Abby Clements is the author of four previous novels, Meet Me Under the Mistletoe, the bestselling Vivien’s Heavenly Ice Cream Shop, Amelia Grey’s Fireside Dream, and The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop. In the winter months, she likes curling up on the sofa with hot chocolate and gingerbread. She lives in north London, where she grew up, with her husband and son.
Also by Abby Clements
Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
Vivien’s Heavenly Ice Cream Shop
Amelia Grey’s Fireside Dream
The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
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Copyright © Abby Clements, 2015
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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47113-701-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-47113-702-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Ella, the winter baby
Contents
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
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Prologue
Our journey started twenty-nine years ago, in Bidcombe, a village nestled in the English countryside, where everyone would come to know our names. Not due to any great virtue or scandal – but simply through the fact that we weren’t like the other girls; Lila and I were two halves of a whole. Through the years, we began to separate, but we never really stopped thinking each other’s thoughts.
At the start of the nine months, Lila and I shared a space smaller than a rosebud, nestled up against one another within the walls that cradled us. The two of us grew: to the size of a brioche, a stack of freshly baked muffins, then a ballet shoe bag, with us – top to tail – the slippers. For those nine months, our own swirling, kicking limbs, and the blurred sounds of our mum’s singing filtering in from outside, were the rhythms of our world. At the moment of the scan – when our parents’ hearts must have been racing with the news – one of us was sucking her thumb and the other giving a regal wave. The scan is grainy, you can’t see much at all really, but that was Dad’s take on it. He said that, even though they knew it was more likely after the treatment, he and Mum were in such deep shock at the news they were having twins that they didn’t know what to say. They’d wanted a baby for ten years and now, responding to their call twofold, here were both of us at once.
We were born, squirming and squalling, in our local hospital on a frosty day. I don’t remember that bit, of course, but our mum, Alison, and dad, Simon, never tire of telling us about it, showing us photos. They named me, Hazel Delaney, older by ten minutes – and then Lila, my twin sister.
Mum and Dad took us back to their house – a 1920s cottage perched on the outskirts of the village, where they still live. Bidcombe isn’t far from London – only an hour and a half on the train – but it’s a world away. The kind of place people stop on the streets to talk to you, where the people who work in the bakery, post office, pub and library are your friends. Mum and Dad had lived there as a couple since they were in their early twenties, and now they were returning, joyfully, as an instant family of four. The neighbours had tied balloons to their gates to welcome us.
Mum said everything had been ready for months: our double pram, the matching cots, Winnie-the-Pooh high chairs – in our family photo album we were almost always side by side. Christmases at our cottage were the most special time of year, and there were dozens of photos of those, Mum or Dad smiling and staring at us proudly, their glasses of fizz on the mantelpiece, and the two of us ripping paper off our presents. Our grandmother was there too – Mum’s mum, Joyce. It was our Grandma Joyce who first taught me the pleasure of a kitchen full of baking smells – and the joy of a Christmas snowflake cookie still warm, swiped from the cooling rack. Ben arrived when we were four. Mum and Dad were delighted – they hadn’t expected to have another child after us, but we must have unwittingly kickstarted something, because he’d come along easily. No matter what else was happening in our lives, Christmas was a time for coming together as a family, the everyday squabbles forgotten as we ate and drank, and played board games, and got on with our new Christmas Day squabbles over toys, and batteries, and the remote.
The cottage was a happy place for us to grow up into children, then to teenagers. Lila and I went to the same primary school, close by. We sat together in class when we could, but at breaktime, Lila would be with the other girls playing French elastic, while I swapped Star Wars stickers with the boys, or showed them my newest comics. There was something irresistibly clandestine about sharing the comics, because they weren’t bought with my pocket money, but with secret funds from my dad. Dad was an accountant, still is – trusted by his clients and dedicated to his work. But I knew that deep down he wanted to be a superhero just as much as I did. And that’s why, even though it wasn’t age-appropriate – or whatever reason it was that Mum used to justify denying me the books and magazines I wanted most – he sometimes helped me buy them.
As teenagers Lila and I stepped apart from one another – Lila spent her spare time in dance classes and I spent mine at the skate park with Sam, my best friend – we’d been joined at the hip since Year 9. Sam was happy to have found someone who loved skateboarding as much as he did – even if I was a girl.
Lila and I stopped looking so alike. I dyed my half of our straight mousey hair a deep dark red, and cut a short fringe, Lila lightened hers with hints of blonde. My curves blossomed and cont
inued to, hers disappeared as soon as they’d arrived.
Our connection remained the same, a network of golden strands, each a memory of a whispered secret or a shared moment that linked us. We weren’t bound closely, Lila and me, our togetherness freed us. As we grew from girls to teenagers, she would do her thing, and I’d do mine, but each evening, after dinner, we’d talk in our room until late, giggling together and talking through everything that had taken place that day, or on other days talking about nothing at all. I don’t know if anyone else, outside of our family, really saw how much we relied on one another. But I knew something, deep down – which was that losing Lila would be like losing the air I breathed.
Our A-level results came in, and Lila decided she definitely wanted to study ballet – and we faced the very real prospect that our paths might be diverging. But in the end, when we left home at eighteen, we made sure they didn’t. We moved to London together, Lila went to dance school and I studied set design at Central St Martin’s college, but we’d come back home to our rented east London flat in the evening, catching up over dinner and wine with friends or – often – just the two of us. Lila went out with friends to dance shows, I’d stay in and watch movies. We were both happy. The flat had been an idea for a long time – as teenagers Lila and I had spent evenings talking about it, fantasising about living in the city in our own place.
Today, I leaned back in my striped deckchair, and looked out across the canal and east London’s Victoria Park. I recalled how it had felt, flat-hunting with Lila, wondering if we’d ever find anywhere we could afford, and that we liked enough. Then we heard about this place, a converted warehouse, and decided to have a look. The bedrooms weren’t the largest, but the white-painted exposed floorboards brightened up the space, and both of the rooms had large windows. Our living space was cosy, and I say that in estate agent’s speak, but that had never mattered to us; we were used to living in each other’s space. It was when I had looked out of the window and seen the green space that I’d really fallen in love.
Right now, bikes wove lines through the park, groups of people clustered around picnic blankets and benches, appearing the size of Playmobil figures from my vantage point. The distant sound of reggae playing out tinnily from speakers drifted up to the balcony. The flowers that Lila and I had planted last year were coming back into bloom.
When Lila and I were living together, it might not have always looked like paradise to an outsider – but for us it was. We occasionally argued, sure. Lila would sometimes tidy things away in the kitchen before I’d even used them, and that drove me nuts. As did her constant cushion-plumping while I was watching films. She’d occasionally complain about my singing in the bathroom, or interrupt my midnight baking sessions – emerging from her room, bleary-eyed, asking what on earth I was doing, and couldn’t it wait till morning.
On reflection, she’d never really bought in to the idea of Pablo. Lila had, actually, insisted that getting a cat without consulting her was ‘completely unreasonable’. But his nibbled ear and bent tail, patches of missing fur, all told the tale of a harrowing life as a street cat that I wasn’t able to ignore. I’d had to push that one through.
When winter came and the nights drew in, we’d hole up and spend our evenings on the sofa. Come Christmas, I’d start the baking, and she’d put up our family Advent calendar, filling it with small wooden decorations that we placed on the tree. We’d happily count the days until we went back home to Mum and Dad’s.
When we had graduated, in our early twenties, we’d stayed on in the flat. I was doing bar work at the weekends, Lila spending the weekdays auditioning for dance roles, and me scouring the job ads for anything related to set design. Then, well, just anything at all. Unlike Lila, I’d never once lost sleep figuring out the meaning of life, though. Because I knew where it was – there in the silvered memories of the nights we spent together or with our friends, the ones where we laughed so hard our sides hurt.
I was never going to win any prizes for long-term relationships, but I was OK with that. I’d had a few boyfriends, and we’d had fun, but we’d never made it past the six-month mark. Our connections had fizzled out or slipped into friendship. When they’d ended, I’d always felt sort of relieved that I could return to normal life, stop trying to make something work that wasn’t really sticking. I guess at the back of my mind there was always Sam – always the question of whether we might stand a chance as more than just friends. And no one else really seemed to match up to him.
And however dates went, I always had Lila and the flat to come back to. Lila’s passion for ballet dancing was as strong as ever, and over the years I’d done what I could to help her keep the faith. She was talented – we both knew that – and she’d had some great parts over the years, but she’d also had a lot of auditions that hadn’t led to anything. As she’d waited for her big break, she’d worked as a PA at a city bank during the day, which she did for the money, and at a canalside bar two evenings a week, which she enjoyed more. It was at that bar that she first met Ollie. I was there that night, whiling away the evening over a Pimm’s and lemonade.
I’d seen him right away – walking into the bar with a couple of friends, tall and dark, with black-framed glasses, a slightly intense expression and a wonky smile. He was everything Lila didn’t normally go for – she had a penchant for traditionally handsome, self-involved actors. I was usually the shoulder to cry on at the end of the night. I caught my sister’s eye and nodded in Ollie’s direction, so that she’d be sure to be the one to take his drinks order.
Before long, the two of them were flirting – and by the end of the night he’d asked for her number. They went on a few dates. Then, gradually, he started appearing with increasing frequency at our flat, joining us for mid-week dinners and weekend tea and cake stops. I didn’t mind, in fact I liked it – Lila’s exes had generally left her wrung-out and tearful, and here was a man who brought out the laughter and lightness in her. It had been at our twenty-seventh birthday party that I realised he was something serious. He’d helped Lila pour drinks, his gaze following my sister around the room with something approaching puppy-dog adoration, even as he pretended to listen to what his friends were saying. And Lila – I saw her looking back once or twice too. I guess that was when I started to realise for the first time that I was going to have to share my sister.
That summer Ollie had become a permanent fixture at our flat, and Lila was happier than I’d ever seen her. She looked so right by his side, his arm draped around her shoulder. Ollie was a lovely guy. And he adored her. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Ollie. Apart from that I knew right away he was The One. The one who would take Lila away from me for good.
At our flat we’d laughed, partied and lounged on the sofa watching films for close to a decade. But now, at twenty-nice – it was only me here. Lila had moved on, and moved out.
This was it – Lila and Hazel, Hazel and Lila had become . . . Lila and Ollie. Everything had started to change.
Chapter 1
Spring sunshine dappled the miniature set I was working on at my desk at home. I squinted against the light and pasted a tiny strip of wallpaper up onto the back wall of the living room – the final piece of the scene in place. A miniature mantelpiece and gilt mirror that I’d found on eBay were positioned just to the side of it, with an intricately embroidered Persian rug the size of a small envelope on the floor below. The room had kept me occupied for weeks now and it was finally finished. It had been something to do, since Lila moved out and in with Ollie.
From my box of figurines, I extracted a man – in a little white shirt, and jeans, his wooden feet protruding from the bottom of the trousers – and his counterpart, a woman in a sweet blue tea dress, her dark brown hair in bunches and a smile fixed in place. I put them next to one another on the sofa, and placed a hardback book I’d made myself – no larger than a postage stamp – in her hands, and a miniscule wine glass in his. They would be talking about their day at work,
I imagined, and later they’d retreat upstairs, to the room I’d prepared for them – a bed laid with fresh white linen and a window draped with dark green curtains. The picture frames on the way up the stairs told the story of their lives together. One day I’d find someone to write the story that went with the set. But until that day came, I just liked to look at the little world I’d created and well, I guess enjoy that scrap of control that I felt I had – an imaginary place where everything went according to plan.
I didn’t let anyone look at my sets. Not even Sam. In fact – especially not Sam. He’d heard about them once, when we were teenagers, from Lila.
‘You’re still playing with dolls’ houses?’ he’d said, laughing. ‘I thought you were a tomboy – I mean that’s what I liked about you. But I guess you’re girlier than I thought.’ I’d glared at Lila and wanted the ground to open up and absorb me into it.
Because sharing your dream with someone – letting them have a glimpse of the person you really were – I had a feeling it was supposed to feel different from how that did.
On Monday morning the weekend sun had faded away and left a damp day with a hint of drizzle, the kind that suggests that the spring you glimpsed might never come back. I put on my cycle helmet and rode into work. East London’s roads were the same traffic-clogged arteries as always, but I’d learned which backstreets to use to avoid the lorries and the cars, and where you could still, sometimes, hear the bird-song. I never listened to my iPod on the ride, I preferred to focus on what was around me – I don’t scare easily, but it seems like a sensible way to, you know, stay alive. Anyway, it was an easy enough decision today as the last time I saw her, I’d picked up Lila’s iPod instead of my own, which meant ballet, jazz and classical rather than the music that I usually listened to.
I pulled up outside the Twenty-One offices, in a quiet backstreet in Clerkenwell, and chained my bike up there. I’d been in the job a couple of years now. The TV production company was small but growing fast, producing some of the country’s leading costume dramas. The office was always buzzing with the excitement of imminent filming – and I helped out with whatever needed doing in the art department, from sourcing props to making last-minute changes to the sets.
The Winter Wedding Page 1
