Chapter One
Beth Calder watched her life disappear box by box.
The removal men hefted the last crate into the truck, her colour-coded stickers flashing like small flags of surrender. The heavier things – the dining table where laughter had lived – were already waiting at the new place. The sofas that had held her through long nights were gone.
‘Anything else to go, love?’ asked the foreman.
Beth shook her head. She would set off shortly in her trusty Volkswagen Beetle. Although not hers for much longer, as she’d already sold it. First, she wanted one last wander through her home of the past twenty years.
Now stripped back to the bare minimum, Bilberry Cottage echoed with a quiet sadness. Devoid of the colourful rugs, eclectic artwork and knickknacks accumulated over time, it tore at Beth’s aching heart. So many memories to walk away from, but she couldn’t stay.
‘A fresh start.’ That’s what her friends had said. ‘But we’ll visit you all the time!’
She passed through each room. The lounge where they had once snuggled up together, arguing good-naturedly about whatto watch and whether a second bottle of wine was too much. The kitchen, now stripped of Beth’s beloved mismatched china, the Le Creuset set she’d always insisted was too heavy, and the solid pine table where they had eaten virtually every night.
Upstairs, Beth paused outside the master bedroom. She touched the door, as if she could pick up good vibrations from its varnished surface. Nothing.
Crossing the small landing to the other two bedrooms, Beth hesitated. The one on the left had been for guests: small, but with an en-suite shower and toilet. The one on the right…
Her instincts screamedStep away. Do not go in.
She went in.
It was unchanged since they had decorated it over ten years ago. Filled with excitement, every brushstroke and carefully selected item had felt like a step closer to being a family. Beth had sold or given away the bulk of the things. All that remained were the Disney character stickers, the pale-blue fluffy carpet, and a light fitting she had found online with genies spiralling out of golden oil lamps, wispy and magical.
‘That’s a bit random,’ he had said, raising the eyebrow that bore the scar from a cricket injury in his late teens.
‘It’s quirky, and I love it. And I love you.’
Beth gasped at the memory. So many times they had said ‘I love you’ within the close confines of the cottage. Always in the morning, always at night. On the rare occasion they had fought, the tension had evaporated as easily as mist on a hazy day.
‘If you’d come along, we’d be together now.’
Still, after all she’d been through, Beth could picture her child.Theirchild. Sometimes with Beth’s dainty nose and Luke’s chiselled chin. Sometimes with auburn hair and curls. But always perfect in every way.
‘Why didn’t you stay?’
Beth knew she was speaking to a ghost. Or rather, a person who had never made it beyond the early stages of life.
‘We can’t keep doing this,’ he had said on so many occasions. Painful but pragmatic. ‘Let’s accept it’s over and focus on being us. Us. Like we were at the start.’
But they hadn’t been able to get back to where they were. You couldn’t fix what was broken beyond repair.
From a drawer, Beth pulled out the envelope containing the twelve-week scans. Blurry yet miraculous. Each one offering hope of a bright future. Each one doomed to failure.
Screwing up the envelope and its contents, Beth stomped downstairs and tossed it into the bin.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Diana, her best friend and absolute legend. The kind of person who knew what rawl plugs were, how to unblock sinks, and how to stop someone sinking into a quagmire of despair.
If you’re still in the cottage and in full-on wallow mode, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, as there are roadworks. You OK?
Beth sniffed. Sniffed again. Headed to the bathroom. The principal one, as the master bedroom didn’t have one. Another quirk of the cottage.
I have toilet roll to wipe my face, she texted.It’s not pretty right now.
She was appalled at how awful she looked. As if someone had melted down her face and rearranged it, Picasso-style.
Sweetie, no one’s expecting you to grace the cover of a magazine. Stay put, and we’ll sort it when I get there. See ya.
