ELLA HARPER
Pieces of You

Copyright

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Ella Harper 2014

Cover photograph © Natalie Spencer

Cover design © Andrew Cunning 2014

Ella Harper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007581108

Ebook Edition © August 2014 ISBN: 9780007581115

Version: 2015-12-15

Dedication

This one goes to my excellent friends … you know who you are.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Two: Lucy

Chapter Three: Patricia

Chapter Four: Lucy

Chapter Five: Nell

Chapter Six: Lucy

Chapter Seven: Patricia

Chapter Eight: Nell

Chapter Nine: Lucy

Chapter Ten: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Eleven: Nell

Chapter Twelve: Lucy

Chapter Thirteen: Patricia

Chapter Fourteen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Fifteen: Nell

Chapter Sixteen: Lucy

Chapter Seventeen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Eighteen: Patricia

Chapter Nineteen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty: Nell

Chapter Twenty-One: Lucy

Chapter Twenty-Two: Patricia

Chapter Twenty-Three: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Four: Nell

Chapter Twenty-Five: Lucy

Chapter Twenty-Six: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Patricia

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Nell

Chapter Thirty: Lucy

Chapter Thirty-One: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Two: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Thirty-Three: Nell

Chapter Thirty-Four: Lucy

Chapter Thirty-Five: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Six: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Nell

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Lucy

Chapter Forty: Nell

Chapter Forty-One: Lucy

Chapter Forty-Two: Patricia

Chapter Forty-Three: Lucy

Chapter Forty-Four: Luke

Chapter Forty-Five: Nell

Chapter Forty-Six: Patricia

Chapter Forty-Seven: Lucy

Reading Group Questions for PIECES OF YOU

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Lucy and Luke

February

‘What are we doing here, Harte?’

If I sounded impatient, it was because I felt it. I’d been standing outside Luke’s hospital for about fifteen minutes and my toes were beginning to seize up. It was one of those crisp, frosty mornings where pavements and branches of trees looked as though demented elves had gone crazy sprinkling sugar all over them; pretty enough, but also bloody freezing.

‘Just hang on a bit longer,’ Luke frowned, checking his watch. ‘What time do you have?’

‘It’s nine-fifteen and your mother is going to be cross if I’m late for work.’ I grabbed his wrist, pulling at the battered metal strap of his watch. ‘I know you love this thing, but seriously, it has terrible time-keeping issues.’

‘I know, I know. But it’s my dad’s … you know I can’t take it off. It’s the law.’ Luke straightened. ‘Ah, here’s the person I’ve been waiting for.’

I sunk my chin deeper into the warmth of my scarf and blew on my hands as a pretty girl approached us. She was smiling and proffering a wrapped package. I felt a flicker of intrigue, but chilliness prevented me from displaying too much interest.

The girl stopped in front of Luke. ‘Luke Harte? Sorry I’m late. Here it is.’

‘Great! Thank you; you’re a life saver.’ Luke handed over an envelope which the girl pocketed. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, in fact. ‘God, I love it when a plan comes together.’

‘What sort of plan?’

He touched my nose. ‘Don’t look so suspicious. It’s Valentine’s Day! You know that, right?’

‘I’m aware.’

I sounded prim, but there was a reason for that. I had Valentine’s Day wrapped up and sorted. I had ordered in some lovely food rather than trusting my own cooking, (for very good reasons, I hasten to add), I had wine, I had candles and I had vague ideas about a massage-type thing for Luke at the end of the night.

‘So go with it, okay?’ Luke’s eyes met mine and I could tell he was indulging me. The man knew me well.

‘Now I know we usually save things until later, but I’ve been tracking this gift down for you. It’s a good ‘un, even if I say so myself. Are you going to open it? I can’t wait to see your face.’ He thrust the package into my hands.

‘No pressure then,’ I smiled, dropping my eyes. ‘I know you and your surprise gifts. They’re usually amazing and then I worry that I’ve only, you know … thought of dinner with candlelight.’

Luke waved a hand. ‘That’s all I want, so you’re spot on … can’t wait. Open it, go on.’

I turned the package over in my hands. Was it chocolates? No, Luke wouldn’t be so obvious. Nor would chocolates require personal hand-delivery. Was it a book? I peeled back a section of wrapping paper. Books were the perfect gift for me; I adore them. Perhaps it was another copy of Wuthering Heights – I collected them; the older the better. Old novels with illustrations and dedications written in the front pages in fountain pen, scratchy, illegible marks steeped with meaning.

I tore the rest of the wrapping off, discovering a hardback with a torn, tarnished sleeve – or wrapper, as they used to be called. A Book of Delights, I read. ‘How lovely. Er. What is it, exactly?’

Luke opened the book. ‘It’s an anthology of poetry and quotes and stuff. Romantic things.’ He flipped the pages. ‘I mean, it’s probably mostly pretentious rubbish, but apparently there are a few really nice poems in there.’

‘You old romantic, you.’ I was impressed.

‘That’s not even the best bit,’ Luke said.

I flicked my eyes over him. The man was practically preening.

‘There’s an inscription at the front … read it. This is absolutely the best bit.’

I found it. It read: To my darling wife, with all my love, Luke. 14th Feb, 1954. ‘1954? What the—? I don’t understand …’

‘Some other Luke wrote in the book all those years ago.’ Luke was practically beside himself at this point. ‘The other Luke wrote that to the wife he loved. Isn’t that amazing? I’ve had someone on the case trawling through old books for ages, looking at inscriptions. I was hoping for a ‘To Lucy,’ but this one appeared and I just knew it was perfect.’

I traced my fingers over the writing. It was neat and well-formed – nothing like Luke’s actual writing which was chaotic and sprawling. I flipped through the pages and found a poem called ‘Captive.’ It made me smile. Luke leant over my shoulder and read it.

I did but look and love awhile,

‘Twas but for one half-hour;

Then to resist I had no will,

And now I have no power.

Luke laughed. ‘Ha ha, brilliant. That’s you and me.’

‘Is it? Wow.’ I closed the book and stroked the cover. ‘Just … wow. You’re unbelievable.’

‘Too much?’ Luke’s shoulders hunched and he screwed his face up. ‘I know you hate surprises.’

‘No. No, it’s not too much. It’s perfect. Just … perfect. You’re …’

I was overwhelmed.

‘I love how you crumble in the face of anything truly romantic,’ Luke said, placing a hand on my neck. ‘It’s one of the most adorable things about you.’

Against my better judgement, I started to cry. What an idiot. Buy me a soppy book with an achingly romantic inscription and I become a dribbly mess. Well, in fairness, my tears weren’t just about the book today, but I was still mortified.

Fear gripped my insides in an icy vice. I thought about the vitamins, the acupuncture, the doctors, the therapy, the alcohol avoidance, the hope, the joy and the disappointment. And about what might be ahead for us if nothing else worked.

‘It will happen, Luce,’ Luke said, reading my mind as he gripped my shoulders. ‘We will have a baby.’

I couldn’t meet his eyes. When we first met, eight or so years ago, I wouldn’t have questioned our chances. Eight years ago, I didn’t know the half of it. At the beginning of our relationship we’d been reckless about contraception, because we both wanted children from the outset. We’d been rewarded with an early pregnancy that we hadn’t expected … and then punished when the dream had been cruelly snatched away. And that hadn’t been the only time our dreams had been trodden underfoot.

Luke lifted my chin and kissed me. ‘It will happen. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

He was emphatic. I was cautious. It was how we rolled. He was the carefree optimist; I was one of life’s natural worriers. My extreme need for tidiness and order led my best friend Dee to introduce me as ‘Monica from Friends and then some’ to new acquaintances; accurate, but not the most charming of introductions.

Luke placed a warm hand on my neck, ducking his head so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. ‘Don’t even think we won’t succeed at this, Luce. Because we will.’

‘But we’ve already lost … What if we can’t …’

‘We will.’

‘How do you …?’

‘I just do.’ Luke kissed my forehead and drew me closer. ‘I love you and you love me. There is nothing we can’t achieve together.’

I leant into him, inhaling his strength, breathing in his positivity. He was right. We could do this. I clutched my beautiful book and I held on to Luke and, in that moment, I knew everything would be all right. It was Valentine’s Day and I had a thoughtful husband, an amazing gift – and I had the most important thing of all; I had hope.

CHAPTER TWO
Lucy

September

A woman strode efficiently into the consulting room. I felt panic set in. I didn’t recognise this person. Where were the other ones, the ones who knew what we’d been through, how much this meant to us? Someone had obviously decided that today we should come face to face with the only fertility consultant in Bath we weren’t on first name terms with.

I shifted in my chair, unequal to the challenge of dealing with a stranger. The consultant began hastily perusing our file to familiarise herself with our case, allowing us a brief smile.

A professional smile, I observed with weary expertise. Non-committal, reserved. Not so different to the other consultants, then. They were able to produce an entire repertoire of smiles for each occasion – cautiously hopeful, compassionately apologetic, not-sure-yet-neutral. I studied this consultant. It was a game I had taught myself to play during the agonising waits we were always subjected to when it came to IVF appointments. Don’t get me wrong, the NHS has been superb, but waiting is de rigueur. Bad news might be on the horizon – or not, as the case may be. Either way, sitting patiently wasn’t in my nature.

I settled back in my chair. Did this one have children? Her well-cut suit was spotless, the shoulder pads decorated with shiny buttons rather than milk stains. One tick for non-parent. The freshly-dried mane of dark hair looked as though it hadn’t ever had clumps of Weetabix mashed into it – not this morning or any other morning.

Another tick, I thought with a sinking heart. Unlike most of the others, this consultant bore zero tell-tale signs of a hasty exit from home. It shouldn’t matter but, for some reason, it did, very much. Because if anyone was going to snatch my dream away, I would prefer it to be someone who knew how utterly crucifying it was. How it would feel like the end of … well. I didn’t want to think about that.

As the minutes ticked by silently without a word from the consultant, I felt a strange, silent scream building inside. I’d been behaving irrationally recently; I knew that. I’d been distracted, emotional … that and probably far, far worse. I was spiralling inside, chaotic. I glanced at Luke. His jaw was tight and his hair was messed up, but as he turned to me, he managed a grin. The man actually managed a grin. He had put up with so much from me I wasn’t quite sure how he had coped. The mood swings, the hysterics, the anger … a lesser man might have crumbled. Or, at very least, run a mile. I guess the fact that he wanted this as much as I did saved him.

Sometimes, I wondered what Luke saw in me. Unlike him, I wasn’t especially funny. I mean, I could be highly amusing after a few glasses of wine, but only moderately so without.

Looks-wise, I had dark hair, direct, brown eyes that needed several coats of mascara to bring them out and a slim but rather boyish figure. Based on comments made by friends, I had deduced that I was pretty enough, but in a non-threatening way. Meaning, presumably, that the boyfriends/husbands of my female friends enjoyed my company – may even have found me vaguely attractive – but they didn’t necessarily feel obliged to bend me over the kitchen counter passionately if caught alone with me by accident.

I rubbed my forehead, my fingertips weirdly cool in the sultry heat. And what about all the baby stuff? I reckon the baby stuff had made me seem a little crazy. More than a little crazy.

I watched Luke drumming the fingers of his other hand on his thigh. He was apprehensive, maybe even more so than me.

The consultant looked up apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry, I normally get to grips with new patients before I meet them. Teenage daughters who dawdle all the way to school are a perennial hazard.’ She rolled her eyes to garner our sympathy and returned to the file. ‘Please bear with me …’

I exchanged a glance with Luke, noticing his eyebrow cocked pointedly. I ignored his rubbish Roger Moore impression. Yes, yes; I had presumed that the consultant was childless, but instead, she had older kids. Hence the pristine appearance. I shrugged tetchily. The consultant was still a slow reader. Dee’s daughter Tilly was faster with The Faraway Tree.

Luke tightened his grip on my hand. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he whispered firmly. ‘This time, everything is going to happen the way it should.’

I nodded. It was one of life’s ironies that the only fly in the ointment, the only tiny but irritating flaw that prevented us from being complete, was that we were here in this office, waiting for a consultant we didn’t know to tell us if our baby might stick around this time. A tedious but excruciating fact: we couldn’t conceive a baby. Not one that stayed put for longer than twelve weeks, anyway.

One in four women experience a miscarriage at some point in their lives and one in five pregnancies end this way, but having eight of them had eclipsed everything else in our lives. We hadn’t conceived a baby naturally for years … at least … no, wait. We didn’t talk about that. We never, ever talked about that. It was the one thing that had caused a major rift between us.

Losing so many babies had changed us irrevocably. ‘Character building,’ Luke used to say bravely, tears streaking down his face as he gathered me up and held my heartbroken body in his arms for the umpteenth time.

Yes. Character building. We had done much of that over the years.

A few years ago, I remember Luke playing with Dee and Dan’s youngest daughter Frankie in the park, using her as a human Subbuteo, swinging her chubby legs and roaring with laughter as they scored a goal. It was an image I still held in my head, although I was no longer sure that it would become a reality for us.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily, mockingly, echoing my biological timer. In my ears, the rhythmic ticks gathered pace, rather like sand slithering at high speed into the bulb of an egg timer.

If only they had been able to find something wrong. But Luke had superb sperm by all accounts, and my ovaries, womb and fallopian tubes were perfectly ripe and healthy. Yet somehow, the stench of failure had been firmly but unfairly placed at my door, or rather, at my womb. Because if I couldn’t conceive, it must mean that my body was at fault. Terms like ‘foetal rejection’ and ‘hostile environment’ had been carelessly tossed on to the table as explanations.

‘Hostile environment’ – have you ever heard such a thoughtless, cruel term? It made me want to scream. It was an onslaught to my womanhood and everything I felt I should be capable of, but what was the point? Everyone would just think I was crazy or hormonal. Or both.

And so it had begun. Three bouts of IUI – intrauterine insemination – that hadn’t worked and, due to my age – thirty-seven, ancient in baby-making terms – we had started IVF immediately afterwards. Hormone injections, accompanied by the dreadful side effects everyone talked about, multiple ultrasound scans to check the size and maturity of my eggs and injections to ‘ripen’ my eggs. The best ones (Luke liked to call these the ‘Eggs Benedict’ of my offerings) were mixed with his sperm (spun, washed and carefully selected, Luke would comment in amusement, as if describing a washing cycle) and these were then hopefully fertilised before being placed back inside my body.

Smear tests had nothing on IVF treatment, I thought ruefully. I’d spent more time with my legs in the air and my parts on show than I cared to admit. Ultimately, all dignity and modesty had been annihilated. My womb had been discussed and scrutinised in such intimate detail over the past few years I almost felt I should give it a nickname. Luke had a choice few, all unsuitable for general consumption, but they made me laugh.

Speak, I pleaded with the consultant mutely. Tell us it’s all right. I pulled at an unravelling thread on my trousers, feeling an affinity with it. We had missed out on the magical moments most parents surely revelled in, such as the deliciously important task of choosing names. (For the record: Jude for a boy, Bryony for a girl.) But such a thing had fallen by the wayside, as had daring to have a preference when it came to the sex of a baby. A preference? Pure self-indulgence. Healthy, that was all that mattered. Just … healthy.

I bit my lip. Recently, instead of flattering talk about what incredible parents we would be, friends and family had mentioned egg donation and surrogacy and, astonishingly, buying a dog. Yes, obviously, we should forget about babies and get a chihuahua. Dee … even Dee, had even suggested giving up. Giving up. It had caused the only major row we had ever had, and it had taken a while to forgive her.

It was difficult for me to explain, but I yearned to carry Luke’s baby. I had this inner ache that I felt only our own child could fill. Luke understood, I thought, although I did have a sense deep down that he might have been more than happy to discuss other options, should we have needed to. I couldn’t think that way, though. I had to believe that this would work.

The consultant finally sat back. ‘Well, everything looks healthy this time round,’ she remarked rather cheerily. ‘Obviously we’re not out of the woods yet and you’ve had quite a journey, but this is the furthest you’ve come, so there is every chance that this pregnancy will develop as it should. Fourteen weeks … this is fantastic.’

The consultant’s gaze softened. ‘Regular scans and check-ups, of course. But that’s all part of the process, as I’m sure you’re aware. Here you are – another set of scan photographs for you to keep. Lovely ones. Look at this one of the baby’s feet.’

I took the photos. I was shaking.

‘Really? Everything looks all right?’ Luke’s elation was evident; his heart on his sleeve, as ever. He crushed my hand accidentally and I loved him for it. My own euphoria tended to be rather more contained these days – a casualty of the process – but Luke was endearingly positive.

The consultant gestured to the test results in the file. ‘It does. The baby is healthy, the heartbeat is strong and all of your tests came back with great results.’

‘A perfectly good oven, as it turns out. I bloody knew it.’ Luke snaked an arm around my neck and spoke into my ear. ‘I told you that old guy didn’t know what he was talking about, Luce. I knew it; I just knew it.’

I burst into tears. An aged, male consultant had once breezily described my womb as a ‘broken oven’ some years back and I had never quite got over it.

‘Let’s just get through the next couple of months, shall we?’ The consultant’s professional demeanour was firmly back in place. She headed for the door. ‘Good luck, both of you, and I’ll see you again soon.’

Was that ‘good luck’ because we needed it, or was she just wishing us well? I caught myself. Would the ball of tears in the back of my throat, caught like a frozen waterfall, ever thaw? I just wanted to feel normal. I wanted to be able to glance at doll-sized babygrows pegged on a washing line without dissolving into tears. I wanted to be able to hand a lonely-looking teddy bear I’d found on the supermarket floor back to its owner without biting my lip until it bled. The sweet scent of downy peach fuzz on the head of a friend’s newborn as I cradled a tiny body? Instant hysteria. Snot, heaving chest … the works. Cue awkwardness all round and cautious comments about it being my turn soon. Yes. My turn.

I traced a finger along the baby picture, outlining its perfectly formed leg. Perhaps this baby wanted us as much as we wanted him or her. As we walked into the heavy summer air, Luke placed a tender hand on the swell of my stomach.

‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me? Didn’t I say it would all work out eventually? We just had to wait for the right baby to come along.’ He was thrilled. ‘This one is special … this one wants us to be her parents. His parents. Whatever.’

‘God, I hope so.’ I touched his face. ‘I’ve been a nightmare, haven’t I? Absolutely barmy.’

Luke caught my hand and held it. ‘Not barmy. Clinically insane. Make that certifiable – joking!’ He doubled over at the bicep punch I threw him, his expression sobering. ‘You want this badly, that’s all. We both want this badly. This one wants to stay in your perfect, perfect oven. This is it, Lucy. This is it.’

I held Luke’s hand against my stomach. A baby of our own – part me, part him. After eight years of trying and after eight, sad little boxes in a cupboard, a baby of our own. At last.

CHAPTER THREE
Patricia

Sitting alone in the florists, Patricia found herself staring down at her notepad. She should be making a funeral wreath for tomorrow morning, but she had been putting it off. It was getting dark outside and Gino, busy putting the chairs inside Café Amore for the night, noticed her from across the street and waved.

Patricia slowly held a hand up in response. She felt weary. And desperately alone. True, she was on her own – in the physical sense – having sent Lucy home hours ago to plan an elaborate anniversary dinner (although with Lucy’s track record, Patricia privately felt more than one evening’s practise might be in order), but still. She felt alone in all senses of the word. Isolated, forlorn, solitary. It was unnerving after all this time to be knocked sideways by this familiar, suffocating feeling, Patricia thought. She steadied her hands on her notepad.

She had felt so disconnected since Bernard’s death. Even after all this time. It was as if she felt set apart from other people much of the time, unable to fully get involved in her surroundings … or involved in life, in fact.

It was Luke and Lucy’s fifth wedding anniversary on Sunday. Their fifth. Five years without a … Patricia forced the thought away and focused on Lucy. She loved Lucy. Not in a ‘you’re-the-daughter-I-never-had’ way, of course, because she had Nell, but there was a genuine closeness between them. Wasn’t there? Sometimes Patricia wondered if she had prevented a real connection from growing. She didn’t mean to be aloof, but she found it hard to be openly affectionate. Patricia wasn’t really sure why. Was that because she had lost Bernard? Had the lack of physical contact made her cold towards others? It was possible, she supposed.

Working together helped; she and Lucy had forged a good relationship over flower arrangements and awkward customers. Lucy had only started working at the florist’s after meeting Luke as Patricia had needed an extra pair of hands and because Lucy was at a crossroads, career-wise. But she had stayed and she seemed to love it.

And now Lucy was properly involved in the business. It irked her that Lucy moaned about the lack of a credit card machine, as did Lucy’s desire for order and symmetry with everything. ‘Getting with the programme,’ Luke jokingly called it and although he took a gentler, more persuasive line, he obviously agreed with Lucy.

The truth was, Patricia didn’t trust modern technology. You always knew where you were with cash and cheques; that was what Bernard used to say and he was spot on. But she was doing her best to embrace new ideas – like those flannel flower baskets Lucy had shown her some months back. It had taken her a little time to see them as a viable prospect, but she was in her fifties; she liked to mull an idea over before she could get her head around it.

If only Bernard were still here; he’d know what to do about all these … Patricia faltered. If only Bernard was still here. Not just to listen to her reservations about the state-of-the-art business ideas she was struggling to understand, but to stop this awful loneliness.

Patricia rubbed a hand over her eyes. She felt faintly foolish. Funeral flowers always did this to her. Despite the length of time Bernard had been gone, she missed him. Every single day. She would wake up each morning and, as she’d read in some of those women’s magazines where they always went on about deceased partners, there would be seconds of blissful, sleepy forgetfulness. Then the haze would clear and she would remember. He was gone. And the anguish would consume her. And she would miss the smell of him, the sound of his laughter and, most of all, the easy history they shared.

They had been a cliché of sorts: childhood sweethearts, married young, devoted to one another. Their lives had lacked notable drama or incident and that was just the way they had liked it. Bernard had worked as a GP in their local surgery, with just the right blend of kindly firmness. He had been well-liked in the community and she had been happy to bring up their three children and be a traditional housewife. When the children were older, Bernard had inherited a sum of money after the death of his parents and, knowing how much she loved flowers, he had bought an empty shop space for her. Patricia had taken a floristry course, even though taking such a step had filled her with anxiety, and Hartes & Flowers had been born. It had been the single most romantic thing Bernard had ever done for her. She thought of him each time she opened and closed the shop. Each time she trailed her fingers along the cream, distressed-effect counter he had chosen.

What made it so difficult was that Bernard had dropped dead one day. Just like that. No warning, no prior symptoms, no goodbye. Just … dead. In a flash, in a heartbeat. Or not, as the case may be. The doctors said Bernard had had an undiagnosed heart condition, that his condition had made him the equivalent of a ticking time bomb. Patricia detested this expression; it made Bernard sound like some sort of sinister terrorist threat. Apparently, it was quite common for people in the medical profession to miss their own health problems – they couldn’t see what was under their own noses.

Thank goodness for Luke, Patricia reflected. Quite simply, he had been the lynchpin of the family since Bernard had died. He shouldn’t have been, but he had stepped up admirably when Ade couldn’t. Just for a nanosecond, Patricia’s heart ached at the thought of her eldest son. But she steeled herself and put that feeling right back in the box it belonged in. Ade was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

But Luke. Luke had gritted his teeth and got on with it. Barely twenty-one and probably ill-prepared for the responsibility of supporting his mother and younger sister through their grief, Luke had knuckled down and coped. It had been Luke’s idea to send Nell to a therapist when all of her problems had started, and thank God they had. Thank God.

Patricia placed the wreath carefully in the fridge in the back office and paused, her hand on the cool, metal door. Her life seemed to be on hold at the moment, had been for some time, in fact. She always seemed to be waiting.

As Patricia drifted back into the shop to tidy up, she noticed a harassed-looking woman wielding a futuristic-looking pushchair with a baby in it. A stroppy toddler tugged at her hand, whining loudly, neither of them noticing when he dropped his cuddly Buzz Lightyear toy.

Patricia dashed outside and picked it up. ‘You dropped this, sweetie.’

The boy took it sulkily, saying nothing as his sticky fingers closed around the green and white figure. The mother turned, frowning. ‘Say thank you,’ she reminded her son, tiredly.

‘Thank you,’ the boy mumbled.

Patricia smiled. ‘You’re welcome. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

The mother half-smiled. ‘Will be when these two are down for their sleep,’ she replied. ‘Come on, Josh. Let’s go. Say bye to the nice lady …’

Patricia leant against the doorframe and watched them. After Bernard had died, she had hoped and prayed for a distraction. A baby-shaped one, not a new man in her life. A baby she could smother with all the pent-up love she could feel swirling inside, the love that had nowhere else to go. But it hadn’t happened. She had tried to find out what was going on, of course; Luke was her son but he had seemed reluctant to elaborate. Patricia felt helpless. Of course, it hurt a little that Luke didn’t seem to want to confide in her. Thinking about it, that had pretty much stopped when Bernard had died. Patricia guessed they had all been affected in different ways by his absence, but it was a shame, because Luke had always been so open.

Patricia gathered up her bag and locked the shop door. The fact of the matter was, she had this prickle of resentment she didn’t know what to do with, and laying it at her daughter-in-law’s door for not giving her a grandchild gave the feeling a more comfortable home. It was unfair, of course it was. And it might not be accurate. But with Nell in her early twenties and far too focused on her fashion degree to think about kids, Luke and Lucy were Patricia’s best bet.

Patricia pushed all thoughts of a baby to one side. She was being selfish and that wasn’t fair. She needed to keep busy – she needed a few projects of her own to focus on. Patricia glanced back at the shop window. The pots really were beautiful. Perhaps she could do a course, making pots and dishes and things she could use when she baked. Yes, a course of some kind. That would keep her busy.

CHAPTER FOUR
Lucy

‘It’s ridiculously hot,’ Dee said, fanning her pink face with Dan’s worn straw hat. ‘It’s September; it shouldn’t be this hot. I was hoping for sunny with a light breeze. God, this is what the bloody menopause is going to be like, isn’t it? Mood swings, hot flushes and vaginal dryness. Bloody hell.’

I glanced at her in amusement. We hadn’t even hit our forties yet. Besides, Dee had a cheek moaning about the heat. I was absolutely roasting in a loose-fitting purple maxi dress with one of those elongated cardigans over the top. Paranoia about someone spotting my tiny bump was to blame for my sweaty hairline, but honestly, I was about to melt.

Hearing my mobile beeping, I groped in my handbag.

‘Who’s that?’ Dee jammed Dan’s hat on her head, squashing what I knew to be an expensive blow dry. She looked ravishing in it, as she did in everything she wore. ‘Not Luke cancelling, I hope. Frankie’s got her heart set on playing swingball with him all afternoon.’

‘He wouldn’t miss it for the world. No, he’s just going to be a bit late.’ I took out my sunglasses. Perhaps I could slip off my cardigan when everyone had downed a few of Dan’s pungent sangrias.

‘I suppose, now that Luke’s a senior paramedic, he can’t always just dash out of the door, even for Frankie,’ Dee drawled. ‘Why can’t I have a hero for a husband instead of a gallery owner? It doesn’t sound half as sexy. Art … saving lives. There’s no comparison.’

‘Being a paramedic isn’t sexy. Luke comes home covered in blood most nights.’

‘Don’t spoil it. But seriously. You two are such a couple of romantics.’ Dee sounded wistful.

I glanced at her. ‘You and Dan have a brilliant time together.’

‘Oh yes, we have fun,’ Dee replied vaguely. ‘But still …’ She turned her attention to Dan, who was holding court on the patio wearing torn Bermuda shorts and a navy T-shirt. ‘Look at him. He’s a bloody caveman.’

I studied Dan. He was wielding a beer and a ridiculously large pair of tongs as he told a joke to a group of men in matching short and T-shirt combos.

I smiled. ‘He’s definitely “Man in Charge of Fire.”’

‘Ug, ug. When Luke gets here, there’ll be lots of references to “man tools.”’

‘And about his gigantic barbecue being compensation for a tiny nob.’

Dee’s mouth twitched. ‘Men,’ she said indulgently.

‘Men,’ I agreed. We laughed.

Luke and Dan were proper mates. Although their friendship had been brought about by the closeness of their wives, it was a union in its own right nonetheless; games of pool, putting the world to rights over beers, jokey texts at all hours that caused them to snigger like schoolboys. Standard stuff, but there was genuine respect and affection there too … Maybe even a teeny bit of ‘hetero man love,’ as Dee called it.

Dee flapped her face once more. ‘Right. More people. I need to air kiss and host. I might even proper kiss a few of them, if they’re dishy.’

I watched her as she set off down the lawn, her hot-pink prom dress flouncing around her knees. I sighed a breath of relief; Dan’s sangria was legendary – laced heavily with booze, vodka-spiked fruit bobbing in it – and I couldn’t possibly drink it. Dee was practically a member of the booze police and I knew she would be the most challenging person to keep my pregnancy-dictated avoidance of alcohol from, because drinking was a thing we did together, but, luckily, she was too busy circulating and introducing people as though they were on speed dates to notice.

My friendship with Dee – or Delilah, as she was known back then – began eight years ago, the summer I’d begun working at a book shop. We met in the deli next door, bonding over deliciously pungent houmous, and we cemented our friendship on a night out, working our way through the cocktail menu in a local bar. This, I learnt, was a normal night out for Dee, but it wasn’t for me. I rarely drank in those days, nor was I much of a girl’s girl. I wanted to be, but I struggled, and Dee was the extrovert required to bring me out of my shell. She introduced me to grown-up drinking: Porn Star Martinis (‘because they come with a champagne chaser – it’s the future, darling’) and Salt ‘n’ Peppa Vodkas (neat vodka, with three olives providing the salt element, and a sprinkle of black pepper). Better still, she introduced me to her gaggle of loud friends and, after a few months spent in their company, I found I had gained confidence, although I’d never be Dee.

I glanced around Dee’s sprawling garden. It was reasonably well looked after and, like their house, it was very much a family space. Dominated by climbing frames, swings and, the pièce de résistance, a vast treehouse, erected with much ugging and hammering by Dan in another macho moment.

I waved at Patricia and Nell as they strolled into the garden, glad to see people I recognised. Dee charmed men and women effortlessly and, being the total opposite myself, I envied Dee her enigmatic allure.

I was one of life’s ‘growers,’ a person others tended to need to get to know, rather than instantly warmed to. Dee had a number of opinionated theories about why this was the case, most of them blaming my ‘kooky’ parents and lack of siblings. She probably made a good point, but, whatever the reason, I was still really shy, despite the boost knowing Dee had given me. This, I’m told, translates to ‘stand-offish’ on initial contact. This fact distresses me – it’s not the way I want to be seen – and I have tried to work on it, but it feels forced. And I admit: it’s sometimes easy to forget to make the effort when Luke has enough charisma for the both of us.

Dee joined me again, raising an eyebrow at my still-full glass. Damn. I should have tossed it in the bushes.

‘Drink up, Luce. You’re lagging behind.’

‘Sorry.’ I made to sip it, close to blurting out my baby news. But we had agreed not to talk about the baby until the twenty-week scan this time. Our secret weighed heavily on my shoulders; Dee was my best friend and it didn’t feel natural to keep this from her.

I glanced around for a suitable conversation point to distract Dee. I spotted a woman in a low-cut dress that showed off a plethora of daring tattoos and knew I was safe for the moment.

‘Who’s that? I haven’t seen her at one of your shindigs before.’

Dee obliged with a peppy observation. ‘That is the wife of one of the artists at Dan’s gallery. She’s about to feature in her husband’s explicit nude collection, would you believe?’ Dee flipped her sunglasses down on to her nose. ‘I must’ve been drinking champagne at one of Dan’s events because I don’t even remember inviting her … don’t say it, Luce; I know I can’t handle the bubbles. But honestly. We can see her bum cleavage from here, so I’m not sure the nude paintings will show us anything new. Apart from her fairy parts, perhaps – do you think she has those tattooed as well?’

I snorted. Fairy parts? For such an extrovert, Dee could be surprisingly prudish when it came to sex talk. I felt a sticky hand on my arm.

‘What’s bum cleavage?’ Frankie’s brow wrinkled. She wore a tiara at a rakish angle, giving her the air of an off-duty princess. ‘And fairy parts?’

Dee looked vexed. ‘Franks, you do have the most incredible timing. Can’t you ever appear when I’m talking about school schedules?’

‘You don’t talk about school sched … whatever you said,’ Frankie responded with the brutal honesty of a three-year-old.

‘Are you wearing sun cream?’ Dee fretted, expertly checking Frankie’s shoulders for redness. ‘And where’s your hat?’

‘It’s gone.’ Frankie’s expression darkened. ‘Not talking about it.’ Ignoring her mother’s look of agitation, she turned to me. ‘Where’s Uncle Luke?’

Where indeed? I checked my watch. ‘He’s working, sweetheart, but he promised me he’d be here for your Swingball championship.’

Frankie looked unimpressed. ‘When I grow up, I’m not going to work at all. I’m going to be just like mummy.’

‘Charming.’ Dee took a long, exasperated sip of sangria.

I hid a smile. ‘Mummy does work, Franks. She works hard bringing up the three of you.’

I frowned. What was that? I had felt an odd sensation in my stomach. This pregnancy was scaring the hell out of me. I’d had a few strange twinges in my groin over the past few days, and was concentrating hard on not worrying about them.

‘We’re not work, Auntie Lucy.’ Frankie shot her mother a withering look. ‘We’re just children.’ Catching sight of her brother and sister terrorising a neighbour’s child, she tore after them.

‘Just children,’ Dee echoed faintly. ‘If only. I’d be amused if I thought she was joking.’

I watched Dee’s three children charging down the garden, bellowing and galloping like wild animals. Somehow, Dee and Dan had managed to divide their gene pool equally, giving Jack, their only son, Dee’s height, blonde curls and clear blue eyes. Tilly, their second child, had Dan’s expressive features, his unruly dark hair and the heavy-set jaw more suited to a man than a young girl. And Frankie, the child they hadn’t planned, had inherited a rather exotic blend of them both, giving her dirty-blonde curls and heavy brows that Dee was already itching to wax.

Was our baby a boy? Would he be like Jack, boisterously confident, destroying everything in his path? Or perhaps a girl like Tilly – thoughtful and creative, but still prone to bouts of excitable shrieking and yodelling? Maybe we’d have one of those 4D scans everyone seemed to be having these days, the ones Dee said made babies looked like freaky little aliens with webbed fingers.

‘They’re so very loud,’ Dee continued, clutching her hair. ‘They actually make my brain rattle sometimes.’

I felt something familiar struggling to break free and I squashed it down, hard. It wasn’t just Dee’s languid charm I envied. Her life seemed so perfect, so complete. The house, the garden, the fact that she and Dan were entirely suited – no, that wasn’t it, because so were Luke and I. But the children. I closed my eyes briefly. If only I could be blessed with half … a third, of Dee’s luck. Easy conceptions, smooth pregnancies, no major heartaches along the way.

I need to be clear about this: I loathed myself for the acrid ripples of jealousy that often poleaxed me without warning. Dee was my best friend and she had been supportive, sympathetic and downright heroic during the endless miscarriages and the ensuing heartache.

But somehow, Dee’s ripe fertility left the stench of failure all over me. Two major events had rocked our friendship. The first had been the time Dee had admitted that she and Dan were pregnant again, by accident. Frankie’s unexpected arrival had caused a new kind of grief. The choking kind that left a ball of spiky thistle in the back of my throat. An accidental baby? One that hadn’t required temperature-taking, vitamins, injections or side effects? Dee’s apologetic hug when she’d told me had almost tipped me over the edge and we had clung to one another wordlessly. What was there to say?

The second event had been more recent, the time Dee had cautiously suggested that I consider ‘letting go’ of my baby dreams. My fingers involuntarily curled around my glass of sangria at the memory, those feelings clawing at me again. Ferocious rage, screaming frustration and an urge to strike Dee had been so violently strong that I had been forced to stalk away at high speed. We hadn’t spoken for a month and I had grieved for our friendship, certain we would never speak again. Dee had left countless pleading messages on my mobile, followed by some drunken ones accompanied by tuneless singing to the soundtrack of that old TV show The Golden Girls – we used to watch it constantly after nights out back in the day – and after the fifteenth rendition of ‘Thank you for being a frrriiieeend,’ I had finally relented. I knew deep down that Dee had suggested giving up on our baby dreams because she cared. To underline the hideousness of the whole sorry episode, we had lost our second IVF baby shortly afterwards, and Dee had been almost as devastated as we had been.

Dee interrupted my reverie. ‘Let’s go and join Dan at the barbecue; he’s looking forlorn.’ We strolled towards the patio together.

‘Good lord, who’s that?’ Dee said, waving to someone.

‘Haven’t a clue. Did Dan invite him? Nell looks gorgeous, doesn’t she?’

She did. Luke’s sister was naturally stylish with bobbed hair, the same chestnut-brown shade as Luke’s. She was wearing what looked like one of her own creations, a stylish tea dress with an unusual hemline. The print was bold, but it suited her.

‘That’s Nell’s friend Lisa,’ I informed Dee, ‘from school, I think. She owns about five clothes shops already. She’s the archetypal business woman.’

‘Wow. Five shops. That’s so cool.’

Dee always admired other women who ran businesses. I had a suspicion she might harbour secret dreams of becoming the next female Richard Branson, if only she could find a slot in her children’s busy social schedules.

‘That guy she’s being chatted up by is cute,’ Dee said. ‘Her type? … Oh, no, maybe not.’

Watching Nell politely brush the guy off, we waited for her to join us. ‘Hey,’ Nell said warmly. ‘What a perfect day for a barbecue.’

‘It’s too bloody hot,’ Dee grumbled, wiping her brow. ‘This is what the menopause will be—’

‘Ignore her; she gets crabby in the heat.’ I turned to Nell. We really needed to get our friendship back on track – somehow we’d drifted lately. ‘Listen, do you fancy coming over for coffee tomorrow morning?’ I intended to hide behind the kitchen counter and distract Nell with some bad cooking. Sweltering in the heat, I pulled my cardigan round my tummy to disguise the swell.

Nell seemed pleased. ‘That sounds great. Oh dear, look at mum. She’s being chatted up by a man with a beard. She has a thing about beards. And not in a good way.’

‘Who does?’ Dee shuddered and waved Nell away. ‘Go, rescue her.’

I put a hand on my stomach. There it was again. A tiny flutter inside. Like butterfly wings beating. It was the baby, it was moving. It was too early, surely? I gasped, turning away from Dee. The baby was stretching its limbs, wriggling, kicking. Relief coursed through me. There was nothing wrong. Everything was fine. My baby was growing and moving and it felt magical.

‘Are you all right, Dan?’ Dee frowned as Dan started frantically poking the sausages. They looked cremated.

He groaned. ‘It’s all gone a bit …’

‘Pete Tong?’ Luke appeared, putting his hands on Dan’s shoulders. Wearing navy shorts and a crumpled white shirt, he looked as though he’d recently stepped out of the shower. ‘Desperado, you are truly awful at cooking. Do you need some help, sweetie?’

‘Finally, the cavalry arrives!’ Dan clapped his hand on Luke’s back in a display of manly camaraderie.

Luke noisily kissed Dan’s cheek then did the same to Dee. ‘Look at the size of that barbecue.’ He turned back to Dan and rubbed his chin gravely. ‘You know what they say about men and their barbecues don’t you, Dee?’

Dee giggled as Dan handed Luke a beer.

‘Shut up, you arse. And don’t you dare mention my man tools.’

‘Tongs.’ Luke shook his head. ‘You are such a girl, Danny boy.’ He caught sight of me and immediately came over. ‘Hey you,’ he said in my ear. ‘Everything okay?’

I nodded. I wanted to tell him about the baby moving but now wasn’t the time. I leaned in and gave him a kiss. He hugged me, his hands on my back. There was something about the way Luke touched me that made me feel completely cherished. Or turned on. Depending on the type of touch on the given day.

‘I missed you,’ he said, pulling back to look into my eyes. ‘That’s totally naff, isn’t it? I’ve only been at work.’

‘Yes, it’s totally naff. You’re adorable though. Never stop saying stuff like that.’

I felt Dee watching us, but when I looked at her properly I wasn’t quite sure what to read from her eyes.

I pushed Luke away jokingly. ‘Go. Go and help your boyfriend.’

Luke grinned and strolled back to the barbecue. ‘Hand your tongs over, boy,’ he told Dan. He started to fork sausages on to a plate or into the bin, depending on their blackness.

The food was disappearing as fast as they were cooking it. I picked at an avocado salad and helped Frankie dissect a rather charred sausage she kept describing as ‘dirty.’ Dan was drunk and taking all the credit for the cooking. ‘Well, my sausages might have been a bit burnt, but it’s probably going to be better than Lucy’s dinner tomorrow.’

I flicked his bare thigh hard, gratified when he yelped.

‘Ouch!’

Luke handed the tongs back over. ‘For that, my friend, you are on your own. No one disses my wife’s cooking, not even me.’

‘But it’s really, really bad …’ Dan protested.

‘Enough! Bring me one of those burgers if it’s a shade lighter than noir, would you, serving wench?’ Skipping out the way of Dan’s slap, Luke put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Are you sure everything is all right? You look lovely, by the way. That purple thing is nice.’

‘Really? My stomach shows under this cardigan and my boobs look massive.’

‘Every cloud.’ Luke tightened his grip. ‘Not long now until the next scan. Counting the days.’

‘I think Dee might have guessed about the baby but I haven’t said anything.’ I gestured to my untouched glass. ‘But listen. I felt the baby move. Properly. I was panicking because of those twinges, but then it felt like something fluttering around inside me.’

‘Christ, what have we got in there if it’s got wings?’ Luke went to laugh then stopped. ‘God, that’s amazing, Luce. What did it feel like? Tell me everything. Every single thing.’

I willingly described the extraordinary sensation, several times, in minute detail. I felt so incredibly happy and, as the night drew darker and the air chillier, I gratefully wrapped my cardigan around my stomach, keeping our secret that way for as long as possible.

Laughing as Luke and Dan danced to One Direction, even though they should have known better at their age, I allowed myself to relax. I chatted to Patricia briefly – the usual chit-chat – but I was probably distracted by the baby sensations I was feeling. My arms ached – ached – at the thought of holding our baby, but this time it was a good feeling. A beautiful feeling. I could barely wait.

CHAPTER FIVE
Nell

Nell watched Lucy peering anxiously into the oven. She had some dodgy-looking meringues in there and, apparently, they were her fourth attempt. Nell couldn’t imagine bothering to cook something twice, let alone four times. She might re-cut a pattern fifteen times until she got it right, but that was different; that was her passion. She guessed this anniversary meal must be enormously important to Lucy, especially since she detested cooking so much.

Nell glanced around the small but homely kitchen. It was immaculate, with everything in its place. With Lucy in charge, how could it be anything but? There was a huge bunch of fragrant yellow flowers on the windowsill, brightening the room. There were always flowers in the kitchen; it was Lucy’s thing – well, Luke’s thing for Lucy.

Nell watched her, wondering why she had been cold-shouldered over the past few months. They were close and had been ever since Luke introduced Lucy to the family, so it was inexplicable. Upsetting, too.

Nell rolled her shoulders. It didn’t matter. Lucy was being friendly again; they would be back on track in no time. Besides, was it only Lucy’s fault they hadn’t talked much recently? Nell had her own reasons for not challenging the distance that had developed between them.

‘They won’t cook any quicker if you stare at them, you know,’ Nell found herself saying to Lucy. ‘God, I’m turning into my mum. Stop me if I start banging on about the WI and poking my nose into everyone’s business, won’t you?’

‘Nell, I don’t think you’re in any danger of that.’

This was followed by a semi-snort and Nell wondered if she had imagined the slight edge to Lucy’s tone. Perhaps not. Her mum was horrendously nosy – they berated her for it all the time – and Nell knew that Lucy was a very private person.

Lucy straightened, her face flushed from the oven. ‘So. I’m cheating a bit with a tomato bruschetta starter and I think I can just about cook the herby lamb things. It’s just these awful, pissing meringues.’ She wiped her furrowed brow. ‘I mean, how is it possible to undercook them, overcook them and, my best one yet … turn them into shrivelled cowpats?’

‘You know this is like the blind leading the blind?’ Nell picked up the iPad Luke had left on the counter. ‘How to cook the perfect meringue,’ she began, skim-reading the page. ‘Right. Apparently, you need to use a glass bowl, you mustn’t get yolks into the whites and it’s imperative that you use cream of tartar. What the hell is cream of tartar?’

‘Buggered if I know,’ Lucy replied, looking crestfallen. ‘This was a really, really bad idea.’

Nell spotted a recipe on the internet page. ‘Why not make Eton mess instead? If you have a meringue that’s even vaguely decent, you could smash it up, smother it with cream and slap some berries on top. Luke won’t even know he’s eating a cowpat.’

‘Genius. I’m sold.’ Looking relieved, Lucy took a seat on a bar stool, her movements measured and careful, Nell noted. Why? What was that about?

Lucy pointed at the magazine Nell was thumbing through. ‘Vogue. That’s probably a fashion student’s bible, isn’t it? Too many adverts for me, I’m afraid.’

‘I’d kill to feature in one of those adverts. My fashion line, I mean. That’s the plan … one day.’

‘The next Vivienne Westwood.’

‘Just … the new Nell Harte.’ Nell felt herself flushing. She probably sounded pretentious. ‘You know what I mean, though. I don’t want to be compared to anyone else. I just want to do my thing.’ She needn’t have worried; Lucy hadn’t noticed, seemingly preoccupied, if in a rather vague way, with a carton of coconut water.

‘So, what’s new with you?’

‘Me? Not much. You know my life is dull. Do you have any news?’

Lucy shook her head, casting her eyes down. ‘Not really. Obviously I got married five years ago today, but apart from that … nothing much to report, I’m afraid.’

Nell considered her sister-in-law. There was something different about her. She was wearing a new top, a floaty, floral effort, which wasn’t her usual taste, but it wasn’t just the clothes. Lucy had a great figure for fashion – slim, not remotely busty, slight hips – but actually, there seemed to be a fairly substantial bust there today. And the hips … Were they a little fuller? It was possible Lucy had put on a few pounds since they’d last had a proper chat, but Nell decided it suited her, career as a fashion model notwithstanding.

‘Would you like some?’ Nell gestured to the coconut water.

‘Ummmm, no thank you.’ Lucy pushed it away. ‘It smells gross.’

‘It doesn’t taste much better than it smells,’ Nell said, sipping it and gagging. ‘All the rage, but like many fashions, style over substance.’ She dumped it in the bin, noticing Lucy’s expression flicker. Was something wrong? Nell felt anxious, but as Lucy’s features settled, she relaxed again.

‘Patricia was popular at the barbecue yesterday,’ Lucy commented. ‘Chatted up by all sorts of … by all sorts.’

‘Yes, but she wasn’t having any of it. I don’t think she can see herself with anyone but dad. I don’t want her to replace him or anything either, but it would be nice to see her happy again.’ Nell pulled a face. ‘Not sure she gives off the right vibes though … she’s a bit …’

‘Detached?’ Lucy offered.

Nell shrugged. ‘I guess so. Yes.’

Lucy nodded distractedly. ‘It must be hard for her. I’ve only been married for five years, not the thirty – thirty three?’ She glanced at Nell who gave a nod of agreement. ‘And I can’t imagine being with anyone else but Luke. And I’m not just saying that because you’re his sister.’

Nell smiled and chewed a stubby fingernail. She didn’t know much about marriage, or relationships for that matter. She’d had a few boyfriends on and off since she was fifteen, but nothing serious. Not until now.

She was desperate to confide in someone and Lucy was here, now. Nell faltered. But maybe Luke was a better person to talk to about this. A man’s perspective. She could guess what the woman’s perspective would be. Actually, Nell mused, did she want to confess this particular deed to anyone at all? She already felt ashamed of herself and she wasn’t sure she could handle more judgement.

Hearing Luke returning from his run, Nell edged herself off the bar stool. ‘This has been lovely, but I’d better be off. I’ve got an evil new lecturer who thinks I need to work on my fashion portfolio, even though I’ve only been back at college for a few weeks.’

Nell suddenly noticed how pale Lucy looked and her brain kicked in. Swollen boobs, slightly fuller in the face, flinching at pungent smells. Of course.

‘That is evil,’ Lucy agreed. ‘Poor you.’ She stood up but remained behind the counter. ‘Thanks for the meringue advice.’

‘Any time. Thanks for the chat.’ Nell walked around the counter and pulled Lucy into a warm hug. Yes, she was definitely right about her sister-in-law. That was a firm, pregnant stomach, all right. Nell felt a shiver of apprehension. This time. Let it happen for them this time.

‘You’re not leaving?’ Luke strolled in wearing shorts and a damp-looking T-shirt. ‘I’ve got to do an extra shift this afternoon, but you can stay for a bit, can’t you?’ He sniffed an armpit. ‘Do I smell that bad?’

‘Your feet do,’ Lucy said, pulling a face.

‘I have to do some work. Yuk … how do you put up with him, Luce?’ Nell danced out of the way of his sweaty embrace and headed down the hallway.

‘You dropped this.’ Turning, she found Luke holding out a piece of paper.

She took it, feeling idiotic. ‘You didn’t—’

‘Of course I didn’t read it, Nell.’ Luke’s eyes assessed her. He was concerned, not judgemental. ‘You still do that?’

Nell gave an off-hand shrug. ‘Only now and again. That’s an old one. I – I only do it when I feel a bit, you know … anxious.’

Luke nodded, seeming to accept what she said. ‘Makes sense.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘But you know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you? Anything at all?’

‘Yes. I do. And thank you. Don’t worry about me, Luke; I’m fine. Enjoy your anniversary dinner, won’t you? Even the cow pats.’

Leaving him to ponder that gem, Nell closed the door and leant against it. Why hadn’t she said anything to Luke? He had given her the perfect opportunity to open up about it and she had chickened out. Maybe it was okay to have a secret. Like them with their baby, maybe it was okay for her to keep this to herself.

Sitting in her bedroom later that afternoon, her portfolio open and untouched on the desk in front of her, Nell fidgeted. The vintage dressmaker’s dummy she’d found in the shop in Camden – the delivery had cost more than the purchase price – stood regally next to her desk, wearing a half-finished pinafore. Nell wished she hadn’t decided to add patch pockets; they were a nightmare to sew and she kept putting it off.

Sorting through some swatches of material, Nell tried to concentrate. Aside from the whirl of feelings that seemed to be paralysing her, her focus kept being splintered by crashing noises downstairs. Her mother, sorting through her cake tins, presumably to find the perfect size for whatever she was planning to create next. She sounded as though she was auditioning for Stomp.

Perhaps baking was like taking drugs for some people? Perhaps it dulled the pain the way alcohol or cocaine did? Nell couldn’t remember her mother baking as much as this when her father had still been around, but maybe she was mistaken. God, she needed her own place. She started as she heard a knock on the door. Luke appeared.

‘Hey. What are you doing here? I only saw you earlier on …’ Nell half stood up.

‘I was worried about you. Sit down, sit down.’ Luke came in and closed the door pointedly. ‘I’m on my way to my shift but I wanted to come and see you.’

Nell was touched. ‘That’s really nice of you.’ She sat down and gestured to the bed. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a spot on the sofa in my new pad,’ she added wryly. ‘The bed is the best I can do.’

‘Still gagging to get your own place, then.’ Luke threw himself carelessly on the bed, the way only a brother would.

‘Is it that obvious?’

Nell smiled at the sight of Luke sprawled across the bed. It reminded her of the old days when they used to talk into the early hours of the morning before their mum stomped down the landing and scolded them.

‘Yeah, it is. And I don’t blame you. There’s nothing like having your own flat or whatever, but it will happen, Nell. These things take time and you’re only young.’ Luke changed tack and cut to the chase, as was his way. ‘So. The letters to dad. I know you said that was an old one I picked up earlier, but was it?’ His tone was gentle. ‘I don’t mean to pry. I just want to know that everything is all right with you. I mean, I know why you started writing those letters to dad in the first place.’ Luke’s eyes dropped to Nell’s wrists.

It was involuntary, but Nell found herself rubbing her left wrist. The right wrist bore matching scars but the left was far more deeply scored. She was right-handed; it made sense. The skin felt gnarly beneath her fingertips, a stark reminder of her past. The old feelings came rushing back. Her mouth suddenly felt parched. That inner panic, the feelings of appalling fear and apprehension were swirling in her stomach, gathering momentum. She fought them, hard. It took a minute or so, but she finally gained control again.

‘I – I … honestly only do it now and again,’ Nell confessed. ‘Write the letters, I mean. And only when something is on my mind.’

She stared up at her noticeboard. It was covered with torn-out magazine pictures, vintage postcards and quotes by Chanel, Lagerfeld, Valentino. It was her inspiration board, full of her passion. Nell couldn’t understand why recently she wasn’t moved by it. She hadn’t been since she’d met … ever since … something had changed. She expelled air, wishing she could release the tension in her heart as easily.

‘What’s on your mind, Nell?’ Luke sat up and gave her an intense stare. ‘There can’t be anything going on in your life you can’t talk to me about, surely? This is me. Nothing shocks me and nothing will make me think worse of you. You know that.’ He reached out and touched her knee. ‘You’re my little sis. I’ll always be here for you.’

Moved to tears, Nell bit her lip. She wanted to unburden herself. But what could she say? That she had met someone? Someone who was not a ‘long term prospect’ as Ade would say, mostly because he spoke and wrote as though he was approaching a bank with a business plan, but someone, nonetheless. Someone she shouldn’t have met, someone she had no right to be with. Nell shut the words down inside. She couldn’t. She loved Luke and she trusted him with her life, but her woes weren’t any of his concern right now. It was Luke and Lucy’s wedding anniversary – hardly the time for Nell to be dropping her own rather unsavoury bombshell. And with Lucy most likely pregnant again, it felt even more distasteful to own up to her own, rather shady secret.

‘Another time?’ Nell offered weakly. ‘I – I don’t know if I’m in the mood for talking today. You go and enjoy your anniversary dinner. After your shift, anyway.’ She checked her watch. ‘You’d better make a move, hadn’t you?’

Luke stood up. ‘Yeah. If you’re sure. But you know where I am, okay?’ He bent and kissed Nell’s head. ‘I don’t want you to feel alone ever again. Not like you did before. You have me and you always will.’

‘I know that. Thank you.’

‘Okay. I’ll catch you later … I’ll be in trouble if I’m late for my shift.’

Nell watched the door close behind him. Luke was right. She didn’t need to feel alone. She had people she could talk to. She had her friend, Lisa – although Nell was fairly certain what Lisa’s reaction would be to her news. Touching her wrist again briefly, Nell tugged her portfolio towards her and re-read her assignment. She had a lot of work to do. She’d be far better spending her time doing that than dwelling on her love life. There would be time enough for her to discuss her relationship woes with Luke. She’d tell him next time she saw him.

CHAPTER SIX
Lucy

‘The food was amazing, really.’ Luke took my hand across the table. ‘I loved the Eton mess. Loved it.’

‘Are you sure?’

I wanted to believe him, but I actually thought I’d burnt the meringues. Luke had (very sweetly) asked for seconds, but that was only because he had impeccable manners. Only an utter gentleman would have made such a furore over a couple of soggy bruschetta and a plate of over-cooked herby lamb.

I sighed. I had no idea why I had bothered to try and cook. Neither of us were drinking, as I couldn’t and because there was a chance Luke might have to go back to work. It might have helped wash down the terrible food I had cooked. I fervently hoped Luke didn’t have to go back. We needed this meal, this time together. It was our wedding anniversary and we’d both been so stressed about the pregnancy.

But, cooking aside, I had come up trumps on the gift front this time. I’d bought Luke an oak chopping board with ‘Antihero’ carved into the side which was a literary joke about his job. It had cost me an arm and a leg, not that I cared about that.

‘Aaah.’ Luke looked sheepish. ‘I don’t have your gift yet. I mean, I have a card and the gift will follow, if that makes sense.’

‘Oh. Okay. No problem.’

I admit it; I was taken-aback. For Luke not to produce a gift was unlike him, out of character.

As he opened his chopping board, I drew his card out of its envelope.

Darling Lucy

Another incredible year together. I’m proud to call you my girl every single day and I know we will soon be holding our baby and moaning about sleepless nights. I long to moan about sleepless nights! Your gift will be here soon, and it’s a good one, I promise!

Love always, Luke x

‘Awww.’ I was touched. It was a lovely message … the best.

‘I love this,’ Luke said, turning the chopping board over in his hands. ‘Antihero. Ha ha, brilliant!’

‘Better that you do all the cooking in future.’ I pulled a face at the burnt meringues and stood up to start clearing the plates.

‘Don’t be daft. Hey, sorry about the delay with the gift, but honestly, it will be worth the wait.’ His face was earnest. ‘You know I always get on board with the whole present thing. But this gift took a bit longer than I thought it would and I have one thing left to do to make it perfect.’

I shifted in my seat. I had vague backache but our chairs were notoriously uncomfortable.

‘You look amazing, you know that?’

‘Do I?’ I glanced down at my dress. I’d made an effort with a teal-coloured jersey concoction with capped sleeves and a deep V-neck that made the most of my new-found cleavage. It was a romantic dress for what I was determined would be a romantic night. The process of IVF was curiously neutral. Intimate in its own freakish way, but not between husband and wife. I wanted tonight to be about myself and Luke – about reconnecting – and most importantly, about remembering why we got together in the first place.

Luke turned in his chair and pulled me closer so I was standing between his legs. ‘That dress is lovely, but it’s not that. I haven’t wanted to say this to you before now, because of … well, you know. But pregnancy suits you. You look beautiful. Really beautiful. It takes my breath away just to look at you.’

I was lost for words. Completely lost. I felt Luke’s hand on my waist. He moved it across my stomach, across my swollen bump.

‘I’m so excited about our future,’ he said, his eyes clouding over with emotion. ‘This is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to us, I just know it.’

‘Me too.’

I felt such an intense rush of happiness, it threatened to blind me. This was going to be the making of us. This baby was everything we had ever wanted and I was going to do my very best to enjoy the final months of my pregnancy, to embrace this experience. I had wanted to so badly, but fear had held me back. I covered Luke’s hand with mine so we were holding my bump together.

Luke stood up, cupping my neck. He kissed me, a sweet, gentle kiss that became more urgent. I kissed him back, sliding my arms around his waist. I knew his back was super-sensitive, so I ran my hands across it, smiling as he flinched with pleasure. He groaned.

I smiled, bending to kiss him again. I liked making Luke groan.

‘No, it’s my phone,’ he said, reaching down and drawing it out of his pocket. ‘It must be work.’

‘Ignore it?’ I said hopefully, resting my forehead on his shoulder. Oh, the frustration.

‘I can’t. Shit.’ Luke checked the message. ‘I need to go in. Christ. Talk about bad timing. It’s only a four hour shift, but still. Sorry, Luce.’ He gave me a kiss, the kind that had a ring of promise. ‘Let’s reconvene later. Or in the morning. Shall we?’

I nodded. I could wait until then. Reluctantly, I let go of him, our fingers touching until the last second.

‘We are such saps; I love it.’ Luke headed out of the room, throwing a grin over his shoulder. ‘Laters, dude.’

I held up a hand in farewell, the other wrapped around my tummy.

Five hours later

My back felt tight and cramps spiralled through my groin. I slowly lowered myself on to the bed. I hadn’t imagined it. That burning sensation I had been feeling earlier down one side of my groin was becoming more acute, the pain thrumming through my body. To think that earlier, all I was worrying about was burnt meringues and leathery lamb. Now, my adrenalin was pumping like crazy and I could hear rushing in my ears.

Where was Luke? I had left him a message, just a brief one, calm and without a hint of panic, but I hadn’t heard back from him. The panic I had hidden was taking hold, gripping me round the throat. I needed to talk to someone, but it was Sunday; my midwife didn’t seem to be on call today. I’d left her a message, too, not bothering to hide my terror this time.

I took some deep breaths, trying to work out whether I could move. There wasn’t any blood; that had to be a good sign. The other times, there had always been blood. Blood before any proper cramps. I was tired, I had morning sickness from dawn until dusk and I was suffering from crippling migraines. But these were symptoms of a normal pregnancy; I had been assured of this.

Where the hell was Luke? His shift was a four hour one, I remembered him saying that. It had been five hours now and he still wasn’t back.

My entire body felt icy with fear. The fear gripped me like a hand around my throat, choking me, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I was trying my best to stay calm, not to think the worst. But the pain was increasing with every passing second. My gut was telling me that something was very wrong. I needed Luke. Luke was the only person who could ever support me in these situations. He was the only person who understood me, who knew how to pull me out of the pit of despair I was spiralling into. Or to catch me if the worst happened.

I gasped as another painful cramp consumed me. I scrabbled for my mobile again. I could call Dee. I needed to speak to someone, to be reassured. No, I needed to get to hospital. Although I knew that if something had started to go wrong, there wasn’t much that could stop it. I had been here before, so many times. But still, I needed to go. I just … didn’t want to move. I just wanted to hold off a tiny bit longer, cling to the dream for a few more seconds. As soon as I called someone, it would become real.

Another sharp cramp shocked me with its force and made me reach for my mobile. This wasn’t right; it didn’t feel right. As a strong cramp tore through me, I bent over and screamed.

Twelve hours later

‘Sweetheart, are you all right?’

I opened my eyes to find an unfamiliar face looming above mine. The eyes were full of sympathy and there was a hand holding my shoulder firmly. I was in a bed, but it wasn’t mine; it was hard and unyielding and there was a starchy sheet pulled up around me, the cotton crisp.

‘You were crying in your sleep,’ the woman said, patting me. ‘It’s totally understandable in the circumstances. I’ve just started my shift, so I’ll be here all night with you. Just call if you need me.’ She moved away quietly, tending to someone else in a bed nearby.

Crying in my sleep? I blinked. My eyelids felt heavy and sore. I was in a hard bed with stiff sheets and the woman – I checked out the unflattering uniform – was a nurse. I was in hospital. What was I doing here? Where was Luke? I shifted myself up, beginning to feel scared. I felt bruised, inside and out. I moved my hands tentatively until they were on my stomach. It wasn’t flat and it still felt firm-ish but I could tell it was … hollow. Empty.

I felt a sob rising in my throat. The memories came back in a rush: the pain, the frantic phone calls to the midwife, to Luke, and eventually, to Dee, who must’ve called the hospital. I gripped the sheet. Doctors, nurses, my clothes being removed, a gown being tied. My hand being held tightly by someone (Dee? A nurse?) and screaming for Luke. But he hadn’t come. And I had … God, I couldn’t even think about what I’d had to go through. Stillborn, they said. Just one of those dreadful, regrettable things, they said, stroking my sticky hair from my face.

My beautiful, four-month-old baby … the baby we had longed for, was gone forever. They said it was a girl. This, I had taken in. A girl. A girl who should have had stars on her ceiling and a pretty, lilac bedroom.

I put my hands on my face and started sobbing, chest heaving, shoulders shaking.

‘Oh, darling.’ Dee appeared carrying two paper cups with lids. Her blonde hair was in disarray and she was wearing a pair of Hello Kitty pyjama trousers and a massive grey Transformers T-shirt that must have belonged to Dan. ‘I’m so desperately sorry.’

I started to cry again, hating myself for being such a girl. But it mattered, it mattered so much. The pain was unbearable. Not the physical pain, the other kind.

Dee put down the coffee. ‘I guessed your news at the barbecue when you didn’t drink Dan’s sangria.’ She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I don’t even know what to say to you because it’s so bloody cruel. I’m so fucking angry that this has happened to you again.’

‘Where’s Luke?’ My voice sounded croaky.

Dee shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been so worried about you, I left it to Dan. He’s been calling and calling, but he can’t track him down.’

‘Did you check my phone?’

Dee bit her lip. ‘No. Sorry, Lucy; I didn’t even think … it’s all been so dramatic …’

‘It’s okay. I’ll have a look. Where is it Nurse?’

The nurse turned back to us. She picked up my notes and then her expression changed. ‘Lucy Harte? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. You’re Luke Harte’s wife.’

‘Yes.’ I sat up. ‘Has something happened?’

Dee stood up, her eyes darting around. ‘What’s going on? Please tell us.’

The nurse hung the notes back on the bed, her mouth tight. ‘I’m going to get someone to come and see you. Wait here please, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

I turned to Dee urgently. ‘My phone …’

She rummaged in the bedside cabinet and found it. ‘Here. Jesus, there are tons of missed messages. Are they from him?’

‘No. Oh my God. I can’t … Dee.’ I listened to one of the messages. ‘They’re from Joe, Luke’s partner. Christ, he’s been in an accident – a serious one …’ I put a hand to my mouth. ‘We have to find him, now. Dee, help me … please.’ I flipped back the sheet and swung my legs over the side of the bed, trembling as my feet hit the cold floor.

Dee stood paralysed. ‘Shouldn’t we just wait? Oh fuck it, we’re doing this. I brought you some clothes …’

‘No time. I want to find Luke.’ I was petrified. What had happened to Luke?

‘I get that, but … hang on.’ Dee tore off her T-shirt, revealing a pink vest top. ‘Put this on. And these.’ She grabbed a pair of my flip flops from the side cabinet and threw them down by my feet. Grimly determined in spite of my fear, I led the way and we took a lift, two sets of stairs and meandered down several corridors. Dee kept trying to thrust me into empty wheelchairs that were lying around, but I refused, pausing only once to ask someone the way. The slap, slap, slap of my flip flops on the scrubbed hospital floor was driving me nuts, the sound incongruous against the relative hush of the corridors.

We were given directions to Luke’s room and my heart threatened to leap out of my chest. I felt Dee reaching for my hand and I curled my fingers around hers.

We went in together, almost bumping into a youngish doctor – or was he a consultant? He had some notes in his hand and he was talking to a nurse. They were in the way of the bed and I couldn’t see Luke.

‘Mrs Harte? I was just about to come and find you. I’m Dr Wallis, Luke’s consultant.’ He seemed surprised to see me, but he was calm and pleasant.

I squeezed Dee’s fingers. My terror was barely contained; it simmered just below the surface. I could feel the blood pumping round my body, was suddenly aware of its ebb and flow.

Dr Wallis turned to me. ‘This will probably be shocking for you, but I’m going to talk you through what happened to Luke tonight, okay?’

I think I nodded.

I stared past him, trying to catch sight of Luke. When I did, I felt as though I’d been knocked sideways. He didn’t look like himself at all. His lovely face was caked with dark, dried blood, especially round his mouth. Someone had tried to clean him up but there had obviously been more important things to tend to.

‘Luke was brought into A&E some hours ago,’ Dr Wallis was saying. ‘He was assessed by the trauma team and he was immediately referred to the general surgery team. The most life-threatening condition that needed to be dealt with was Luke’s ruptured spleen.’

A ruptured spleen. I searched my memory, trying to recall Luke’s study notes, the ones he used to recite aloud before exams. A ruptured spleen was dangerous but it might heal on its own or it could be removed.

I glanced at Luke again. His body was still, bizarrely so. Luke was never still; he was constantly talking, laughing, goofing around. He had bandages binding almost every limb, halting him, keeping him inert. He looked completely broken. Broken; as though he was made out of china, not from bones and organs and skin. What the hell had happened to him?

The specialist’s voice swam into my consciousness. As well as the ruptured spleen, Luke had several broken bones, including ribs, both legs and collarbone. Damage to the spine, full extent of damage not yet known. A head injury resulting from a shaft of metal from the front grill of the lorry sticking out of Luke’s head like a chocolate flake in an ice cream cone. Surgery to remove the metal.

‘Luke also had a cardiac arrest when he was brought into A&E,’ Dr Wallis said gently. ‘We think this was as a result of hypovolemic shock, brought on by his ruptured spleen. Spleens bleed like you wouldn’t believe,’ he added, ‘which in turn means there is a high risk of this kind of heart attack.’

‘This kind of heart attack?’ Dee asked, looking dazed. ‘Is there more than one kind?’

Dr Wallis smiled at her. ‘Yes. But I won’t bore you with the details of the other kind. The only other thing I must add, Mrs Harte, is that we are monitoring Luke closely as he is at high risk of developing a blood clot. We call it an embolus,’ he said, I think for Dee’s benefit. ‘Luke has undergone extensive surgery and now that he is immobile and in a comatose state, this is something that can be a concern.’

Really? A possible ‘embolus’ was cause for concern? Jesus. My brain couldn’t compute any of this. I flinched inwardly from the onslaught of information; I had to break it down. Broken bones could be mended – or operated on, worst case. The spleen had been dealt with. Comas were beyond my comprehension though, not something I could drag from my memory bank.

I walked slowly to the bed. Luke was hooked up to lots of machines. They were beeping intermittently, overlapping one another with shrill monotony.

I reached out a hand. It was shaking horribly. I wanted to touch him. Would he feel cold to touch? No, how silly. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, accompanied by artificial sucking and blowing noises, which would have sounded comical, except that they were anything but. I took Luke’s hand. It was warm. Warm, but motionless. I gripped his hand, willing him to respond. His face remained immobile, his eyelids not even fluttering at the touch. He wasn’t Luke.

Dr Wallis was still talking. ‘The next few days will be critical. How Luke responds to his injuries early on will be a key indication of his overall recovery, but there is much for him to get through. If he stays in the coma for a few days or more, we’ll probably run a CT scan. This rules out bleeds or infarcts.’ His expression, when my utter bewilderment gave away how little I was following, was apologetic. ‘As traumatic as this is for you to see, Luke’s coma is probably helping him right now.’

I nodded. That I remembered. The coma was protecting Luke from the pain – it was the body’s way of shutting down and coping. The specialist murmured a few more words to Dee, then left. The nurse stayed. Protocol in ICU; I knew that.

‘He’s going to be all right,’ Dee said, putting her hand on mine. Her voice sounded artificially bright and I knew without turning round that she was crying. ‘He’s going to pull through and when he does, he’s going to tell us to stop being so silly and emotional.’

‘He … he doesn’t know about the baby, Dee.’ My chin quivered. ‘Should I tell him about the baby? What do I …? I don’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, darling.’ Dee bent down and curled her arms around my neck.

I felt her rest her face against my hair, her cheeks wet. I swallowed, twice. I could feel something rising up inside me and I knew that, when it took hold, it was going to overwhelm me. I willed Luke to wake up and make my world right again. He didn’t and it wasn’t.

My heart clenched. I had lost our baby. I had lost our baby and my best friend, the one person I needed to talk to about it, was lying in a coma. I needed Luke’s arms around me. I needed him to tell me it was all going to be all right, even though I knew it wasn’t. I just wanted to hear his voice.

When Joe – Luke’s paramedic partner – urgently dashed in and started telling me what had happened, I found myself unable to be brave any longer. Hearing Joe’s earnest, apologetic account of the ghastly details, I broke down and sobbed.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Patricia

Thirty minutes later, Patricia arrived at the hospital. Inside Luke’s room, she stopped abruptly in front of the bed. She wasn’t prepared … she hadn’t known what state he would be in. Lucy had left her a garbled message and, as soon as she had received it, Patricia had pulled on some clothes and driven to the hospital. But she hadn’t expected this – she hadn’t anticipated seeing her son looking as though he’d been broken in half and battered with a hammer.

Patricia felt hysteria coiling up inside her. My boy. My beautiful boy.

‘What happened? How could this have happened?’ Her voice became shrill even though she wasn’t sure who exactly she was addressing. A nurse looked up. She was unperturbed by the emotional outburst and seemed about to speak, but when someone else entered the room she placidly returned to her notes.

‘Mrs Harte. I’m so sorry.’

Distraught, Patricia turned. The young man who had just entered the room was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She willed her brain to catch up.

‘I’m sorry. Have we … do I know you?’ Patricia noticed that he was wearing the same teal outfit Luke wore. He was a paramedic.

‘I’m Joe, Luke’s partner,’ the man explained. He was pale and his uniform was streaked with blood.

Patricia stared at it, sickened. Was that her son’s blood? She put her hand to her mouth. She was in danger of throwing up all over Joe’s trainers if she didn’t concentrate with every fibre of her being. Patricia turned away. She focused on Luke again, trying to make sense of everything.

This wasn’t right; she wasn’t meant to see her son’s life hanging in the balance like this. If anyone should leave this earth first, it should be her. Not that he was going to die. She wouldn’t allow it. She would gather him up in her arms and bloody-well breathe for him if it came down to it.

Patricia was stricken. What could she do for her boy?

‘I – I drive the ambulance,’ Joe said, raising his voice a little. He rubbed a hand over his neck, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Luke’s inert body.

‘Were you with him when this …’ Patricia waved a shaky hand in Luke’s direction, ‘happened?’ Her vision swam and she was grateful when Joe guided her into the chair next to the bed, worried she might faint. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

Joe took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I was with Luke. I – I can’t believe this.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

Patricia knew she sounded peevish but she wanted to know the details.

Joe started speaking in an uneven tone. ‘We were driving to a house on Charlotte Street … a woman had fallen down the stairs, suspected broken leg. We were almost there and I was about to turn … I checked both ways. Right, left, right. It’s automatic, isn’t it? I do it twenty … forty times a day.’ He paused, the horror of the accident reflected in his eyes. ‘I turned, with plenty of time to avoid oncoming traffic and this lorry came out of nowhere. It was going so fast, but I saw it and I tried to avoid it. I nearly made it, too; it was only a glancing blow.’ Joe wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘It ploughed into Luke’s side, Mrs Harte. Right into it. The ambulance spun round once, maybe twice and then it tumbled right over and we hit the side of a house.’

Patricia sat numbly, gripping her handbag in order to contain herself. She sat primly, her knees and ankles rigidly locked. She was sure she must look frightful. Her hair was uncombed and she wore a crumpled top and skirt, the first thing she had happened upon when she had got Lucy’s message.

Patricia could hear Joe speaking, but she could barely register what he was saying. In the distance, Patricia heard a piercing cry and she panicked that she had voiced the horror spiralling up inside her. But no, it was someone else in another room. Patricia relaxed fractionally. Her agonised shrieks were still under wraps. Just about suppressed.

‘I’m just so sorry, Mrs Harte,’ Joe was saying, wringing his hands. ‘I keep going through what happened in my head, reliving it to see if there was something I could do differently.’ He shook his head. ‘But I honestly don’t think I could.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Joe,’ Patricia replied automatically. She had no idea whose fault it was, but she felt the need to reassure this poor man who clearly blamed himself.

‘Get yourself a cup of tea,’ she told him, feeling that he might appreciate some motherly concern. It was the best she could manage, in the circumstances.

The nurse nodded. ‘She’s right, Joe. Get some rest. There’s nothing more you can do here.’

Clearly dazed and perhaps realising he was superfluous, Joe left the room.

‘What’s going to happen to my son?’ Patricia asked the nurse. ‘Can someone please tell me? I’m … I’m thinking terrible things … I just …’

‘Of course.’ The nurse smoothly reassured her. ‘Dr Wallis, Luke’s specialist, has already been through the details with your daughter-in-law and I’m sure you’ll be spoken to as well.’

Patricia nodded dazedly.

‘Your daughter-in-law should be back soon,’ the nurse reiterated. ‘She’s just gone for some final checks and then she’ll be discharged.’

Final checks? Discharged? Puzzled, Patricia stared after the nurse. Lucy hadn’t been with Luke in the ambulance, so what on earth was the nurse talking about? Turning back to Luke, Patricia found her mind focused only on him.

My brilliant, funny son, she thought. Luke had been her rock when Bernard died. Clichés were clichés for a reason, as Bernard always said, and this one was true. Luke and Ade had shouldered the coffin together with the pall bearers at the funeral and when Ade hadn’t been able to manage reading their father’s favourite poem Luke had taken over. He had politely ushered everyone out of the wake when he noticed his mother crumbling and had put his arm around her when Ade couldn’t.

‘Do stop crying now, Mum,’ Luke had said, dabbing clumsily at her face with a tissue. ‘You look like Alice Cooper. Dad couldn’t stand him.’

‘I know. He always said he looked like a panda in drag.’

Luke smiled. ‘Yeah, that was it. Look, you know you’ll always have a plus one while I’m around, Mum. I might not be as handsome as Dad but I’m a much better dancer. Dad was the king of jive, but I do a mean Time Warp.’ He had tightened his grip around her shoulders. ‘Which is far cooler, when you think about it.’

She had soaked his jumper sleeve with tears at this, grateful for his support. Ade was the eldest, but he hadn’t shown half of Luke’s gumption and when – to her surprise and intense disappointment – he had let them all down for the last time, Luke had been left to pick up the pieces.

Patricia felt the familiar flash of resentment. Someone needed to tell Ade about Luke. Would he come home? He deserved to know, he might want to come back. And where was Nell? Nell should be here; Patricia had called her as soon as she had received the call from Lucy. And where was Lucy? Patricia had no idea.

Unable to suppress it any longer, Patricia let out a heartfelt cry of anguish at what had happened to her beloved son.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Nell

Nell felt a warm arm snaking around her body. A male arm; solid and reassuring. Hairy, too. She opened her eyes blearily, wondering where she was. She snuck a look to her right. Ah, yes. It was all coming back to her now. She leant on her elbow and checked her watch. It was 4am. 4am on a Monday morning.

Nell lay back down with a jerky sigh. After struggling to concentrate on her portfolio the night before she had headed out for a few drinks with friends. It wasn’t something she normally did on a Sunday night, but for some reason, she had felt the urge to let her hair down. And somehow, she had ended up here. Nell shifted slightly, hearing Cal stir.

Nell stared at the ceiling. She hadn’t bargained on receiving a phone call from him asking her to come over to his flat late last night. Such a thing hadn’t figured in her plans and she had surprised herself by hesitating. Or rather, she had been taken aback that she had hesitated for only the briefest of moments. It had been a booty call, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Which meant that she was weak. And stupid.

Did Cal deserve this, this instant acceptance of his request? Nell bit her stumpy fingernail, then abandoned it. He had barely spoken to her over the past few weeks. He had just about acknowledged her at college, but only because it had been unavoidable.

Nell knew she should feel guilty. She should feel used. But she didn’t. She felt desired and loved and beautiful. She felt horribly guilty, too, but the other feelings were outweighing the bad stuff and that was what she was struggling with. Last night had felt special, just like the other times. It probably wasn’t though – at least, not for him. How could it be?

Nell glanced round the room, not sure she liked what she saw. It was inherently masculine with dark furniture and old-fashioned drapes she suspected had come with the flat. The classic ‘man cave.’ But, on reflection, perhaps the fact that it lacked a woman’s touch was for the best.

‘Hey.’

Nell turned over. Cal’s blonde hair was tousled and his eyes were a murky green in the faded light. He wasn’t handsome, by any stretch of the imagination. He had a crooked nose, his face was a craggy map of wrinkles and he really needed a shave because her chin was ripped to pieces. He was also nearly thirty years older than her. And that wasn’t the worst part.

Nell studied Cal. It was his mind she admired, his intellect. He was older, wiser, experienced and … yes, he was caring. He really was. Other women definitely found him sexy – she had heard some of her friends discussing him in lectures. Not that he actually conducted many these days. Since he’d been promoted to the title of professor, he told Nell, his days were spent wading through paperwork with the ‘odd, joyous moment of teaching’ thrown in.

Yes, Nell decided. Cal was sexy. But there had to be more to it, otherwise she was going straight to hell. She didn’t have a current reference – the only one she could come up with was to liken Cal to the actor, Richard Burton. Maybe it was the Welsh thing; Nell wasn’t sure. Or the charisma. Or the …

‘I’m glad you came over.’ Cal reached out and stroked her thigh.

Nell leant over to grab her T-shirt, pulling it over her head. ‘Where’s my phone? I thought I heard it in the night.’

‘Haven’t a clue.’ Cal yawned. ‘Check the floor. Most of your stuff ended up there.’

Nell got out of bed and gathered up her things. Finding her phone, she frowned, noticing a number of missed calls and texts. Feeling a shiver of apprehension, she listened to one of them and, in a heartbeat, she was galvanised into action. Pulling her clothes on haphazardly, she grabbed her handbag and threw on her jacket.

‘Is something wrong?’ Cal sat up, his eyes radiating concern.

‘My brother … I have to get to the hospital.’

‘He works there, right?’

Nell urgently headed towards the door. ‘He’s been in an accident. It’s serious.’

Concerned, Cal padded over to her in his boxer shorts. He wore surprisingly trendy underwear for his age. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No. No thanks. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll be back for your lecture next week … especially as you don’t lecture much these days.’ She held something out. ‘Here.’

Cal’s fingers curled into a fist and his expression was rueful. ‘Call me later. I know how much your brother means to you.’

A sob caught in Nell’s throat. She wasn’t sure Cal had the first idea how she felt about Luke; their feelings about the importance of family hardly tallied. No, that was unfair. He did understand. And he did realise how important family was, which was why he was beating himself up about what they were doing.

Cal caught her arm suddenly, pulling her close. Their noses touched. ‘You know there has never been anyone else, don’t you? I’ve never done this before. It’s you … it’s only because of the way I feel about you.’

Nell nodded, feeling a flash of pleasure. She left Cal standing in his boxers clutching his cold, abandoned wedding band and started frantically combing the streets for a taxi.

‘Mum, calm down. He’s going to pull through.’

Nell tried to take a full breath but found that she couldn’t. She had tried hard to imagine how awful Luke might look on her taxi ride to the hospital, but this wasn’t what she had expected. The sticky, rust-brown blood, the machines, Luke’s dreadful pallor. It was shocking to see her brother, such a vital person, reduced to this.

‘How do you know that? How can you possibly know that Luke will pull through?’ Her mother was a mess, both physically and emotionally. Her hair was all over the place and she could barely string a sentence together. Pacing from one end of the room to another, she couldn’t sit still for a second and it was putting Nell’s nerves on edge, like someone stroking a cat the wrong way.

‘I don’t know, Mum,’ Nell admitted. They were both shell-shocked, but for some reason, she felt that she should be the one saying all the right things. She hadn’t cried yet, but she wanted to, just for the sheer release it would bring. ‘I’m just trying to think positively, is all.’

‘Where the hell have you been, anyway? Why didn’t you come as soon as I called you?’ Patricia’s tone was accusatory, but she probably didn’t realise how she sounded.

Nell’s opened her mouth then thought better of it. What could she say? That she’d been in bed with a married man – a professor at her college, no less? No. It was unthinkable, especially right at this moment.

Nell glanced at Luke. And to think she had waited to confide in him about Cal. Why had she waited? What was the point? Now it was too late. Not too late; what a stupid thing to think. Luke was going to come out of this, but Nell cursed herself for leaving it, for feeling the need to be secretive, even for a short while.

‘Lucy.’ Nell was stunned at the sight of her sister-in-law. She wore a grey Transfomers T-shirt and a pair of flowery flip flops. Her cheeks were as grey as her top and her legs, naked up to mid-thigh, looked pale and vulnerable.

Nell stared at her, thinking how young Lucy looked without make-up. She looked out of place, like a student who’d wandered downstairs for breakfast after a heavy night.

Catching sight of her, Patricia spun round. ‘Lucy. You must be distraught. Are you all right? And what are you wearing?’

Nell stared at Lucy. There was something strange about the exhausted slump of Lucy’s shoulders, about the empty look in her eyes. Something else had happened. Something terrible. Nell’s eyes dropped to Lucy’s stomach. It looked oddly deflated. Nell felt a cry rising up and she clapped a hand to her mouth to keep it in.

Lucy slid into the chair next to Luke’s bed, tiredly leaning her head against the wall. ‘I – I was pregnant. Nearly sixteen weeks.’ She wavered, clasping her knees with her hands.

‘Was?’ Patricia’s hands started to shake.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Tears slid down Lucy’s cheeks but her eyes seemed strangely glazed. ‘I lost the baby in the night. They don’t know why. They … they never know why.’

Patricia let out a strangled gasp.

‘IVF, last attempt,’ Lucy managed. ‘A … a little girl.’

‘No. Oh, Lucy, no.’ Patricia shook her head repeatedly, back and forth, back and forth. She made to step forward, but her movements were wooden.

Nell took Lucy’s hand. It was small and cold, like a child’s. She hated that she had been right, that Lucy had been pregnant. And worst of all that she wasn’t any more. Four months, four whole months. That only made the loss all the more tragic. And now Luke was in a coma. Poor, poor Lucy.

Nell felt something ripple up inside and she struggled to hold it back. Now wasn’t the time for a panic attack. That would be selfish and inappropriate. Lucy was suffering a double tragedy; she was only suffering one. She simply had to breathe. In, out, concentrate, focus. Wasn’t that what her therapist always used to say?

Nell saw her mother open her mouth, begin to say something. Almost in slow motion, Nell urged her to say nothing, to think before she spoke. Her mother wasn’t known for her tact and Lucy had already been destroyed.

‘Please don’t,’ Lucy said, before any words – right or wrong – could be uttered aloud. ‘Patricia. Please. Please. I … I can’t …’

Nell glanced at her mother, seeing the words freeze in her throat.

It was too much, too much for anyone to bear. Nell couldn’t imagine how Lucy must be feeling. Losing their final IVF baby and now this, Luke, in a coma. Nell wanted to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come.

Nell tried to ignore the sterile air that was permeating her nostrils, doing her best to put the image of Luke’s rust-stained head out of her mind. Luke was going to be all right. He had to be. They needed him. They all needed him. Nell’s thoughts shifted uncontrollably to her father and Ade. She had lost them, both of them. One had died, one had run away. Nell shrunk inside, transported to her teenage years. She was out of control, floundering, and now she was on the brink of losing another anchor.

Not Luke as well, not Luke as well …

Nell gritted her teeth. All she had to do was breathe. She couldn’t fall apart and she couldn’t act like this was worse for her than it was for anyone else. She simply had to breathe. Simple.

CHAPTER NINE
Lucy

There hadn’t been much change to speak of. They said it was to be expected after such a severe accident and it was only the following day, so I shouldn’t be downhearted about Luke’s vitals looking pretty much the same.

Vitals. Vital signs. In Luke’s case, in the state he was in, the description seemed to underline how very … un-vital he was. His body was too still, as if his dynamic energy and spirit was being held down beneath the sheets.

The hours since discovering him in ICU had limped past with agonising, unremarkable slowness. Another trip to surgery, the promise of a CT head scan which would reveal any bleeds or larger blood clots, but no real change.

The kindly Dr Wallis had been replaced by another consultant, or rather, a surgeon; a man with enormous teeth like tombstones. Apparently, this was all very normal; patients in a state of trauma were dealt with by a team of people, the lead changing as each different issue was dealt with. And this new consultant seemed incompetent by comparison. Perhaps he simply lacked Dr Wallis’s excellent bedside manner, but when he evenly stated that Luke’s leg was ‘shattered,’ I couldn’t help shivering. Shattered. Was that the finest choice of words? Was that the diplomatic best a consultant could come up with? Shattered was a word most people used to describe a broken glass. On the upside, not that the consultant described it that way, Luke’s spinal injury was not as bad as they had first thought.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Harte,’ a nurse said, coming in with a trolley. ‘I need to change Luke’s dressings. You can stay if you wish …?’

I shook my head. I hadn’t presumed myself squeamish, but when it came to Luke, I was. I’d rarely seen him bleeding before, a situation that had only come to my attention in the past day or so. Sure, Luke had cut himself when he was chopping vegetables or whatever, and he’d taken a tumble while running once – an amusing incident involving a fox and a badly lit alley way. That time, he’d come back with a cut knee, a grazed elbow and a slightly sheepish expression, full of anecdotal details about the ‘bastard fox’ that had felled him. But that was it. He’d gone from childish knee-scraping to full-on gore in the space of a day. I wasn’t used to seeing Luke’s body falling apart. He put people back together, or at least he started to. At the scene of an accident, Luke leapt out and started the process of re-assembling and healing.

‘I have to change his catheter now,’ the nurse said. She looked cheerful rather than embarrassed, but was giving me the heads up if I wanted to leave. ‘I can do this blindfolded; it’s you I’m thinking of.’

I left. Luke gave me enough backchat for barging into our ensuite bathroom at home. ‘Can’t a man pee in peace, Stripes?’ he’d yell as I apologetically giggled and backed out of the room with my hands over my eyes. The man had an absolute horror of being watched during seemingly innocuous toilet rituals.

God; even trivial memories of Luke made my heart feel as if it might explode. What was wrong with me?

I drifted into the waiting area. It was a dismal space; stark and unwelcoming, which was strange considering the amount of time friends and family of seriously hurt people spent in it. I realised the hospital budget didn’t run to accent cushions and brightly coloured wall prints, but the hard, plastic chairs were unforgiving and not for long-term use. I sat on one of them and brought my knees up to my chest. My stomach felt … vacant. It was still rather wobbly, but the skin was contracting quickly. I’d spent however many years of my life without a baby inside me but now, everything about not having one there felt wrong to me. I closed my eyes, pushing back hot tears that I knew would fall if I let them. In a final act of cruelty, every pregnancy symptom had disappeared, almost immediately, in fact. My breasts were no longer tender, the intense nausea had dissipated, and with it, the special glow I had felt inside at harbouring a new life. And that unique fluttering sensation … I fumbled over this. That incredible, joyous feeling of my baby moving and stretching inside me had gone and I could barely remember what it felt like. I even missed the hideous nausea because it had been such an inherent part of my pregnancy.

I gripped my knees. The sorrow I felt for our lost baby was overwhelming and, without Luke, I couldn’t make sense of it. Was it my ‘hostile environment’ that had caused this to happen? Or was there some other reason this last little IVF baby hadn’t been able to stick around? I had called my parents to let them know and they had been concerned, but predictably detached – or perhaps I felt detached from them and their well-intentioned, but somehow neutral, reaction to both bits of shocking news.

Did I want them to come down from Scotland, my mother had asked? I told them not to, that I would contact them if … when, Luke’s prognosis changed. I couldn’t see the point; my mother would be caring enough, but unable to offer me much in the way of emotional support, and my father would pat me woodenly and look uncomfortable. No, I was better off with Dee and Dan – with Nell. Patricia, even. Although things were still a little strained between us. That unspoken reproach of hers towards me over the baby stuff jabbed at me bitterly. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I had rather too much to worry about in terms of Luke’s future right now to stress about Patricia’s motives.

I felt bleak, but I couldn’t help thinking that Luke would be urging me to pull myself together and be optimistic. Whatever happened, Luke always tried to see the positive in things. I wandered back into his room, certain the new wee bag must be in place by now.

The nurse absently smoothed the bed sheet into place. ‘Have you and your husband … Luke, been together long?’

‘Five years. No, sorry. We’ve been married for five years, but together for much longer than that.’

I took a seat next to Luke. He had been properly cleaned up and his freckles were visible beneath his fading tan. The bruise on his forehead was developing into a spectrum of impressive colours, as if Tilly or Frankie had been making his face up with eyeshadow. Most of his body was still tightly bandaged and the machines continued their monosyllabic blip and chhhh noises, over-compensating for Luke’s complete silence.

It was so unlike him, to be silent, I thought, as I sat on the edge of his bed. Ever since we’d met, Luke had been at the centre of everything.

CHAPTER TEN
Lucy and Luke

June, eight years earlier

‘Please come,’ Dee pleaded. We were sitting in the tiny garden of her flat on the outskirts of Bath drinking very strong gin and tonics. ‘It’s a party; what’s not to like?’

‘Whose party?’

I adjusted my chair. It was one of those fold-up things that made one’s backside sweaty and one’s posture inelegant. Recently boyfriend-less, I wasn’t in the mood to hear about a party, let alone go to it. I berated myself for being so grumpy.

‘Liberty’s.’ Dee pulled a face. ‘She’s pretentious, I know, but her parties are fabulous, Luce. Champagne in the bath, trendy live music.’

I glanced at her. There had to be more to it than that. Champagne and trendy live music were two a penny in the circles Dee moved in, even if Liberty’s parents did own a gorgeous stately home thing just outside Bath. There was a man involved; there had to be.

I pulled at my hair, which was in desperate need of some sort of hair product. Heat made it frizz up like those bright orange crisps, Nik Naks. My hair wasn’t orange, you understand. Just … full of kinks.

‘Who’s going?’ I asked. It was a pointed question.

‘Dan Sheppard,’ Dee admitted, knowing there was no point in denying it.

I smiled. Dan Sheppard was an arty type Dee had recently met at her brother’s barbecue. Usually cool about men she had a thing for, she’d talked about him non-stop since they’d met and that meant that Dee was serious about him.

I gulped down my gin and tonic. I knew I’d be going to the party, because my friend needed a wing-woman. But I was feeling rather low right now. Lack of boyfriend aside, I’d been working in a book shop for almost a year at this point and the literary degree I’d finished seven years ago felt like a distant memory. I felt as if I had lost my way a bit because, even though I wasn’t overly ambitious, I did want to do something fulfilling with my life, something I enjoyed.

‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ I offered lamely.

Dee leapt out of her fold-up chair – no mean feat – and kissed my cheek. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! And I have plenty of clothes you can borrow. Let’s go and find you a dress …’

And so it was that I found myself at Liberty’s party, wearing a too-short, black-and-white-striped dress of Dee’s that had me yanking the almost-pointless hem down over my bottom every two minutes. I made suitable murmurs of appreciation at the magnums of Moët nestling in ice in the marble bath, and I dutifully agreed that the rather shouty live band Liberty had hired would be fantastic at Dee’s brother’s wedding in the autumn.

Sitting outside clutching a glass of champagne, even though I would have preferred a gin and slimline or one of Dee’s Salt ‘n’ Peppa Vodkas, I nudged her. Liberty was heading over with a brown-haired man wearing slouchy Levi’s and a Foo Fighters T-shirt. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Dan Sheppard. I sighed. I was terrible at small talk.

‘This is Luke Harte,’ Liberty announced, pushing him forward like some sort of trophy wife. ‘He’s funny, charming and ridiculously clever, so I knew you’d both want to meet him.’

Luke Harte pulled a face. ‘Holy shit. I’ll never live up to that introduction. I’m not even remotely funny, for starters.’ He grinned, Dee laughed and Liberty melted away, job done.

Luke Harte had managed to commandeer a beer, despite everyone else being forced to drink champagne, I noted rather sourly. He looked unabashed. ‘Sorry about that. Liberty always says such embarrassing things. Hey, do you really think she’s called Liberty?’

Dee eyed him approvingly and straightened the bold, off-the-shoulder floral dress she was wearing. ‘I’m Dee. Delilah, actually,’ she said. She held her hand out.

Amused, he took it, giving it a firm, non-flirtatious shake. ‘You’re shitting me. Parents Tom Jones fans?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You must get fed up with people chorusing ‘Why, why, why’ at you when they’re drunk. A bit like being called Eileen when “Come On, Eileen” comes on. Nightmare.’

Dee was eying Luke appraisingly, almost as though she was wondering if he might be a better option than the elusive Dan Sheppard.

Luke’s eyes drifted to me. ‘What about you? Are you named after a song as well?’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, no. Nothing nearly as exciting.’

I didn’t offer up my name at this juncture; what was the point? You know – we all know – when you’ve met someone who is out of your league.

Luke Harte was good looking. A nice chin, lovely eyes. I couldn’t see the colour; it was too dark outside, but they looked friendly, sexy. He wouldn’t be interested in me. Or was that my low self-esteem talking? My last boyfriend hadn’t been a nice chap, as it turns out. Controlling and arrogant, I had recently struggled to work out why I had been attracted to him in the first place. I hadn’t expected him to cheat on me twice, or for him to finish with me citing my ‘anal retentiveness’ as the reason.

That said, I possessed enough self-awareness to know that I was pretty enough. But I wasn’t dazzling. And Luke Harte was one of life’s dazzlers. It wasn’t really about his looks – he exuded good humour and his wide smile and chatty style suggested he was used to being the life and soul of the party. Judging by the way he was leaning against the wooden post of the gazebo with a wide, chilled out smile, Luke Harte was totally at ease in social situations and, if not arrogant, then he was confident in the extreme.

Luke looked genuinely disappointed though. ‘That’s a shame,’ he responded lightly. Well, if you won’t tell me your name, I’ll just have to give you one. I hereby name you … Stripes.’ He made the announcement rather grandly and gestured to my absurd dress.

I looked down, feeling self-conscious. ‘This? It’s too short and it’s not even …’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Dee interrupted, getting to her feet. ‘Doesn’t it suit her? I told her it shows off all her best assets.’

‘It certainly does.’ Luke’s eyes didn’t leave my face.

I felt like a fraud. The dress wasn’t even mine. Liberty had been right about Luke. He was certainly charming.

‘Oooh, there’s Dan.’ Dee adjusted her dress. ‘I’ll go and say hi and grab us some more drinks.’ She teetered away in the high heels that always gave her crippling blisters and we heard her loudly introducing herself.

‘Right. That’s my cue to leave.’ I put my now-warm glass of champagne on the table and mustered up a polite smile.

‘You’re not serious, Stripes.’ Luke straightened and placed his beer can on the table next to my champagne flute. The two drinks looked curiously intimate together.

‘We’ve only just met,’ Luke added. ‘Stay. Talk to me.’ He sounded almost flirtatious.

I wasn’t equal to the task. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good company tonight.’

‘Really?’ He regarded me, seemingly concerned. ‘What’s up?’

I shrugged. I was sure Luke Harte didn’t want to hear about my relationship issues. ‘Oh, you know. Men.’

He smiled and rubbed his chin gravely. ‘Ah, men. I’m familiar with this topic. I have a younger sister, Nell. She’s told me some horrific tales about these beings.’

I couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Yes, well. I’m sure there are some nice ones out there, but my last boyfriend wasn’t one of them.’ To my surprise, I found myself giving Luke a quick run through of key events, culminating in the humiliating confession-of-cheating-but-you’re-dumped-anyway saga.

Luke frowned. ‘What an idiot your ex is. I can only apologise on behalf of my species. We’re not all like that, I promise.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ I glanced over my shoulder to check on Dee and found her sitting on Dan’s lap. She was fine, job done.

‘I can prove it if you like,’ Luke offered, his eyes creasing at the edges.

‘Prove what?’

‘That we’re not all like him. Like your idiot of an ex-boyfriend.’

Was he asking me out? Surely not. I felt panicked. I wasn’t ready for another relationship … or even a date. And with Luke Harte? I stared at him, realising he was younger than me, perhaps by five years or so. Dee would think it was brilliant if I dated a younger man, but I really wasn’t sure I was up to it.

The romantic in me gave me an inner nudge. Was this one of those moments? One of life’s opportunities that shouldn’t be missed? I just didn’t want to get hurt again.

‘Come out with me,’ Luke said, meeting my eyes. ‘For a drink. Dinner. The cinema. Bowling, if you’re feeling competitive. I’m a master bowler.’

‘I’m … I’m not very good at bowling.’ It was lame, but I didn’t know what else to say. I had a feeling I was blushing madly and wished I could duck out of the bright light that hung above us.

‘Dinner then,’ he said lightly. ‘Surely you’re good at eating dinner?’

He was mocking me, but only gently. I bit my lip. ‘We’d have absolutely nothing in common,’ I blurted out. I was mortified. Why had I said that? I sounded ridiculous.

He burst out laughing, unruffled. ‘And what, pray tell, brings you to that conclusion?’

I had to justify myself after such a statement. ‘Well … I’m shy, you’re outgoing. I alphabetise my books; you probably stuff them into bookshelves any-old-how. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ I added to soften the blow.

Luke Harte held his hands up. ‘Wow. You’ve definitely got me pegged. I do shove all my books on to the shelves in random order. How did you know that? Do I look like a messy, couldn’t-care-less kind of a guy?’

As he moved under the gazebo light, I noticed that his eyes were a very nice shade of blue.

‘Erm. I don’t know. I just guessed about the books. Or rather, I just know that I’m weird compared to most people when it comes to these things.’

‘Quirky, not weird. And opposites attract, remember. Clichés are clichés for a reason, as a very wise man once told me.’

I noted a wobble in his voice and I was intrigued. ‘A wise man?’

‘My father. He … he died a few years ago. We’re all still reeling from it. My family, I mean. It’s literally the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.’

‘Gosh. I’m so sorry.’

Luke nodded. ‘Thanks. It was grim, but we’re all moving on now. Mostly. Anyway, are you close to your parents?’

‘Not at all, unfortunately. I’m an only child … not planned, I think. I always felt a bit … superfluous.’ I rolled my shoulders. ‘But hey. They’re okay, really. They live in Scotland now.’

‘That’s a shame.’ He seemed genuinely sympathetic. ‘Are you going to tell me your name now? I feel at a disadvantage. Especially now that we’ve … you know. Shared things.’

I managed a teasing glance. ‘I don’t think I will. Besides, there are plenty of other, prettier girls here for you to chat to.’

‘Is that so?’ A furrow appeared in his brow. ‘What if I said I liked girls in short, stripy dresses who alphabetise their books?’

I felt laughter approaching. ‘I’d tell you it was a phase. One I’m sure you’ll grow out of very soon.’ A giggle escaped.

‘Ouch! That hurt, Stripes.’ Luke clapped his hands to his chest, miming pain. ‘But that just shows that you haven’t got me pegged, after all.’

‘Oh?’

Luke leaned against the post and folded his arms across his chest, decapitating the Foo Fighters. ‘Because if you knew me better, you’d know that I don’t go in for phases. Things I care about, I stick with. My family and my career, to give you a couple of examples.’

I considered him. He was definitely younger than me, in his early twenties, I would say at a guess.

‘I’m a paramedic, for my sins.’ Luke’s mouth twitched. ‘Soon to be, anyway. I know, I know; you think I’m doing it for the glory. I expect you think I support Man United, too.’

I was impressed; I admit it. Which was ridiculous. He saved lives, but so did lots of people. It suited him though. It gave his good looks and charming patter credibility. Which made him seem even more attractive. Dammit. How very annoying.

‘If you’d seen some of the things I’ve seen … injured children, domestic abuse, stuff like that.’ He looked serious for the first time, his mouth settling into a sober line. ‘But enough about me … what do you do?’

‘I work in this book shop.’ I cringed, thinking this must sound rather rubbish compared to being a paramedic. Luke looked interested, however, so I carried on. ‘It’s lovely and my boss is this sweet, old guy who’s really nice to me and pays me far too much, but it’s not necessarily my vocation, you know?’

‘Do you know what that is?’

I shook my head and laughed. ‘No! Not exactly. I studied literature, but I’d really just be happy to do something that made me feel … uplifted. It doesn’t have to be something incredible like being a paramedic, but something fun. Something … positive. That probably sounds strange. Sorry.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

Luke’s mouth curled up as if he was thinking about something and he drummed his fingers on his arm. I wondered if it was a habit that might become annoying, then decided that it wasn’t. And that I was getting ahead of myself.

‘I know this might sound a bit weird, but if you really want a change, my mum could do with an extra pair of hands in the family business. It’s a florist.’

A florist? I faltered. I thought about it. I supposed it could be rather lovely working with flowers. Apart from condolence ones, presumably. I had always loved flowers, but I was relatively clueless about the different kinds.

‘Think about it,’ Luke said. He added a casual shrug. ‘It’s in the centre of town and the pay isn’t bad at all. I know my mum could do with some help, so if you’re really pushed, it’s an option.’

‘Okay. Thanks. That’s really kind of you.’

‘I’m not being kind, if I’m honest. The job is real, but I’m also trying to engineer a situation where you won’t be able to reject my advances so easily.’

That lovely smile again. I was seriously in danger of becoming smitten with Luke Harte.

‘I should go … Dee’s calling me over …’ My voice registered my regret.

Luke stopped me by taking my hand. ‘Listen. Stripes. You’re the most fascinating girl I’ve met in ages. You’re funny, you’re super-organised – which I love, incidentally – and you’re beautiful. Quirky-beautiful. That’s the best kind, by the way.’

That did it for me. Luke Harte was too much for me. When had anyone told me I was beautiful, let alone ‘quirky-beautiful?’ I was scared. Petrified, in fact.

‘I – I have to go,’ I mumbled, stumbling away from him. When I reached Dee, I stole a glance over my shoulder, my heart beating a bit more quickly than usual. But Luke Harte had gone; melting into the darkness like a ghost. It was almost as if our chat hadn’t happened.

I spent the next month thinking non-stop about Luke bloody Harte. About him asking me out, about me saying no. About me telling him about my idiot of an ex-boyfriend and about him opening up about his dad. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to a stranger about myself so much.

Then one day, he just turned up. Dazzling Luke Harte turned up in the little book shop I worked in, wearing his teal paramedic’s outfit and claiming, with a mischievous smile, to be in the mood for book-buying.

‘Fill your boots,’ I said, delighted to see him. I watched in amusement as he carefully selected books about caring for gladioli, the Second World War and the practicalities of owning a greenhouse.

‘Actually, I’m not really here to buy books,’ Luke sheepishly confessed after presenting my boss with a twenty pound note, with the change to go in the charity box on the desk. My boss gazed at him adoringly.

‘No?’ I said.

‘No. I’m here to ask you out again and I’m not taking no for an answer.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll stage a sit-in, if I have to.’

‘Goodness. A sit-in. How passionate you are.’

‘You have no idea.’ Luke laughed at his own awful joke. ‘Seriously. You name it, we’ll do it, date-wise. Decorating cupcakes, feeding monkeys at the zoo … shopping for clothes.’ He covered his face. ‘God. That’s how desperate I am. I’m offering to go shopping for clothes. I’m a disgrace to men the world over.’

I melted. Who could resist such an advance? ‘I’m in,’ I told him with a stupid grin. In reality, I was more than ‘in.’ I was hurtling, fast-falling, utterly bowled over. Despite being terrible at bowling.

Later, Luke told me that he had spent five weeks tracking me down, the delay caused by Liberty being sent on a month-long cruise with her least favourite aunt as a punishment for the wild party.

Our love story, as Dee liked to call it, was kind of old-fashioned. Cosy dinner dates, endless chats into the early hours of the morning. A slow, heady burn between us that had taken my breath away in the early weeks and that swiftly turned into body-shuddering passion. I gave up my job in the book shop and I started working at Hartes & Flowers. I loved it and I loved this man that had come into my life like a whirlwind, with his romance and his eyes and his words.

And at the point, pretty early on, where Luke quietly said: ‘Lucy, I’m so in love with you, I can’t even bear it,’ I felt an exquisite rush of relief. I had fallen in love with him long, long before that moment and the agony of worrying that he didn’t feel the same way had almost killed me.

Being chased by a man like Luke had turned my life on its axis. Losing him really wasn’t an option.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nell

September

Nell balanced the notepad on her lap, but her nervous, jiggling leg kept knocking it off. She glanced over her shoulder, certain all the other students sharing the grassy bank with her must have spotted the state she was in, but they were oblivious. Smoking, chatting, reading, exclaiming over something outrageous in Tatler. The last thing they were doing was paying any attention to Nell or her inner panic. They were all at college for a meeting to collect coursework notes and information about their final year, but Nell couldn’t stop thinking about Luke. What if he woke up and she missed it?

It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear, she observed. The kind of day that brought everyone outside for a breath of fresh air and the feeling of warmth on skin. The world was still turning and she couldn’t help resenting it. Luke had almost died. Luke might still die. Yet everyone was continuing with their lives without a care in the world. Even she was continuing with her life. It had only been two days since Luke’s accident, but, frighteningly, there had been no change.

Nell made an effort to still her jiggling leg. She needed to talk to someone. There had to be someone else she could speak to rather than doing this, surely? But her closest friend Becks had moved away and phone calls weren’t the same thing as face to face. She had other friends like Lisa, but she was so busy with her shops … besides, Nell didn’t feel comfortable speaking to Lisa about Luke; it felt too personal. Which was ridiculous, but Nell wanted to keep what had happened to Luke wrapped up in a bubble, close to her heart. At least until they knew what the outcome was going to be.

Nell thought about talking to Cal. She hadn’t seen him since she left his flat the other night. She hadn’t been into college until today and she could hardly ring him at home; his wife might answer. Or one of his kids – an awful thought. He used his mobile to contact her but he had actively discouraged her from contacting him that way. Which left her in no-man’s-land, basically. Out of contact and out of control. She could try him at the flat she had stayed at the other night – it used to belong to Cal’s uncle and he stayed there a fair amount during the week, as he lived an hour or so away by car. But Nell didn’t want to approach him … it felt too forward, too needy.

The guilt about Cal’s wife and children threatened to suffocate her every time she thought about them. But Nell wasn’t about to feel sorry for herself. She deserved to feel guilty – she had done a bad thing. More than once. She pulled the notepad closer, knowing what she was about to do. Was it weird? Maybe, but it had helped her all those years ago … perhaps it would help her now. Nell didn’t feel she had a choice. He was the only person she could talk to right now.

Dad.

It’s me. We haven’t spoken for a while, so I thought I’d check in. You don’t mind me writing to you, do you? That therapist thought it was a good idea when I was a kid, a way for me to ‘get my feelings out when I couldn’t vocalise them.’ I didn’t. I was so angry, I called her a name a twelve-year-old shouldn’t say out loud and the therapist was terribly understanding about it. I was livid. How dare she be so sympathetic and insightful?

The thing is … I have news. Not good news. And you’re pretty much the first person I wanted to talk about it with. Here goes. Luke is in a coma. Lucy lost their last IVF baby. Read that again. I know. It’s horrendous. I can’t compute it, can’t even understand how this can have happened. It’s the sort of thing that happens to someone else, isn’t it? And just one of those things, not two at the same time.

Really, Dad, I hate to sound trite, but if you know anyone with any clout up there, kick them in the bollocks, will you? Because this is really, really shit and they don’t deserve this. Lucy and Luke are good people – the best.

To make matters worse, when it all happened, I was in bed with someone. A married man, Dad. MARRIED. And he’s one of my lecturers at college. Yeah. I know. I can imagine what you’re thinking. Not what you want to hear about your little girl, but you don’t have to tell me how stupid I am, because I already know. Trouble is, I think I kind of love him. That sounds juvenile. I don’t ‘think’ and I don’t ‘kind of.’ I just do. Love him, that is. And it’s scary. I’ve fallen hard and quickly – the worst way to fall, right? Especially when you know that person isn’t right for you. I haven’t told anyone yet, by the way. Not even him.

Listen, I’ve emailed Ade to tell him about Luke and I think he’s coming home once he’s sorted a few things out. He was devastated … really shocked. I’m not sure how Mum will feel about Ade possibly coming back; she doesn’t even know Ade and I are in touch, albeit sporadically. They haven’t spoken for years … since Ade left, in fact.

Anyway, that’s it, Dad. A lot to take in, I know. If I can just leave it with you, you know, the kicking in the bollocks bit? Thanks. I wish I could …

Nell broke off, feeling someone peering over her shoulder. She screwed the piece of paper up into a ball.

‘What’s that?’

It was Cal. He looked rather professorial in a jacket with those weird leather patches at the elbows. Surely rather warm on a day like today?

‘Are you starting your new assignment already?’

‘Er, no.’ Nell shoved the balled-up letter into her bag. ‘Sorry. What with Luke and everything …’

‘Of course, the accident.’ Cal shifted the stack of papers he was carrying from one arm to the other. The sun made his golden hair appear dappled. ‘Yes. How is he? Any change? I’m worried about him. About you.’

Nell felt as if she was basking in the glow of his concern and she felt a flash of something inside. No. She tried to push it down. She didn’t want to love Cal. She wasn’t allowed.

‘No. he’s the same. So, he’s terrible, basically. He’s in a coma and my sister-in-law lost their baby the same day. She was four months pregnant.’

Shock registered on Cal’s face. ‘Darling. That’s horrendous.’ He gave a courteous nod to another senior-looking lecturer before squatting down beside Nell. ‘You’ve been through hell. Are you okay?’

Nell shook her head. ‘Not really. No, I’m not. He’s … Luke’s broken.’ She sniffed. ‘I mean, literally. He’s broken almost every bone and they think he might have brain damage. He’s not responding to anyone and the doctors keep doing that thing where they deliver the same news over and over again, something in their manner telling you to prepare yourself for the worst, you know?’

Cal’s brows knitted together. ‘Really? You get that from them repeating the same prognosis?’ His eyes, when they met hers, were gentle, kindly. ‘Are you sure you’re not reading too much into things, Nell? Just because it looks bleak at the moment doesn’t mean that your brother won’t get better. I’ve been in a few situations like this … not as awful, obviously,’ he added hurriedly, ‘but I really don’t think you can assume all that from them repeating a prognosis.’

Nell felt unconvinced, but she supposed Cal probably had more experience of these kinds of things than she did. ‘It will be all right,’ Cal assured her, standing up again. He flexed his back slightly as if it hadn’t taken kindly to squatting down.

Nell joined him. ‘It just feels as though everything has fallen apart.’

‘Not everything.’ Cal leaned in as close as he could without touching her. ‘I’m here. For you. And I hate seeing you like this. What can I do to help?’

Nell shook her head helplessly. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing you can do. At least …’

She looked up at Cal, noticing how tanned his crooked nose was. Perhaps he marked assignments in his back garden while his children bounced on a trampoline and his wife brought him a cold beer. Nell closed her eyes, banishing the image as well as the ugly jealousy that came with it. She had no right to that feeling. Cal didn’t belong to her; he belonged to someone else.

Nell turned the subject back to Luke. ‘I’m going to visit him later. Come with me? I could do with some moral support.’

Cal rubbed his stubbly chin. It made a rasping sound. ‘Er, well. That could be tricky. I mean, I want to, but I’m not sure I can.’

Nell brushed grass from the hem of her dress. ‘You’re busy … I understand …’

‘Well, it’s not so much that.’ Cal hoisted his papers up again. ‘It’s just … Nell, you must know that people can’t see us out together? My marriage, my career – there’s an awful lot at stake.’

Nell’s hand, still dusting off shards of grass, halted. ‘Oh. I see.’ She let out a bitter laugh. ‘And there was me worrying about you being tied up with lectures. Don’t worry about it, Cal. As you say … there’s an awful lot at stake here.’ My brother’s life, for one, she thought, distraught.

‘Nell—’ Cal put a hand out, almost dropping his stack of assignments. ‘Don’t be like that. You mean the world to me; you know you do.’

‘It’s okay. Look, I have to go. I need to email my brother.’

‘Your brother?’ Cal looked perplexed.

‘Yes, my brother. Not Luke; Ade … obviously.’

‘Who’s Ade?’ Cal looked even more bewildered. ‘You’ve never mentioned Ade before.’

Nell glanced at him, astonished. Surely she had told him about Ade? How had she missed that bit of information? She supposed she was touchy about Ade … it was one of those subjects she didn’t offer up unless she really trusted someone. She thought she trusted Cal. Perhaps she had kept something back after all.

Cal shook his head. ‘Before you berate me for my lack of support and for being human enough to worry about my job and my home life, despite the way I feel about you, ask yourself how much you’ve even let me into your bloody life, Nell. I’m taking massive risks every day for us and you don’t even talk to me about the important stuff. This is the first time I’ve ever done this … ever had an affair … and it’s beginning to feel like a one-way street.’ He stalked past her, leaving behind an air of injured indignation and a waft of Hugo Boss.

Nell, aware that a few nearby fashion students were eying her curiously, put her head down and carried on walking. Cal had a cheek talking about how much she’d let him into her life. She didn’t have a wife and children. She wasn’t the one saying they couldn’t be seen in public. At her brother’s bedside, of all places. Really

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.