‘Today’s the day,’ she told him. ‘You’re going to become a father and what an amazing daddy you’re going to be. But it’s not going to be easy. You’ll think you won’t be able to cope, but you will. You’ll be angry with me for leaving you both, but eventually you’ll understand. One day, you’ll look at our daughter and you’ll know what I know. You’ll know that she was worth the sacrifice.’
Tom shifted restlessly in his sleep and Holly held her breath. She didn’t want to wake him, not yet. But she had to give voice to her apology, even if she didn’t want him to hear it. It was one of the last things on her ‘to do’ list. That and give birth, of course.
Holly had spent the last few months preparing for the arrival of her daughter and, just as importantly, preparing for her departure from their lives. Tom loved Holly for her obsession with plans, something that bordered on neurosis, but even he would be shocked to discover how well she had prepared for this day. But how else could she die peacefully?
‘I love you,’ Holly repeated. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she felt the burden of knowledge pulling her down far more heavily than the baby she was carrying. ‘I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you. However terrifying this is for me, it would have been unbearable for you. I’ve had to take some tough decisions and I’ve learnt the hard way that the best decisions are never the obvious ones. And I’ve learnt something else too. I’ve learnt that love endures, sometimes in the most amazing ways. I promise you, I’ll be there at your side in your darkest hours.’
A sob escaped and this time it was loud enough to stir Tom. He turned sleepily towards her. ‘Are you OK?’ he mumbled sleepily, and then startled himself awake. ‘Is it time?’
‘Time? Not quite yet,’ Holly assured him with a rueful smile despite herself. Time had been her enemy from the moment they had moved into the gatehouse, the house they now called home. That had been only eighteen months ago and her thoughts returned to that pivotal moment when time began to run out for her.
Holly closed the front door and leaned heavily against it, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. The removal men had been miracle workers, transforming the empty shell they had arrived at that morning into something that Holly could now call home. The house had once been an imposing gatehouse, sitting at the entrance to the majestic Hardmonton Hall, but the Hall was now a burned out ruin and the gatehouse had been all but forgotten, set just outside the tiny village of Fincross. Despite its grey stone walls and peeling paint, Holly had fallen in love with the house. It had stood the test of time far better than the Hall itself and seemed the ideal place to build a home and settle down, perhaps for ever.
Still leaning against the door, Holly took a furtive look at her reflection in the full-length mirror which had been left propped up against the wall, waiting to be hung. The house, correction, her home may have improved its looks during the day, but she was definitely looking worse for wear. Her long blonde hair was usually her crowning glory to compensate for her otherwise average looks, but it was now pulled back in a bedraggled ponytail. The little make-up she had put on at the start of the day was no more than a memory, having retreated into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her blue, almond-shaped eyes.
She hoped she looked more tired than old. After all, she was only twenty-nine and she felt as if her life was just beginning. Married for only two years, this was the first place she and Tom had actually owned and the first chance they had had to put down proper roots.
Ignoring her reflection, Holly took in her new surroundings. The hall ran down the centre of the house, with a door on the left leading to a small reception room that would become Tom’s study. The door to the right led to a larger reception room, which would be their living room, and the half-open door gave teasing glimpses of familiar pieces of furniture in their new surroundings. The city-living furniture was a harsh contrast to the chintz-inspired wallpaper and hardwood floors, but Holly had rather eccentric tastes and liked the conflict in styles.
‘I’ve checked the list and I think it’s complete,’ Tom said, appearing in the doorway at the furthest end of the hall, which led from the kitchen.
Tom looked even more dishevelled than Holly in his well-worn jeans and T-shirt. The look did nothing to flatter his tall, wiry stature or show off the toned body which Holly knew lay beneath. The difference between the two of them was that this worn-out look was normal for Tom. He was far too interested in the world around him to pay any attention to himself. That was probably why he made such a good journalist. He was warm and approachable, never smarmy, never intimidating, and people opened up easily to him.
Holly had resisted the urge to smarten him up, not least because it was the contrast to her own style that appealed to her. Holly was an artist and, when she wasn’t knee-deep in plaster of Paris and paint, she liked to dress up in carefully contrasting combinations of vintage and contemporary clothes, a style which was also reflected in her artwork. The other reason Holly accepted Tom’s unkempt style was purely selfish. He spent a lot of time working away and she didn’t want him impressing the ladies too much.
‘What list?’ Holly asked suspiciously. ‘There’s still tons of work to do. It’s going to take weeks before we’re properly unpacked and that’s before we even start thinking about redecorating.’
‘Not the moving-house list,’ Tom corrected her, ‘THE LIST.’ He was stepping slowly towards her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.
‘You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?’
Tom ignored her. ‘Find boyfriend. Tick! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Tick! Get married. Tick! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Tick! Earn enough to give up your job. Tick!’ Each time he said, ‘Tick!’ Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.
‘And finally?’ asked Holly, already knowing the answer.
Tom moved a step closer. ‘Move to the country and live happily ever after.’
‘Tick,’ whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.
After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. ‘And I do believe, Mrs Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.’
‘I do believe you’re right, Mr Corrigan,’ Holly answered smugly.
Perhaps smug was the wrong word. Eternally grateful might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and blossoming career had been more luck than management. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.
When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea of how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had been accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she’d carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.
Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar she was working in. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, the neurotic list maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she had asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.
Within a year, Holly