PROLOGUE
‘Do you want to do the honours?’ Pete held up the ridiculously enormous key that had been handed to them by the agent an hour earlier.
Bella took it from him, feeling its cool weight in her hand. This was the moment. The moment she could finally put her past behind her and step into the future.
She inserted it into the lock on the oak-panelled door and for a moment struggled to find purchase. Then, with a final look at Pete, she smiled and turned it.
Inside, the house smelled musty, like the stately homes Bella’s parents had used to drag her around as a kid – the scent of age and neglect. But the smooth stone of the walls, the polished wood of the staircase that stretched before them, the original tiles scattered in a haphazard pattern underfoot promised a beauty that would be easy to unlock with a little fresh air and elbow grease.
She looked around again and caught Pete’s eye. She could see that he was feeling it too: a sense of awe that somehow, they owned this house – or at least owned the mortgage on it. That this would be their forever home. That in a few months’ time they would be welcoming the first guests through the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said suddenly.
‘Thank me? What for?’
‘For believing in me. For coming with me. For buying into this dream.’
‘You are far too romantic for your own good,’ he joked, gathering her to him. ‘I just wanted to quit my job and sip wine in the sunshine.’
‘After the renovations are complete?’
‘Yes,’ he kissed her. ‘Obviously after the renovations are complete. Just give me – what – ten, fifteen years!’
They laughed, their mouths still almost touching. Because the truth of it was that they had those years – ten, fifteen, maybe even fifty or more. They were young and had a bright future ahead. And having this business, living this life, meant she could walk away from the mess she’d made – her dead-end job, her failed exams, the disappointment she felt on behalf of a mother she no longer had.
Moving to France meant she could shed her former life like a snake might wriggle out of its skin, leaving it entirely behind and simply stepping away. No more of Kitty’s meddling or her father’s half-hearted visits. No more seeing the places she used to go to with Mum and feeling that pain over and over. A new start in every sense of the word.
‘Come on,’ she said, pulling away from Pete and moving towards the darkened windows. ‘Let’s get these shutters open; let some light in!’
1
NOW
‘I’m back!’ she called, closing the door against the February afternoon and almost instantly feeling her whole body relax. The house was warm; the wood burner had been lit early that morning and Pete had clearly been feeding it all day. She turned the key in the lock behind her and the bolt slid into place, leaving the darkening garden firmly outside.
The welcome sound of the kettle whistling on their stove met her ears and she grinned. Pete knew her only too well – the instant she got in, she was always gasping for a cup of tea. She smiled as she unwound her cream wool scarf and hung it over the dark wood of their coat stand, unbuttoned her black winter coat and hung it up beside his.
They’d argued this morning again – this time about thehabitationbill that he’d forgotten to pay. But that seemed a lifetime ago – and there was something reassuring about being here, being home, being with him. Shutting the door against the winter weather and knowing that while there were still leaks to fix, gardens to maintain, the website to update and more tiny snagging jobs than she could bear to think about, they still had this: their home, the life they were building together, their adventure.
It had been harder than they’d imagined living in rural France; the business less lucrative, the move less a happy ending than a new beginning. They were managing though: she was working hard to prepare the garden for spring; Pete was spending most of the time fixing small leaks on the roof. But soon it would be done, the season would start, and things would feel possible again. Each year in France had been a learning curve, but they were growing and beginning to streamline the business. Things were good. They would be good.
‘Hi,’ she said, walking up to him as he poured tea from her favourite teapot into two large mugs.
He nodded. ‘Hi,’ he said, adding an extra slug of milk to his own mug, along with a heaped spoon of sugar, making it look more like gone-off milk than proper, honest tea.
He passed her a mug of her usual – stronger – brew.
‘Thanks.’
She pulled out a chair and sank onto it, plonking her elbows on the heavy farmhouse table that they still hadn’t got around to sanding down. Pete pulled out a chair opposite.
She sipped her drink, feeling the warmth of it flood her senses and begin to thaw her cold body, and they fell into silence.
Pete added a log to the wood burner and she watched the flames encased behind iron and glass flicker and throw out a weak halo of light.
Usually, by now, they’d be discussing their day; talking about tomorrow. Arguing about who would do what. One of them might mention their lack of bookings, suggest they join another site. But tonight, every time she opened her mouth, something stopped her from making a sound.
She could sense something in him. Something different.
