was struggling to picture her having sex wasn’t flattering. He clearly thought his boss was a robot.
“All right. If you’re sure, then we should call the daughters.” His voice was strangled. “Is there a phone number, Ms. Mitchell?”
Would Samantha have changed her number?
She hadn’t called, so Gayle had no way of knowing. She’d been waiting for both of them to call her and apologize. Days had melted into weeks and then months. Shame flooded through her. What did it say about a mother when her own children didn’t want to make contact?
If she admitted the truth, would her judgmental staff and the medical team decide she wasn’t worth saving?
Instead of answering, she moaned.
That caused more consternation among the people gathered around her.
“She’s struggling to speak—can we find out her daughter’s number?”
“I’m searching…” Rachel tapped away on her phone. “One of her daughters is called Samantha.”
Gayle gasped as the EMT and his assistant transferred her to a gurney.
Cole was searching, too. “There’s a Samantha Mitchell in New Jersey. Comedian. No way.”
Was he implying that she didn’t have a sense of humor? That laughter didn’t figure in her DNA?
“There’s a Samantha Mitchell in Chicago…a Samantha Mitchell, dog walker, in Ohio. Samantha Mitchell CEO of a bespoke travel company in Boston…” He looked up as Gayle made a sound. “That’s her? She runs a travel company?”
Boston? Samantha had moved cities? It wasn’t enough not to speak to her mother—she clearly didn’t want to risk running into her on the street.
Gayle tried to ignore the pain. She was willing to be the bigger person. Kids disappointed you. It was a fact of life. She would forgive and move on. She wanted to do that. She wanted them in her life. Their relationship never should have reached this point.
And CEO!
Through the ashes of her misery, Gayle discovered a glowing ember of pride. You go, girl.
Whether Samantha admitted it or not, there was plenty of her mother in her.
As they wheeled her through the office to the elevator, she caught a glimpse of the shocked faces of her staff, who had never once seen GM vulnerable in all the time they’d worked at Mitchell and Associates.
But she felt vulnerable now. Not because of the head injury, and not even because of the photos that the wretched photographer had taken of her unfortunate accident, nor the prospect of headlines as painful as the injury itself.
No, she felt vulnerable because someone was about to contact Samantha.
And there was every possibility that her daughter wouldn’t even take the call.
CHAPTER TWO
Samantha
“I suggest a European tour, focusing on the Christmas markets. Not only will you be steeped in holiday spirit, which is what you want, but you can buy all your gifts at the same time. It will be perfect.”
Shoes off, hair caught in a messy bun, Samantha scrolled through the itinerary her team had prepared.
“Start in Prague. You will never forget Wenceslas Square. At Christmas it’s filled with pretty wooden huts selling handcrafted goods and delicious treats—you have to try the warm gingerbread—and they always have an incredible tree. You’ll sip mulled wine while you watch the ice-skaters, and there will probably be choirs singing in the background. It’s gloriously festive!”
Skillfully she painted a picture. She talked about the smell of baked apples in the famous markets of Cologne, the scent of Christmas spices in Vienna and the beautiful medieval streets of Tallinn, Estonia.
“That horse-and-cart ride you dreamed about? We can definitely make that happen. You’ll never want to come home. I’m emailing a plan across to you now. Take a look and let me know what you think. You might prefer to reduce the number of markets and spend a little longer in each place. We can tailor it in any way that works for you.”
She glanced up as her assistant opened her office door, her baby on her hip.
Samantha gave a brief shake of her head. Her staff knew better than to interrupt when she was on a call—especially when that call was to a client as important as Annabelle Wexford. Whoever it was could wait.
She waggled her fingers at the baby and carried on talking.
“It will be fabulous, Annabelle. In Prague, we’ve reserved you a suite with a view of the Charles Bridge. After you’ve enjoyed the markets, you’ll be able to relax and drink in the same view…”
She gave her the full benefit of her research and experience—which was extensive. No one knew more about making the best of the holiday season than she did. She’d been designing bespoke winter vacations for people since she’d graduated. First for a big travel company who offered tailor-made holidays to anywhere and everywhere, and then for herself.
When she’d announced that she was setting up on her own, focusing exclusively on festive vacations, her competitors had predicted she’d last six months. She’d proved them wrong. There were people willing to pay a great deal of money to enjoy a bespoke magical holiday experience if it delivered what they wanted. And Samantha delivered every time.
Her company, RFH—Really Festive Holidays—was booming.
There was a card on her desk from a delighted client addressed to her as The Queen of Christmas. Another calling her Mrs.Santa.
Was there anything better than making someone’s dreams of a magical festive season come true?
“We’ve sent over a couple of hotel options in Vienna—take a look and let us know your preference.”
It was five minutes before she was able to end the call and follow up with her assistant.
She hit a button on the phone on her desk. “Charlotte? I’m done.”
Charlotte appeared in the doorway, a tablet in her hand. A large damp patch spread across her midnight blue shirt, which clung to her breast.
“Sorry, I forgot you were on the phone to Annabelle—and sorry about this.” She tugged at her shirt. “Amy started yelling, and my boobs took it as a hint to go into milk mode. Nature is an amazing but inconvenient thing. Fortunately there are no clients in the office at the moment. My mom is back tomorrow, so she won’t be in the office again.”
“Where is she?”
“My mom? Visiting my Gran in—”
“The baby.” Samantha was patient. “Amy.”
“Oh. She fell asleep after I fed her, so I popped her under my desk in her seat and I’m going to make the most of it and get everything done. Truly sorry about this.”
“It’s perfectly fine. This is an important time for both of you. Parent-child bonding is crucial—particularly in these early months. Family is everything. You need to spend as much time together as possible. Use my office to feed any time you need to.”
“You’re the best boss on the planet, and I might cry.” Charlotte sniffed. “Yes, I’m going to cry. It’s your fault for being kind. I’m so emotional right now. Even the news makes me sob.”
“The news makes me sob, too, and I’m not hormonal.” Samantha pushed tissues across her desk. “Here. You’re doing great, Charlotte.”
“I’m not as sharp as I used to be. My brain feels soggy. I cut Mr. Davidson off instead of putting him through.”
“And you immediately called him back, and he was completely understanding—so don’t worry. He’s not likely to forget that you were the one who arranged to fly him home when he had a heart attack in India and that you visited him in hospital.”
“He’s a dear man.” Charlotte took a handful of tissues, stuffed a few into her bra and blew her nose with the others. “I’m worried I’ll lose you a client.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Samantha stood up and walked round her desk. “Are you doing okay? Are you just tired, or is it something more? Because if you need time off—”
“No. Honestly, I’m fine. It’s an adjustment, that’s all. I love my job, and I want to be here, but I want to be with Amy, too. I feel like a terrible employee and a terrible mother.”
“You’re wonderful at both—just very hard on yourself. You’ll get back into it. Don’t worry.”
“That’s what my mom says…but I’m worried you’ll want me to leave.”
“Charlotte!” Samantha was horrified. “You were the first person I employed. We’ve been in this together from the beginning.”
Charlotte gave a watery smile. “Christmas every day, right?”
“Exactly! You are brilliant at your job. I am never letting you leave! For a start, you know every single thing about every single client, which is a big part of the reason we’re doing so well. And there is no crisis you can’t handle. You masterminded the search for Mrs, Davidson’s precious cat while she was in the Arctic, for goodness’ sake.”
Charlotte’s smile turned to a laugh. “That cat was vicious. I’m sure the neighbors let it out on purpose.”
“Maybe, but she loved that animal and you fixed it. It’s what you do. You’re just having a difficult time, that’s all. But you’ll get through it. We’ll get through it. You have a job as long as you want one, and I hope that’s a very long time.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte blew her nose hard and picked up one of the photos on Samantha’s desk. “New photo? I haven’t seen this one.”
“Ella sent it last week. Apparently Tab is going through a princess phase.”
“And, knowing you, you’ve already sent her four sparkling princess costumes.”
“Two…” Had she gone over-the-top? “I just happened to see a couple on my way home. I wasn’t sure which one she’d prefer.”
“The doting aunt.” Charlotte put the photo back. “Your niece is gorgeous. I can’t imagine Amy being four and a half. Tab must be so excited about the holidays.”
“She is. I’m going there this weekend, and we’re going to make decorations for the tree.”
“I can’t wait until Amy is old enough to do that. This will be her first Christmas, and we’ve already bought way too much, considering she isn’t going to remember any of it.”
“Did you have messages for me?” Sam prompted gently, and Charlotte produced her tablet from under her arm.
“Yes.” She tapped the tablet. “Eight messages. The Wilsons called to give the go-ahead for Lapland. They want the whole package—reindeer, elves, Santa—but they’re not sure about the husky sled ride.”
“They’d love it,” Samantha murmured. “Providing they dress for the weather they’ll have a blast. I’ll give them a call and talk it through. Next?”
She sat down at her desk, dealing with each message in turn, scribbling a few notes to herself. Some she asked Charlotte to deal with; some she chose to deal with personally.
“The Mortons are an adventurous family—they’d love Iceland. We’ll book them on a tour to see the Northern Lights, and they can do that snowmobile safari on a glacier that was such a hit with that family from Ohio.”
“The Dawsons.”
“Right. Also the ice caves. Anything else?”
“Brodie McKintyre called.”
Samantha didn’t recognize the name. “New client?”
“He owns that estate in the Scottish Highlands.”
“Kinleven?”
Charlotte checked her notes. “That’s the one. Amazing lodge, complete with fairy-tale turrets. You read about it in that magazine and then asked me to contact him after we had that inquiry from the family in Seattle. We talked about it last month and I called him.”
“Of course. House parties in a remote Scottish glen… Don’t they have an actual reindeer herd?” Samantha leaned back in her chair. “I know it’s not something we’ve offered before, but I feel in my gut it would work. Everyone is wild about Scotland—particularly for the holidays—and the place is by a loch, on the edge of a forest. Guests could cut their own Christmas tree. A fresh one that actually smells of the forest, and not of chemicals. The possibilities are endless. Whiskey in front of a roaring log fire… Maybe we could add a couple of nights in Edinburgh for Hogmanay.” She saw Charlotte’s expression. “New Year’s Eve.”
“Ooh.” Charlotte smiled. “I want to book that vacation myself. It sounds dreamy.”
“And that’s what we do. We give people their dream winter vacation. The Christmas they’ll never forget.” Samantha tapped her pen on the desk. “What did he say? Did you tell him that the demand for properties in the Scottish Highlands is going through the roof?”
“Yes. Also that you speak to all your clients personally, and that you’re wicked good at what you do, so he can expect to be busy.”
“And…?”
“He said that he’s interested in principle, but he’d want to discuss it further. Because the lodge is a family home, and before he accepts guests, he’ll need to know he’s entrusted the task of renting it out to the right person.”
“Get him on the phone and I’ll convince him I’m the right person.”
“He wants to meet you.”
“Why?” Samantha tried not to think of her packed schedule. “Never mind. Whatever it takes. When is he in Boston?”
“He’s not. He wants you to fly to Scotland.”
Samantha shot up in her chair. “Scotland? You mean Scotland, Connecticut?”
“No.” Charlotte frowned. “Is there a Scotland in Connecticut?”
“Yes. It’s a town. There are others.”
“I mean the actual Scotland. The country. Land of hill and heather. And those cute cows with horns.”
“Highland cattle. Are you serious? He wants me to fly to Scotland?”
Charlotte held up her hands in surrender. “I’m just the messenger. But is it so hard to understand? He’s emotionally attached to the place. It’s his home. He was born there. Imagine being born in a Scottish glen instead of a sterile white hospital room…”
“He told you all this?”
“Yes. We chatted for a while. He says it won’t suit everyone and that you’ll need to know what you’re selling.”
“He’s right, of course. And I usually do visit before we start recommending. But I’m snowed under.”
Samantha loosened another button on her shirt and paced to the window. The view always calmed her. From her office in Back Bay she could see Boston Harbor, the water glittering pale under the winter sun. It was barely December, but the first flurries of snow had fallen the week before—a reminder that winter had arrived.
Samantha was one of those few people who loved snow. No amount of cold weather could damage her love affair with this city. There were no memories here. No ghosts haunted the brick sidewalks and historic architecture. Moving from Manhattan was the best thing she’d ever done. Boston was her city. She loved everything about it—from the art galleries and upmarket boutiques of Newbury Street to Beacon Street with its vintage gas lamps. Even at this time of year, with a bitter wind blowing off the Charles River, she loved it.
“Boss?”
“Yes.” She turned to Charlotte. “Scotland. Fine. We’ll take the risk and have someone visit because I think the place sounds perfect. Send Rick. He’s been known to wear a kilt to fancy dress parties.”
“The laird insisted it was you.”
“The laird?”
“Just my little joke. I’ve been reading too many of those historical romances we love. I dream of being swept onto a horse by a man wearing a kilt.”
“With Amy attached to your breast? That does not sound comfortable.” There were days when she wished Charlotte, who wasn’t known for her discretion, hadn’t discovered her reading habit. “Please don’t tell Brodie McIntyre that we read historical romance.”
“Why? Read what you want, I always say.”
“I agree, but I prefer to keep my personal life separate from my professional life.” Also her inner self separate from her outer self. She’d been reading romance since she was a teenager. It had started off as a way of exploring emotions that were frowned upon by her mother, but then she’d discovered it was the perfect method of relaxation. She wouldn’t have shared her secret reading tastes with Charlotte, but she’d happened to notice a book in Samantha’s bag. The following day she’d bought a stack of books into the office, and they’d been sharing ever since. “I’m running a business, and it would be hard to keep my credibility with clients and these Scottish folk if they knew we spent our free time fantasizing about being swept into the heather by a sexy guy in a kilt.”
“Exactly. It’s a fantasy. It’s not as if we want to do it in real life. I bet heather is prickly. And possibly full of insects. Also, I checked his photo on the internet and the laird is in his late sixties—although still very handsome in a craggy, weather-beaten sort of way.”
Samantha decided it was time to change the subject. “Did he say exactly what he wants me to do on this visit?”
“No. I didn’t spend that long on the phone with him because I was worried Amy was going to bawl.” Charlotte adjusted her bra strap. “He said you should spend a few nights there this month, that’s all. And, honestly, he did have an incredibly sexy voice.”
“You think a selling point would be the owner’s voice? It’s twenty-four days until Christmas. There’s no way I can fit it in a visit.”
“Why don’t you talk to him and try and arrange something? He even suggested Christmas itself, but I said you always spend the holiday with your sister. So then he said maybe she would like to come too, and you could test the whole family holiday thing. Which would be cool, don’t you think?”
“I do not think.”
“Are you sure? What better way to evaluate the commercial appeal of spending Christmas in Scotland than by spending Christmas in Scotland?”
“It would be work—and I am not working at Christmas unless there’s a client emergency. I am going to travel to my sister’s and then stay in my pajamas for the entire time. I’ll speak to him and arrange another time.”
“Hmm… You could be missing out. Laid by the Laird would be a good title for a book, don’t you think?”
“I do not. And please hold back from suggesting book titles if you ever meet him.”
“Got it.” Charlotte glanced out of the window. “It’s snowing again.”
Samantha wasn’t listening. Instead she was thinking about the hunting lodge in the Highlands. Maybe a few days in Scotland wouldn’t be so bad. The Kinleven Estate looked perfect, and she could think of at least a dozen clients who would love it—and love her for finding it.
“Get him on the phone. I’ll try and fix a date between now and Christmas. I guess I can fly in one day and out the next. Is that it?”
“Kyle rang. Four times. He sounded irritated. Said he waited for two hours in the restaurant last night.”
“Oh…”
She’d been tied up with one of her favorite clients—an elderly widow who lived in Arizona and had decided to bravely embrace her new single life. So far Samantha had arranged three trips for her, and they’d spent an hour the previous evening discussing a fourth. She’d forgotten her dinner arrangement with Kyle. What did it say about her that she’d forgotten? What did it say about them?
“That was rude of me. I’ll call and apologize.”
Charlotte shifted. “He said to tell you not to bother to call unless you’re ready to take your relationship to the next level.”
Oh for goodness’ sake!
“The next level? It’s a relationship—not an elevator.” And as far as she was concerned they hadn’t made it out of the basement.
“That was kind of his point. He said you need to decide where you want to go with this. I got the impression he wanted to go right to the top floor.” Charlotte gave an apologetic smile. “I think he’s in love with you.”
“He—What? That’s not true. He isn’t any more in love with me than I am with him.”
What she had with Kyle was a relationship of mutual convenience. They were theater partners. Opera partners. Occasional bedroom partners. Only more often than not Kyle fell asleep the moment he was horizontal. Like so many people in this area, he ran a tech start-up and was busier than she was. And the most disturbing part of that…? She didn’t even care.
She should care, shouldn’t she?
She should care that they would both rather work than spend time together.
She should care that there was no passion.
When they were together, her mind wandered, as if searching for some more stimulating alternative to the evening she’d chosen. She looked forward to him leaving so she could get back to her book.
She knew that real life wasn’t like the romantic fiction she read, but surely it should come a little closer?
“Get him on the phone,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”
What was she going to say? She had no idea, but she’d find a way to smooth it over and keep things the way they were.
“Before you speak to him, you should know a huge bouquet of flowers arrived an hour ago from the Talbots, who are now back from their honeymoon in Vienna and wanted you to know it was everything they dreamed it would be.”
“Which is exactly how they should feel about a honeymoon.” Samantha was pleased to have another satisfied customer.
“That’s it! We’re done. I’ll make those calls and—” She broke off as Amanda, one of the junior account managers, came flying into the room.
“Samantha! Sorry, but it’s urgent.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s your mother.”
Samantha almost said, I don’t have a mother, but then she remembered that wasn’t strictly true. Biologically speaking, she had a mother. Not a cuddly, rosy-cheeked loving mother, as portrayed by the movies, but still a mother in the most literal sense of the word.
Instinctively she kept her expression blank. She had her mother to thank for that skill—if the ability to hide the way she was feeling could be considered a skill. She had no problem with other people’s emotions—just her own.
She felt Charlotte touch her arm. “Samantha? Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. Mention of her mother was enough to ensure that.
“She called?”
“Not personally.”
Of course not personally. When had her mother ever done anything personal? And Samantha hadn’t heard from her in five years. Not since that last frustrating and disastrous “family gathering.” She could still feel her sister’s tears soaking through her shirt and remember the way her whole body had shuddered with sobs as Samantha had held her.
“Why is she like this? Why does she say these things? What did we do wrong?”
Samantha felt suddenly tired. “Who called? And why?”
Her mother would never make contact without a good reason.
“Someone called Cole. He says he’s her assistant. I had no idea your mother was Gayle Mitchell. I mean, I probably should have guessed…Samantha Mitchell, right? But I just didn’t—I mean, wow.” The girl was looking at Samantha with awe and a new respect. “What a woman. She’s a total legend.”
Of all the words Samantha could have used to describe her mother, that wouldn’t have been on her list. But she was aware of how many people—women especially—admired her.
Gayle Mitchell had a way of inspiring and reaching people. The only people she seemed unable to connect with were her daughters.
Samantha felt a pressure in her chest. How could she feel hurt? After all these years, why didn’t she have that under control?
“Choice Not Chance changed my life,” Amanda said. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
Should she admit that she’d never read it? She’d used it as a drinks mat, a dartboard and a doorstop. But never once opened it. That was her choice, wasn’t it?
“Did her assistant say why she was calling?”
“Well, kind of… I don’t know an easy way to say this. It’s going to be a shock…” Amanda sent Charlotte a desperate look. “Your mother is in hospital.”
Samantha stared at her. “What?”
“Hospital. She’s in hospital.”
“That’s not possible. My mother hasn’t had a single sick day in her life.”
“Her assistant said something about an accident. He said you need to get to the hospital because she’s asking for you.”
Her mother was asking for her? Why? Gayle Mitchell was nothing if not practical. If she was injured, she’d be asking for a doctor—not her daughter. Especially as they hadn’t seen each other since that last disastrous occasion.
She glanced round as Sandra, the intern, ran into the room.
Samantha wondered if her relaxed open-door policy needed rethinking.
“Your mother is on TV!”
Samantha didn’t ask how she knew Gayle Mitchell was her mother. They’d obviously all been chatting.
Sandra had grabbed the remote control and switched on the large screen on the wall. And there was her mother, tumbling from a chair, her normal poise deserting her as she flailed. What was that thing in her hand? It looked like a lump of granite.
Samantha winced as her mother crash-landed. She’d forgotten her mother was mortal. Capable of bleeding.
Anxiety washed over her. She found her mother aggravating, frustrating and many other things—but she didn’t want her to actually die.
She shifted on the spot to try and ease the discomfort of guilt. She should have reached out. Tried to open a dialogue. Explained how hurt she and Ella were. But they’d both been waiting for their mother to apologize for being so unsupportive, and then time had passed, and…
What if she’d left it too late?
Numb, she stared at the screen, watching as staff scurried round, as EMTs arrived. Lying there, still and bleeding, her mother looked vulnerable. Samantha couldn’t think of a single time in her life when her mother had looked vulnerable. Gayle Mitchell didn’t do vulnerable.
“Oh my—that had to hurt,” Charlotte whispered. “Why would they film this stuff? It’s so intrusive. Can you sue someone? Wow, that’s a lot of blood. Is that normal?”
Samantha pointed the remote at the screen and turned it off.
Her heart was punching her ribs, her pulse galloping.
Had her sister seen it? Ella would be upset. Despite everything that had happened, she still yearned to be a warm, close-knit family. She’d talked about making contact with their mother, but in the end she’d been too afraid of rejection to take the plunge.
Samantha had forgotten the other people in the room until she felt Charlotte’s hand on her arm.
“You’re in shock—and that’s not surprising. Come and sit down.”
Samantha extracted herself. “I’m fine.”
Charlotte exchanged looks with Amanda. “We know you’re not fine, boss. You don’t have to pretend with us. We’re like a family here. And this is your mom we’re talking about. I mean, if it was my mother I’d be in pieces.”
If it had been Charlotte’s mother, Samantha would have been in pieces, too. Charlotte’s mother dropped by the office frequently with Amy, bringing with her homemade baked goods and a level of maternal warmth that Samantha had never before encountered.
But this wasn’t Charlotte’s mother. It was her mother.
“The phone call…” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “Did he say how bad she is?”
If she was dead, they would have said so on TV, wouldn’t they?
Not dead. But seriously injured, if the film footage was accurate.
And Samantha was going to have to go to the hospital.
Her conscience wouldn’t let her do otherwise.
This was her mother, and Samantha wasn’t a monster.
She had to ignore the fact that her mother hadn’t been present for any of the emotional highs and lows of her life. And the fact that, if it had been Samantha in hospital, her mother probably wouldn’t have come. She didn’t want to model herself on her mother. When faced with a situation that required judgment, she often thought What would my mother do? and was then careful to do the opposite.
Which answered her own question.
She turned to Charlotte. “Call the assistant back and tell him I’m on my way. Clear my schedule. I’ll go to New York tonight.”
Charlotte nodded. “No worries. Totally understood. I mean, it’s your mother, right?”
“Right.”
Samantha ran her hand over the back of her neck.
Was she doing the right thing?
What was she going to say when she arrived at the hospital? Were they just going to ignore what had happened the last time they’d met?
Her mother probably didn’t even know she’d moved to Boston.
Charlotte was making notes. “I’ll book you a flight and a car to the airport, and I’ll call everyone on our list and explain that you’ve had a family emergency and—”
“No.” Samantha rubbed her fingers across her forehead. “Some of those calls can’t wait. The car needs to go via my apartment, so I can pack an overnight bag. Get Kyle on the phone, because I need to apologize, and also the guy from Scotland—because we have clients who would just love his place and I need to get that visit arranged. Tell the others I’ll call them back as soon as I can.”
“Are you sure? Kyle will understand if you—”
“Just get him on the phone, Charlotte. Thank you.”
She knew that if there was to be any chance of saving their relationship she needed to speak to him right now. But what exactly was she saving? And did she want to save it? Kyle was interesting, good-looking, solvent, and he had no unfortunate habits as far as she could see. He bought her flowers. Found good restaurants. She should want to save it.
Except her feelings weren’t engaged, and she never felt as if his were, either.
It was all so—restrained. A little cold. When they were out together she’d never felt an overwhelming desire to drag him somewhere private so that they could be alone. He’d never appeared overwhelmed by her, either. He was perfect for outer Samantha—the version of herself that she showed to the real world, but inner Samantha? The person she really was under the poise and polish? Wild Samantha. That woman wanted so much more.
Why did she find it so hard to be that woman? What exactly was holding her back?
Could she really blame her mother?
She sat up a little straighter.
She wasn’t a toddler. There came a point where you had to take responsibility.
If something had to change, then she was the one who had to change it.
She winced, aware that her thoughts could have come straight from her mother’s book. Choice not Chance. That damn book that slapped her in the face every time she walked into a bookstore.
For a moment she hesitated, loath to do anything that felt like following her mother’s advice.
And then she realized how ridiculous that was. This was her life and her decision. Her mother wouldn’t even know about it.
She wasn’t waiting until the New Year to make a resolution. She was making it right now—starting with Kyle. She wasn’t saving the relationship; she was breaking up with him. Not only had she forgotten their date, she hadn’t even realized she’d forgotten it. She wasn’t an expert on relationships, but even she knew that wasn’t good. What she had with Kyle wasn’t what she wanted.
No more bland, safe, unsatisfying relationships. The next man she met, she was going to be open and honest with him. She was going to take a risk and share her thoughts and feelings, instead of keeping them locked away. Maybe if she did that, her relationships would change and she’d feel passion. She wanted that. She wanted to be emotionally involved.
Satisfied that her mother would be suitably horrified by that revelation, Samantha felt better.
“Let’s make those calls, Charlotte.”
“Okay…well, for the record, I think you’re very brave, holding it together like this.” Charlotte checked her tablet. “Just to clarify—because my brain is a little fuzzy after Amy’s eventful night—I’ll call your mother’s assistant back and say you’ll go to the hospital later. I’ll tell the Mortons that you feel Iceland is the perfect choice for them, that it’s your personal recommendation and that you’ll call to discuss it once they’ve taken a look at the itinerary we suggest. I’ll get the laird on the phone so you can try and persuade him that you don’t need to visit, and I’ll also call your sister.”
“Not my sister. I’ll call my sister. You get Kyle for me. And stop calling the Scottish guy “the laird” or I’ll do it by accident.”
“Right. Got it.”
Flustered, Charlotte left the room with the others and Samantha returned to her desk.
She closed her laptop and slipped it into her bag. She’d be able to do some work on the flight, or maybe in the hospital. It was unlikely that her mother was going to want her hanging out in her room.
She reached under her desk, rescued her shoes and slid them on, not wanting to analyze why she needed to wear heels to break up with a guy over the phone.
The thought of seeing her mother made her feel mildly nauseated. So did the thought of speaking to Kyle. She felt the same flutter of nerves in her stomach that she’d felt before she’d done a parachute jump for charity.
She smoothed her hair, then reached across to the phone on her desk and stabbed a button. “Charlotte? If you’re not feeding Amy, could you bring me a drink, please?”
“Sure! Tea or coffee?”
“Vodka. Rocks.”
There was a brief silence. “Right. Coming up.”
Charlotte appeared a moment later, ice clinking in the glass she held. “Here. And I’m not judging you, so don’t worry about that. Your mom is in hospital, your relationship is ending…basically your personal life is a total mess, so you shouldn’t feel bad about needing a drink.”
“Thank you.”
“Was that blunt? Darn. I’m trying to be less blunt.”
“Blunt works for me. And you’re right—my personal life is a mess.” But she was about to make a start at clearing it up.
Charlotte patted her hand. “Just to say it’s okay for you to talk about it if you want to. You’re always listening to everyone else, but you keep all your own personal stuff inside.”
She kept everything inside. What would happen if she didn’t? If inner Samantha and outer Samantha actually merged? How would that work? It would be like walking into an otherwise immaculate apartment and finding laundry on the floor.
Charlotte seemed reluctant to relinquish the glass. “Instead of vodka I could give you a great big hug. I always find a hug is the best thing when I’m scared about something.”
“Charlotte—”
“And I never gossip, so you don’t need to worry about that. You’re probably afraid someone will go straight to the press with a story about your mom, but I would never do that.”
“I know.”
“You never talk about your mother, and I understand why.”
“You do?”
Should she be pleased or alarmed? Could it be that someone had actually seen beneath the surface?
“Of course. It’s obvious. Gayle Mitchell is a legend, and if you mention her, everyone is going to want to talk about her, or get you to pull a favor and have a book signed or something. You’re afraid people will only be interested in you because of your mother—but you shouldn’t think that. You’re an inspiration in your own right. Look at what you’ve built here! Although…Choice not Chance.” She beamed. “I read it three times. And I have Brave New You on preorder.”
Samantha wished her mother had never written that damn book.
She made a mental note to store a bottle of vodka in her office. She could invent a new drinking game. One shot when someone said something flattering about her mother. Two shots when someone said those three dreaded words.
“Let’s get those calls done, Charlotte.”
“Right.” Charlotte finally put the drink down. “And I think you’re amazing, being able to focus on work at a time like this.”
“Thank you.”
She waited until Charlotte had left the room and then picked up the glass.
What was she doing? Was she really so bad at dealing with emotional issues that she needed a drink to get her through?
Maybe she should have said yes to the hug…
She put the vodka down on her desk. It wasn’t the solution. She did not need it. She’d call Kyle, and then she’d treat herself to a double-shot espresso from the Italian coffee shop down the road before she headed to the airport.
She was nervous, and she had her mother to blame for that.
Gayle Mitchell had drummed into both her children that any relationship was the death of ambition and goals—an anchor dragging you to the bottom of the rough seas of life. Every time Samantha ended a relationship, it made her doubly uncomfortable, because part of her felt as if she was pleasing her mother. Was that why she’d stayed with Kyle for so long? Because breaking up with him felt like something her mother would approve of?
Her phone lit up and she took a deep breath. The best way to handle this was to dive right in.
“Hi, there. Firstly, I am so sorry about last night. I was buried in work and to be honest I didn’t even look up from my desk until midnight—”
She wasn’t going to say she hadn’t even realized she’d missed their date until Charlotte had told her.
“Anyway, I apologize. But it did start me thinking.”
She heard an indrawn breath and ploughed on.
“Before you speak, let me finish. Please. I have to be honest. The truth is, this isn’t working for me. I mean, you’re great company, and we always have interesting conversation and a good time, but we’re not exactly setting the world on fire, are we? We have these sedate dinners, or evenings at the theater, where we behave like a middle-aged couple and you occasionally hold my hand on the way home. It’s all very civilized and restrained, and that’s probably my fault because we both know I’m not great at showing emotion. But I want to. You have no idea how much I want to be great at that. I want to feel stuff. But when you and I are together, I just don’t feel it—and that’s my fault not yours. I’ve developed this outer self, and sometimes I find it hard to connect to my inner self—” Wild Samantha.
She was probably saying far too much, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“Maybe we don’t have the right chemistry, or maybe I’m never going to feel anything because I can’t let go of this controlled person I’ve become.” Thank you for that, Mother.
“But I owe it to myself to at least hold out for more. I’m not expecting a storm of passion, but a light breeze would be nice. And you deserve that, too. We both deserve better than this bland, neutral, polite relationship. I think we should acknowledge that something is missing.”
She stared through the window at the swirling snowflakes, wondering how it was possible to feel lonely in a city that was home to hundreds of thousands of people. But among all those people how did you find that one person who was going to change your world? Honesty. That had to be a good start.
“You don’t really know me, Kyle, and that’s my fault not yours. I—I’m not the person you think I am. I mean I am, but I’m also so much more. The real me wants to have a love affair so all-consuming that I forget to go to work—instead of forgetting the man and the date because I’m at work. I want to sneak off in my lunch break and buy sexy lingerie, instead of eating at my desk and taking calls. I want to drink champagne naked in bed, not seated in a theater bar surrounded by strangers. I want to have wild, desperate sex without caring when or where, and I definitely don’t want to think about work at the same time. I—I want to see stars when I’m kissed.”
Had she just said that aloud? Had she really just said that?
It was all very well resolving to be more open and honest, but it had left her feeling exposed and uncomfortable. She might as well have paraded down Newbury Street naked. Thank goodness she was ending it and wouldn’t have to face him again. This was what happened when she let wild Samantha take control. That version of her needed to stay locked away inside where she could cause minimum damage.
Dying of embarrassment, she forced out a few more words. “So what I’m saying is it’s over. And I don’t think this will be too much of a shock to you. I know there are many things about me that annoy you—not least the fact that my sister is so important to me and we speak every day. But that is never going to change, and neither is the whole passion thing, so I think we should both just accept the way things are and agree, amicably, that it’s been fun but it’s time to end it.”
There. She’d done it. She’d said it. In fact she’d said far too much.
Samantha closed her eyes and breathed slowly to try and slow her racing heart. She hadn’t realized her feelings were quite so close to the surface.
Kyle still hadn’t responded, which she took to be a sign that he was shocked by her frankness. She was shocked, too. Drinking champagne in bed, naked? Where had that come from?
She gave him a few moments to respond and then gave up waiting. “This is… I’m starting to feel a little awkward…” Understatement of the century. “Say something. Anything.”
There was only silence on the end of the phone.
Samantha felt a rush of exasperation, but also a growing sense of conviction that she’d done the right thing by breaking up with him. She’d spilled every one of her emotions all over him. She’d been honest and open, the way all those relationship books said you should be, and what had she got in return? Not warmth and understanding, but silence.
“Kyle? What do you think?”
“What do I think?”
The voice on the end of the phone was deep, rough and entirely unfamiliar.
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’ve never had dinner, boring or otherwise, and we’ve also never had sex, so I wouldn’t know about the chemistry, but drinking champagne naked in bed sounds like a pretty good date to me. And I have no idea who Kyle is, but clearly he’s a guy who needs to get his act together. Because you’re right—no one wants or needs a bland, neutral, polite relationship.”
Samantha sat without moving. Without breathing.
Who…?
Charlotte was supposed to be calling two people for her: Kyle, and Brodie McKintyre, the guy who owned the lodge in the Scottish Highlands.
If she hadn’t been speaking to Kyle, then that could only mean…
Without saying another word, she reached for the vodka and downed it in one gulp.
*********
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One More for Christmas out in the UK today!
The paperback of my new book ONE MORE FOR CHRISTMAS is out in the UK today! This book combines all the elements I love in a story – family, friendship and of course romance and a gorgeous snowy setting.
I’ve written a Christmas book every year since I was first published 20 years ago! I’m always touched by the number of readers who have read all of them – I certainly hope you’re going to love this one.
UK readers should be able to find it in Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Tesco, WHSmith and some branches of Waterstones. If you’re staying close to home and prefer to order online, you’ll find handy links here on my website, and the link to Amazon below:
Stay safe!
Love
Sarah
xx
ONE MORE FOR CHRISTMAS out in the US and Canada today!
My brand new book, One More For Christmas is out in the US and Canada today! This is a fun, festive story about an estranged family who come together for Christmas! It has plenty of laughs, a gorgeous snowy setting (the Scottish Highlands) and one of my favourite romances! I loved writing it and I hope readers will love it too.
You should be able to find copies of One More for Christmas in store, or of course you can order online – links here:
Stay safe!
Love
Sarah
xx
UK pre-order competition for ONE MORE FOR CHRISTMAS
To celebrate the upcoming publication of my brand new Christmas novel ONE MORE FOR CHRISTMAS (out Oct 29th in the UK!), my publisher is giving readers the chance to win a £250 M&S giftcard so you can fill your Christmas Dinner table with luxurious treats!
To enter, simply pre-order your copy of One More for Christmas from any retailer and make a note of your confirmation number – if you’ve already pre-ordered (thank you!) that’s fine. You can still enter. Full details and entry form here
https://www.hqstories.co.uk/…/win-a-250-ms-giftcard-with-s…/
Good luck!
Love
Sarah
xx
Christmas book bargain – $1.99
US readers can currently snap up two of my series Christmas book for $1.99! The Twelve Nights of Christmas is a Harlequin Presents – handy link below.
The Nurse’s Christmas Wish, is a Harlequin Medical!
Hope you enjoy!
Love
Sarah
xx
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