Sally came in later in the afternoon with a huge bunch of red roses.
Margot had slept for another two hours. She felt a little stronger. She sat up.
‘Who on earth are those from?’
Sally handed her an envelope. Margot tore it open. She recognised the writing straight away.
To Margot, I shall expect you back behind that typewriter as soon as possible. No time off for bad behaviour. With much love and best wishes from Terence
‘Cheek!’ she said.
‘He’s phoned every day,’ said Sally. ‘He wants to come and see you but I won’t let him just yet.’
Margot sighed. ‘I just don’t know that I’ll ever be able to write another word ever again.’
Sally sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Yes, you will. Why don’t you try something new?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Something fresh. Modern. Something me and Phoebe would read.’
Margot nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘Something fun and exciting. About girls living in London. About their jobs and their clothes and their parties and their boyfriends. It can still be romantic.’
Margot began to think about it. She could imagine it. Girls like Phoebe and Sally sauntering up the Kings Road, laughing, going to meet their friends. Their hopes and dreams. Their lovers . . .
‘The Chelsea Girls,’ she murmured.
‘There you are,’ said Sally, delighted. ‘I can see it on the shelves already.’
That night, there was an enormous moon, like a giant pearl, glowing silvery-white in the sky, lighting up the valley.
‘Come outside with me,’ whispered Alexander to Sally, and he took her by the hand and they stood outside staring up.
‘Is that it?’ asked Sally. ‘Is that the hunter’s moon?’
‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘And I want you to stay here forever, and see every hunter’s moon that rises.’ He paused. ‘With me.’
Sally turned to face him, laughing. ‘You sound like one of your mother’s books.’
Then she stopped laughing, because he was looking at her intently, with the most serious expression on his face.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Sally? I’m asking you to marry me. Will you marry me?’
Her face was bright in the moonlight, her eyes sparkling. She reached up a hand to touch his face, brushed the lock of dark hair out of his eyes.
‘Of course. Of course I will.’
And the moon shone down, wrapping them in its silver light, and the night breeze rustled around them, and an owl hooted far down in the valley, but they saw nor felt nor heard any of it . . .
38
‘That’s a beautiful story,’ sighed Belinda to Alexander. ‘Every time this house thinks it can escape the Willoughbys’ clutches, someone comes along to its rescue.’ He pointed to a book on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s there, Margot’s biggest seller. She got up out of her sick bed and wrote the whole thing before Christmas.’
Belinda picked up the book. It was a first edition of The Chelsea Girls. On the cover were two girls, one blonde, one dark, walking up the Kings Road in miniskirts and kinky boots. She smiled. ‘I remember reading this at school. We learned a lot from this.’
‘It was ahead of its time. It’s almost a classic now.’
‘Well, I hope this will be the right plan. The great thing is, you won’t have burnt any bridges.’
‘It will be a pleasure to have you as a neighbour.’
Alexander looked up at her and thought to himself that maybe she would be something more. That really would be his perfect ending.
Later, Leo walked her out to her car.
‘It’s all falling into place. The more I think about it, I’m going to keep the office in London, and get another one in Peasebrook. It was time I expanded anyway, so I’m going to look for more clients in this area. There’s loads of food businesses opening up. There’ll be plenty of opportunity.’
‘If I can help you with premises, just let me know!’
‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’
‘Never.’
They were standing very close together. Dusk was starting to fall and the air cooled around them. The scent of blossom hung heavy and promising. Time seemed to trickle by very slowly. Belinda ran a hand through her hair and took in a deep breath. She was going to ask him. That’s what Bruce would tell her to do. And Cathy. They’d be telling her to go for it. Make the first move.
‘Are you—’
‘Are you free for dinner?’ asked Leo, and she jumped. He’d beaten her to it. She laughed. She put her hands on his shoulders, then moved toward him. She breathed in that warm, spicy cologne that tantalised her whenever she was close to him. She felt the warm of Leo’s hands sliding underneath her jacket and touching her waist. She moved in further, pressing her mouth to his neck and realised how much she had been longing to feel his skin on her lips. She could feel a pulse, tripping faster than a butterfly wing. Was it inside her, or him? They were so close she couldn’t tell. She pushed herself against him, feeling herself come alive again, after all the years of numbness, a delicious molten pool deep inside her.
‘I’m not sure,’ she breathed, ‘that we should even bother with dinner.’
*
Sally smiled as she stood by the drawing room window, about to draw the long velvet curtains to keep out the night. She reflected that there was nothing more satisfying as a mother than to see your children settle with someone who felt right.
She remembered Margot telling her that. Margot, who had left Sally and Alexander Hunter’s Moon in her will ‘because if it belongs to anyone, it belongs to Sally. She saved Hunter’s Moon.’ And now Belinda had done the same, in a way.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Alexander. She turned to find him behind her, smiling at what he could see playing out on the driveway.
‘I think she will be a very good thing for Leo,’ he said. She noticed the slight lurch in his voice. The slurry suggestion that he might be a little drunk, one of the disease’s signature signs. Was it more marked than it had been a week ago? Was this how life was going to be: analysing every sound, every move he made for signs of deterioration? Fear squeezed at her.
Sally turned and slid her arms around her husband’s waist.
‘It’s OK,’ he whispered, kissing the top of her head lightly.
Her love for him was still as strong as it ever had been. Her heart felt crushed with the enormity of what lay ahead. Yet in some ways, they were lucky. They had their wonderful family, and together they would face the pain, and make the very most of the precious time that was left. Who knew how long that would be?
She felt as safe in Alexander’s arms as she ever had done. There was no place she would rather be. She couldn’t imagine a time when she couldn’t slide into his embrace for comfort. She determined to make the most of every kiss, every touch, every word as long as she had him. Her handsome, strong, funny, kind Beetle.
39
Four years later
Annie, in a black polo-necked dress and her trusty flat boots, her hair scraped back into a velvet band, climbed up into the pulpit. She paused for a moment, looking out at the congregation, then took a deep breath.
‘Alexander, or Beetle as we always called him when we were growing up, was the most wonderful brother a girl could hope for. He would tease you, as all brothers should, but you never minded really. You knew that if you phoned him in the middle of the night, he would come and get you, no questions asked. He would lend you his last fiver, no questions asked. And when it really mattered, he told he loved you. Maybe not in those exact words, but when you were feeling small or alone or afraid, he would say something that made you feel you mattered. And he was funny and smart and so, so, so terribly handsome. I used to say that he could break three hearts before breakfast time without even knowing he was doing it. He could have had any girl in the world, but lucky for us all he fell in love with our beautiful, kind Sally.’
> She smiled down at Sally in the front pew, then took in a deep breath.
‘This poem was our mother’s favourite, and she always said it was where she got the idea for his name. The poem’s about losing a beetle, and that’s what we’ve done. The very best Beetle that ever there was.’
Her clear true voice wavered just at the end, but she cleared her throat and picked up the old red copy of Now We Are Six and began to read:
‘I found a little beetle . . .’
And as Annie read on, Belinda reached beside her and took Leo’s hand in hers, and he gripped it tightly, facing forwards and staring at his aunt and trying not to cry.
Everyone came back to Hunter’s Moon for the funeral tea after the service. Sally had tried to insist on doing it all herself, but Leo persuaded her that there were times when things were best left to the professionals, and a funeral was one of them, and the catering company had laid everything out on the table in the dining room.
And because they all felt Alexander’s spirit, it wasn’t a sombre occasion, but a merry one, as the guests mingled and swapped memories and stories and proposed endless toasts. Teddy was rushing around, excited by all the visitors, licking up any falling crumbs. But he knew something was wrong. He knew someone was missing.
‘That was a wonderful tribute,’ said Leo to Annie.
‘I’m going to miss my big brother,’ she said, and she looked around the hall. ‘Do you know, it feels like only yesterday he’d come down those stairs in his mohair suit with his car keys jangling, off on some jaunt. I can’t believe I won’t see him again.’
‘I know,’ said Leo, and sighed. He didn’t much want to think about it. He put his arm around his aunt, and for a moment she rested her head on his shoulder as they both thought about the man who had meant so much to them.
Annie had taken Leo aside the afternoon before.
‘I want to lend you some money,’ she told him. ‘So you and Belinda can buy out Sally. It’s the right thing to do. We need to keep Hunter’s Moon in the family. And I know you can’t afford it at the moment. When Margot left Sally the house, she gave Phoebe and me the royalties from her backlist. I’ve done rather well with mine. I invested them wisely. And I can’t think of any better way of spending that money than lending it to you, interest free. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I still earn good money and I don’t need much and my house is bought and paid for. I would be leaving it to you anyway, as you’re my godson, but you might as well have it now . . .’
Leo looked at her in astonishment. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘There is a condition,’ she grinned. ‘That you keep my old room for me. I won’t ever turn up unannounced—’
‘You will be welcome any time. Any time,’ said Leo.
Belinda had stopped off at Cathy’s house on the way back from the funeral to pick up Clementine.
‘She’s been an absolute angel,’ Cathy assured her, handing over the little girl.
Clementine was dressed in a grey corduroy pinafore dress with a red spotty blouse underneath, her shiny dark hair tied in tiny plaits. Everyone had agreed that a funeral service was no place for a little one, but that she would be a welcome distraction back at the house afterwards. She had brought her grandfather great joy in his last years, although she would probably never remember him.
And now Belinda took her daughter’s hand and led her out of the house and down across the lawn. She felt an overwhelming sense of peace as she helped Clementine down the stone steps then lifted her on to the edge of the fountain to look at the fish. She and Leo and Sally had had a long talk the evening before, curled up on the sofas in front of the fire in the drawing room.
Annie’s offer meant their dream could be realised much sooner than they thought. Together with the sale of Leo’s flat and a mortgage raised on their joint salaries, they could now afford to buy Hunter’s Moon from Sally, who would move into the coach house. She still couldn’t believe it and yet, in some ways, it felt as if it was meant to be. There was lots of red tape to get through yet, and inheritance tax issues to sort out, but to all intents and purposes the house was theirs. And of course they would make it open to the whole family, as it always had been, for that was the point.
And although she wasn’t a Willoughby by blood, Belinda still felt as if she belonged, just as much as Sally did.
She lifted Clementine down from the fountain then turned and looked back at Hunter’s Moon. Its windows glowed bright in the evening sun as it began to set, and the house seemed to be speaking to her:
‘Today may be sad, and sadness has its place in our hearts, but it must not live on. It must move aside for joy and happiness and new beginnings. But I will be here throughout both your sadness and your joy, my walls wrapped tightly around you. I will be your comfort and your place of safety. I will be here for you forever.
Your forever house.’
Take a sneak peek at Veronica Henry’s charming, cheeky story
A COUNTRY CHRISTMAS
The perfect book to curl up with . . .
Honeycote may appear to be the perfect English village, but what scandals hide beneath the surface?
The Liddiards have a wonderful life at Honeycote House: endless guests, parties and family fun. But unbeknownst to his wife Lucy, Mickey Liddiard has a few secrets.
He’s going to make some changes, though. He owes it to Lucy and the children, even if it will take more than just willpower.
After all, it’s impossible to keep secrets in a village as small as Honeycote . . .
1
A single bell tolled out with authoritative finality. Eye-watering winter sunshine drenched the little churchyard at Honeycote, highlighting the dewy cobwebs that stretched from grave to grave. A mound of earth indicated the most recent, the latest in a line of Liddiards that stretched back hundreds of years.
He craned his neck to assess the turnout. They were all there. Patrick, seemingly unperturbed, the only betrayal of any emotion being the speed at which he smoked his cigarette before tossing the nub end into the freshly dug hole. Sophie and Georgina stood behind him, unnaturally pale in their black school coats, lending an air of Victorian melodrama to the tableau. He thought this was probably their first funeral, if you didn’t count the elaborate arrangements they’d made for various guinea pigs and goldfish over the years. Kay was chic in rigidly tailored black, a huge hat and impossibly high heels – he knew she’d be wearing stockings. Lawrence was at her side, etiquette requiring them to be united. Even Cowley was there from the bank, in a shapeless suit, his Christmas Biro clipped into the top pocket, no doubt luxuriating in a morning away from his desk: this was about as much fun as Cowley ever had.
And Lucy. She’d rejected widow’s weeds in favour of palest grey, her only concession to mourning a black velvet ribbon that held back her curls. She was wearing a pearl necklace he’d given her the Christmas before, an over-generous gesture he hadn’t been able to afford. As ever.
As she arrived at the graveside to stand beside his brother, James, there was just time for him to notice her slipping her hand into his before the vicar started intoning the familiar words.
As the first clod of earth began to hit the coffin, Mickey Liddiard summoned up every last drop of energy from his bones and pushed. But the lid of the coffin was stout, hewn from a mighty oak, and wouldn’t give . . .
‘Mickey! Mickey!’
Lucy anxiously shook her husband awake. She could feel his heart hammering as he thrashed beside her. He sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, and looked at her in alarm.
‘You’ve had one of your dreams again.’
Mickey slumped back on the pillows, relief that it was all over flooding through him. But Lucy could still sense anxiety.
‘What on earth were you dreaming about? You were tossing and turning—’
‘I don’t know.’ Mickey feigned puzzlement. He could remember only too well. ‘You know what dreams are like. You wake up and they’re gone.’
>
It was the third time this week he’d had the dream, or one like it. He’d wondered about having it analysed, but thought perhaps the meaning wasn’t all that hidden and that quite simply he had a fear of dying and nobody giving a toss. He screwed up his eyes to look at the clock. ‘What’s the time?’
Lucy stretched out her arm and turned the miniature carriage clock to face her. ‘Nearly six.’ She frowned as Mickey threw back the blankets. ‘You don’t need to get up yet, surely?’
‘I need a shower.’
She watched his shadowy outline pad across the room and pull back the heavy, interlined curtains, letting the very first fingers of early morning light in. She could see him clearly now. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and with still no sign of a middle-age spread despite having celebrated his forty-third birthday six months before. He had just enough gravitas in his features to stop him looking boyish, but he had a bloom of youth that he didn’t deserve and that his contemporaries resented given his lifestyle – no thickening middle or thinning hair as yet, not even a sprinkling of grey in his thick brown hair.
He was definitely a handsome man in anyone’s books, but as he gazed out of the window there was a frown marring his features that Lucy didn’t like. She suddenly felt a need to reassure both him and herself. This wasn’t the first time she’d woken him from a nightmare lately. She patted the empty space in the bed beside her.
‘Come back to bed.’
Mickey shook his head. He was wide awake now, the adrenaline from the dream still pumping through his body, and his head was already whirling with the problems the day held in store for him. He reflected grimly that he had no respite these days, only a brief half-hour after the first few glasses of wine, in that mellow period between being relaxed and becoming totally plastered. Why could he never stop at that point? Why did he insist on getting completely shit-faced, so he became melancholy, his fears waxed rather than waned and his sleep was troubled?
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 29
