Christmas Magic At The Writers' Retreat E-Book

Julia Sutton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After her mother's death, young Louise is left caring for her melancholy father and a wayward younger brother.

She works tirelessly in a baker’s shop, but dreams of becoming a successful children’s author, and her love life is in turmoil because of a lifelong attraction to the local bad boy. With the help of some interfering friends, she wins a Christmas competition to spend a week at a writers' retreat at the Mystic Springs hotel.

It seems that Lou’s luck is changing, but can she keep her focus amidst eerie occurrences and the presence of a very attractive writing mentor?

Add a little dash of magic and lose yourself in this cozy Christmas romance.

Leseprobe

CHRISTMAS MAGIC AT THE WRITER’S RETREAT

JULIA SUTTON

CONTENTS

Other books by Julia Sutton

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Julia Sutton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

OTHER BOOKS BY JULIA SUTTON

The School of Dreams series:

Book 1 – The School of Dreams

Book 2 – Visions of the Heart

Book 3 – Student Affairs

Book 4 – The Year of New Beginnings

The Lake of Lilies

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Miika Hannila, and all at Next Chapter Publishing for giving me the opportunity to publish this book, and for all your hard work.

A big thank you to all my readers. I hope you enjoy this book.

Thank you to my wonderful friends and family, who are always supportive.

For the lovely Eleanor

PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, in a far away land of soot and grime, lived a little girl named Louise Henry.

Louise was a bit of a dreamer, some of her school friends even regarded her as odd. For she always had her nose in a book and when she wasn’t reading, Louise was conjuring up stories in her head.

Louise didn’t mind that she had few friends, for she was blessed with a loving family. A golden haired kind mother and a courageous strong father who bought her books and pens and encouraged her to celebrate being different.

Louise grew into a fine young lady, who was generous and full of spirit. Like all good adventure stories, her life had ups and downs, there were good times and bad, happiness and pain, but Louise still held onto her dreams.

This is a chapter of her life. This is her fairytale…

CHAPTER1

“Tea’s done!” I shout the words, hoping they will carry through the walls and into the living room where my dad and brother sit watching the evening news. The heat from the oven fans my face as I open the door and pull the tray of pasties out. They are golden brown, cooked to perfection and smell delicious. I slide them onto four plates and then hurry back to the stove to take the chips out of the top oven and to stir the bubbling beans.

“Grubs up!” I yell again. I hear the T.V being switched off and the creak of the kitchen door as it opens. Dad ambles in, clad in his stripy pyjamas and scratching his head, he looks as if he’s ready for bed.

“Where’s Robbie?” My little brother, usually the first at the dining table is nowhere to be seen.

“On his phone,” Dad hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “he’s had a new one.”

“Where on earth did he get the money for that?” I ask, spooning the beans carefully next to the pasties.

“Probably best not to ask.” Dad replies, scraping a chair out and plonking himself down.

I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes as I rummage on the shelf for condiments. “Help yourself to chips Dad.”

“I don’t much like these supermarket brand ones,” he grumbles, smearing them with ketchup.

“Well there isn’t much grocery money left …” I trail off, smiling as he shovels a forkful into his mouth.

Robbie skulks into the kitchen, running a hand through his dark tousled hair. “Pasties again?”

“Oh will you two stop complaining,” I sit down, smiling brightly, “this is good wholesome food and I’ve bought us a cake from the bakery for pudding.”

Robbie’s eyes light up at the mention of sugary food, “chocolate cake?”

“Yep,” I confirm, “with fresh cream.”

“Where’s your Aunt Josie?” Dad asks.

“She’ll be here,” I reply, gazing at the clock. Two minutes to six, there is a knock on the door and Bertie our Golden Retriever shoots off his bed and skids down the hallway.

“Why does she have to come for tea every evening?” Robbie pulls a face and prods at his beans, “do I have to eat these?”

“Yes you do,” I say, swallowing a piece of steak bake, “it’s one of your five-a-day and you know Aunt Josie’s on her own.” I ruffle his hair as I walk towards the front door and hear him tut at my burst of sisterly affection. Bertie’s shackles are up and he is growling at the glass partition.

“Hello Lou,” Aunt Josie bustles in, shaking drops of rain from her freshly styled hair. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Winter’s on its way.”

“It’s only November, in theory still autumn” I reply, taking her coat and scarf, “have you been to the hairdressers?”

Josie pats her lilac curls, “do you like it? The trainee hairdresser talked me into having a change from my usual blue.”

“It looks very nice, go on in now, tea is on the table.” I follow her down the hallway and back into the kitchen. Robbie has his feet up on the spare chair, I knock them off, irritated by his lack of manners and tell Aunt Josie to sit down.

“How was school?” I ask my fifteen year old brother.

Robbie chews his food slowly, considering for a moment another day at Hayes Academy.

“Alright,” he ducks his head, avoiding my gaze.

“Did you make the rock cakes?” I had spent yesterday scouring the shelves of the supermarket for the required ingredients for his home economics class. They had been out of flour and currants, which resulted in a mad dash across the city to another supermarket, during my lunch break.

“Er… urm… no.”

“Oh.” I place my fork down and am just about to grill him when the phone rings.

“If that’s the Indian call centre again, tell them I’ve moved to North Korea.” Dad smirks as I dive on the phone.

A posh sounding lady says hello and introduces herself as Mrs Frostrich.

“The headteacher?” I ask, swallowing a lump of fear and darting a glance at Robbie who has turned pale.

“Is that Mrs Henry?”

“It’s Miss,” I reply, “Louise Henry, how can I help you?”

“Ah sorry Miss Henry, I wonder if I could have a word about Robbie.”

I stalk out of the kitchen and into the lounge, fumbling for the remote to mute the T.V.

“Yes of course, is everything okay?”

The headteacher sucks in a breath, “Robbie’s been missing classes Miss Henry.”

Oh no, not again! I sink down onto the sofa.

“So far this week he hasn’t been to English, French or home economics. Is there any reason for his absence?”

The words fly out of my mouth before I have chance to think, “he has had a cough… and a bad stomach.” I flush, embarrassed by my lies.

The headteacher sniffs, “the school policy requires a phone call explaining any illness Miss Henry, on the first day and also any other subsequent days thereafter.”

“I am very sorry,” I grip the phone, “I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I hope so,” Mrs Frostrich says curtly, “otherwise we will have to involve the attendance officer, which would mean a series of home visits.”

“Okay,” my head begins to throb.

“Miss Henry…” the headteacher’s tone softens slightly, “is everything okay at home?”

“Yes!” I jump off the sofa, “everything’s fine. It’s just a misunderstanding. Robbie will be in tomorrow as normal.”

“Very well. Good evening then.” Buzz the line is dead.

“What did she want?” Asks Dad, as I plonk myself back at the table.

I glare at my younger brother who is busy slicing a piece of the cake. “HE, has been up to his old tricks again.”

Dad chuckles, “what’s he done now?”

“It isn’t funny,” I blow out an exasperated sigh, “why have you been skipping classes Robbie?” I look at my brother who regards me with wide innocent eyes.

“Dunno,” he licks cream off his middle finger and heaves his shoulders in an insouciant shrug.

“That’s not a good enough reason,” I shriek, angered by his flippant attitude. “Your education is important Robbie. It’s your GCSE year. How will you get into college without any qualifications?”

Dad puffs out his chest, “listen to your sister love.”

“So what is making a bunch of stupid rock cakes going to teach me?”

“Er… well, it’s part of the curriculum Robbie,” my anger dissipates as I glance at his downcast face. “Do you want to be working in a baker’s shop for the rest of your life like me?”

“I want to play in a band,” he scuffs his trainers on the linoleum floor.

“Yes.” I shake his clenched fist, “but you still need to get your qualifications. Especially English, maths and science.”

Aunt Josie shakes vinegar from a soggy chip and says sagely, “I never passed one qualification. The school of hard knocks taught me all I need to know.”

I slide an annoyed glance at my aunt. “What about university?” I gabble, “you could study music and… drama.”

“Too much debt,” Robbie snorts, “Ade’s brother just finished his degree and he’s working in McDonalds.” Ade is Robbie’s best friend, a lanky buck teethed youth who lives five doors away. I put my face in my hands, arguing with Robbie is pointless, he has an answer for everything. Maybe I should lay the facts out plain and clear and hopefully it will quash this rebellious streak that seems to be growing in him again.

“Look.” I sort my face into its most serious expression, “if you keep playing truant we’re going to have people interfering. The head teacher, attendance officer,” I list them on my fingers for emphasis, “maybe even social services.”

Robbie’s adams apple bobs as my words sink in. I surge ahead, furious with him again.

“This is serious Robbie. No more missing classes okay?”

Swiftly he nods, “okay. I’ll go upstairs then… finish off my homework.”

As he scrapes back his chair and makes for the door I ask, “where were you anyway?”

Robbie shrugs, looking satisfyingly guilty, “hanging around the music shops.”

“Spending more of your paper round money?” I tut and look at Dad. He has finished eating and is flicking through the evening newspaper. A feeling of irritation wells up inside me. Why does he never reprimand him? Robbie is his son after all. Why should it be left to me, the older sister?

“Urm… can I go now?”

I wave Robbie away and stare at the piece of chocolate cake which Aunt Josie has thrust in front of me. My appetite has suddenly vanished out the door with my brother.

“Maybe later,” I mumble, taking the cake and depositing it in the fridge. Dad is on his feet, telling me he is going to watch the local weather for the rest of the week.

“That’d be right,” Aunt Josie’s knees creak as she pushes back her chair, “the men in this house always disappear when they’re chores to be done.”

I run hot water into the bowl and scrape the remains off the chipped plates.

“I can get it done quicker myself,” I sigh, slipping on the rubber gloves with a twang.

“But love you’ve been at work all day.” Aunt Josie picks up the teatowel, “and what’s your dad been doing?”

I try to make light of her question, “painting I suppose.”

“Painting,” Aunt Josie’s lip curls upwards.

“He’s very talented,” I protest.

“He needs a job,” Aunt Josie huffs, “it can’t be any good for him, sitting in that shed all day. He’s become a recluse. Other adult company would do him the world of good, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I nod my agreement, “I’ll speak to him…”

“Do you want me to have a word?” Josie stacks the plates neatly in the lower cupboard.

“No! Thanks for the concern, but I think it would be better coming from me.”

“Fair enough.”

I notice Aunt Josie staring at me with sympathy and smile, “shall we have a cup of tea and a gossip? I noticed Hamish McDougall is back at number 64. Has Mrs McDougall forgiven him for his clandestine affair?”

“Oh you haven’t heard the best love…” Josie’s eyes twinkle with excitement as she pulls out a chair and begins chattering.

I wave off Aunt Josie an hour later, with a generous wedge of cake and an armful of recycled magazines. A group of children are playing in the street, whizzing backwards and forwards on their scooters and bikes. I watch them for a moment, leaning against the door jamb. It’s good to hear the sounds of laughter and watch the sky darkening as night draws in. Lights from the street lamps flicker intermittently, lighting up the fleet of cars parked close together. A car is a luxury I can’t afford. But maybe one day I think.

Once Aunt Josie disappears out of view, I close the door, locking it securely and pull the heavy velvet curtains across. I can hear the sound of Dad snoring over the chatter of the T.V and the muffled sounds of Robbie’s music thumping through the ceiling. I walk up the hallway and back into the kitchen, pausing beside the dresser to stare at a photo frame. I miss you Mum, I pick up the wooden frame, smiling at the picture of the fair haired, jolly looking woman. She is sitting on a wall overlooking the sea, eating chips out of newspaper and laughing uproariously. I place the frame down and my fingers slide across to another one. It’s a shot of Mum and Dad on their wedding day, dressed in their finery, Dad looking so proud and Mum beaming with excitement. They both look deliriously happy. My eyes flicker to the largest ornate silver frame. A photograph of the four of us; me as a young girl and Robbie as a baby.

That was our once happy family, torn apart by cancer and Mum’s subsequent death ten years ago.

“Lou, is that you?” Dad is calling to me, his voice a faint warble through the paper thin walls of our terraced house.

I stand in the doorway of the lounge, watching him rub the sleep from his eyes. “Yes Dad, are you tired?”

“Just a little,” he heaves himself across the sofa, allowing me room to sit next to him.

“What have you been up to today?” I ask lightly, picking at a loose thread on the cushion cover.

“This and that,” his mouth curves upwards, “I’ve finished the painting I’ve been working on.”

“That’s brilliant! Is this the landscape one?”

“Yes and I’ve started a seaside scene,” Dad looks pleased with himself.

“That’s great,” I nod enthusiastically, “have you erm… found any jobs you could apply for?”

“There’s not much about at the moment love,” Dad rubs his whiskery chin and my spirits deflate at his words. He’s said the same excuse for the past six months. Prior to that he’d secured a temporary job as a twilight security guard but had left after a disagreement with his supervisor. Currently he’s classed as unemployed, while I am working two jobs and running a household. Thank goodness for the small benefits he receives off the government. I look at his downturned face and my heart strings are well and truly tugged. Since Mum has passed away, he has fallen into a pit of depression which he is still trying to claw his way out of. He’s tried talking therapy, medication, even meditation and grief counselling, yet Dad still isn’t right ten years on. I pine for my old Dad, the jolly young at heart man, full of life and exuberance. I long for him to sing the old Motown songs that he’d used to love and curl the threadbare rug up and dance like he had when Mum was alive. Grief still hangs around him like a shroud and is evident in his sad eyes and his melancholy tone whenever he mentions Mum.

“Never mind then,” I pat his knee, “I’m sure something will turn up. Shall I stick the kettle on?” I reach over to kiss his warm, leathery cheek and we both watch the credits of the next programme roll up the T.V screen.

CHAPTER2

Later on that evening, as I am squirting bleach round the toilet rim, the telephone rings. My brother who just happens to be passing, en route to the biscuit tin, brings it upstairs to me and announces it is one of my mates.

“You know the one with the frizzy hair,” he mouths, taking a bite of his digestive.

“You mean Heather?” I whisper.

“Yes, the goth…” he trails off smirking, as I point at the uncovered handset. Robbie passes it over and then saunters off.

“Hi Heather,” I push my floppy fringe out of my eyes.

“Can you tell your brother I’m not a goth,” Heather sounds offended, “I’m also not an emo – or whatever they’re called now-a-days.”

“You do wear an awful lot of black,” I respond, mentally visualising her dyed black bob, kohled black eyes, black clothes and matching nail varnish.

“I prefer the term new age individual,” she says with an inflection of superiority.

I try not to laugh and end up coughing on fresh air.

“Are you alright Lou?” Heather asks.

“Yes thanks,” I reply, “just cleaning. I think a bit of bleach went up my nose.”

Heather sighs, “oh Lou I keep telling you to use natural cleaning products. They’re so much better for you and also the environment.”

“Well it’s done now,” I go into my bedroom and flop down on the bed. “How are you?”

“Oh I’m okay I suppose.” Heather sighs, “frankly I need a night out.”

“Well sure, I could do the weekend.” I stare up at the lemon painted ceiling and my crystal light shade which moves softly in the breeze from the open window.

Heather sniffs, “actually I was thinking this evening.”

Drinking mid-week? My mind scrabbles for excuses. I want to relax; run a bubble bath, make a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and spend the evening reading magazines.

“Lou…” I hear Heather blow her nose and wonder if she’s been crying.

“You don’t sound too good,” I struggle up onto my side, “I’ll come for a drink, but Heather I can’t stop late. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Louise Henry I love you. Meet you there in half an hour?”

Buzz the line is dead before I can reply. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. There are dark circles underneath my eyes and my chin is covered in spots. Is that normal for a twenty five year old I wonder? Surely I should have outgrown premenstrual acne by now? With a groan I sink onto the stool in front of my dressing table mirror and set to work, trying to make myself look vaguely presentable.

The Feathery Duck is one of the oldest establishments in the local area. It is just a short walk from my street and stands majestic in the middle of Marywell Avenue, next to the bakers where I work. The archaic wooden beams extend from the outside façade into a small dimly lit bar and lounge. We always meet in the bar. I’m not sure why, I guess we like the working class ambience, the camaraderie of drinking with the local men who bicker and banter over the pool table and the dartboard. The bar has sturdy oak tables, a hard tiled floor and old fashioned pumps. The attached lounge has been refurbished into one of those fancy eateries. Personally I find the plastic chairs and tables, the whitewashed walls and pop music all a little cheap and uninteresting. The bar has character and on certain nights it also has Darren Walker. He is the unrequited love of my life. A burly six foot muscular specimen of a man who I have known since primary school. He is a typical loveable rogue, a cheeky chappy with twinkling eyes and a ready smile for all the ladies. He’s a regular in the Feathery Duck, some describe him as part of the furniture. There had been a time; years ago, when we had briefly dated. But it had lasted less than a week. Darren Walker is afraid of commitment, he is famous for his wandering eye and his charm with the opposite sex. Whereas I long to settle down, find my soulmate and live happily ever after. Behind my guarded exterior and unbeknownst to my friends and family, I am a true romantic.

“Lou!” I turn around at the sound of my name. Heather is on the other side of the street, locking up her flower shop. I hurry across the pedestrian crossing and towards Flowers From Heaven.

“Have you only just finished?” I exclaim, a glance at my watch informs me it’s almost eight thirty.

“Don’t remind me,” Heather turns the key in the lock and we watch the steel girder rumble its way down. “Another last minute funeral order and a huge wedding this weekend. I’m shattered.” She passes me a box full of folders with the words accounts written on them. “And the tax man’s on my back, to top it all off.”

“You deserve a drink then,” I balance the box on one hip and press the crossing button.

“I need a gin and tonic, I’ve had a hectic day.”

We walked sprightly across the road and to the door of the pub.

“How’s your day been?” Asks Heather as I pull open the door and step aside to let her enter first.

“Same as yours, the bakery was nonstop and then when I got home it all started again. There’s always something to do.”

Heather looks at me sympathetically, “I don’t know how you cope Lou. At least I’ve got Mum and Dad to wait on me when I get home.”

I bristle at her words, “Dad tries his best and Robbie, well he’s only fifteen. I can’t expect him to run the house for me.”

“Sorry,” Heather rubs my arm, “d’you want to get a seat and I’ll get the drinks in?”

“Yep.” I look around at the numerous vacant tables. The Feathery Duck is always quiet mid week, but tonight there is only a handful of punters in. I watch a small group of regulars take it in turns throwing darts at the board. They nod their head at me as I toy with a sodden beer mat.

“Is Sauvignon Blanc okay?” Heather places the large glass of wine down on the table.

“Perfect,” and it is: cold, refreshing and delicious. I swallow a large gulp, smiling brightly at my friend who has started chattering about the drama series she is currently obsessed with.

“You look different today,” I observe, when there is a lull in the conversation.

“Do I?” Heather peeks over the rim of her gin and tonic, “in what way?”

“Your hair,” I glance at the sleek shiny black bob, “it’s straight.”

“Yes,” she touches it with her free hand, “Marcus bought me straighteners.”

“Oh.” My smile fades at the mention of her on off boyfriend. Marcus is a smarmy Italian with a wife and three children. Heather has been his mistress for the past five years. She knows I disapprove of their relationship, but that doesn’t stop her from loving him passionately.

“Does it suit me d’you think?” Heather pouts, as if she is about to take a selfie.

“It looks nice…” I nod, “but I love your curls.”

“Curls are so yesterday, so eighties. Marcus told me I look like Dita Von Trapp.”

“Who?”

“You know, the burlesque dancer.”

“Oh.” I swallow more wine, “so what’s the mid week night out for? You sounded upset on the phone. Is there something wrong?”

Heather sighs, “you know it’s my birthday soon?”

“Yesssss,” I nudge her in the ribs, “the big three o, how are you going to cope with being middle aged?”

“Watch it!” Warns Heather with a grin, “thirty is the new twenty one according to all the glossy magazines.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say with an eyeroll. “What are you doing by the way? Shall we go for a meal to celebrate? Vegetarian of course.”

“I was supposed to be going away for the weekend with Marcus,” Heather bangs her glass down, “but he’s got a family christening that he apparently can’t get out of.”

I shake my head, “this is what happens when you mess with a married man. You can do better Heather.”

“I love him,” she replies quietly.

I emit an exasperated sigh, how many times have we had this conversation? I wonder. The subject of Heather’s love life crops up almost on a weekly basis. She mopes over him and I am angry that he still remains married, even though his wife is apparently a living dragon who couldn’t care less about him.

“If he loves you, then why is he still married?” I ask bluntly.

“It’s not that simple,” Heather simpers, “he has children and an awful lot of debt. We need to take things slowly, plan ahead…” She trails off, wincing at my incredulous stare.

“This has been going on for years Heather, he’s had five years to leave her.”

Suddenly Heather bursts into tears, mascara runs down her face in black streaks. I immediately regret my abruptness, but my patience with Heather’s dubious love life is wearing seriously thin.

“I’m so miserable,” she wails, “thirty years old and living with my parents with no likelihood of ever having children. My biological clock is ticking away and I’m going to end up a lonely old spinster.”

“You won’t if you end this charade of a relationship,” I take hold of her hand, “you’ve got so much going for you Heather. You’re a gorgeous independent woman. Yes you still live with the olds, but then so do I. You’ve got your own business. I would love to be a florist with my own shop.”

“You’re right,” sniffs Heather, “so why don’t I finish it today – now!” She fishes in her handbag for her phone and scrolls quickly through her contacts.

“What are you going to tell him?” I ask nervously.

Her fingers are flying over the screen and she looks scarily determined.

“I’ve told him our relationship is over and not to contact me again. There,” she presses the send button and then breaks down into fresh tears, “what have I done?”

“The right thing,” I say crisply, “give it to me.” I wait until Heather has reluctantly handed her phone over.

“I’m deleting and blocking his number from your address book,” I announce, my fingers moving over the screen, “is he your Facebook friend?”

“Yes,” she responds, her face a picture of misery.

“Not anymore. Do you have him on any other social media?”

“Instagram.”

I search through her followers until I found Marcus’s smarmy face grinning at me from the screen, “hot blooded Italian?” I snort, my eyes resting on his username, “more like Italian creep.”

“Gone.” I announce with a satisfied smirk. “Now you’re free to date whoever you like.”

Heather’s bottom lip trembles, “you’re a hard woman Louise Henry.”

“One day you’ll thank me for this,” I say firmly, “so shall we have another drink to celebrate your single status?”

“Make it a double,” Heather calls after me as I hotfoot it to the bar.

“Same again?” Brian the burly bar man hoists his frame off the beer pumps and ambles my way with a friendly smile.

“Please.” I dig in my coat pocket for change, extracting a crumpled bus ticket, a worn down lipstick and a folded ten pound note.

“Your fella was in here last night,” he sloshes wine into my glass and I look at him with puzzlement.

“My fella?” I repeat.

“Is there a parrot in here?” Brian clicks his fingers, searching his memory for a name, “Darren, the one who plays for the pool team.”

“You mean Darren Walker?” I splutter the words, “he’s not my erm… fella.”

Brian’s eyebrows lift into two bushy arches, “your friend then.”

I open my mouth to tell him we aren’t even that, but Brian rushes ahead with the following words, “him and Patrick Dempsey were blind drunk again. Marjorie asked them to leave, politely like, but they were acting up – giving us gip, annoying the other punters.”

Marjorie his wife pops her head above the rim of the bar, “they were causing trouble again Lou… getting rowdy and lippy. A couple of the bikers almost smacked them one.”

I clear my throat, “Darren Walker’s nothing to do with me. Sure we went through school together, but that’s it. We have no relationship.”

Marjorie purses her lips and glances over me with suspicious eyes, “well after what happened last Christmas, and the way you’re always fooling around with each other, I just presumed you were a sort of… item.”

I feel a blush creep its way up my neck and into my cheeks as I remember the kiss Darren and I had shared under the mistletoe in this very bar. At the time I hadn’t realised that so many people had noticed us fawning over each other. I blamed too much festive cheer, but the truth was I had fancied Darren Walker for years and had wanted to be his girlfriend since primary school.

“We’re not together,” I snap, picking up the drinks and moving back, “but maybe you should bar him, if he’s causing trouble.”

“He’s always been trouble,” Brian shakes his head, “we didn’t mean to upset you love.”

“Yeah,” chips in Marjorie, “forget Darren Walker. You’re too good for him love.”

“He’s forgotten,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What was that about?” Heather quizzes me as soon as I am sitting next to her.

“Darren Walker,” I reply, briefly closing my eyes and allowing a mental image of his handsome face to float in front of me.

Heather rolls her eyes and says with a ladylike growl, “another waste of space. We don’t have much luck with men do we?”

“I suppose not,” I reply glumly, holding up my glass. “Here’s to being single and carefree.”

Heather chinks hers against mine, “here’s to being sex starved and miserable.”

Her words ring in my ears, reminding me yet again what a total failure my love life is.

CHAPTER3

The alarm rouses me from a deep sleep at six o’clock the next morning. I fumble groggily for my Mickey Mouse clock and bang the off switch, until the piercing noise halts. Then I let my throbbing head fall back on the soft pillows, bitterly regretting that fourth glass of wine I consumed last night. Rain patters gently on the windows and I groan with the knowledge that in another half an hour I will be striding round the estate in my rain coat, trying to control three energetic dogs. Yes that is my second job. As well as working in a baker’s shop, I am also a dog walker. As I lie here, endeavouring to muster some energy for the day, I hear our own dog Bertie whimpering at my bedroom door. With a sigh I swing upwards and pad over to let him in.

“Hello boy,” I pat his head affectionately, staggering back slightly as he jumps up me. “Do you want to go see your friends?”

He wags his tail furiously in response and watches me pull on my tracksuit and running shoes. I gather my shoulder length blonde hair into a ponytail, secure it with a scrunchie and plod into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

The house is quiet, it will be another hour at least until Robbie and Dad surface, but still I tiptoe around, making as little noise as possible. As I am waiting for the kettle to boil, I grab a handful of nuts and seeds and scurry out into the garden. It is still raining lightly, but it’s a mild morning and the birds are chirruping high in the trees, waiting for their breakfast. Feeding the birds has become part of my morning routine and the same ones wait for me now each day; the one legged pigeon and the aggressive blackbird, the family of robins and the sweet sounding thrush. Over the years I have gained their trust and now as I scatter the food, they swoop from the trees and peck at my feet. It’s a nice start to the day and it makes me feel like a Snow White type of character, minus the castle and the handsome prince of course. My lawn is soon covered with birds and I watch them for a moment before Bertie, having grown bored of sniffing in the bushes, bounds onto the grass wanting to play and scares them all away.

I wipe my feet on the mat before going inside to make coffee. It’s too early for breakfast, but caffeine is always welcome at the start of each day. As I sip my drink, I rifle through the mail, putting the bills in a pile and binning the fast food flyers. I peer into my purse, there are two crisp twenty pound notes, the remainder of my meagre salary. Thankfully I will be paid at the end of the week and it couldn’t come soon enough. Maybe I could treat us to a takeaway this evening, but then I remember the groceries I need to purchase and the dinner money that Robbie needs for the rest of the week.

I put my purse back in the drawer and pull on my trench coat. Bertie lets out a low grumble and skitters about excitedly as I go to fetch his lead. I clip it onto his collar and he immediately pulls me down the hall. Once out of the door, we are up the garden path and turning right. Bertie knows the routine. We walk up our street and turn into Primrose Lane, heading towards number 17. Mrs Perrin’s house is an old detached, with a high fence and a majestic Weeping Willow in the garden. I have always admired this property. The front garden is overgrown and wildly romantic; full of flowering bushes and gorgeous trees and the house although worn by age is still beautiful.

Mrs Perrin, an eighty five year old widower, is looking out of the bay window as I open the gate and step onto the gravel drive. I wait patiently at the door as she grapples with the locks.

“Hello Louise,” She peeps her head around the frame, smiling sweetly at me.

“Morning,” I reply cheerfully.

“Hello you,” she says, addressing Bertie, whose nose is stuck in a pot full of geraniums. “Come on in.” I follow her down a hall which smells of must and lavender.

“Randolph! Where are you?” Mrs Perrin takes her spectacles off and rubs at them with the hem of her cardigan. “He’s hiding again.”

“He knows it’s time for his walk,” I reply with a laugh, “shall I get him?”

“Please dear,” Mrs Perrin shakes her head, “he’s such a lazy boy. My previous dog loved walking. I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong with Randolph.”

I give Bertie firm instructions to stay, and as I bound up the stairs he curls himself into a ball and emits a satisfied sigh.

“Randolph!” I push the bathroom door open. I have found from experience that the white terrier cross can usually be found curled up beside the shower or on top of Mrs Perrin’s double bed. On this day however, he is in neither places. I call his name again and am responded with a whimper.

“What are you doing in here?” I coo, as I open the door of the spare room. He’s curled on top of a pile of freshly washed bedding. I skirt around an upright hoover, holding my hand out to pat his head, “it’s walkies time.” Randolph looks up at me with big baleful eyes. A look which says do you mind, I was sleeping. I lean forward to gather him in my arms and as I jog down the stairs he sniffs my arm with his wet nose.

“I’ve found him,” I say to Mrs Perrin.

“Randolph you are a naughty boy,” she chastises, “it’s probably because it’s raining dear, he hates the wet weather.”

“Don’t we all eh boy?” I place him gently on the floor and Bertie plods over to sniff him.

“You shouldn’t have come out in this weather,” Mrs Perrin says, “you’ll catch a cold.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, pulling my hood up, “I’m warm and dry and the dogs still need to be walked.”

“Thank you,” Mrs Perrin touches my arm with her cold veiny hands, “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Has Robert been in touch?” I am referring to her son. He only lives three miles away in a bachelors flat in the city centre, but he rarely visits his elderly mother. It saddens me to think that she is all alone in this sprawling house.

“Oh he’s busy,” she replies flippantly, “you know what these young men are like with their careers and social life.”

I give her a nod a sympathy, “what about your shopping? Can I pop to the supermarket for you?”

“The neighbours have been for me dear, but thank you for offering.”

“Right then, I’ll get going,” I clip the lead onto Randolph, and pull him and Bertie towards the front door. “See you in a bit.”

The rain is falling heavier now from a dark stormy sky. Leaves dance in front of me, tossed about by the strong wind and the branches of a row of oak trees bend and sway as I walk underneath them. My next stop is the Kennedy’s. Gareth and Samantha are busy professionals; too stressed out to take their Doberman Lucy for a walk. Gareth is a solicitor and Samantha a head of department at a failing comprehensive. They are a nice enough couple, but I can’t help feeling a touch of hostility towards their opulent lifestyle. I don’t begrudge them their success, but I do dislike the manner in which they flout money. They have a whole fleet of employees to help keep their lives running smoothly: a house cleaner, a gardener, a window cleaner and a person who does their ironing. They holiday three or four times a year: winter in Mauritius, skiing in Austria, a summer package holiday to the Balearics, they even manage to fit in a city break.

I think back to the last holiday I went on. It was the year before Mum died, we had hired a luxury caravan in Devon for two weeks, near to the sea and a quaint fishing village. We had enjoyed glorious sunshine and an unexpected heatwave that had encompassed the whole of Britain. I had procured a fantastic tan and my fair hair had turned to a shimmering gold. It had been a fantastic break away from the Midland city of Wolverhampton, where I had been born and raised and currently lived, with its smog and hectic rush. A wonderful family break, that created lasting memories. My eyes prick with tears as I envisage Mum walking along the beachfront, laughing at nothing and holding hands with Dad. Oh I miss her so much.

I trip over a broken slab and it brings me back to the present. My life isn’t too bad I tell myself, I am healthy and have a roof over my head, I have family and friends who love me. I have so many things to be grateful for. When so many others in this world struggle to survive day to day. With a renewed, positive vigour I increase my tempo, until I am outside the Kennedy’s new build five bedroom detached, ringing the doorbell. Gareth answers, looking as tousled as ever, with a toothbrush protruding from his mouth.

“Hmmm…. hi Louise,” he spits a blob of toothpaste out, narrowly missing my foot, then invites me in. I tie Bertie and Randolph to the drainpipe and wipe my feet thoroughly on the mat. Lucy skids towards me, bouncing around playfully and barking with excitement.

“Have you been singing?” Gareth says, chortling at his own joke.

“The weather would be a lot worse than this if I had,” I laugh along good naturedly.

Then Samantha thuds down the stairs and I notice the dog’s ears flatten in fear. She looks smart in a navy trouser suit, her hair and makeup immaculate. I really should start wearing more make up, I think fleetingly.

“Good morning,” I move back slightly as she tugs her coat off the stand.

“Wednesday’s are never good,” she replies drily, “save it until Friday.”

“She’s got parents evening tonight,” Gareth mouths apologetically.

“It must be so great being a teacher,” I think about Robbie, hoping that he’s getting ready for school.

“Truthfully? I hate it. The teaching profession is grossly underpaid, the workload is ridiculous and the children are feral. I wanted to work in higher education, but I’m stuck in a sinking secondary school.”

Wow, I think, biting my lip. I’m so glad that she isn’t one of Robbie’s teachers. Feral indeed.

“I should get going,” she leans to kiss Gareth and I catch a whiff of strong perfume. “Can you wipe Lucy’s paws thoroughly please? I noticed there were muddy prints over the kitchen tiles the other day.”